A Less Than Perfect Lady. Elizabeth Beacon
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with her own restraint even if nobody else was.
She even managed not to smile when she heard Leah’s loudly expressive sniff at such a shameless lie. Anyone who knew them would realise Celia and her mother enjoyed holding sway at the Court, while doing very little actual work. Maybe something of her thoughts showed in her face despite such self-restraint, though, for Celia’s gaze grew even stonier as she let it dwell on Miranda’s apparently insignificant form. Luckily she was too ladylike to sniff and just let her expression tell Lord Carnwood of her gallantly suppressed outrage. No doubt he shared it and when they were alone they could commiserate with each other on having to own to such a disreputable connection.
‘Mama is taking tea in the state drawing room,’ Celia prompted, a steely glint in her grey eyes.
From her satisfied expression Celia knew she was calling up a formidable reserve force, and Miranda had to admit it was a masterstroke. A summons to Lady Clarissa’s favourite haunt had struck terror into her youthful heart once upon a time. Yet if Aunt Clarissa and Celia thought she was still the insecure girl who had left Wychwood five years ago they were in for a shock. She would not have survived marriage to Nevin Braxton with her sanity intact if she had remained so dependent on the approval of others for her peace of mind.
Miranda met her cousin’s cool gaze and gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement and, as Celia’s lips tightened as far as she ever allowed them to in mixed company, she knew her message had been received.
‘Some refreshment would be most welcome after such a protracted journey,’ she coolly informed the space between her reluctant reception committee.
‘How remiss of us not to offer it sooner,’ the Earl remarked with an irony that would have done Beau Brummell himself proud, then he stood aside to let the ladies precede him with all the tonnish elegance he had previously disclaimed.
She spared them an openly considering look as they closed ranks behind her, then swept across the expanse of polished marble with a deliberately exaggerated grace. She could almost feel his arrogant lordship’s gaze lingering on her swaying hips and the supple flow of her long legs. Let him think what he pleased. The rest of the world seemed determined to do so anyway, and she refused to allow him to be any different. To distract herself from those two sets of condemning eyes fixed on her unsatisfactory person, she let herself consider them as cousins and found them as dissimilar to each other as they were to her. Celia hated the fact that she had not inherited the famous dark blue Alstone eyes, but the new Earl didn’t have them either.
He took after the founders of the family fortune in looks and doubtless in ruthless ambition as well. Miranda recalled the legend that every time a dark-haired, dark-eyed Alstone became head of the family, he either brought disaster or extraordinary blessings to Wychwood in his wake. Whichever it was to be, nobody should expect a peaceful time of it, but, for the new earl’s advent to be a personal disaster, he would first have to acquire an importance in her life she refused to grant him.
‘I must bid my aunt a good day before I get rid of my dirt,’ she said cheerfully enough.
Celia looked as if she would have been quite happy to sacrifice her company and his lordship frowned and veered off towards the library, ordering Coppice the butler to deny him to callers, before he went into that vast room and closed the door emphatically behind him. Miranda somehow managed not to laugh at her cousin’s shocked expression. His blatant refusal of a tête-à-tête with Celia, while the inconvenient new arrival was shuffled off on to Lady Clarissa, almost put the two cousins on a level footing for once.
Chapter Two
‘Cousin Christopher is always busy when he’s been to London on business,’ Celia remarked distantly.
Where once the very mention of the word ‘business’ would have had Celia raising her aristocratic nose with distaste, it seemed that a belted earl and head of the Alstone clan could soil his hands with work and still gain her blessing.
‘How long are you intending to stay?’ Celia went on, getting down to business now there was no need to pretend even the slightest welcome.
‘Not long, springtime is busy in Snowdonia.’
‘I hope Lady Rhys doesn’t expect you to help her shepherds?’
Luckily Miranda had learnt the value of self-restraint, and knew nothing would infuriate Celia more than seeing her barbs go astray.
‘My godmother would have me be a lady of such leisure I would be bored to the edge of reason if I listened to her,’ she said with a fond smile.
‘Then she cannot know you.’
‘Five years is quite long enough a time to know a person when you live with them day after day,’ Miranda replied, hanging on to her temper with something of an effort.
‘Perhaps not long enough,’ Celia insisted maliciously.
‘We knew one another very well before I went to reside with her, thanks to my holidays at Nightingale House,’ Miranda argued serenely.
‘She always was foolishly indulgent with her charity cases,’ Celia said, hoping to spark Miranda’s temper as she had so skilfully in the old days.
Luckily, Miranda thought with a coolly ironic smile, she had learnt a great deal of self-control since then. ‘That’s why none of us takes advantage of her generosity, or likes to hear her traduced,’ she countered instead.
‘The opinion of jailbirds, street urchins and fallen women is unlikely to influence persons of quality. Nor is a shabby widow hidden away on a remote estate without the blessings of civilisation of much interest to her peers,’ Celia went on undaunted.
‘My godmama will doubtless be delighted to hear it,’ Miranda returned blandly and was delighted to see a flush of temper tint her cousin’s cheeks.
‘Of course, if you stay away from her isolated little valley for long, you will not remain similarly uninteresting,’ she snapped.
‘How unfortunate for me,’ Miranda replied smoothly, deciding not to tell Celia she intended returning to her new life as soon as possible just now.
‘Yes, it would be.’
‘That sounded almost like a threat, Cousin Cecilia, how very clumsy of you,’ she murmured as they entered the grand saloon together. ‘Ah, Aunt Clarissa, I can see that you are enjoying your usual good health.’
‘Niece,’ her least favourite relative greeted her with no obvious enthusiasm, as if she was acknowledging some unpleasant condition she was justly ashamed of. ‘You’re sadly worn looking and far too thin.’
‘Then I shall eat well and take more rest while I am here,’ she returned blandly, and welcomed the look of fury building in the stony gaze.
Fury was a far better reaction than the gloating look they had shared whenever they succeeded in pointing up her faults in the old days. Yet despite it, they managed to exchange a few stiff courtesies with their unwelcome visitor. Miranda knew it wasn’t fondness that had prompted their reluctant politeness, but the entrance of Coppice and his minions with the tea tray. Casting her old friend a grateful look for his strategy, Miranda left them to their tea with no regrets on either side. With that duty done, at least she could relax until dinner and her next skirmish with her less-than-loving relatives.
‘A word with you, if you please, Mrs Braxton,’ a deep voice demanded as she hurried toward the staircase.
Miranda bade a silent farewell to the interlude of peace and quiet she had been promising herself and spun on her heel with a social smile she hoped would confound him. It made no impression on him whatsoever. The Earl of Carnwood was already marching toward the library without even looking behind to see if she was following. Arrogant boor, she categorised crossly, even as she obediently trailed in his wake.
A warning shiver ran down her spine as soon as she found herself alone with the new earl for the first time. For some reason she felt as breathless and shaken