Page 14 of Refining the Debutante
Lord Aldington’s frown deepened. “I told you to do whatever you wanted with the girl.”
“I want her out of my kitchen and away from the help.” Mrs. Guttridge’s eyes were wide, her mouth set in a firm line.
Miranda had to press her lips together to keep from gaping in surprise. She’d been preparing to perform a speech of her own, but she’d rather her uncle turn his anger toward his housekeeper than her.
“I am sure you can find something she can do or let her look after herself.” Lord Aldington turned his beady eyes on Miranda. “I will not tolerate any more interruptions from you. You are here on a trial basis, and you are not putting your case in a favorable light by inconveniencing myself and Mrs. Guttridge. I suggest you learn to get along, or I will have to ask you to stay elsewhere.”
Miranda blustered, but words could not form. Where did he think she would go? She never would have come if she hadn’t been in the direst of straits. She had to make peace. “I will look after myself. You need not worry about any more interruptions.”
“Good. You are both excused,” Lord Aldington said tersely.
Mrs. Guttridge scowled at Miranda and waddled out the door. Miranda took a daring stance and waited to speak with her uncle privately.
He looked up, and his glare turned icy. “I said you were excused.”
Miranda saw more than just his seething anger. Lines of fatigue were etched around his brown eyes. With no wife and no children to give him purpose, he had nothing. A weariness of life settled around him like a determined companion. Before her sat a very sad, lonely man. The sudden perception engulfed her with new awareness.
Her temper diffused, and she yearned to bridge the gap between them. “Please, Your Lordship, I do not understand why you hate my father, and I will not ask you to tell me. But why extend those feelings to me? We are all the family we have left in the world.”
Lord Aldington looked at her as if seeing her for the first time too. Then he blinked away the connection and poured himself a drink. A dark ring where the bottle was set remained on the table as if from years of bottles being in the exact same position. He tipped the glass to his lips, and the red liquid disappeared, along with any hope Miranda had.
“I do not have any family,” Lord Aldington said. “Now, get out.”
“You are right,” Miranda snapped back, feeling her defenses rise. “Drink yourself to death, and see if I care.” She slammed the door behind her for good measure and then heard the piercing thud of glass upon wood. She shuddered. Her uncle despised her, and she knew there would be no second chances if she dared provoke him again.
Chapter 7
The sun hid behind afew dense clouds, but the day was warm enough for a comfortable walk around Stonebrook’s vast estate with Miss Withers. They, of course, were only walking toward a small pond a half mile from the house. Jane had been all too willing to walk with Hannah ahead of them so Ethan might have a few minutes of private conversation with their lovely guest. It was a thoughtful gesture, since she had never been willing to leave him and Miranda alone without a great deal of obvious hinting.
“Do you walk this way often?” Miss Withers asked.
It had been only a few days since their last meeting, but he appraised her before answering, not sure he’d even really looked at her in such a close proximity. She wore a scarlet pelisse, and several brunette braids by her neck were pulled up into her bun. It was an odd hairstyle—one Miranda would probably think was fetching. “I usually ride, actually,” he finally said. He almost mentioned his morning runs, but they did not know each other well enough for him to talk about his strange habits. “Are you fond of long walks?”
“I am.”
Ethan anticipated her to say more, but she didn’t. Lud. Now he would have to think of a topic of conversation. Knapweed, red clover, and ragwort spread a rainbow of color across the grassy downs and left a faint, sweet aroma. He bent and picked a knapweed bloom and handed it to Miss Withers.
“Thank you.” She took it and promptly sneezed. “Forgive me; weeds make me sneeze.”
Weeds? He was an idiot. He saw them as beautiful wildflowers. “It’s my fault. I thought it was pretty. I shouldn’t have pressured you to hold it.” He quickly accepted it back and tossed it into the field. Another two sneezes followed. Miranda adored flowers, or so she had led him to believe since she’d gushed over everything he did for her—as if he were the ultimate gentleman. It would take time to learn Miss Withers’s likes and dislikes. He handed her his handkerchief. “Come, the pond is just around this bend. There is a wood bench on the shore, where you can rest.”
A few moments later, he took her hand and assisted her over some uneven rocks to the bench. Down the way, they could see Jane and Hannah attempting to skip rocks. When he released Miss Withers’s hand, he bent into an elaborate bow. When he looked up, she was frowning at him like he was utterly ridiculous. He straightened. Perhaps he was. Whenever he broke from character and did something lighthearted in front of Miranda, she had always laughed with him. He wasn’t sure if he could go back to being serious all the time. But that wasn’t his real concern; his real concern was that he could not cease comparing everything Miss Withers did to the woman he’d walked away from. He needed to focus on Miss Withers alone.
He sat down beside her just as she pulled out her fan from her reticule hanging from her wrist. Ethan narrowed his eyes. Not the fan. How was he to avoid thinking of Miranda now? She had made sure he was well-versed in the language of the fan, and they had both laughed themselves to tears on more than one occasion. It had proved to be a useful skill when they had not been capable of conversing privately.
“This spot is perfect,” Miss Withers said.
Ethan smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
Miss Withers ran her fan through her hand, and Ethan sat straighter. Her action said she hated him. Could she be holding something against him because of the card party and his association with Miss Bartley? Or maybe she just hated that he’d given her a flower.
He decided to test her with a story. “My friend and I spent many hours here as boys, building rafts. We managed a few successful designs but even more unsuccessful ones.” He watched to gauge her interest.
“What an industrious child you must have been.” She put the tip of the unopened fan against her left ear.
She wished to get rid of him. Ethan folded his arms across his chest. Maybe she didn’t know the language of the debutantes and was perfectly imitating the actions simply by accident. “Ah yes, I was quite an active child. What were you like in your youth? I can’t imagine anything remotely mischievous.”
Opening her fan, Miss Withers began gently wafting air toward her face—with her right hand. It meant he was being too eager. Well, there was no denying that. “When I was a child, I liked to embroider long verses of scripture,” she said. “I was quite good at it, or so my mother said.”
