Rebel Baron (31 page)

      
The rocks in the creek had jagged edges on them, she thought vengefully as she rode back around the lake. Poor Varinia. Her husband would always be a skirt-chaser. How fortunate that Lori's own wise mother had prevented her from falling prey to him. Lori knew she would be far more careful selecting a husband.

      
She had learned a valuable lesson.

* * * *

      
Miranda lay on the narrow bed in the guest room assigned to her at Rushcroft Hall with a cold compress on her aching head, trying to gather her scattered wits. When the party returned from the picnic, she must appear to be somewhat ill yet rally enough for them to catch the evening train for London. There was no way on earth she or her daughter would spend another night beneath that...that seducer's roof! It would entail quite an acting feat. Lori knew she'd never suffered a sick day in her life. Of course, there were the effects of the wine.

      
What had possessed her to drink so much of the blasted stuff? Normally, she was very careful imbibing alcohol. She knew she had little better tolerance for it than did her daughter. How could she pretend she had an upset stomach, not a buzzing head? And what had the baron told them? Was it the meat pies or the clotted cream that had supposedly done her in? Drat it all, in spite of being cool and able to conceal her feelings in business, she had always been a terrible prevaricator when it came to personal matters.

      
How could she deceive Lori? Her daughter had been taken in by Pelham's pup and was now betrayed by the baron. There was no way she could allow Lori to marry that bounder, but neither could she explain the shameful seduction beneath the oak tree to an innocent like Lori. The poor child would be shocked and appalled that her mother had behaved no better than a woman like Reba Wilcox.

      
“No matter if I must disillusion her and lose her respect, I must save her from Rushcroft,” she murmured to herself.

      
A soft knock on the door was followed by Tilda's entrance. The maid had a suspicious look on her face. Already Miranda knew she was in trouble, and Lori had not yet even returned.

      
“I heard you'd taken ill. Something you ate, according to the baron.” The maid walked over and pulled the cloth from Miranda's eyes. “A little green about the gills, but you don't look to me as if you suffer from food poisoning. In fact, since Mr. St. John and I partook of the same food, I'm inclined to doubt there was anything wrong with it. I did note one empty wine bottle lying on the picnic blanket...” She waited a beat. When Miranda did not respond, she said, “You're faking.”

      
“I am not,” Miranda protested, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her bent knees, laying her head down on them. “I've never felt worse in my life.” That at least was the truth.

      
“But it isn't your stomach that's hurting, is it?” Tilda's tone invited confidence now. “It's your heart.”

      
Miranda's head snapped up. “Whatever do you mean?”

      
One black eyebrow arched in Tilda's narrow face. “I think you know.”

      
Before Miranda could think of a reply to that disturbing remark, the door burst open and Lorilee rushed in. “Mother, the baron said you were taken ill! You're never ill.” She took a seat beside her mother and reached up to press her hand against Miranda's brow, acting for all the world as if their roles had been reversed.

      
“Oh, she's sick, all right,” Tilda said dryly. “Heartsick. And I'd bet my new brocade robe it's over the baron.”

      
Miranda's jaw dropped. ‘Tilda, of all the impertinent, improper, ridiculous—”

      
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Lorilee said to Tilda with a cheeky grin. The maid nodded back in sage agreement.

      
Miranda looked from Tilda to Lori and back, utterly befuddled. “Since when do you quote Shakespeare to me, young lady?” she asked, knowing the quote was a bit off. But for the life of her, she was unable to recall the precise wording.

      
“What happened between you and the baron, Mother? He appeared quite distraught.”

      
As well he might!
“We must go home. Once we're there, I shall explain everything. Tilda,” she said, turning to the maid, “please help me pack our things. We must not miss the evening train to London.” She began to pick up discarded garments, as frantic as a squirrel gathering nuts at first frost.

      
“Mother, I think there's something you should know,” Lori announced. When Miranda did not stop throwing things in the trunk, the girl sighed and said, “I never intended to marry the baron. You chose him, not I. And for very good reason. You're the one who is in love with him, not I”

      
Miranda dropped the shirtwaist in her hands and turned to her daughter. Her mouth opened, but not a word came out. For the first time in her life she was utterly speechless.

Chapter Fifteen

      
The hour was late and everyone exhausted when the women arrived at their city house. Mercifully, the baron had remained behind in the countryside although he'd insisted Mr. St John accompany them as protection, seeing that they were safely locked inside the walls of Will Auburn's mausoleum and surrounded by servants. Miranda's mind was still whirling from Lori's startling pronouncement, but they'd had no privacy to discuss it.

      
She had assigned the house servants the task of unpacking, ordered a cold collation for a late supper, although she had not the slightest appetite, then locked herself inside her office to collect her thoughts before summoning her daughter for a long and frank talk.

      
The only problem was that she had no idea what to say to the girl. The whole idea of herself and the baron—of him preferring her to a lovely young girl—why, it was so utterly preposterous she could not credit it.

      
But you hoped for it,
that wicked voice inside her whispered.

      
She quashed it.

      
If Lori had decided he was too hard, too frighteningly uncivilized in spite of his superficial veneer of charm, that she could understand. After his despicable behavior this afternoon, she thought Lori wise to reject him—far wiser than she herself had been to arrange the match in the first place.

