“And now, do tell me,” she said, in a crisp and not entirely friendly voice, “who isthis?”
Chapter Nine
Arthur felt vaguely sick. A great many questions were flashing through his mind, but one in particular kept returning.
Why is she here?
There were follow-up questions, naturally, including but not limited to:Why did she choose to come?
Arthur could think of few things less appealing than spending a party with his once-betrothed, let alone the fact of it being the once-betrothed’s party, at their home.
Miranda – he should start thinking of her asMiss Sinclairnow – flashed a quick, thoughtful gaze up at him when she was at the depths of her curtsey, then rose just as gracefully. Everything she did was, of course, always graceful. He felt her gaze flit over his face, dwelling on the scars. They almost seemed to swell under her scrutiny. He felt ill.
“Miss Sinclair, may I introduce Miss Felicity Thornhill. She is a particular friend of Lady Lucy, whose father was the late earl. Miss Thornhill and her family are staying with us for a while – poor Lucy has been too much out of Society.”
Miranda smiled blankly, ice-blue eyes still lingering on Miss Thornhill. It seemed ludicrous, in that moment, to think that he’d ever seen beauty in those eyes.
“How lovely,” she said sweetly. “I suppose for Lady Lucy, she is all but a dowager now, despite never having been married. There is not much society left for a woman in her position, except of course her old friends in similar situations.”
Had she… did she just call Miss Thornhill a dowager? A spinster, even? Arthur blinked, swallowing hard, and tried to work out what he should say next.
It seemed that Miss Thornhill didn’t know what to say, either. She shifted from foot to foot, gaze bouncing around as if it didn’t know what to land on. The confident, chatty woman of earlier was gone, and she was starting to shrink into herself.
Truthfully, it wasn’t the first time Arthur had seen women do this around Miranda. She seemed to have a knack for making other people feel uncomfortable in their own skin, of saying things thatsoundedinnocuous, but made the other person shrink and look miserable.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sinclair,” Miss Thornhill said weakly, and Arthur’s heart sank. “I think I ought to go and find my mother now. I daresay she’ll want to know how the walk has gone. Do excuse me.”
“Of course,” Miranda fluted, barely hiding a triumphant grin. “I daresay we’ll see a little more of each other. Unless, of course, you are planning a trip to London for the Season?”
Miss Thornhill smiled vaguely and made no response. Turning, she all but ran across the terrace, never looking back.
Arthur watched her go, not entirely sure what to do with the tingle forming in his chest. He’d enjoyed their conversation more than he’d enjoyed anything for a long, long time. It seemed that Miss Thornhill and he were finally pushing past their initial awkwardness, and for some reason that made him giddily happy, much happier than he ought to have been about a simple friendship.
Of course, Miss Thornhill did not go to her mother. Instead, she went to her cousin, Lord Thornhill, who was standing on the edge of the throng, sipping tea and staring off into the garden.
“I think I see a cousin marriage in the future of that young lady,” Miranda observed, having stepped closer to Arthur than before. “It so often happens in those families, with unmarriageable young ladies and rich, wealthy cousins who feel guilt over inheriting more than their inferior relations. I daresay in that respect, she is luckier than Miss Lucy, I think, asyouwill not be guilt-ridden into a cousin marriage.”
Arthur flinched. “It is Lady Lucy, Miss Sinclair.”
She darted a sharp look at him at that. “I was only joking, Arthur. I may still call you Arthur, may I not? When it’s just the two of us? After all, we were such friends.”
Her hand snaked forwards, nails long, fingers tapering and elegant, and Arthur flinched away. She frowned, and he pointedly avoided her gaze.
“Whatever you like, Miss Sinclair. I certainly wouldn’t contradict a lady, not even in my own house. Do excuse me.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he ducked away before she could draw him back in.
No doubt Miranda longed to come running after him and tug at his sleeve, but they were not engaged anymore, and it wasn’t seemly for a lady to press herself upon the attention of a gentleman, so she was obliged to stay where she was, and look miserable. He didn’t look back.
Arthur made a beeline to where his mother sat, on a long bench with some other guests. She went pink as he approached, pretending not to notice him.
“Mother,” he said shortly. “Do you have a moment? I’d like to speak to you about something. Inside, if you please.”
Beatrice went an unbecoming shade of red. “Now, Arthur?”
“If you don’t mind,” he said, fighting to stay cool and polite. Some of the guests were looking at him with unabashed curiosity, and he knew he was acting strangely. What was worse, his scar was throbbing, a sure precursor to a headache. Was it his imagination, or was the sun getting stronger, burning into the top of his head?
Beatrice gave a barely stifled tut and got up, shaking out her skirts.
