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“An engagement should have been in the papers today!”
Her mother’s cries were like a stone scraping against glass.
“Mamma,” she said, standing, her heart pounding with discomfort for she had never been one to contradict her mother. But the situation had becoming intolerable, the season no longer fun and intriguing. Until recent events, Miranda anticipated each season with elation for all the thrilling events she would attend and the courtship dances. She had been enthralled by the excitement of attending lavish balls, picnics, carriage rides, and walking out and flirting with several suitors. Now, only dread knotted her stomach whenever she thought about the next season and the marriage mart. “If I am such a sorry disappointment it is little wonder you do not banish me from your sight to the country with grandmamma.”
That would be far more tolerable than the constant pressure from her mamma to secure any eligible gentleman that came on the market. The tedium of country life was vastly more appealing than the parties of the little season. In Lincolnshire, she could take long walks, visit the orphanage her grandmamma sponsored, and perhaps attend a few balls at the local assembly. But most importantly, there she would have space and the freedom to think about what she wanted from life, and not what her mother insisted she must possess.
“This season you have put my nerves out of sort most abominably, and you danced with Mr. Brandon last night! Why would you do something so foolish?”
With a sigh, she pushed a few loose wisps of hair behind her ears. "He is very good-natured and charming mamma, and he is the younger brother of a viscount, so he is not without connections." And he had appeared so earnest and anxious when he asked, she’d not the heart to reject him, and she’d had a wonderful time dancing the quadrille and the polka with Mr. Brandon.
The countess advanced further into the drawing room, the glint in her eyes a dangerous thing to behold. “You will politely decline his offer if he should approach you again. He is not the sort of man a young lady of your connections and propriety should extend the smallest encouragement even if it is only dancing!”
Her whole life it had been impressed upon her the type of man she was to marry. A prince. A duke. Her mother would possibly accept a marquess if he possessed considerable estates and wealth. There had never been a mention of the man's character, and it saddened her to realize it honestly did not matter to her mother or to most society members. Invariably she shared a similar truth. The men who pursued her had no liking for her mind nor were they curious about learning about her. Her beauty, connections, and dowry were all that was admired.
Her mother sniffed as if holding back tears. “The entire day I’ve despaired with your father about what we should do with you. Miranda, you are two and twenty. You should be running and organizing your own household. Why, at eighteen I was already with child with your brother.”
“Mamma please, might we enjoy the rest of our stay in town without conversations about whom I’m to secure?”
Her mother stiffened as if she could not indeed countenance such a suggestion. "We planned to receive an offer this season! By next week everyone will be off to their country estates, and all opportunities will be lost until next year. Despite all my efforts in securing you a proper match you have willfully thwarted my best efforts.”
Her mother’s best efforts referred to the Duke of Carlyle, a man who had gone on to marry Miranda’s friend, Pippa, in a rare and beautiful love match of the season a few months ago. Her mother’s wicked wiles and Miranda’s foolish heart had allowed her to go along with her mother’s disastrous plan to compromise the Duke of Carlyle. Mamma had been determined for him to be her son-in-law, and Miranda had been committed to becoming a duchess. She had snuck into the man's room at a house party a few months ago, with the sole intention of compromising his honor so he would be forced to marry her.
The very memory of that scene had humiliation and shame crawling through her veins. She felt as if she aged several years since. Once she had taken it as her due that a man would look upon her face and fall hopelessly in love. That with a smile she would be able to ensnare him. She had rested much upon her beauty and had ignored her honor and common sense to her undying shame. “I do not wish to attend Lady Peregrine's house party, Mamma. Might I travel down to grandmother instead?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “That is our last event before we retire to the country with your father. I have it on good authority Lord Blythe will be in attendance, and I expect, young lady, an offer from him by the end of the party.”
“And am I to secure that offer by any means?” she demanded scathingly with pain and anger beating in her heart. “Did you know I was silly and willful enough to try to compromise the Duke of Carlyle a few months ago, doing exactly as you suggested, Mamma? I slipped into his room at Lady Burrell’s garden party! And Mamma…I went only in my banyan.”
Shock glazed her mother’s eyes, and she moved forward with jerky steps. "And he did not offer for you? How outrageous and dishonorable of him!"
Miranda rubbed her temples, hoping to soothe the headache she could feel forming. “Mamma, it was my conduct which was outrageous. He should have thrown me out on my head! Instead, he did the gentlemanly thing by walking away. And I was so humiliated at my failure I did not tell my dear friend the truth, and she then waged a campaign to destroy the duke's reputation when it had been unwarranted. Since then my eyes have been opened, the shame in my heart laid bare, and the regret in my heart heavy."
Her mother stared at her for several seconds. "You are simply too harsh with yourself, my dear. It was my expectation that you would secure the duke this season. It is a disappointment we must all bear, and it does us no credit to speak about what happened at that garden party. We shall rally and prepare for next season the best we can. I do have high hopes regarding Lord Blythe. While not the title we had hoped for you, the marquess has considerable estate and wealth. Now hurry to your rooms and ensure all is well for our journey in the morning.”
A girl of your astonishing beauty must only marry a prince…or a duke…, I declare to be so! Refrains she had heard from when she was a twelve year-old child in the schoolroom. Words which had made her once preen, her chest puffed with pride, now made her feel sick to her stomach, and her throat aching with unshed tears. “If you'll excuse me, Mamma."
She left the drawing room and her mother, but instead of heading upstairs, she collected her pelisse and bonnet having already called for the carriage. Almost thirty minutes later, she made her way to the townhouse of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyle in Portman Square.
Miranda bravely knocked on the large oak door, and when the butler made his appearance, she asked to see the duke and duchess. He allowed her inside and led her to the drawing room where a merry fire crackled in the hearth. She tried to marshal her thoughts, unsure of what she would say to Pippa and to the duke. The words eluded her, and the only guidance she had was the awful ache of regret in her heart and the burn of tears lodged in her throat.
“Miranda!”
She whirled around at her name to see a glowing Pippa gliding into the room. Shock tore through Miranda when Pippa enfolded her into a warm hug. There was no help for it, a sob tore from her throat. "Oh, Pippa, I have been so wretched with shame at my conduct. I have used you ill, and I am so very sorry!"
"Hush now," Pippa said, her own voice choked with emotions. "I regret leaving on my travels without mending our fences. You had apologized to me, and I ignored your overtures. Come, let’s sit and talk." Looping their arms together, the duchess led her over to the sofa closest to the fire. The warmth seeped into Miranda's bones, thawing the cold knot of doubt which had constricted her muscles.
A sound alerted, and she glanced up to see the duke. Miranda flus
hed, discomfort crawling through her veins. She had slipped into this man’s room and had shrugged off her robe! The room had been very dark, and she had doubted he even knew it was her, but the very memory of it made her want to die of humiliation. She stood. "Your Grace, I am so very sorry."
He smiled warmly, rendering her mute. "That is in the past, Lady Miranda. If I recall, more than five months ago. I probably should not say it, but without your antics, my darling Pippa would not have turned her mischievous wiles in my direction, and I would possibly have missed my love. So, I should be thanking you, hmmm?"
A laugh hiccupped from her. “You are both very generous, and I thank you for it.”
And there was an easing inside that swelled and expanded through every crevice of her being. The duke lingered for a few minutes, engaging her in discourse before he excused himself. Miranda turned to Pippa, “You do appear radiant, Pippa. I am so pleased with your happiness.”
Her friend squeezed her hand. "I cannot wait for you to find similar happiness. With your great beauty and poise, any day now—"
