Page 8 of Refining the Debutante
It was no wonder he could not forget her. At the end of their drive, she had taken the same handkerchief she had trailed along his cheek and, with mischievous eyes, kissed the cloth and handed it to him.
“A favor for a favor.”
That alluring woman needed a husband to tie her down—just not him. The attraction drawing them together was not enough to excuse certain behaviors Ethan later learned he could not overlook. Her beauty and charms had intoxicated him until he was almost too blind to see her true character. He shoved a few spare shirts on top of the pile of trousers with greater force than necessary. He desired a wife he could trust as the future mother to his children.
That gave him pause. She would likely be a good mother. He did believe her capable of that.
But did she have the ability to run his social calendar without jeopardizing important relations with her pettiness? He might regret the way he’d gone about it, but not the ending of their courtship.
“Excuse me, sir.” A footman interrupted his thoughts with the delivery of the requested wooden crate.
“Thank you. Set it here beside me.” Ethan scooped up the articles of clothing in his arms and systematically placed them inside the crate. He craved order, and Miranda Bartley was a wildflower that could quickly overrun his neatly arranged life.
Returning to his closet, he added several old books he’d taken from Stonebrook Hall’s library. Then he pulled out a pair of barely worn boots his brother, Richard, had left behind, claiming they rubbed the outside of his feet when he walked, and added them atop his growing pile. Anytime weakness tested his fortitude, he needed to remember why he had made this decision in the first place. He picked up the crate and grunted at the weight. The footman could take care of it, but Ethan wanted to feel the pain in his fingers and the pull of muscles. He would forget this woman if it killed him.
Each step toward the front door of his home added to his determination as did a growing mental list—one Jane would never find. Stop wearing the color blue—Miranda favored it on him. Stop drinking chocolate—the woman adored the stuff. Burn the handkerchief with her kiss upon it that she had brazenly pressed into his hand. Take his neighbor Miss Withers for a ride in his barouche. The last on his list gleamed like a beacon of hope as he set the crate by the door. She was the perfect combination of beauty and sweetness. There lay the ideal solution to his problems. And this time, he wouldn’t get so emotionally involved.
Chapter 4
Miranda’s Abigail, Sarah, wrapped ascarf around the outside of Miranda’s large bun in a half-turban look, the end of the scarf dangling over her shoulder, with a feather and gaudy pin poking out a few inches above her ear. Sarah fingered the silky fabric, and Miranda noticed the way her eyes lingered, admiring the fine colors.
“What do you think? Too bold?” Miranda tweaked the curls around her face. “It seems only the most eccentric older ladies can pull off a full turban, but I find it a fashion oversight to dismiss them altogether—never mind it is just for a dinner at home with Father.”
Sarah dropped her hands from Miranda’s hair and cleared her throat. “It suits you, miss.”
Miranda ignored her maid’s opinion and observed herself in the mirror. Ethan’s condemning words about her vanity caused her eye to twitch. Beauty and vanity went hand in hand. All women desired beauty. Didn’t they? “You can go now. I am off to find my father to ascertain our travel details. I imagine you will be packing my things soon enough.”
Leaving Sarah behind her, Miranda skipped down the stairs, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. It was wonderful to have a change of scenery to look forward to. She heard a clatter coming from her father’s study and turned at the end of the staircase in that direction. She pulled open the door to find his desk in disarray, with him hastily shoving things into a travel bag.
“Papa, what on earth are you about?”
“Oh good, you’re here,” he said, glancing at her. “Hurry and pack your things. I’ve called a carriage for you. We’re leaving.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” A sinking sensation started in her chest.
“We are ruined. They will be coming for me soon enough, and I can’t be here when they do.” He frantically moved about the room as if searching for something important. “I refuse to rot in some blasted clink.”
The hair on the back of Miranda’s exposed neck stood on end as every sensation in her body responded in alarm. “You speak nonsense. We cannot beruined!”
Her father stopped shoving papers in his bag long enough to meet her gaze fully. She saw panic in his eyes. “I am sorry, dearest. Bad luck is all.”
Miranda rushed behind his desk and grabbed at her father’s greatcoat. “Stop! For all that is good in the world, I demand an explanation!”
“And you should have one.” His voice trembled, and his pallor resembled the ash in the cold fireplace behind him. He thumbed through a few papers scattered on his desk.
“Well?” she prompted. He seemed childlike with his sheepish expression, as if a little scold from her could set everything to right. She put her hand to her chest to still the beating inside. “Just tell me and be done with it.”
“The money is all gone.” His words were numbing. “My investments in the Dutch Indies came to ruin with that dratted volcano. I tried to recover what I could at the tables, but my creditors are calling in my debts. If only I had more time.”
Miranda sputtered while she searched for a solution. “What about our friends?”
“Why do you think I must escape to the Continent? I have borrowed from everyone, and there is no one else to turn to.” He grabbed his writing box and shoved it into his bag.
Miranda shook her head. “No! It cannot be.” Times like this made her wish her mother had not died in childbirth. She longed for motherly comfort—someone who could help her father make sense of this impossible situation. “You should have told me,” she cried, a storm of panic and anger building inside her.
Her father held out his hands, then dropped them in defeat.
Miranda hugged her arms to her chest. “Well, what of the town house? My dowry? Surely there are assets we can use to rectify this.”
