the pattern before?’
‘Her Grace would mostly take a tray in her room, of the evenings.’
‘And her sons?’
‘Weren’t here, ma’am. Lord St John was mostly up in London. And his Grace was on the continent. Paris and such. He din’t come back ‘til just before his mother died, to make peace. And Lord St John almost missed the funeral.’
It was just as well that she was disgraced, she thought. It didn’t sound like either of the men would have had her because of the gentle pleadings of their mother.
‘When will we be expecting the rest of your things, ma’am?’ Polly was shaking the wrinkles out of a rather forlorn evening gown, surprised at having reached the bottom of the valise so soon. There was no good way to explain that the maid had seen the sum total of her trousseau: two day dresses, a gown and the travelling dress drying on a rack in the corner, supplemented by a pair of limp fichus, worn gloves and darned stockings.
‘I’m afraid there aren’t any more things, Polly. There was a problem on the coach,’ she lied. ‘There was a trunk, but it didn’t make the trip with me. The men accidentally left it behind, and I fear it is stolen by now.’
‘Perhaps not, ma’am,’ Polly replied. ‘Next time his Grace goes into the village, he can enquire after it. They’ll send it on once they have the direction.’
Miranda could guess the response she’d receive if she asked him to inquire after her mythical wardrobe. He would no doubt give her some kind of a household allowance. She’d counted on the fact. Perhaps his powers of observation weren’t sharp and she could begin making small purchases from it to supplement her clothing. She turned back to the topic at hand.
‘And was her Grace ill for long before her death?’
‘Yes, ma’am. She spent the last two months in her room. We all saw it coming.’
And shirked their duties because no one was there to scold them into action. By the look of the house, his Grace had not taken up the running of the house after the funeral. ‘And now that his Grace is in charge of things,’ she asked carefully, ‘what kind of a master is he?’
‘Don’t rightly know, ma’am. He tends to the lands and leaves the running of the house to itself. Some nights he eats with the tenants. Some nights he eats in the village. Some nights he don’t eat at all. There’s not been much done with the tenants’ houses and the upkeep since he’s been away, and I think he’s feelin’ a bit guilty. And there’s no telling what Lord St John is up to.’ She grinned, as though it was a point of pride in the household. ‘Young Lord St John is quite the man for a pretty face.’
‘Well, yes. Hmm.’ The last thing she needed. But he’d been pleasant to her and very helpful.
‘He was the one that suggested we put you up here, even though the room hasn’t been used much. Thought the duke’d want you up here eventually.’
‘And why would that be?’
Polly stuck a thumb in the direction of the door on the south wall. ‘It’s more handy, like. This was his late duchess’s room, although that goes back to well before my time.’
‘H-how long ago would that be, Polly?’ She glanced towards the bed, uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping on someone’s deathbed, no matter how grand it might appear.
‘Over ten years, ma’am.’ Polly saw the look in her eyes and grinned. ‘We’ve changed the linen since, I’m sure.’
‘Of course,’ she said, shaking herself for being a goose. ‘And her Grace died …?’
‘In childbed, ma’am. His Grace was quite broken up about it, and swore he’d leave the house to rot on its foundation before marrying again. He’s been on the continent most of the last ten years. Stops back once or twice a year to check on the estate, but that is all.’
Miranda leaned back in her chair and gripped the arms. The picture Cici had painted for her was of a man who had grieved, but was ready to marry again. And he hadn’t expected her. Hadn’t wanted her. Had only agreed to a meeting to humour his dying mother.
No wonder he had flown into a rage.
She should set him free of any obligation towards her. Perhaps he could lend her her coach fare back to London. Prospects were black, but certainly not as bad as attaching herself to an unwilling husband.
Don’t let an attack of missish nerves turn you from your destiny. There is nothing here to return to, should you turn aside an opportunity in Devon.
Nothing but Cici, who had been like a mother to her for so many years, and her poor, dear father. They’d sacrificed what little they had left to give her this one chance at a match. She couldn’t disappoint them. And if she became a duchess, she could find a way to see them again.
If her husband allowed.
‘What’s to become of me?’ she whispered more to herself than to Polly.
The night passed slowly, and the storm continued to pound against the windows. The room was damp and the pitiful fire laid in the grate did nothing to relieve it. Polly gave up trying, after several attempts, to find a chambermaid to air and change the bedding or to do something to improve the draw of the chimney. She returned with instructions from his Grace that, for the sake of propriety, Miranda was to remain in her room with the door locked until morning, when someone would come to fetch her to the chapel for her wedding. She carefully locked the door behind Polly, trying to imagine what dangers lay without that she must guard against. Surely, now that the damage was done, her honour was no longer at risk. Did wild dogs roam the corridor at night, that she needed to bar the door?
The only danger she feared was not likely to enter through the main door of her room. She glared across at the connecting door that led to the rooms of her future husband. If he wished to enter, he had easy access to her.
And the way to rescue or escape, should she need it, was blocked. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She tiptoed across the room and laid her hand against the wood panel of the connecting door, leaning her head close to listen for noises from the other side. There was a muffled oath, a rustling, and nothing more. Yet.
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous. If he wanted her, there was no rush. She would legally belong to him in twenty-four hours. It was highly unlikely that he was planning to storm into her room tonight and take her.
She laid her hand on the doorknob. It would be locked, of course. She was being foolish. Her future husband had revealed nothing that indicated a desire for her now, or at any time in the future. He’d seemed more put out than lecherous at the thought of imminent matrimony and the accompanying sexual relations.
The doorknob turned in her hand and she opened it a crack before shutting it swiftly and turning to lean against it.
All right. The idea was not so outlandish after all. The door to the hall was locked against intruders and the way was clear for a visit from the man who would be her lord and master. She was helpless to prevent it.
And she was acting like she’d wasted her life on Minerva novels, or living some bad play with a lothario duke and a fainting virgin. If he’d been planning seduction, he’d had ample opportunity. If there were any real danger, she
