The Seventh Season

4. Chapter 1

While it has often been noted that listeners rarely hear good of themselves, Lady Miranda Blake did not intend to eavesdrop when she slipped behind a potted palm to escape the crush of the ballroom. Chandeliers filled with burning candles and the press of a couple hundred guests spiked temperatures to an uncomfortable degree. From her vantage point, if she twisted her head, she could view the delicate hues of the ladies ’ gowns and the heaps of flowers spilling over onto the polished wood floor. In the far corner, half hidden by a screen, the orchestra played. Her hostess appeared to have spared no expense and the ball would be on everyone’s tongues for some time to come. Still, as Miranda opened her fan and waved it in front of her face, she felt a hint of boredom. After the number of balls she had attended, they all seemed the same. She was contemplating this rather melancholy thought when the sound of her name caught her attention. “Lady Miranda Blake? You cannot be serious.”

“Very serious, Mama. I know that Denby fancies her. She is a known beauty.”

“Be that as it may, I have it on the best authority that she is four and twenty if she"s a day. That places her quite firmly on the shelf, dear. You needn"t worry about any competition from that corner!"

Miranda caught her breath and peered around the palm that shielded her from the speaker"s view. That old harridan, she thought, recognizing Lady Eastman and her insipid daughter. She was on no more than nodding terms with the baronet"s wife, but the woman"s callous comment chilled her like a blast of winter cold.

On the shelf! As Miss Eastman had declared, she was considered a beauty, even a diamond of the first water, and had been for six seasons running. Or was it seven? Miranda had lost count. Her palms grew damp with perspiration. Was there some truth in Lady Eastman"s vicious remark?

Standing on the edge of the ballroom with her heart racing faster than it did after a night spent dancing holes in her slippers, Miranda knew she needed to escape the crowded ballroom before someone spotted her. Mercy, if she didn"t get herself in hand, the story would be making the rounds before the supper dance and by tomorrow afternoon she would be the laughingstock of the ton. Her family held a great deal of clout in society. Lady Eastman probably would not repeat the line to others, but eyes were always upon them. Someone was hoping to see them slip. She needed to keep up a strong front. Leaving her position, Miranda darted across the corridor, out the French doors and onto the terrace. The moment she left the overheated room behind, her breathing slowed. A few couples mingled, but for once Miranda wasted no time speculating on whether they were enjoying the view or escaping the vigilance of the lady"s chaperon. She strolled past them and a lone gentleman who stood near the edge of terrace enjoying a smoke. She hunched her shoulders, trying to remain unobtrusive. With one hand holding the hem of her dress off the ground, she glided down the steps and melted into the garden, quickening her pace when she felt the cloak of darkness surround her, shielding her from curious gazes. She sped up, but tripped over an exposed root, nearly spilling to the ground.

“Confound it!" she muttered, limping to the nearest bench. Her silk slippers didn’t protect her feet. Along with the throbbing in her toes, she felt the evening damp soaking through her stockings. Despite the heat of the ballroom, it was still early spring and a chill hung in the air, but anger and dismay kept much of the cold at bay. She rubbed her abused toes, relief gradually overcoming her agitation. No one had seen her. Catastrophe had been averted. Nevertheless, she sighed. She wondered if she was truly at her last prayers. Lady Eastman spoke no more than the truth. Miranda would celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday in July.

It wasn"t as though there hadn"t been plenty of offers. Miranda reviewed the list of beaus and gallants who had applied to her father for permission to marry her. Some, of course, were unacceptable, but the majority had been perfectly eligible candidates. She refused them all, the cads and those who won her father’s approval. A number of handsome, wealthy and charming young men had been sent away while Miranda waited for that one particular offer that now seemed unlikely ever to occur.

Would she have considered a few of those offers if she had known that Jason Eliot, Lord Beaumont, intended to leave her languishing on the shelf? It was a question Miranda couldn"t answer, a question she had never expected to confront.

"How could you do this to me, Beau?" she whispered into the darkness. Tears clogged her throat, but Miranda refused to release them. She fought her misery. Did some people think her a spinster? She could not countenance it. Oh, she had seen a dollop of malice in the eyes of spiteful dowagers touting their daughters" catches and even a spark of commiseration in some friends" eyes, but it had never bothered her in the past. She enjoyed the attentions of her suitors, loved dancing and flirting with her partners.

