Page 17 of The Major's Mistake
He swallowed sheepishly. “Rather a lot.”
Miranda let out her breath in visible relief. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking of, milord? Have you no more sense that to let a small child make himself sick with sweets?”
Julian colored.
“Come, love,” she whispered to her son. “Let’s put you to bed. I promise you shall be feeling better very soon.” With that, she turned on her heel without so much as another glance in his direction.
Julian rakedhis hand through his windblown locks. Well, he had certainly managed to appear a complete idiot in everyone’s eyes, including his own. He shook his head slowly. It was hardly an auspicious start—even his own son must think him a total ninny.
His military training suggested that perhaps the best order of the day was to retreat with what little dignity was still intact. But despite the prospect of further humiliation, he dismounted and entered the manor house, determined to make sure Justin was indeed recovering. She might ring another stinging peal over his head, but what did it matter? It was abundantly clear she could hardly think any worse of him.
And yet, something seemed askew. After all, it was he who was the injured party. It was he who had the right to harbor a burning anger after all these years.
An elderly maid directed him towards the boy’s chamber. After all the exertions of the day, it took a considerable effort to negotiate the stairs, and his step was dragging rather worse than usual as he made his way down the narrow hall. Miranda emerged from one of the rooms, a damp cloth and empty glass in her hands. In her haste, she nearly collided with him as she turned for the stairs.
His left leg buckled slightly.
“Oh—” She drew back as if touched by a hot iron.
He regained his balance. “I … I wanted to make sure the lad was all right.”
Her expression softened somewhat. “Yes, there’s nothing wrong with him, now that he has rid himself of the source of the discomfort. I gave him a draught to soothe the ache and he’s fallen asleep.” Without thinking, she brought the cloth up to dab at the soiled shoulder of his coat. “Have Mrs. Walters rinse that out for you. Otherwise it will stain.”
He glanced down at her hand.
She pulled away abruptly, a tinge of color rising to her cheeks. The edge came back to her voice. “No doubt your valet would have a fit of apoplexy if you were to ruin one of Weston’s creations.”
“Actually, I doubt my valet would notice, much less care,” he murmured.
The set of her lips indicated her skepticism. She made as if to go by. “If you will excuse me, milord.”
Julian stepped aside, but his hand caught at her elbow. “I’m … I’m sorry,” he said haltingly. “It was careless of me. I … realize I have much to learn. I shall be more attentive in the future.”
Miranda stared at him. A spasm of surprise, and some other emotion, flickered across her face before she disengaged her arm. She looked as if to speak, then merely gave a curt nod and brushed past him.
At the bottom of the stairs, Julian was met by the same elderly maid.
“Mrs. Ransford said as you are to hand me your coat, Your Lordship, so that I can give it a good sponging.” She was already reaching out towards him so he reluctantly slipped the garment off and passed it over.
Mrs. Ransford, he thought with a prick of irritation. So that was what she called herself? Why the devil?—
“Well, Julian, it appears that you have had an interesting afternoon.”
Julian turned to fix his aunt with a baleful look. “Well, I see it’s taken little time for word to spread of what a complete cake I’ve made of myself.”
“The cake, it would seem, was rather visible.”
He managed a rueful smile. “I suppose I did present a rather laughable picture.”
She smiled. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, my dear. Don’t be too hard on yourself—children have a way of creating havoc, despite the best-laid plans.” She slipped her arm through his. “Come, let me pour you a glass of sherry while Maggie finishes with your coat. You look as if you could do with something a bit stronger than tea.”
Miranda pushed awayher empty cup. “If you could have seen Ju—His Lordship’s expression! It would have been quite funny, had not …” Her words trailed off and her own face became more serious. “Well, perhaps I dare hope the experience has given him his fill of small children. It is hard to imagine that the marquess will care to subject himself to any more such unpleasant occurrences. No doubt he will soon tire of the novelty and return to London.”
Lady Thornton’s brows came together. “Miranda, I should not count on it. I got the distinct feeling that Julian is not about to forget about his son so easily.”
Her niece shot up from her chair. “Justin is nothisson—he ismyson!” she cried. “It is I who have birthed him, who have nursed him through illness and who sought to teach him to be an honorable person. Rank and fortune do not give His Lordship the right to march in here and think to take command. I’m not one of his foot soldiers—or his wife, anymore.”
“Calm yourself, my dear,” said Lady Thornton gently. “We have Julian’s promise that he means to do no such thing, and I believe that we may take him at his word. Despite whatever else you think, he is an honorable man.”
