Rebel Baron (21 page)

      
It was as if, like their Yankee counterparts, the British noveau riche had to be absolutely certain everyone knew just how wealthy and, hence, how powerful they were. And the only way to do this was through a display of sheer mass. Even a sterling table knife weighed as much as a claymore, Brand thought contemptuously. But he was certain that Miranda Auburn had not chosen such vulgar ostentation. Her own Spartan taste in clothing revealed her preference, whether she was dressed to conceal her beauty or to reveal it. No, the late Mr. Auburn was responsible for this mausoleum and all its trappings.

      
He wondered why she had never changed anything. Most women lived to refurbish their homes. Yet she left everything intact here and at her place of business, formerly her husband's place of business. Brand was growing more than passingly curious about the relationship between young Miranda and the husband who had been more than twice her age when he wed her. What hold from beyond the grave did he have on her?

      
Dare he ask such a personal question? In the past whenever he became too familiar, she'd given him firm set-downs, but he wanted to understand why such a beautiful woman had sequestered herself behind office walls. A widow of her wealth could have remarried and spent her life in a giddy social whirl. Then he smiled to himself. Miranda was hardly the social sort, much less giddy.

      
He could tell that she detested the protocol of pairing up dinner partners in order of rank. She'd looked bored to tears by the time the last tablecloth was stripped and the desserts served. If not for the political arguments, which some of the guests found unseemly, she would have nodded off during the soup course. So would he.

      
Lorilee, on the other hand, loved parties and had bubbled on about fashions, balls and the latest gossip with glee. How could he explain why he could not marry her without crushing her? Oh, he had no illusions that she fancied herself in love with him. She had been too wary and prim to indicate a girlish infatuation whenever they were in close proximity. The preceding week when he'd waltzed with her at the Mountjoys' ball, she had been as tense as a tightly wound watch spring.

      
But he was, after all, he thought bitterly, a fair catch on the marriage mart for a rich tradesman's daughter—her entree to the aristocracy. If she lost him, there would be gossip and speculation, the very worst thing for a debutante. He paced back and forth, searching for a way to untangle a Gordian knot, knowing that direct severance was not an option.

      
A tiny mew distracted him from his troubling thoughts. One of Callie' s kittens stood at his feet, poised to climb his pant leg. Emboldened by his luck with the mama, he felt the kitten to be no threat. Its round-eyed little face looked incredibly appealing and innocent in the moonlight. He scooped up the fur ball and began petting it as he paced. Again he was rewarded with the fierce vibrations of purring. Perhaps he was cured of his phobia of cats, he thought with a small smile. Then again, there still was Marm to consider.

      
Miranda stood hidden in the shadows of a willow, amazed as she watched him with the kitten. She knew there was little time to dawdle. With Lori already retired, she would be quickly missed. So would the baron. But she could not take her eyes off the way he cradled the small animal so gently in the palm of one hand...that scarred hand with its long, elegant fingers.
I cannot think such thoughts!

      
What a shambles this whole evening was becoming! She should be furious with her daughter for sending the note and using Dutch courage in order to do it. But instead she forced herself to blame Brandon Caruthers. How dare he respond to such an improper request and endanger Lori's reputation! Fueling herself with righteous indignation, she stepped from the concealment of a willow tree and approached him.

      
Brand gently set the kitten down. Without turning, he said, “I wondered if it would be you or your daughter.”

      
Caught off guard, she blurted out, “How did you know it was I?” What had made her say such a stupid thing? As his eyes met hers in the moonlight, her breath caught and she fought the instinct to take a step back.

      
“Your scent,” he replied.

      
She
did
take a step back. “I do not wear perfume,” she replied in as frosty a tone as she could muster, although the moment she said it, she knew that was not what he meant.

      
His smile was as lazy as his drawl. “I know. It's your essence. Unique. Miss Auburn wears a lovely, light floral perfume. You don't require any artifice besides the lavender you rinse your hair with.” Without realizing he was doing it, Brand took another step toward her, closing the distance between them.

      
This time she stood her ground. “I did not come out here to discuss scents, but sense—as in common sense. And propriety. What ever made you respond to my daughter's request to meet her here? It was ill advised of her, but she's young and inexperienced in such matters. You should know better.”

      
“First of all, since the note wasn't signed, I wasn't sure which of you—”

      
“You thought I'd arrange a tryst with you in the moonlight?” she practically hissed. The idea that he had come here to meet her was a possibility she did not wish to consider.

      
“Well,” he chuckled, “I confess it didn't seem likely. But I didn't think your daughter would want to 'tryst' with me either. Miss Lorilee isn't exactly starry-eyed with infatuation over me, in case you hadn't noticed. Thinking about it now, I expect that's why she had to work up her courage with all that wine before she could face me.”

      
Miranda groaned. “You noticed her overindulgence. I suppose everyone else has, too. I don't know what's gotten into her.”

      
“She didn't tell you why she sent the note, which I assume you saw me receive.”

      
Miranda shook her head. “Yes...that is, I saw that footman—who is infatuated with her—pass you the note. Unfortunately, she was in no condition to explain it”

      
“Then wouldn't it have been wiser to let me stew out here after you sent her to her room?”

      
The question was quite reasonable, but at the moment, Miranda was feeling anything but reasonable. “I felt you deserved a proper dressing down for taking advantage of an innocent.”