Miranda shook her head in bewilderment. She didn’t seriously accept that she was on the shelf. Why, she was as sought after as ever, never sitting out a dance unless she chose to. There was little doubt in her mind she could marry tomorrow if she wished, but it wouldn"t be Beau taking the vows with her. It would be one of her rejected suitors, one who hadn"t already found consolation elsewhere.

Miranda bent her head. Perhaps this was her penance for setting her sights on a man instead of leaving the pursuit to the dominant s*x. She raised her head again. Balderdash! Women had been chasing men since the beginning of civilization. Her own mother was proof of that. Miranda chewed on her thumbnail. Where had she gone wrong? Were her feelings for Beau one-sided? She’d thought they shared an unspoken understanding.

The distinctive cracking of a twig underfoot alerted her to someone"s approach. "Who"s there?" Silence answered her, but a faint whiff of tobacco smoke drifted past.

"I know you"re there. Make yourself known, sir!"

A tall figure stepped out from the cover of the trees and Miranda held her breath. Her spine tingled with uneasiness as she realized she didn’t recognize the man.

"Forgive me for following you, but you seemed to be in some distress," the man murmured. "I"m sorry if I"m intruding. Perhaps you wish to be alone."

Miranda was struck by the audacity of the man, a complete stranger, following her into the seclusion of the garden and then allowing himself to be caught spying on her. "Yes, I wanted to be alone, but now I wish to return to the ball," she said coolly. "You had no right to follow me here. I no longer need a nursemaid and your presence here can only harm my reputation."

"I"ve already apologized, but I didn"t give a flying fig for your reputation when I thought you a fellow human being in need of comfort. Frankly, I still don"t."

This time Miranda noticed an unusual cadence to his words. "You"re an American, are you not?"

Even under cover of darkness, Miranda knew he sketched a mocking bow. "Born and bred."

"So I see."

"Yes, I think you do. It"s well known on this island that Americans lack sense and manners, hmm?"

Miranda disliked the thread of amusement in his voice. "I expressed a desire to return to the ball. Any gentleman worthy of the name would have escorted me there immediately."

"But I thought we already established that I am an American."

Despite herself, Miranda was enjoying the thoroughly irregular conversation. "Are there no gentlemen in America then?"

"Would you believe me if I told you that America is just chock full of gentleman? No fancy titles, mind, but the inner mettle that marks a man of character."

"Since I doubt I"ll ever be there to put your theory to the test, I must accept your word, sir."

The man laughed at that, a low, rich laugh that compelled the corners of Miranda"s mouth to twitch in response.

"It"s obvious that you have no notion who I am or you would not be so trusting of my word, Lady Blake."

Miranda frowned, some of her original irritation with the man returning. "How do you know my name? Besides, you have it all wrong. The correct form is Lady Miranda, not Lady Blake."

"Lady Miranda, Lady Blake, what"s the difference? I asked my cousin who you were, but I guess Rutland didn"t think it necessary to divulge your complete pedigree."

"Lord Rutland is your cousin?"

“To some degree.” The man waved his hand. “A couple times removed, but there’s no need to bore you with all the details.”

“On this side of the Atlantic, those details can be extremely important, as is the proper form of address.”

The man shrugged. “Sounds boring.”

Miranda stifled another surge of irritation. The man had come to her rescue, unnecessary as it might be. “It’s not that hard,” she groused. "I"m the daughter of an earl, not the wife of one, therefore; I can"t be Lady Blake."

"My cousin informed me you were single. Imagine my surprise that such a lovely woman was still unclaimed." Even in the darkness, she sensed his smile.

Flustered by the unexpected compliment, Miranda remained silent. The American drew closer and held out his hand. "I"m Derek Lang."

Miranda slipped her hand in his, amused when he shook it rather than bringing it to his lips for a kiss. The clouds above shifted and the darkness lessened. Though he appeared to loom over her, her rescuer was probably of little more than average height. His broad shoulders, however, gave him added presence, even as his appropriate, but unremarkable, clothes caused him to fade into the background.

"I wasn"t aware that the marquess had relations in America."

