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“Agnes, what is it, is it Mamma?”
“It is, milady, we must go to her room right away.” She turned and moved with speed down the hallway.
Her heart tripping in alarm, Miranda followed. She frowned when Agnes went past the countess’s door. “Is Mamma not in her room?”
There was a slight hitch in Agnes’s step then she said, “Lady Langford most stringently complained of a draught in her room, and the housekeeper was obliged to move her, milady.”
Miranda rolled her eyes in exasperation. Mamma had been such a tiring guest. She tried to feel some sympathy, for it could not be easy for a woman used to such activities as taking long walks and riding to be confined to her bed. Still, Mamma should handle the situation with more grace than she had done, and Miranda would tell her so. And they must repay Simon’s goodwill with a charity fundraiser ball for his hospital. She would insist on it.
They came upon a door, and lamp light showed from behind the door. Mamma was clearly awake. Agnes knocked once, opened the door and held it wide for Miranda to enter. She proceeded inside and grounded to a halt to see the Duke of Wycliffe standing by the fire with a glass in his hand and dressed only in a banyan. He glanced up with a warm, welcoming smile, and Miranda's heart fluttered to her chest in sheer shock.
The door slammed shut, and she spun around with such speed for a moment she felt lightheaded. She rushed toward the door, only to hear the decisive turning of a key in the lock.
Chapter 9
"Agnes!" Miranda cried, horror icing through her veins. "Open this door at once! Please do not let Mamma convince you to do this!"
The sound of footsteps running away reached Miranda's ears, and she groaned her frustration and thumped the door. "Agnes!"
“Ahem,” the duke said.
She whirled around and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you by chance have a key to this chamber, Your Grace?”
A discomfited expression settled on his face and with a sigh, he stepped back. "I gather you did not send me a note mentioning you would slip into my room for a rendezvous?"
Miranda gasped, “I most certainly did not! I am a lady of good sense, Your Grace, I am barely acquainted with you.”
Silence throbbed in the room like a wound.
The hint of seductive laughter had entirely vanished from his eyes. "I see." A calculating glint entered his eyes. "Either you are the greatest actress alive, or you are truly innocent in this farce."
“And I truly do not care a fig about what you think or believe! Do you have a key?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“Alas, I do not.”
If she had to marry the duke…the thought was just too awful to contemplate. Frustrated tears burned behind her eyes. How could you, Mamma? Miranda hurried to the window and shoved it open, staring at the three-story fall. She glanced back at the four-poster bed, and the billowing curtains surrounding it. In the gothic novels she read, the heroine is always tying bedsheets and curtains together to escape some dastardly situation. Perhaps…
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“It will not work, and I would be the worst sort of bounder to watch you act foolishly and fall to your death.”
She whirled around, ashamed to feel tears springing to her eyes. “I cannot spend the night in your room, Your Grace.”
Resignation settled on his face, and he raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I’m afraid the deed is already done, even if you were to be rescued now, your reputation is compromised. And I do not feel as if rescue would come until the morning. Is that not what your mother planned?”
Miranda winced, mortification crawling through her. “I cannot beg forgiveness for her actions, for I do not perceive I will be able to forgive her anytime soon. Mamma will expect for you to offer for me and—”
"Upon my honor, I will marry you."
She stared at him utterly aghast. “Your Grace, you cannot!” She didn't know whether to laugh or to weep. Finally, a duke willing to marry her, one who was quite handsome, wealthy, and respected. And she did not want him, instead she desired his brother with every emotion in her heart. She could no longer think of him as simply a diversion any longer or a passing flirtation. She had fallen in love with him. He was a man well worth wanting. Worth risking the wrath of her parents for. Worth denying a duke for. “I’ll not marry you.”
Her refusal genuinely seemed to astonish him. His arrogance and his lack of outrage ruffled her composure. He settled a palm against his chest. "I've decided to marry, and this compromising situation will simply push up my timeline for the deed. You are very comely, and Simon extols your grace, kindness, and intelligence. I daresay you will make me a fine duchess and will save me the horror of wading through the London season to find a match.”
“Your Grace, you are quite mistaken on the matter. While I am sure you’ll be the most eligible catch of the season, I am not at all interested in being your bride,” she said bluntly. “And I never will be.”
An arched brow winged. “Is this not what you want?”
“No, I have the utmost regard and tender sentiment for another and cannot bear the thought of marrying anyone but him!”