      
“As I said, I doubt that your daughter's intent was romantic. I merely wanted to see who'd show up...” He let the words trail away as his eyes moved slowly down her neck to the soft pale flesh voluptuously revealed by her evening gown. The sudden urge to reach out and trace his fingertips across her collarbone took him utterly by surprise. So much so he nearly did it. “Miranda...”

      
“I have not given you permission to use my Christian name, Major! And I find your behavior most offensive.” She brought her hand up to her throat, as if to conceal the pounding of her pulse. “You are my daughter's suitor, not mine,” she said, as much to remind herself as to remind him.

      
“I apologize, ma'am. You're quite right,” he said softly.

      
“I believe our agreement may not be working out to my expectations.” She struggled for icy hauteur but managed only breathless wariness.

      
“Miss Lorilee is as skittish as a colt around me,” he agreed thoughtfully.
So are you.
“Do you think she's changed her mind? That could be what she wanted to tell me tonight.”

      
It made sense, but Miranda was in no condition to think straight with those hot tiger's eyes watching her. Yet she stood rooted to the ground like the damned willow tree, unable to move as he stepped closer and raised his hand, then lowered it when she finally managed to get out, “Yes, it might be that. I... I shall have to speak with her.”

      
The world spun and her heart pounded as if it would burst from her chest. She was acting like a moonstruck girl! He was years her junior and an utter rogue. Had she imagined that he had nearly touched her—in a most improper way? Or, worse yet, was it just her own foolish fantasy?

      
Suddenly a voice called out into the darkness, “Mrs. Auburn?” It was Fitzsimmons, the butler.

      
“I shall be in momentarily, Mr. Fitz,” she managed to reply as she turned away from Brand.

      
He let her go. Every fiber of his being ached to touch her, but he knew that to do so was folly. Instead he called after her softly, “Miranda... ‘Oh, brave new world that has such creatures in it!’ ”

      
She spun around. “Your recall of Shakespeare is faulty. The proper line is 'O, brave new world that has such people in't.' Miranda is speaking to Ferdinand, not he to her,” she snapped. Then she vanished into the house.

      
Well, he'd truly jumped into the hog wallow now. Damn, what was he thinking? There would be no money to rebuild the Rushcroft estate if their agreement was broken. He stood to lose everything. But he'd been thinking all evening of nothing but a way to let down Lorilee Auburn gently. Why had he not simply explained that to her mother?

      
But no, he had practically stalked Miranda Auburn as if he intended to seduce her in the moonlight. As if a woman like she would allow such an outrageous thing! Brand walked around the willow, combing his fingers through his hair as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened between them. When the kitten reappeared, he picked it up without thinking. Stroking its soft fur soothed his troubled thoughts.

      
Ever since Ascot, he had been struck by Miranda's surprising beauty. But even before that, something...elusive had attracted him to her. And, unless he was misreading all the signs—something he seldom did where women or horses were concerned—she was equally attracted to him.

Where might it lead? Madness!

      
Brand prayed that his sudden insight into what Lorilee had wanted to say to him was correct. She was the wronged party in this whole mess. The last thing he'd ever intended was to hurt her. Then he smiled ruefully. With a protective mama bear like the widow looking out for her welfare, Miss Lori would emerge unscathed. He only wished he could say the same for himself.

* * * *

      
“Ooh, my head,” Lori whimpered as she clutched her stomach, doubling over so her throbbing skull rested between her knees. She was huddled wretchedly in the middle of her bed. “I'm afraid I'm going to die,” she moaned.

      
“Never worry. In a bit you'll be more afraid that you're going to live,” Tilda replied briskly, propping pillows behind the girl.

      
“What would I do without your tender sympathies?” Lori croaked as the older woman gently helped her lean back.

      
“Here, drink this.”

      
“Ugh!” Lori turned her head from the toxic-smelling brew in the cup. “What is it?”

      
“An old remedy the Sergeant Major used to mix up when he'd overindulged in gin.” The Sergeant Major was Tilda's English guardian, the man who'd saved her life in India and brought her to England when he retired from the army.

      
“Will it help?” Lori asked dubiously, taking a tiny sip.

      
“I don't know. You drank wine, not gin, but I imagine it's worth trying, wouldn't you say? I would if my skin were as green as yours.”

      
Lori swallowed down several sips, pulling an awful face as she did so. “Anything to relieve my head and my tummy.”

      
“What on earth possessed you to do such a foolish thing? You don't even like wine, for pity's sake.” Tilda asked.

      
“Has Mother inquired about me?” Lori evaded, eyeing the door nervously.

      
“She received an urgent transatlantic wire from Mr. Aimesley and had to meet with her associates in the City early this morning. I imagine she'll be ‘inquiring’ as soon as she returns home,” Tilda replied dryly.

      
Lori polished off the rest of the foul concoction in one gulp. “Then I must use this time to my advantage since I made such a botch of matters last evening. Did Mother mention anything about the baron when she was retiring last night?”

      
Tilda was the one to look dubious as Lori climbed from the bed and stood unsteadily. “No, she did not. What ‘botch’ last evening?”

      
“Send for a bath and help me select my clothes while I explain,” Lori replied.

      
She still looked a bit green about the gills, but the Sergeant Major's remedy appeared to work better on wine than gin. It had never worked all that well for the dear old man. Perhaps Lori's recovery was due to the resilience of youth.

      
Tilda listened as Lori explained about the note and her lack of courage which resulted in...she was not exactly sure what. “So, you see, I think she went to the garden in my place to give him a setdown...or...”