Mr. Lang drew his brows together, effectively erasing his smile. "Ask your parents. They should have longer memories."

Puzzled, but intrigued, by the hint of scandal, Miranda resolved to do just that. If there was a gossip about Derek Lang"s past, her mother was sure to have heard it.

"Are you newly arrived in England?" she asked instead.

"I"ve been here a few weeks."

Though there was little inflection in Mr. Lang"s voice, Miranda suspected from his very stillness that the American felt that a few weeks was long enough. She opened her mouth, intending to accuse him of being homesick. The sound of someone calling her name, however, reminded her of the ball they had left behind and the impropriety of spending time alone with a man to whom she had never been properly introduced.

"Lady Miranda! Are you out here?" The call came again, closer this time. Miranda recognized the voice. Lord Beaumont! She leaped to her feet and took a step back from the American.

"I am over here," she called out. Hurried footsteps brought the viscount to her side, but he frowned when he noticed the American.

"What"s going on here?"

"Nothing, Beau." Miranda laid a hand upon his arm. If Beau"s anger or suspicions were aroused, the viscount wouldn"t hesitate to challenge the American. In spite of dueling being illegal, Beau was notorious for his skill with pistols, having fought at least three duels that she knew about. The clouds passed over the moon again, plunging them into darkness that matched the chill that settled over her skin.

"I was overcome by the heat in the ballroom and came out to the garden for a breath of cool air. This gentleman, Mr. Derek Lang from America, saw me leave the terrace and followed me, thinking I might be ill." She sent the American a smile, carefully excluding Beau. "Thank you again, Mr. Lang."

"Are you ill?" Beau asked.

"I"m fine now. I needed a respite." To her surprise, Miranda realized her words were true. Though still upset by Lady Eastwood’s thoughtless comments, Miranda felt composed enough to face the crowds again. For that, if nothing else, she should thank the American. Belatedly, she turned to the task of introductions, “Mr. Lang, I would like you to meet Jason Eliot, Lord Beaumont, a long-time friend of the family."

"Lord Beaumont." Mr. Lang stuck his hand out, but the viscount only nodded. Miranda blushed for Beau"s rudeness, wishing she could concoct something to say to smooth the moment over.

"If you"re not ill, then you can come back with me now," Beau said, taking Miranda"s arm and tucking it inside his own. "Lang." He nodded curtly in dismissal and set off across the grounds at a rapid clip.

Miranda"s bruised toes protested the brisk pace and she pulled at Beau"s arm. "Is this a race?"

Beaumont shortened his strides. "I"m sorry, Miranda, but what did you think you were doing talking to that fellow for a quarter hour or more?"

Miranda"s heart leapt at his words. He missed her. Perhaps he did care. "I didn"t intend to cause you worry, Beau, but I needed a breath of fresh air. Did I miss our dance?"

"Dance?" The viscount looked startled. "I"m not certain. Your mother noticed that you were not in the ballroom and sent me to find you. She said it had been fifteen minutes, at least, since she"d seen you. Granted, Lang is an American, Miranda, and doubtless doesn"t know any better, but you are not a green girl in her first Season any more. I don"t like having to play chaperon."

Miranda"s tentative control snapped. "No," she agreed. "This is not my first Season. Or even my second. Actually, I"ve experienced enough Seasons not to worry unduly about chaperons and the like. I"m a woman grown, Beau. Perhaps you"d better give that some thought the next time my mother sends you on a fool"s errand!"

They were close enough to the house now that Miranda felt safe making her exit, but when she entered the ballroom, she was almost as angry as she had been before she left it. This time; however, she slid her mask firmly in place and was once more the smiling, confident, toast of the Season.

She apologized to the young man whose dance she had missed, promising him another at a later date. Then she allowed her next partner to lead her onto the floor. She even managed to nod to Lady Eastman without missing a step. But as she swallowed her rage, she gained a greater understanding of Beau"s proclivity to settle his disputes with a slap of his glove.

Unfortunately, she would have to show Lady Eastman up using the only weapons available to a woman, her beauty, and her intellect. Lady Eastman thought Miranda was on the shelf. Miranda would just have to prove she was no such thing by making the most brilliant match of the Season.