Page 36 of The Major's Mistake
“The best.”
He grunted and took hold of the horses. “I’ll see to them,” he said curtly.
Sykes shrugged and headed back outside, puzzling over the groom’s decidedly cold demeanor. His musings were interrupted by the shout of excitement.
“Mama, Mama, I saw the man bring a pony! Major said he was going to give me one of my very own. Is it for me?” The little boy pulled up breathless with anticipation. At the look in Miranda’s eye, his face took on a slightly guilty look. “Miss MacKenzie said I might take a short break from my lessons to come down and see.”
Miranda smiled in spite of her efforts to look stern. “Yes, love. The Major has sent your pony, and a lovely one he is.” She took Justin’s hand and turned to Sykes. “You must thank Mr. Sykes for bringing him to you.”
The boy turned his blue eyes upward and the marquess’s valet drew in a sharp breath at the striking resemblance between father and son.
“Thank you ever so much for bringing me my pony,” said Justin earnestly. He suddenly tugged at his mother’s hand and as she bent down he whispered something in her ear.
“No,” she answered, an amused look stealing to her face. “You need not make a bow, dear. Mr. Sykes is not a marquess, too. Not even an earl.”
Sykes gave a chuckle as he crouched down on his haunches. “Nor even a lowly baron,” he added as he held out his hand. “Just plain Sykes I am, and pleased to make your acquaintance, lad.”
“This is my son, Justin, Mr. Sykes,” said Miranda as the boy shyly reached out to accept the greeting.
“Mama, now that I have minded my manners, may I go see my pony?” he asked with barely contained impatience.
She slowly released his hand. “Mind you, only for bit, and then you must finish your lessons before you may have a ride.”
“Yes, Mama,” he promised.
“What a fine lad,” said Sykes quietly as the two of them watched Justin race off towards the stable. “Why, he looks very much like—” He broke off in some embarrassment.
“Like his father,” finished Miranda. “Yes, he does.” Her mouth quirked in a thin line. “For that I imagine I should be most grateful.” Her hands caught at the edges of her gown. “You must excuse me now, Mr. Sykes, I have things I to attend to.” There was a fraction of a pause. “Kindly ask His Lordship to come fetch his property at his earliest convenience.”
“Why?” he asked impulsively.
She went rather pale and stood silent for a moment. “Because,” she answered slowly. “A female does not accept gifts from a gentleman who is not related to her unless she is a …” Her voice struggled with the last word. “… unless she is a whore, Mr. Sykes.”
“Hell’s teeth,”swore the marquess as Sykes reluctantly repeated Miranda’s words to him. He slammed his pen down onto the desk and without further words, got up and left the library. Grabbing up his gloves and crop from the sidetable, he stalked out of the manor house, calling out a brusque order for his stallion to be brought around without delay.
He reined to a halt in front of Lady Thornton’s stable, his mount well lathered from a prolonged gallop. Ignoring the fact that it was not his appointed day to visit, he slid down from the saddle and looked about the yard. Jem was by the side of the paddock, mending a split rail in the fence.
“Is Lady Miranda down here?” demanded Julian.
The young groom looked as though he might like to refuse to answer, but then he nodded and pointed at the stable.
The marquess marched towards the open door, confident that he was well prepared to deal her. On the ride over, he hadrehearsed an eloquent speech designed to counter any argument she cared to throw out.
The sound of his steps on the earthen floor caused her to look up from the task of sorting through a basket of dried roots. She set it aside and rose from her stool, absently wiping her hands on the worn apron around her waist.
“I’m glad to see Mr. Sykes can be counted on to deliver messages to you without delay. The filly, sir, is in the second stall, and the tack is hanging on the door.” A lock of hair had escaped her simple chignon and fell across her cheek as she spoke.
All his carefully constructed words seemed to desert him as Julian noted once again the indescribably intriguing shade of green of her eyes were, and the hauntingly lush shape of her lips. Without thinking, he took another step forward and brought his gloved hand up to tuck the errant curl behind her ear.
“Keep the horse, Miranda,” he whispered hoarsely. “You love to ride.”
She turned away sharply. “I cannot.”
“Because you think it brands you as … less than respectable? What utter fustian! You imagine I would think any less of you for accepting what should be yours in the first place?”
Miranda gave a harsh laugh. “Think any less of me? Why no, milord, I don’t imagine that is possible, for you could hardly think any less of me than you already do.”
Julian had to fight the sudden urge to pull her close and soothe away the look of hurt in her eyes, to cover those expressive lips with his own …
