Chapter Eighteen
Once his guestshad departed, Sir Julian retired into his study with the remains of the decanter of port. He took his high-backed chair, put his feet up on his desk and lit another cigar. Cuban tobacco that had arrived in Britain by way of Spain, or possibly by way of smugglers. He had no idea and it didn’t bother him so long as he had ample accessibility to his newfound habit.
Now he was alone, he had the opportunity, which he’d been looking forward to all evening, to think about Miranda. She’d put on that gown especially for him, he was certain. How very beautiful she’d looked in it, and how blue it had made her eyes look. Those wide, blue, innocent eyes. He ruminated over the rest of her. Those just plump enough shoulders, the swell of her delightful breasts, the roundness of her arms, her delicate hands. A shudder of pleasure ran through him and he rather wished he had a picture of her to look at—a miniature, perhaps. Although the real thing would be best.
His imagination, always good, ran riot as he allowed himself to picture what it would be like when they were married.
All their guests would be gone, and he would repair in here for a last drink and smoke while she took herself off upstairs to prepare that luscious body for him. He would just smoke half a cigar, because he was so eager to get to her. He would climb the stairs and push open his bedroom door and she’d be there, lying naked in his bed. Or might it be more fun if she were to be wearing a nightgown that he wouldhave to remove. Yes, definitely that would be better.
He had to stop there because he was becoming far too excited by these thoughts.
Sir Henry Madeley’s far too handsome face effectively quashed any arousal he’d been feeling. If only Sir Geoffrey had truly had no heir, or if this upstart replacement had died of his wounds in Belgium, as an honorable man would have done. Then Miranda would have remained in place at Windrush and he could have swept up not just her, but also her nicely profitable estate. The estate that was now Sir Henry’s. Damn the man.
He downed the remains of his glass of port and poured himself a second, more generous, one.
The man was insufferably smug. That wasn’t quite the right word, but whatever Sir Henry was, it was something he, Sir Julian, did not like or approve of. Mainly that he was too close to Miranda by far, even though at dinner he’d been well out of harm’s way, and Miranda had definitely not been his property.
Sir Julian scowled at the ceiling, his thoughts running in endless circles. The world, or rather his world, would be a far better place without Sir Henry Madeley in it.
He’d told the man, and Skeffington and the Colonel, that he had a special arrangement with Miranda, but that wasn’t true, was it? In the cold light of his lonely study, he could see it as really part of his imagination. Something he would like to have. Although the way she looked at him couldn’t be his imagination. No, not at all. She looked at him as though she had a secret she wanted to share with him, as though deep inside she knew they were meant to be together. So when he’d told them he had a special arrangement with her, it hadn’t really been a lie. No, it had been true.
He slopped some more port into his glass, a large part of it missing entirely and ending up on the desk.
He also didn’t like the way Sir Henry looked back at her. Thecheek of the man. The upstart, thinking he could shoulder his way onto what Sir Julian saw as his own property.
He scowled into his glass. Really, he should feel confident in her desire for him and him alone, but with Sir Henry there, who was really far too handsome despite being rather too thin, he couldn’t be totally sure of her. Women were fickle creatures and a pretty face carried a lot of weight with them. And, of course, the damned man was a wounded soldier, which was bound to make Miranda feel sympathy for him and possibly see him as a hero of some sort. Mistakenly, of course. And she might misconstrue sympathy for something more, especially if he pressed his suit. What with that pretty face of his.
He was sure he’d surprised something very akin to longing in the fellow’s eyes. He wasn’t so blind that he couldn’t recognize admiration and love when he saw it in a rival’s face. Yes, definitely Sir Henry was an obstacle that needed removing, and once he’d done that, he would move ahead immediately with his plans to marry Miranda.
Despite his imaginings he wasn’t so stupid as not to consider the possibility that she might object to his plans. That she might not be very happy if he somehow got Sir Henry out of the way. Even that she might not be amenable to marrying anyone so soon after her husband’s demise. She’d certainly claimed that although he was certain she hadn’t meant it. Just a woman playing hard to get, as women liked to do. So, in view of all of that, he was going to have to be forceful. She would come around. Women always did if a man was forceful enough. And it would be fun to do so. If he could just get her in a compromising position, then he was sure she would succumb rather than allow her reputation to be tarnished and be happy about it. Or if she wasn’t all that happy, he, at any rate, would be.
