CHAPTER 6
“Well!” Miranda watched Ravenscar’s figure disappear down one of the garden paths. “That was interesting.”
She had intended to provoke a response in the man, but his explosion had been something different from what she had expected. Irritation, swallowed bile, frustration and dislike—those had been what she hoped to engender in the earl. But the hot fury and wounded pride that had glittered in his eyes had been more than she had bargained for. So had the blunt pronouncement that he was not for sale. It was enough to make one think that perhaps there was more to the man, after all.
Miranda walked over to a stone bench, placed to admire a plot of flowers, and sat down on it. Her knees, frankly, were feeling a trifle watery. The evening had been…well, tumultuous. Devin Aincourt had surprised her more than once this evening, and that intrigued her. His kisses had melted her. She was too honest to try to pretend otherwise. No other man had ever sparked such feelings in her, and—to continue in the same honest vein—she would like to experience them again. Why did the one man who had ever made her feel this delightful, tingly, slightly scary way have to be a man of so little character? Why couldn’t it have been someone forthright and honest? Why was it this man whose kisses were so sweet, whose lips could make her feel as if the world had dropped away, whose eyes were as green as a new leaf and whose hands were…
Miranda shook her head to clear it. It was foolish to sit here thinking about someone as clearly unsuitable as the Earl of Ravenscar. And yet…had it not said something about the man that he had so forcefully rejected the idea of selling himself as a husband? Ravenscar had pride—and not just the vain pride of many aristocrats, but a deeper belief in himself. She had seen it in his eyes as he had lashed out at her. There had been hurt there and a certain disgust with himself. He had been angry, not just at her, but at himself for doing what he felt he must. Money had not been worth giving up his pride, and she liked that. Perhaps, she thought, she just might want to see the Earl of Ravenscar again.
She rose and strolled back to the terrace, her head bowed in thought.
“Miss Upshaw?”
Miranda raised her head to see Lady Westhampton standing on the terrace, her hands knotted around the ends of the shawl that she had wrapped around her shoulders, her face creased with anxiety.
Miranda smiled. “Hello, Lady Westhampton.”
Rachel visibly relaxed at Miranda’s easy greeting. She had seen her brother storm through the ballroom a few minutes earlier, and she had been worried that something bad had happened between him and Miranda. But Miranda clearly looked as if nothing were bothering her. Rachel wondered if it was only her brother who was upset, or if Miss Upshaw was simply better at hiding it.
“I hope you have enjoyed the party,” Rachel began tentatively.
“Yes, it has been quite entertaining.”
“Really?” Rachel eyed Miranda a trifle uneasily. “I, ah, I hope that nothing happened…I mean, that my brother did not, well, offend you.”
A mischievous grin flashed across Miranda’s face. “No. Actually, I think it was the other way around. I offended Lord Ravenscar.”
Rachel chuckled. “I cannot imagine that, Miss Upshaw. Devin is not easily offended.”
“Is he not? Really? I had a different impression of him. It seems to me that he is quite proud and easily offended.”
“Oh, dear.” Rachel’s heart sank. “He did do something, didn’t he? Or say something?”
“Well, he did say he would rather Darkwater crumble about his ears than marry me. But, you see,” Miranda added honestly, “I had been rather blunt and, well, even a bit mean.”
“Oh.” Rachel looked at her blankly. “You were mean to Devin?”
“Yes. I can be, you see. There are some men in New York who are quite terrified of me.”
Rachel chuckled, then glanced at her uncertainly. “You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Not entirely,” Miranda admitted. “I cannot abide dishonesty. And I have been rather abrupt with one or two men who thought they could get the better of me with trickery. Anyway, I was irritated with Lord Ravenscar because he was being dishonest.”
“Devin? He is usually just the opposite—blunt to the point of being rude.”
“Really? I prefer that, actually. Offensive as he was the other day, when he proposed to me, I think that it was preferable. He was arrogant and rude, but at least he was honest. Tonight he tried to seduce me into marrying him.”
“Oh, dear,” Rachel said in a faint voice.
Miranda glanced at her and saw the color in the other woman’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. Now I have embarrassed you. I almost forgot that he is your brother. You cannot like to hear him spoken of this way.”
