Page 11 of Refining the Debutante
Miranda leapt to her feet and curtsied, squeezing her hands together. She mustn’t let a display of nerves ruin his impression of her. If only her father had written a letter of introduction so she might avoid this awkwardness. “My father finds himself in a difficult situation and has been called out of the country. He sent me to live with you for the time being.”
Lord Aldington’s drooping features hardened. “Impertinent girl. You lie to my face about my indulgent and useless brother and then demand to live here. Don’t those governesses teach their charges any manners?” Lord Aldington waved his hand toward the door for her to take her leave. “I do not require a houseguest at this time.”
She stared at him, hoping his sense of decency would get the better of him. How could he turn out his own flesh and blood? She stood rooted in place. Feelings of defiance and utter fear fought for control inside her.
Lord Aldington glared at her. “Speak, girl. Do you have something to say before you depart?”
Miranda debated her choices. She could leave, but where would she go? She needed money to do anything. Anyone she’d once claimed as a close acquaintance surely shared the same opinion as Jane. This was her only family connection. Her only option.
“My father lost our fortune.” The degrading truth ripped free from her lips. “If you do not take mercy on me, I will be forced onto the streets.” She was no beggar, but humility was the only way. Anguish pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Lord Aldington grunted. “That was not so hard, was it? I see a generation is not a sufficient gap to water down the haughty nature of one’s parentage. At least you resemble your mother, not that her appearance did her any favors in life.”
It was Miranda’s turn to glare, but her words now would come at a price, so she held her tongue.
“You can stay,” her uncle finally said, walking to the cold fireplace. He stared into it as if sheer frustration could cause a spark. Then he turned and gave her a shrewd look. “But I will not spoil you. You will earn your keep like the rest of this household. If you can agree to the terms, I will have a room at the far end of the house aired for you. You will take your meals alone. I cannot abide chatter at my table.”
Appalled, Miranda gaped. She sputtered for a moment but then pressed her lips together, refusing to invite more censure. She had let him see that he had affected her this time. But never again. She would take his charity because she had no other choice. She stuck up her nose again. “Very well.”
Lord Aldington raised an incredulous eyebrow but said nothing. He turned sharply on his heels and strode from the room.
What had she gotten herself into? She had fallen from a pit of despair into the fire of hell.
* * *
“Come in, Mr. Buehler. I’m terribly busy reading the same page over and over again, but I think I can hear whatever it is you have to tell me.” Ethan didn’t so much as sit up from his relaxed position as his butler entered. He occupied one of four sofas in the extensive library—two were perpendicular to the hearth, and the other two backed the central ones. The bookshelves of his childhood lined either side of the stone-encased fireplace, and the treasure trove of literature comforted him. Opposite the shelves was a line of windows, making the room one of the brightest in the house, and the perfect place to think. He looked at Mr. Buehler, half-expecting him to say Ethan’s sisters needed him for some useless task—it wasn’t easy being a substitute parent.
Mr. Buehler pushed back the few hairs left on his head and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Withers and her daughter just arrived and are in the drawing room with your sisters.”
Ethan snapped his book shut and pulled himself upward. “How is my cravat, man?”
“Crooked.”
Ethan peered down at it, nearly crossing his eyes. He yanked on it a few times but couldn’t see the damage underneath his chin. “Good enough?”
Mr. Buehler’s vague nod was sufficient for him.
“Excellent. If I’m going to marry Miss Withers, I had better get a little acquainted first.” Ethan had moped over Miranda for two miserable months. It was time to be aggressive about putting her from his mind.
“Very good, sir.” Mr. Buehler held the door out for him as Ethan passed through it.
The ladies stood as he entered the drawing room. He bowed, and the Witherses curtsied.
“Please be seated.” Ethan couldn’t help the sudden spring to his step as he made his way to an elbow chair beside his two sisters and across from his guests. Step one was happening without him even interfering. “A fine day, is it not?”
Varied murmurs of agreement sounded around the room.
Miss Withers was the picture of perfection. She sat primly in her seat, hands in her lap, and bore a contented quiet in her expression. She reflected her mother’s fair coloring, but that was all. Everything about Miss Withers’s features was petite—small eyes, small nose, and dainty lips—but with a figure as tempting as Miranda’s.
Ethan laughed under his breath in a sort of giddy anticipation. “Good-bye, Miranda.”
“What is that you said, sir?” Miss Withers asked.
“Just a little congestion.” Ethan cleared his throat and pointed to his neck. “There. All better. Tell me, Miss Withers, are you in good health?”
“Yes, sir. All of us Witherses have excellent constitutions.”
“Wonderful.” He didn’t want to marry a sickly woman. Heaven forbid. Was he smiling too wide? “And how have you spent your time since arriving in the country?”
