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 as Miss Sinclair now – 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 that sounded innocuous, 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, as you will 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.

"Do excuse me, everyone," she said sweetly, and swept inside. Arthur followed grimly.

It was a relief to step into the cool darkness of the library, with the chatter and clinking teacups retreating into a muffled sound in the background.

Beatrice took her time composing herself, shaking out her skirts again, pinching her cheeks, tweaking her hair. Arthur knew his mother well enough to guess that she was forestalling the inevitable. He waited impatiently until her fidgeting ceased.

"Why is Miranda Sinclair here, Mother?" he asked at last.

Beatrice pursed her lips. "I don't know, dearest. You saw the invitations. I did not send her one. She simply turned up."

"Perhaps so. You forget, Mother, I know Miranda and you well. She has plenty of faults, but she knows the rules of Society well, and she does not like to leave herself open to censure. She would never have arrived here, uninvited, unless she was entirely sure of a welcome. There is something you're not telling me."

Beatrice poked at the rug with the toe of her slipper, for all the world like a naughty child caught in a lie.

"Well, if you insist on knowing my personal business," she said hotly, "I have exchanged a few letters with Miranda over the past few months."

Arthur could have sworn that his stomach, weighed down what felt like a stone, went plummeting into the depths of his gut and tangled itself there.

"You have been writing to Miranda," he echoed, bewildered. "Why would you do that, Mother? She broke off her engagement to me, because of… because of…" he trailed off, gesturing wildly at his scarred face. "She couldn't bear to look at me! I suppose you think that was an understandable thing for her to feel."

Beatrice flew towards him, cupping his face in her palms. "No, no, my darling boy, of course not! But… but Miranda never said that it was your face. She said you had changed, and war has changed you, my darling. She was weak and silly and shallow, but perhaps now she is the one who changed. I only wish you could see the letters she wrote. She never said straight out that she wanted you back, but she said so many times that she regretted breaking off the engagement. She said that you were the best of men, the finest of them. She has been nothing but complimentary of you, dearest."

"Of course she has. She's writing to my mother, after all," he retorted bitterly, moving back. Beatrice's hands dropped down to her sides, and she began wringing them together.

"Are you angry, Arthur?"

He sighed. "You can write to who you like, Mother. I wish you hadn't written to my once-betrothed, but I don't have the authority to choose who you keep as friends. I don't want to see Miranda here. I wish she hadn't come. Why did you encourage it?"

Beatrice hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. She looked nothing short of guilty, he thought. He waited a while longer, knowing full well that there was more to come.

"You recall Miranda got engaged to that gentleman, after you?" she burst out. "That Captain-something or other."

"Vaguely," he muttered. The engagement had come only two months after Miranda had ended things with him, and he had still felt raw and bloody inside. It seemed unbelievable that she was engaged already, and it confirmed his suspicions that somebody else had taken his place while he went to war. He was glad that he found the engagement announcement on his own, printed in the Gazette, instead of having somebody tell him and therefore be obliged to manage his own reactions.

"Well, it ended," Beatrice said, with just a hint of triumph. "I asked her about it in our letters, naturally, and she responded so beautifully. She said that he reminded her so much of you, but that he was a false man, a mere shadow next to you. It was remarkably poetic."

"I'm sure it was," he shot back bitterly. "You must know she curated her letters carefully, Mother. Miranda does nothing without thinking it over again and again. She's written letters to you in order to win you to her side, and clearly it has worked. She's played you for a fool."

Beatrice flinched. "I wish you would not be so unkind and distrustful of everyone, Arthur. I believe that Miranda has changed. I think, if you were to give her a chance, she would do anything to win back your affections."

Now that was baffling. Arthur wasn't sure whether he wanted to storm away or burst out laughing.

"If you're saying that she lost her fiancé and sees that I am now an earl and can make her Lady Lanwood, then yes, I agree fully."

"Oh, tosh. Not everybody has such mercenary ambitions."

"Certainly, not everybody does have such mercenary ambitions, but Miranda absolutely does."

Beatrice folded her arms tightly. "You loved Miranda, once. Deeply, as I recall."

Arthur clenched his jaw. "Yes, I did. I don't deny it. Everybody knows it, Miranda included. I would have died for her, and looked forward every day to making her my wife and creating our own family. Miranda, however, broke things off when she discovered she could no longer bear to look at me. Now that my fortunes are up, she finds that she can manage looking at my scarred face, especially now that I have an earldom behind me."

"She has changed, Arthur. I wish you would believe me."

He raked a hand through his hair. "I wish I could believe you, too."

Beatrice shuffled forward, laying a hand on his arm.

"You must marry, Arthur. Not just for the sake of our family line, but for your own sake. I believe that a loving wife would make you happy, and I for one would love a daughter-in-law. It would prevent people from suspecting that you intend to marry poor Lucy, too."

He sighed. "I know I must marry, Mother. You said so. But not Miranda. I am serious – I don't want to see her again. If you want to write to her, I shan't stop you. If you want to spend time with her, that is your concern. But I don't want her here, and that's final."

There was a long, tense silence between them. Arthur realized doggedly that there was more to come.

"Come on, then," he continued heavily. "Out with it. You are a terrible liar, Mother. Never play cards with high stakes."

Beatrice gave a long, rattling sigh. "It's just that… that when I spoke to her earlier, I invited her to a few of our other entertainments."

His jaw tightened. "When you say a few of our other entertainments…"

"I mean all of them," Beatrice said dolefully. "Starting with our little informal musical evening tonight. She's coming back then."

Arthur felt vaguely sick. The pounding in his head was materializing into the tangible stab of a megrim. His vision was steady, for now, but he already knew he couldn't return to the terrace to socialize, even if Miranda had magically disappeared.

He should be so lucky.

"I can't very well rescind the invitations, not unless I turn her away at the door," Beatrice was saying now, with a hint of panic in her voice. "And people heard me invite her. I was obliged to invite Lord Vincent, too. Arthur, I am so sorry, my tongue simply ran away with me. I never meant for it to happen. I… I didn't think she would come here."

Arthur passed a wobbling hand over his face. If he slept the rest of the afternoon away, he might just be in good enough shape to attend the musical evening that night. Miranda seemed to have taken a dislike to poor Miss Thornhill, and somebody ought to defend her.

"Oh, Mother," he said lightly, voice cracking despite his best efforts. Beatrice looked anguished. "Mother, what have you done?"