“No,” Rachel agreed honestly. “But I have heard many bad things about Dev over the years, unfortunately.”
“Well, I would rather have him tell me the truth—that he hates the idea of marrying me but will do it for the money—than to have him pretend an interest that he does not feel.”
Miranda hesitated, realizing even as she spoke that she herself was not telling the entire truth. She did not really think that Ravenscar had felt none of the desire he expressed. She had felt the heat of his body and the other unmistakable hallmarks of passion in a man. The problem was that he had engineered the situation to try to trick her into saying yes. And, she was honest enough to admit, a great deal of her anger had been because she was afraid that he had not felt desire to the amazing degree that she had felt it. However, she could hardly explain such things to the man’s sister, so she skimmed over the truth.
“So I pointed out some of the drawbacks to marrying him—the rumors and such. It made him angry, I’m afraid.”
“Oh dear,” Rachel said in a small, sad voice. “I had hoped you would not have heard those rumors.”
“I heard most of them tonight. People are very fond of gossip.”
“And Dev makes gossiping easy.” Rachel’s voice was tinged with bitterness. “I love him, Miss Upshaw. I truly do. But sometimes it seems as if he delights in making it difficult to do so. What did you hear?”
Miranda looked at the other woman. Lady Westhampton looked so pale and unhappy that she could not bring herself to repeat the things she had heard. “Nothing that you haven’t heard already, I am sure,” she said gently. On impulse, she reached out and took Rachel’s hand. “Please, don’t be so sad. You cannot make your brother’s life right, you know. Only he can do that.”
“It has not been easy for him,” Rachel said. She looked at Miranda with a plea in her eyes. “Please don’t judge him by what other people say about him. I mean, yes, most of those things they say are probably true, but that’s not what Dev is, really. He is a good man inside. I know it. He was always good to Caroline and me, growing up, and—”
She broke off and sighed. “Sometimes I think that curse is true. The Aincourts are doomed to misery. None of our ancestors were ever very good at hanging on to our money. We have wasted it and lost it on foolish ventures. The family would have been penniless long ago except that we also had a talent for making good marriages—profitable marriages, I should say. The Aincourts have had looks—and often charm. We attracted wealthy spouses, but the marriages have rarely been happy.”
They had been strolling along the terrace as they talked, and Miranda quietly steered Rachel away from the other people and the ballroom.
“My sister and I married as we were supposed to,” Rachel went on. “Caroline seemed lucky. Her husband was a spectacular catch, a duke, no less, and he loved her very much. They were happy. They had a daughter. Then, four years ago, she and her daughter died in a carriage accident. Richard tried to save them, but he could not.”
“I’m so sorry.” They had rounded a corner, out of sight of the rest of the party, and Miranda led Rachel to a stone bench and sat down.
“Thank you.” Rachel offered her a wan smile. “I was the other dutiful daughter. I married the man my father picked out. He is a good man, a kind man. But—” she sighed, then went on “—but I did not love him. I loved another. I thought Michael knew that, accepted it, that he expected a marriage that was a business relationship and nothing more. I found out later that he did not. When he found out that I loved another, he thought I had deceived him purposefully. He—well, we live apart. He gives me everything I need—he is a generous man. He and Richard support my mother, too. But none of us are happy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is too late for me or Caroline. But Dev—Dev could still find happiness. That is why I wanted you to marry him. I think he could change his life with the right woman. He’s…deep down he is a good man, a man of honor. But he and my father could not get along. Dev could never do anything right in our father’s eyes. Dev was not like him at all. And he wasn’t quiet and dutiful, as Caroline and I were. He argued with Father, and it made Father furious. My father was a hard man. He was very religious, and he hated it when Dev gambled and drank and—other things. I always thought that was why Dev came to be so wild. He went in that direction because it made our father so enraged. Father hated Dev’s painting, too. He said it was not a fit thing for a nobleman, that Dev acted as if he had peasant blood in him, wanting to scratch about with paints. He thought it was useless and beneath him, but Devin loved it. So they fought over that, as well. Then, when Devin was eighteen, he went to London, as most young men do. And everything got worse there. He had freedom at last, you see, and he did just as he pleased. He worked on his art, and he met other artists, and Father thought they were a bad influence on him. But they were not the worst. He fell in with a set of people who were, well…not good people. They encouraged him to live the worst sort of life he could.”
