Terri Brisbin - The Duchess's Next Husband

“There are estate concerns which I must resolve, Mother. I will miss only a few sessions while protecting our family’s interests in the north.” He played the trump card in his hand—family matters—ruthlessly.

Then, to his horror, a cough welled up deep inside his lungs. Walking to the door that opened to the gardens, and trying to appear nonchalant, he lifted his hand to his mouth to cover the worst of it. For once, Providence heard his plea and no more followed the first.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Miranda’s soft voice drew his attention, but he kept his back turned. “I have no pressing engagements here in town.”

Had she any idea of how brandy-faced he’d been last evening? He remembered cursing his fate in rather loud and vulgar language…had she heard? With so many uncertainties ahead of him, Adrian decided he should make this trip alone.

“There is no reason for you to give up the Season at its height for the dull country, my dear. I shan’t be away for more than a week at the most.”

He faced her now and noticed the brightness of her blue eyes and the fullness of her lips as her mouth formed a moue, as though she was disappointed in his decision to go alone. Any reply she would have made was interrupted when his mother coughed lightly and stared at Miranda. Some unspoken communication was shared in that moment by the two women, and he watched as Miranda sat up straighter, if that were possible, and closed her mouth, her lips now forming a tight line.

A memory flashed through his mind and he saw Miranda at their first meeting. The only daughter of one of their neighbors, a wealthy landowner with a minor title, she had been invited to a country dance at his family’s estate. Drawn by her vivacious personality and her welcoming smile, he had asked her to dance. He could still see her dark blond curls, hanging down to her shoulders, shimmering and gleaming in the candlelight as they’d danced. She’d been generous in gifting him with her smiles, and they had laughed through the steps of the dance, then gone in to supper together.

Her standing, with the sizable portion she would bring to him in their marriage settlement, was deemed high enough for his status as the second son of a duke, and their marriage was accomplished the next year, even before his brother and the heir of the family married. Shrugging off the past that could not be changed, Adrian realized that he was staring at her.

Uncomfortable with what haunted him from his past and what faced him in the near future, Adrian nodded at his mother first and then his wife. “I fear I have much to accomplish before I can be on my way.” Retreating into good manners, he bowed to them and walked to the door, which was opened for him by a footman. “Good day to you both,” he said as he left, feeling for the first time a certain trepidation at leaving Miranda in the clutches of the dowager.

Once Adrian left, there was nothing else to say. The dowager would choke before admitting to a curiosity about her son’s motives or activities. Their weekly encounter was at an end, and Miranda tried not to let her anticipation at being released from the dowager’s presence show. She placed the half-empty cup of tea back on the table in front of her and stood. Tempted to demonstrate her precedence over the dowager, Miranda instead decided that respect for her elders should win over her internal desire for the deference that should be afforded her due to her title.

Until Miranda produced an heir, or even a daughter, the dowager would see her as the still-less-than-acceptable wife of a second son. No power on earth could change her regard, or lack of it. Lowering her head in a courteous bow of sorts, Miranda walked to the door of the drawing room and hesitated only a moment as Cordelia’s ever-efficient butler pulled it open.

Every week, after such a visit, Miranda found herself fighting the urge to tear her bonnet from her head and run screaming down the street like a madwoman bound for Bedlam. Years of practice won out and she stepped across the walk and climbed into the waiting carriage. As she took her seat and Fisk entered and sat opposite her, only a slight tremor in her clasped hands belied the blank expression she knew she could affect when needed.

And it was needed now.

“When you walk and sit as though you were wearing cast-iron stays, it tells me you have visited the dowager.”

Miranda tried not to laugh, but the irreverent attitude of her friend ruined her efforts. Letting out an uncommon giggle, she smiled and removed the bonnet from her head.

“My stays are of the regular sort, I assure you, Sophie,” she said, still smiling as she sat down on the paisley-covered chair. “Though I do confess to never allowing myself to relax when in the presence of Her Grace.”

Her schoolroom friend held out her second cup of tea this morning, but this one Miranda looked forward to enjoying in informal company. Only a viscountess, Sophie was not considered by the dowager to be an appropriate companion for the Duchess of Windmere. But their friendship had been forged in the trials and challenges of the Hayton Academy for Young Ladies. The teachers there, as well as the owners, were as formidable as Her Grace, Cordelia, Duchess of Windmere and, without knowing it, they had prepared Miranda well for the constant struggle of living up to such lofty expectations.

However, where Sophie’s marriage had become one of joy and the felicity of a good bond, Miranda’s had not quite lived up to her girlish hopes and dreams. The Viscountess Allendale’s life was filled by an attentive husband, two lovely sons, a London house and their country estates. The emptiness of her own was glaring by comparison. Something must have shown through, for Sophie reached out now and patted her hand.

“A rough visit, then?” Sophie offered a smile. “It could be a blessing somehow that Her Grace is dependable for something. If you are looking to ruin someone’s happy mood, you certainly know where to send them.”

Sophie’s green eyes softened with concern. Pushing her loosely-gathered brown hair behind one shoulder, Sophie shook her head at Miranda, undermining her own belief in the words of rationalization she offered.

“I cannot imagine what has me so blue-deviled today,” Miranda replied. Sipping the tea, she waited for her nerves to settle. “Her Grace was no different than any other time.”

“Will she return to the country soon? I do not remember her staying in town this long before.”

She shook her head. “I fear not. Juliet was presented and is having her first season. Her Grace will persevere until she has secured a suitable offer for her cherished goddaughter.”

Surprised at the bitterness that entered her voice, she continued, “But Windmere is returning to the country.”

“Windmere? Leaving while Lords is sitting? I did not think he shirked his duty.” Sophie looked at her and tilted her head. The narrowing of her gaze was never a good sign for Miranda. “Something else is wrong here. I can feel it.”

“As I said, I am simply out of sorts this morning.”

Miranda smoothed her hair and leaned farther back into the seat cushions. Sophie on the scent of something new and intriguing was more persistent than Lord Bernard’s champion hounds. Miranda should have gone directly back home after the encounter with her husband. One look at the intensity on her friend’s face told her that it was too late for evasive maneuvers.

“What happened with Windmere?” Sophie’s voice was soft with concern.

“He got drunk and missed dinner….” Miranda stopped herself before revealing the more private appointment he’d missed.

“Men always drink. I’ve seen Windmere drink a fair amount before. That is really not surprising.”