      
Miranda sighed as she paced back and forth across the spacious office. She had always been mercilessly honest in all her dealings, taking pride in her principles. Now was not the time to begin lying to herself. She shared the baron's guilt for the seduction. Oh, he was skillful, very practiced, no doubt about it, but she was scarcely some foolish twit barely out of the schoolroom. Even if she didn't have the experience of a tart such as Reba Wilcox, she had known where he was leading her. And she had allowed it...even if she had to fortify herself with alcohol in order to numb her conscience!

      
The baron—she refused to use any name more personal—had spoken about their mutual attraction. In the heat of anger, she had dismissed his claim; but now in the chill of remorse, she had to face the fact that it was frighteningly true. She, the plain, drab older woman, confident in her wealth and power, had been fascinated by him from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. Even though she'd hidden behind a wall of condescension, he must have sensed her weakness. He knew her better than she had known herself.

      
There was no way she could ever trust him. How mistaken she had been about his character, believing him a proud man of honor who would treat her precious daughter with kindness and consideration! Never in all her years of struggling to survive in a man's world had she been guilty of such a lapse in judgment.

      
And he'd used it, the rotter!

      
Her furious ruminations were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, Lorilee entered and closed the door behind her. Miranda could see her daughter was not as nervous as she. How had the tables been turned in their relationship?
The baron,
whispered a small, insistent voice buried deep inside her.

      
“We must talk, Lorilee.”

      
Uh-oh. Lori knew things boded ill when her mother used her full name in that tone of voice. She fought the sudden feeling of being twelve again, caught eavesdropping while her mother discussed a very important business arrangement with Mr. Aimesley.

      
“Yes, we do,” she replied with as much calm as she could muster. “Mother, I—”

      
“Since when do you perceive it your prerogative to interfere in my personal life, to deceive me and scheme with outsiders?” Miranda accused before she could stop herself. Lori's stricken look made her feel small, but the girl deserved a good dressing down for her part in this debacle.

      
Lorilee took a deep breath for courage and replied, “I never intended to deceive you. Lord Rushcroft is no more an ‘outsider’ than is Tilda. And, as to interfering in your personal life, I am your daughter. Who better has the right to be concerned about her own mother's welfare?”

      
That set Miranda back on her heels. She mustered every ounce of negotiating skill she'd honed over the years and went on the counterattack. “You presume too much, as does Tilda. I should fire her for this impertinence.” At the shocked expression on Lori's face, she relented, adding, “But, of course, I will not.”

      
“Well, thank heaven for that. This sort of hysterical reaction is precisely why I didn't explain my feelings toward the baron. And why I knew better than to suggest he suited you so well. You needed more time with him to recognize that for yourself.”

      
“Hysterical!” Miranda practically shrieked before bringing herself under control. “The whole idea is absurd. I never intend to wed again.” She turned and looked out the window at the dim glitter of gaslights on the pavement. “It would be disloyal to your father.”

      
“Were you in love with him, Mother?” Lori asked, almost certain of the answer.

      
Miranda could feel her daughter's eyes on her and knew she could not lie. “I cared very deeply for him,” she managed. “When you're young, you think being in love is the end-all and be-all of existence, but I can assure you it's not. I believed you understood about marriage for those of our class.”

      
“I do, otherwise I never would’ve agreed to meet Lord Rushcroft in the first place. Marriage is based on more than”—her cheeks pinkened as she moistened her lips and said—“physical attraction.” When Miranda's whole body jerked angrily, Lori backtracked quickly, intuiting that discussion would not work. She knew nothing at all about “physical attraction” beyond a few kisses bestowed by a fortune-hunting ne'er-do-well. Best leave that approach to Tilda, who was older and wiser in the ways of the world.

      
“I was given to believe that having things in common was the basis of a good marriage,” she said, resuming her argument. “Such as position in society, laughing at the same jokes, arguing about political matters and finding you really don't disagree as much as you thought you did. I've been watching the two of you together for weeks, Mother. You understand each other. You live in the same world. I'm just a schoolroom miss to him.”

      
“A schoolroom miss who's taken a very great deal upon herself,” Miranda said with asperity.

      
“Only because I care about both of you...and your happiness.”

      
“Odd that I mistook your feelings for him that night in the garden when you kissed him.” The moment she blurted out those foolish words, Miranda sucked in her breath, horrified at the petty jealousy they revealed.

      
Lori smiled like a kitten in cream. “I think of the baron as an elder brother, not a potential husband. And what you witnessed was long after we'd agreed that his courtship of me was over. Do you know what he told me when we had that discussion?”

      
“I have not the faintest idea,” Miranda said sharply.

      
“That I would one day be like you. I consider it a high compliment.”

      
“Has it occurred to you that he may be using you? That he's no better than Geoffrey Winters?”

      
Lori stepped back. “I've never known you to be cruel before,” she said quietly.

      
At once Miranda felt contrite. “I didn't mean that as an aspersion on your judgment, dearheart. It's his fault, not yours,” she said, reaching out to take Lori in her arms. “Please forgive me.”

      
Lori could feel her mother trembling. She was as upset as Lori had feared she'd be when forced to confront her feelings for Brandon Caruthers. “No, it is not his fault that I decided the two of you should be together. He disagreed with me, too...when I went to his city house and—”