The Duchess's Next Husband. Terri Brisbin
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Your Grace?” The young maid added the correct polite term for her husband’s condition last evening.
“Indisposed. Or has he left for his morning ride?” Miranda shifted on the bed as she asked, and placed the porcelain cup back on the tray. “The weather certainly looks favorable for a ride in the park.”
Did the maid comprehend her curiosity? Miranda tried to keep just the right tone of disinterest in her voice, but feared her underlying questions were being betrayed…to a maid.
Before Betsy could answer her questions, the door opened and Fisk stepped in. With a look at her first, her competent lady’s maid dismissed the young girl with a nod and waited for Betsy to leave before speaking.
“His Grace is still abed and did not leave the house last night after he missed dinner.”
“How very strange.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them, but if Fisk thought them unusual or unseemly, she did not, would not, say so. It was amazing that the change in the duke’s behavior for one evening could throw the whole household into disarray so easily.
Motioning that she was finished with the half-eaten toast and chocolate, Miranda waited for it to be removed and then slid from her bed. Walking into her dressing room, she found her clothes laid out and ready for her. Fisk stepped into the room and, with her usual efficiency, soon had Miranda dressed, with her hair arranged, and ready to face her weekly interview by the duke’s mother.
As the door to her chambers was opened for her, Miranda realized she would never be ready to face this particular ritual in the Warfield family. At least not until she could bring the news that she carried Windmere’s heir. And with each passing month and year, that declaration seemed more and more unlikely.
The drive to the dowager’s residence a few blocks away did not take long enough for her to banish completely the questions that pushed forward into her thoughts. As she entered the drawing room and took a seat on the couch nearest the windows overlooking the gardens, she breathed deeply, trying to regain a sense of calm, a sense of her true self, before she was confronted by her dragonlike mother-by-marriage.
“Miranda.”
At the very sound of the commanding voice, Miranda stood and nodded. One did not remain seated when Cordelia Masters Warfield, dowager Duchess of Windmere, entered a room. No matter whose precedence was higher. No matter the age of those waiting or their position in society. Everyone stood when Her Grace entered. Miranda had it on good authority that even the Regent himself reacted so in the dowager’s presence.
With a posture and gait that any governess or tutor in the womanly arts would be proud of, the older woman crossed the expansive room to the large chair across from where Miranda had chosen to sit.
On another woman, the soft white of her hair and the clear blue gaze would have been inviting and warm. On the dowager, however, it only accented the harsh lines of dissatisfaction around her mouth and the coldness of that gaze.
Lowering herself to the seat, Cordelia placed herself exactly six inches from the back of the chair and laid her hands on her lap. Miranda knew it was six inches because Cordelia always reminded her of the correct posture and bearing needed by a duchess, whether in public or private.
Attempting to follow her example, Miranda sank to the couch, straightened her spine and crossed her own hands in her lap. When the dowager simply cleared her throat instead of coughing discreetly, Miranda knew she had attained the desired position. The cough was a signal to the butler to bring in the tea.
Arriving too late for a country breakfast and too early for a city one, Miranda knew not to expect more than the tea and biscuits placed before her. Cordelia hated city hours and was up at dawn, complaining liberally of the lack of fortitude in others who needed to sleep away most of their mornings. Having lived with this woman prior to her husband attaining his title, Miranda knew exactly what to expect. The dowager simply wanted a report, and then Miranda would be dismissed with as little regard as the servants were. Any pretenses of warmth and caring had dissipated as the hoped-for heir never appeared.
“How are you this morning, Miranda?” Although the dowager stirred her tea, her gaze never left Miranda’s face. She was looking for signs…of a delicate condition.
“I am well, Your Grace. And you?” Miranda looked away, giving the answer without the words. Still barren. When she turned back, the grimace still tightened the older woman’s face.
“My goddaughter will be attending Lady Crispin’s ball next week. Do you plan on attending as well?”
The subject changed neatly from a distressingly personal one to an unremarkable social one, without so much as a moment’s hesitation and without any acknowledgment of the woman’s continued disappointment. Miranda simply nodded.
“And my son?”
“Your Grace, I would not presume to know Windmere’s schedule.” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed as she looked for some sign of disrespect in her words. Miranda met her intense gaze with a guileless one. “I could ask His Grace’s secretary if you wish me to?”
Miranda had aided Cordelia’s attempts to launch her goddaughter in society, and she would continue to do so. She would not hold her own anger and frustration at the dowager against an innocent girl.
“I will send word to his secretary,” Cordelia announced, standing and smoothing the elaborate morning gown as she did.
“About what, Mother?”
Miranda gave a start at the sound of her husband’s voice. Turning slowly in her seat, she watched as Adrian walked into the drawing room and greeted his mother and her with a civilized nod. One look at his gait and the way he held his head told her that he was suffering the lingering effects of his condition the evening before.
“I would appreciate your presence at the Crispins’ ball next week. It will only be Juliet’s third one since her presentation to the queen and, as family, it is appropriate for us to attend with her.” The dowager paused and passed her sharp gaze over her son.
“Are you well, Windmere?” She asked her question, but assessed her son even as she spoke. “You look rather washed out and peaked.”
Miranda examined Adrian’s appearance as well. His linen, like the rest of his garments, was immaculate as usual, and he was done up in the latest fashion. He’d recently had his longish hair clipped in a shorter style and it revealed the natural body of it as the black locks curled just above his collar. He still cut a dashing figure, as he had when they’d met, so long ago.
It was not his clothing that gave away his condition as much as the sallowness of his normally tanned complexion and the red streaks in the whites of his eyes. He looked every inch the man suffering from the aftermath of too much alcohol.
“I am fine, Mother. Just tired,” he said. Meeting Miranda’s gaze, he seemed to be waiting for her to reveal the truth. When she simply nodded, he continued, “I am not certain of my plans over these next few weeks. I must go to Windmere Park to deal with some…business, and I do not know when I will return.”
He saw his wife’s eyes narrow at his hesitation and waited for Miranda’s questions. They did not come. But of course not. Miranda had been trained as the perfect lady by his mother, and would never question him in public. And since being under the dowager’s tutelage, she did not question him in private, either.
How would she react to the news of her impending widowhood? Would she react at all? Now was not the time to present such information. First, Adrian knew, he must sort through the practicalities and legalities of what his death would cause, and then he would speak to her about it. Or mayhap the physicians had the right of it—better not to know too far ahead of such a dire circumstance?
“When Parliament is in session? I thought you were keen on speaking to some of the issues,” his mother said. He could see that she definitely wanted to press him on this, but her unwavering control over something as trite as curiosity did not wane.
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