Page 43 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
Though the night was cold, Henry was warmed by her faith in him. He had promised her that he would return, and her belief in his promise had not wavered, even as the hours had stretched on.
"He confessed only to the poaching," Henry said.
Miss Mifford's face fell with disappointment at this news, and Henry rushed to console her.
"It is to be expected," he explained in a whisper, "Poaching is illegal, but not a capital offence. He might be sent to prison or the penal colonies if he is found guilty of it, but if he is found guilty of murder, he will swing."
"Oh," Miss Mifford bit her lip, "I did not think of that. How wretched though, that he will not come clean when it is so obvious that it is he who is guilty. What did he say about Mr Parsims? Did he admit that he was being bribed?"
"No," Henry shook his head, "Perhaps he thought that if he admitted to that, that it would be seen as a motive by the courts."
"The fiend," Miss Mifford cried, then to Henry's surprise she began to sniffle.
Startled, Henry took the handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, and relieved her of the candle so that she might have both hands free.
"I'm sorry," Miss Mifford dabbed her cheeks, "I am just thinking of poor Mrs Walker; I saw her after you left and she is inconsolable."
"I'm afraid you've lost me," Henry replied, wondering who on earth this Mrs Walker was.
Through her tears, Miss Mifford explained about the widow, her relationship with Monsieur Canet, and their engagement which had not yet been publicly announced.
"They decided on the night of the assembly that they would ask my father to read the banns," she finished, more composed now that the act of talking had distracted her from her tears, "That must have been where Monsieur Canet was going when he was spotted out that night, and he must not have wanted to reveal it for fear it might damage her reputation."
The Frenchman had some scruples, Henry thought with a pang of guilt.
A silence fell between them for the first time; Miss Mifford appeared lost in her own thoughts, while Henry felt lost in Miss Mifford. He was so accustomed to seeing her well presented, that he found her dishevelment utterly charming. Strands of her blonde tresses had escaped from her bun and he longed to reach out and tuck them back in, just to see if they felt as silky as they looked.
Desire grew in his belly, as Henry became painfully aware that they were alone. His heart hammered in his chest, so loud that he wondered if Miss Mifford could hear it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Mary. Mary. Mary.
Miss Mifford glanced up, and Henry wondered if he had actually whispered her name aloud. Her eyes, even in the dimness of candlelight, shone brightly as she looked at him. Her beauty stole his breath away--as well as his sense of reason--and Henry, acting on impulse, leaned forward to kiss her.
Miss Mifford started momentarily, as Henry drew her toward him, but as his lips met hers, she relaxed into his arms with a happy sigh. It was the most pleasurable moment of Henry's life, hampered only by the aching of one of his arms, which he held at an awkward angle, for he was still clutching the candle.
The stress, worry, and sadness of the day's events faded to nothing as Henry held Mary. She enveloped all his senses with her warmth, her soft scent, and her plush lips. Henry would happily have kissed her all night, had a noise from inside not interrupted them.
"That sounds like my mother," Mary whispered, pulling away from him to glance fearfully through the door, "I must go."
"I should be off, as well," Henry replied, "I will have to set out for Stroud at dawn."
Not for the first time in his life, Henry wished he had a better way with words. Another man might have whispered something about parting being such sweet sorrow to Miss Mifford, but Henry had slipped from lover back to dullard in the space of a second.
"Your handkerchief," Mary whispered, her eyes staring down at the cloth in her hand and not at Henry, "It's too pretty to leave behind."
Henry was about to tell her to hold onto it, when he recalled that it was not actually his.
"I took that from Monsieur Canet's room," he confessed, further killing the romantic mood by admitting he had stolen from a dead man.
"By mistake," he hastened to clarify, as Mary frowned down at it.
"It's so pretty," she said again, "Mrs Walker must have embroidered it for him; I shall return it to her in the morning."
Did ladies embroider handkerchiefs for their beaus? Henry, who had umpteen drawers filled with silk ones from Bond Street's finest tailors, believed that he would happily give them all away in exchange for a simple one from Miss Mifford.
"I shall call on you tomorrow," Henry said, as another noise from upstairs caused Mary to jump, "To let you know the happenings in Stroud."