“What did your father do?”
“He was so angry. He kept writing to Dev and telling him that he had to abandon his wicked ways and come home, and of course that just made Devin more stubborn. Father threatened to cut him off, and then, one time there was a scandal, worse than the others, and Father did cut him off. He would have disinherited him, but he could not. The estate is entailed, and he didn’t have the power. But he stopped his allowance. I’m not sure how Dev even lived then. I am sure that Michael and Richard and others gave him money. He can be quite charming, and—well, we love him. I slipped him as much money as I could. Richard told me once that Dev made money playing cards, and I suppose he helped to support himself that way. He and Father never reconciled. Just before Father died, Mother wrote to us that he was very ill, and I went back. I got Dev to go with me, but when we got there, Father refused to see him. He wouldn’t even let him in the room. Dev took one of the horses and rode back to London. He refused to go to Father’s funeral. I don’t know if he has been back to Darkwater since then.”
She stopped and sighed. “He wouldn’t have been like this if Father hadn’t been so hard on him.” Her voice hardened. “And if it were not for his…friends. I just know that if he could be taken away from their influence, if he could have some peace and happiness in life, that he would be a different man. I want that for him. That’s why I was hoping that…you know, that you would marry him.”
“I’m not at all sure that marrying me would make Ravenscar happy,” Miranda pointed out dryly. “We don’t get along very well, you know.”
“I know. But…insipid females don’t hold his interest. I thought someone strong like you, someone good, could make his life different.”
They were silent for a moment. Miranda looked thoughtfully at her hands. “You mentioned his painting…. He is an artist?”
“Oh, yes! He’s terribly good. Would you like to see some of his work?”
“Yes. I would.”
Intrigued, Miranda rose and followed Lady Westhampton as she went into the house through a back door and ascended a narrow staircase that she presumed must be the servants’ staircase. They walked down a hall to the front gallery, which ran the width of the house.
“You can’t see them too well, unfortunately,” Rachel said and gestured toward the outside wall, which was lined with long windows. “In the daytime, there’s plenty of light, but at night…”
All the sconces along the wall opposite the windows were lit, for the whole house was ablaze with light for the party, but even so, there were shadows.
“I can see well enough,” Miranda said, going closer to look at the first picture. “Are all these Ravenscar’s?”
“These first three are. There are more on the other side.” She smiled faintly. “I had to allow a few of the Westhampton ancestors.”
The first painting was a portrait of Rachel herself. She was standing beside a high pedestal, her forearm resting on it, and she looked out at the observer, a faint smile lingering on her lips. It was a younger and happier Rachel. The colors were muted greens and tans, against which the raven-haired Rachel in her simple white dress stood out vividly. The green eyes laughed; she seemed on the verge of revealing an amusing secret. And it had been painted, Miranda thought to herself, by an expert. The woman in the portrait had life; more than simply a physical likeness, her personality shone out, warm and inviting.
“It’s beautiful,” Miranda said honestly.
“I was seventeen when he painted it,” Rachel said quietly. “He gave it to Michael when we were married.” She walked on. “And this is Caroline. It’s a few years earlier. Dev was about, oh, seventeen or eighteen. Caroline must have been fifteen.”
Miranda looked with interest at the young girl, a dreamy sort with huge blue eyes and the thick black Aincourt hair tied back with a ribbon and cascading down her shoulders. She wore a blue cloak over her white dress, one side of it flung back over her shoulder, and she carried a cat in the crook of her arm. Every detail was rich and luminous. Miranda’s hands curled inward, fingers digging into her palms to contain the excitement that filled her on looking at the paintings. She moved on to the next, this one a landscape of a barren, rock-strewn countryside, beautifully stark and drenched in sunlight. She could almost feel the warmth.
“These are beautiful!” Miranda turned to Rachel, barely able to contain the pleasure that rose up in her. She had been enchanted with the museums and galleries that she had encountered in Europe. Looking at much of the splendid, often old, art, she had been seized with the same sort of excitement, even joy, that filled her now. “He is a wonderful artist! You say you have more?”
Rachel nodded, smiling. “At the other end of the hall, and in my bedroom and sitting room.”