With that delightful vision in his head he dozed off, his cigar forgotten. Tomorrow he would ride over to Rampton Farm and declare himself, and he would refuse to be fobbed off.
Thick, cloying darknesspressed in around Harry. He could taste earth in his mouth and he couldn’t breathe. The conviction that they’d buried him while he was still alive washed over him in a tidal wave of horror. He could hear their spades, still shovelling the earth into his grave, hear their voices, their laughter. He fought. Arms and legs kicking, he fought against the weight holding him down, fought to get breath into his lungs, fought against those who thought he was already dead.
He fell with a jarring thud that brought him to his senses. He was lying on the floor in a tangle of bedclothes. His breath came in frantic pants and his nightshirt was stuck to his body by sweat. It was to be hoped no one had heard the resounding thump when he fell out of bed.
He sat up. Slowly his breathing returned to something akin to normal and now he found he was cold. Freezing cold. But at least it was not the cold of the grave. The dream, as dreams always are, had been terrifyingly realistic. And he was not dead. His shivering told him that.
Better get up before he caught a chill.
Using the bed to help him as he appeared to have knocked his leg on his way down, he got to his feet and surveyed his tangled bedding. He’d never had to make a bed in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. So, if he wasn’t getting back into bed, he might as well get dressed. Light was filtering in from behind the curtains so the sun must already be rising. Or even risen, and it wasn’t raining. And besides which, now he was well and truly awake, he didn’t think he could get back to sleep again even if he tried. He certainly didn’t want to return to that dream. He’d do what he’d been used to doing at Hester’s house. He’d go for an early morning walk.
He divested himself of his damp nightshirt and pulled on breeches and a shirt, then added stockings and an old coat he’d had for years. Now he was dressed, he was no longer so cold. He pulled on his bootsand let himself out of his bedroom, cane in hand.
The servants must already be about, so he moved as quietly as possible. Not easy when one had a limp and a cane. One of the young maids saw him and bobbed a hasty curtsy, so he put a finger to his lips to keep her quiet and descended the stairs into the hallway. Not all that quietly. No one on duty down here yet. He slid the bolt on the front door and let himself out into the freshly washed morning and closed it behind him.
The sun was indeed up, and the landscape had that look that can only be achieved by a sunny morning after heavy rain. Mist hung in the fields and the low sun gilded the trees in the lane. A blackbird was singing joyfully to welcome the sunshine. The perfect day for an early morning walk. He set off down the drive towards the gates. Perhaps he’d make his way towards Maidwell Farm and avail himself of Mrs. Bannerman’s baking. She had, after all, invited him to call in whenever he wanted. A good plan.
But, for some reason, his feet had other ideas and he found his steps taking him towards Rampton Farm instead. An unquenchable longing to see Miranda had taken a strong hold of him. Probably no one would be up this early, but he could hope. And, if someone was up, knowing his luck it would turn out to be the old housekeeper or one of the younger girls. Miranda and Melissa must surely be intending to indulge in a late morning after the party of the previous night. The fact that he wasn’t doing the same escaped him.
Approaching across the fields, he found he hadn’t really noticed before, but Rampton Farm nestled in a slight hollow. The surrounding higher fields gave him a good view and a little wood on the brow afforded him shelter enough not to be seen. He sat down on a log with the intent of just watching the farm wake up. It was damp, but he didn’t care. The sun was shining and for some reason he felt unaccountably happy with life for the first time in years. What could be better?
A few thick-hedged meadows surrounded the farm buildings, but their emptiness of horses indicated no one had as yet been out to the stables. Was Dick Fisher idling? He’d have to have a word with him. No. There he was in the distance climbing over the yard gate ready to start work. Good. The boy’s cheerful whistling carried on the breeze.
This was a good place to sit. His seat was comfortable and he could observe and not be seen, and that was very much what he felt he wanted to do this morning. No interruptions from Crawford, no visitors calling, no one he needed to speak to. He leaned back against the tree behind the log and stretched his legs out. For once, his right leg was hardly aching, despite the harder work of walking through fields rather than along the lane. Not that the lane would have been much less muddy than the fields.
The front door of the farmhouse opened and a figure came out.