Rachel took her along the gallery, where she showed her four more paintings that her brother had done, and then down the hall to a large, well-appointed sitting room. Here and in the bedroom beyond it hung another six paintings. One of the paintings was of a pale stone house, formidably large but graceful, built in the shape of an E.
“Is this Darkwater?” she ventured, and Rachel nodded. “Somehow I assumed it would be dark and brooding. The illustration in the book looked darker.”
“Oh, no, the name comes from the tarn near there. The tarn is black as coal. But the house is beautiful and light. At least from a distance. Up close, it’s rather falling to ruin. But gracefully. It’s limestone. When the sun hits it like this, it does look golden.”
That was the way Devin had painted it, with rich golden light cascading over the stones almost like water, the windows of diamond-shaped panes glittering.
“He painted that from memory,” Rachel went on. “He did it after he left home. This is one of the tarn.”
She pointed to another, smaller, picture, this one of an inky black pool set in the midst of outcropping gray rocks. It was a darker picture, shadowed and cloudy, with a single shaft of sunlight shooting down from the sky like a sword, its light swallowed up in the blackness of the pond. Miranda shivered involuntarily. It was as vivid in its own way as the lighter paintings, but its richness created an almost eerie scene, quiet and brooding, the piercing sunlight at war with the landscape. The other paintings were starker, too, one of a dark four-poster bed beside a window, the tangled white sheets a backdrop for a vivid red velvet dress tossed upon it, and another of a white washing bowl and pitcher upon a dark wood dresser, a bloodred rose lying wilting beside it in a splash of color. But in all of them there was the same richness of texture and color, the same expert hand in the details.
“May I see them sometime in the day?” Miranda asked, turning to Rachel, her eagerness showing. “I’d love to look at them in better light.”
“Of course. You like them?”
“I think they’re magnificent. I—” She came back to the painting of the bed with the bright red dress lying carelessly across the rumpled sheets. The painting was deeply sensual, almost erotic, and it stirred Miranda in a primitive, essential way. “I don’t know what to say. Are these recent?”
Rachel’s face clouded. “They are more recent than the ones in the gallery. But he doesn’t paint anymore. He hasn’t for several years.”
“He doesn’t!” Miranda gaped at her in almost comical shock. “You mean he stopped? He doesn’t paint at all? Or draw?”
Rachel shook her head. “Nothing.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I asked him once or twice, but he always shrugs it off. He just says he got tired of it, or that it began to seem foolish. It’s all part of the way he lives.” Again bitterness crept into her voice. “His friends…the drinking and gambling and…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged expressively.
“I can’t believe it. That’s a sin!” Miranda’s eyes turned back to the paintings.
“I know.” Tears sparkled in Rachel’s eyes. “I only wish Dev realized what a gift he has, what talent. He doesn’t see the beauty he has inside him.”
Miranda frowned as she followed Rachel out of the room and down the stairs to the ballroom. She and her father left soon after, and she was subdued all the way home in the carriage. Was it possible, she wondered, to fall in love with a man over soul-stirring artwork and a few equally stirring—albeit in a different area—kisses? It seemed absurd. Yet Miranda could not deny that there was a new and wonderful feeling inside her.
However, she was smart enough to keep her thoughts to herself. She knew that if she told her father that she was considering even the faintest possibility of marrying the Earl of Ravenscar, he would plague her to death, and she did not want to have to deal with his arguments while she was still tussling over the subject in her own mind.
She allowed her father to show her the papers he had acquired since he had first got wind of the Earl of Ravenscar’s eligibility. These included an accounting of the sorry state of his finances, sent over by the trustee, Ravenscar’s uncle, Rupert, as well as a description supplied by the estate manager of all the myriad problems of the estate and a long list of repairs needed to bring the house itself into good condition. It was a depressing recitation of woes that would have daunted most people; Joseph knew his daughter well enough to know that such a financial mess would only set Miranda’s fingers itching to fix it. Miranda knew his purpose, and she allowed that it was a tempting situation. However, while it was reassuring to think that she would have plenty to keep herself busy if she did indeed marry Ravenscar, it was not enough to impel her to take that plunge.
Nor was the beauty of the art the man had produced enough, though it filled her with awe and a swelling joy all over again when she called on Rachel the following morning to view Devin’s paintings in the bright light of the day. His artwork was, if anything, even more beautiful in full light, for it allowed one to see the full power of his work. Rachel wisely left her alone and free to peruse the paintings as much as she wanted. Miranda sat on a velvet-cushioned bench in front of the paintings in the gallery and wondered with a certain sad amazement how the man who had painted these could have given it up. And though she felt almost as if she were looking into his otherwise well-hidden soul when she gazed at his art, Miranda knew that it, too, was not alone the source of that joyful, slightly scary new feeling in her chest.
That feeling had a great deal to do with those torrid kisses in the dimly lit garden and, perhaps even more so, with the strange, almost dizzy sensation she felt when she looked into his eyes, as though she were standing on the edge of a high precipice—and wanted to throw herself headlong into the void.
Miranda was a woman who was used to trusting her instincts. Quickwitted and intuitive, her first reaction was usually the right one, and she was confident in her decisions. However, this was an arena in which she was not familiar. Miranda had never been in love. She had not passed through that giggling, moon-eyed stage when it seemed that she was falling in love every few weeks, as many other women of her acquaintance had when they were young. She had been busy at the time buying up real estate on Manhattan Island.
It was not that she had had no experience with men. She had a full social life in New York. She flirted with men, danced with them, even allowed a few to pay court to her. But she had never found herself in love with any of them. Did this funny ache in her chest when she thought of Devin Aincourt signify that she was in love? Did the fact that she could not stop thinking about him mean that she should attach herself to him for life?
Whatever it meant, she knew that she was enjoying it. And she knew that she wanted to see Ravenscar again.
Her first opportunity came two nights later at the opera. Her father had rented a box for the season, since they had planned to stay in London several weeks, but this was the first opportunity they had had to attend. Elizabeth was flushed with excitement as they took their seats in the lavish box, and even Hiram, her father’s assistant, who usually wore only one stoic expression, looked happy to be there. Miranda, seated beside Hiram and armed with a set of opera glasses, scanned the audience. She found Devin’s mother, seated in a box with Rachel and two other women of Lady Ravenscar’s age, as well as a couple of faintly bored-looking men. However, there was no sign of Ravenscar himself. Miranda wondered if the opera was something Ravenscar shunned; he did not seem the sort to attend simply because his mother or sister pressed him to do so.
Rachel caught sight of Miranda watching them, and she smiled and bowed in the direction of their box. Miranda smiled back, lowering her glasses. She cast another look around the rows of boxes. Across from her, and closer to the stage, a new party entered one of the empty boxes. There was a woman dressed in emerald green, and three men in black-and-white evening dress came in with her. Miranda drew in her breath sharply. Even from the back, she recognized one of the men as Devin.
Almost as if he had heard her, the man turned and glanced around the opera hall. His eyes stopped at Miranda’s box, and he looked straight at her. He made no bow, merely raised his eyebrows a trifle, then turned away. Miranda smiled to herself. His haughty dismissal did not bother her. It only showed how well she had gotten to him the other evening, and she liked the fact that he rebelled against marrying for money.
But who was the woman with him? For the first time in her life, Miranda felt the sting of jealousy. Scooting her chair to the side of the box and a little farther back, where she was hidden in the shadows, she raised her opera glasses again and studied the woman in the box with Devin.
She was beautiful. Miranda’s chest tightened, and she clenched the opera glasses tightly. The woman was golden—her hair a deep honey blond and her large, round eyes a startling golden brown. Even her pale skin was not so much white as the very faintest shade of gold. She was dressed in the first stare of fashion—perhaps beyond the first stare, Miranda decided, as she took in the full effect of the gown. It was the lowest cut neckline Miranda had ever seen, dipping perilously close to the woman’s nipples. She had full, lush breasts, certainly worthy of showing off, and they threatened to spill out of the top of her gown at any moment. Emeralds sparkled at her ears and wrist, and a matching pendant dangled from her neck, drawing the eye to where it brushed the tops of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back to the crown of her head by a wide green satin ribbon, and from there it cascaded down in a tangle of rich, thick curls. Her features came close to perfection, marred only by a rather short upper lip—but even that flaw seemed to add to her looks, for it gave her a decidedly sensual look.
As Miranda watched, the woman turned and looked up at Ravenscar and smiled. It was a secret, tempting smile, and with that one look, Miranda knew that this woman was more to Devin than just an acquaintance whom he had escorted to the opera. Was she his mistress? Did he love her? The questions burned in Miranda, and as the opera started, she found herself studying their box as much as she watched the show unfolding onstage.
They were visited at intermission by Lady Ravenscar and her brother, Sir Rupert Dalrymple. Miranda had met him briefly at Lady Ravenscar’s failed dinner party, and she found him a pleasant and entertaining enough conversationalist, but tonight she had difficulty keeping her attention on anything he said. There was only one person she was interested in seeing here, and she could not keep from glancing now and again at their open box door, hoping that she would see him there.
When she finally did look up to see Lady Westhampton coming through the door, followed by her brother, her stomach did a crazy flip, and she dropped her fan.
“Hallo, Mother. Uncle Rupert.” Ravenscar’s eyes slid to Miranda, then over to Hiram, without acknowledging either one of them. Miranda suppressed a smile, knowing that he had again, without speaking, given away the fact that seeing her disturbed him.
He went on to greet her father, who in turn introduced him to Mrs. Upshaw. Elizabeth colored slightly and whipped open her fan, bringing it up to cover the silly giggle that escaped her. Despite her protestations against him, Miranda thought, slightly irritated, her stepmother was no more immune to his good looks than any other female.
Ravenscar bowed to her, then turned toward Hiram, his brows raised faintly in question. Miranda’s father said quickly, “Oh, this is my assistant, Hiram Baldwin. You met him at my house the day that you, well, ah…” Joseph’s voice trailed off as he realized, belatedly, that Ravenscar’s memories of the day Miranda turned down his proposal might be less than pleasant.
“Oh, I am sure that Lord Ravenscar does not remember, Papa. He barely saw anyone that day,” Miranda stuck in.
Ravenscar turned toward her. “Miss Upshaw. Certainly I remember you.”
“I had wondered, since you did not greet me when you entered,” Miranda said pleasantly.
“Boy has no manners,” Ravenscar’s uncle interjected with a jovial laugh. “You must forgive him, Miss Upshaw.”
“Must I?” Miranda replied lightly, and though she spoke to his uncle, her gaze was on Ravenscar. His eyes remained equally fixed on her.
“I am sure Miss Upshaw is not surprised, Uncle,” Ravenscar drawled in his most irritatingly upper-crust voice. “She is well aware of what a barbarian I am.”
Miranda smiled at him with false sweetness, and he swung abruptly away. “I must take my leave now. Mr. Upshaw, Mrs. Upshaw, pleased to meet you. Baldwin. Miss Upshaw.” He pronounced her name with great precision, turning back toward her and adding a bow so courtly it was a sarcastic statement on its own.
“My lord. So pleasant to see you, as always.” Miranda returned his gesture with an equally grand curtsey.
Devin’s jaw clenched so hard that she could see the muscle in it jump. Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, ignoring the protesting look shot him by his sister.
Rachel turned and went to Miranda, saying in a low voice, “I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with Devin tonight. He has been excessively sour from the moment he came into Mother’s box this evening. He was the one who suggested he escort me to your box. I didn’t even think about it, because he was looking so glum and glowery. Then he comes here and acts perfectly rudely.”
“Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me,” Miranda responded with absolute candor.
The truth was, the exchange with Ravenscar had left her feeling rather invigorated, and Rachel’s revelation that it was he who had wanted to come visit their box was even more encouraging. There had been something in his eye when he turned to face Hiram that in anyone else Miranda would have identified as jealousy, and it made her smile inside to think that perhaps Ravenscar had wanted to come to their box to discover exactly who the man was who was sitting beside her.
“I was wanting to talk to you, Lady Westhampton,” she said, linking her arm through Rachel’s.
“Rachel.”
“All right, Rachel. Why don’t we take a stroll out in the gallery?”
“Of course.”
Rachel went with her readily, her curiosity obviously aroused. Once out in the grand hallway, Miranda glanced around and led Rachel toward the least populated area she could find, lowering her voice and bringing her head close to Rachel’s.
“Now,” Miranda said, “tell me about the woman who came to the opera with Ravenscar.”