Myriah opened the door wide and allowed her charm to play about her eyes and mouth, dazzling the young man standing on the portico. He whipped off his tricorn hat and tucked
it under his arm.
Myriah smiled shyly, allowing him to think she was dazzled by his red and blue uniform. The officer cleared his throat and bellowed in an official tone, “Is this the home of Mr. William Wimborne?”
Myriah smiled prettily, and it would have been a hard man indeed who could doubt the innocence she portrayed. “Why, yes,
sir,
it
is … but pray, who may you be?”
Once again he cleared his throat and continued in the same tone, trying not to look her over. “I am Corporal John Stone. Is
Mr.
Wimborne at home, madam?”
“Why, yes, sir, he is—but let us not stand
here!
Do come in,” Myriah said disarmingly.
Before accepting her invitation, the corporal turned to the handsome collection of military minions astride their horses and ordered them to await his return. Myriah closed the door behind him and turned once again to smile.
The corporal was not proof against her wiles, and with his men out of sight, he allowed himself the luxury
of
enjoying her friendly smile. “I regret, madam, that I must ask you to have Mr. Wimborne called,”
he
said, beginning to open a small leather bag that swung from his wrist.
She regarded this with interest, and as the corporal produced a somewhat damaged man’s dark top hat, clapped her hands with a superb show of grateful animation. “Oh! That is William’s hat! I am so pleased you found it. You can have no notion how disturbed I have been ever since I was so careless as to lose it.”
Taken aback, the corporal blinked at Myriah.
“You …
you say …
you
lost it?” He hesitated a moment and then looked at Myriah intently. “May I ask how it came to be in
your
possession and
who you might be?”
She giggled and took the hat from him before he realized what she was about. With an admirable quickness of wit she discovered all she needed to know
and begged the corporal to observe the line her finger traced. “There … do you not see how soiled the lining has become? I thought this was a perfectly good hat—or at least it was until I was stupid enough to drop it. At any rate I was taking it into town to have a new lining installed. I did so want to have my cousin’s name embroidered inside as well and then bring it back as a surprise. But how wonderful that you have found it, for perhaps
now
I
can set it to rights!”
“I see … you … say Mr. Wimborne
is
your cousin?”
“Why, yes, I am Miss Myriah White, and I am staying just a few days before I
leave for my aunt’s in Dover. Do tell me … where
did
you find the hat?” continued Myriah sweetly.
“N
ot very far from the house, Miss White …” The Corporal faltered, his frown deepening, for his case had suddenly vanished. “Near a rather large area of stained grass.”
“Stained grass?” Myriah asked in surprise.
“Yes, Miss White … stained with blood,” the corporal said without caution.
“Oh—oh dear … blood, you say …? Oh … I do feel ill,” she peeped at him. “Was it an animal, poor thing?” She put a hand to her heart.
“Yes … do tell us,” said a deep, authoritative voice from the stairs. Lord Wimborne came forward and asked, “Was it
animal blood
?”
The young military man blushed. “Well, no, my lord—actually we are certain … we have reason to believe a man was shot.”
“Why?” pursued his lordship, his face stony.
The corporal eyed Lord Wimborne. “Confound it, my lord, you know very well why! We shot at a
smuggler
and found a pool of blood on your land!”
Lord Wimborne’s hard gray eyes never flickered. His lips were set and his tone was dry. “Then, it appears to me
you
should be seeking the desperate individual in earnest and
not
d
elivering hats
!”
The riding officer’s cheeks flushed. It was obvious he believed he was being duped, but there was not very much he could do. He was already on dangerous ground. “But—but, my lord …”
“Shall I fetch my brother? Perhaps if he were to confirm the ownership of the hat in question …” Lord Wimborne said coldly.
The young man turned and rubbed his hawk-like nose. He was going to catch hell for this. He had no proof, and it was obvious his lordship meant to stir up the coals if he did not retreat. “No, that won’t be necessary. I should be getting back to my men. We do, as my lord has pointed out, have smugglers to trap.” He turned, bowed to Myriah, and softly offered, “Good day.”
Lord Christopher Wimborne stood as though transfixed on the closed door as he waited for the sound of retreating mounted soldiers. At length he sighed and looked at Myriah with a questioning glance. “You make an excellent prevaricator, Miss White,” he said quietly.
“I find that ‘excellent and prevaricator’ do not a compliment make, and I do not take it as one,” Myriah returned. What was in his head now—just what was wrong with him?
“Would you do me the honor of advising me
why
you felt it necessary in
this
circumstance?”
She looked at him fully and felt her brows arch. Whatever was the matter with him? Didn’t he realize she had playacted to protect Billy? Apparently not, for it was evident he was displeased with her. “My lord, I
thought
you overheard all—he wanted to
see Billy
.”
“And what—you felt he should not?” asked his lordship. “
I
very naturally thought he should not, but why, Miss White, did you?”
“My goodness … he is an exciseman, as you very well know.
Furthermore, they were looking for a man they had
shot at
and hit, and had they seen Billy with his wounded arm, naturally conclusions would have been drawn. I did not wish them to … look towards Billy.”
“Then, Miss White, you believe my brother to be a smuggler?” his lordship asked, his expression and tone unfathomable.
“Nooo, indeed, I do not!” Myriah played with her fingers. “What I believe is that Billy became embroiled,” she then muttered, “as
I
often have been, in … in an excursion that somehow got out of hand. I don’t know what that excursion was, nor do I care. What I do care about is your brother’s well-being. Do you disapprove?”
“Disapprove?
Why,
no—you did just what
I
would have done had I answered the door of
my
home!”
his lordship returned drily.
“Oh!” said Myriah, the color rising to her cheeks. “I … I am so sorry. Indeed the circumstances which threw your brother and me together … were such that all formalities were dropped. I … it … seems I have presumed …” she said, turning her face away. A painful hollow was created somewhere in the region of her chest—a hurt she recognized as rejection!
Myriah had never before been rejected, and it came as a facer from this handsome blade.
Kit studied the top of her fiery head a moment. He could not allow himself to trust her. He sensed a lie about her, and yet when her magnificent eyes had met his
own
so innocently searching for approbation he had wanted to reassure her—and yet he didn’t.
He was angry, far too angry with her, for having spoken to the exciseman, for
if Myriah
had not been suspicious before, she certainly would be now. Yet a guilty pinch nipped at him.
It
was unlike him
to
be rude to anyone, least of all a lovely woman, and there was no use denying his attraction for Myriah. She would have to go—and soon!
“If you will excuse me, Miss White, it seems I
have been most rude.
While you are
at Wimborne Towers, do consider it your own.”
He saw the defensive look that took over her face and felt a wave of admiration for the control she exerted over her anger. Damn but she was exquisite!
“Consider Wimborne Towers
my
own?
My lord, I take leave to tell you that I would not, with the exception of your brother, associate myself with anything that is
yours!”
She turned on her pretty blue slipper, picked up the velvet skirts of her form-fitted peacock blue gown, and sped to the second floor, leaving him gazing after her with a slow, warm grin covering his countenance.
* * *
Myriah s
lammed the door to the bedroom and leaned back against its cool whiteness, arms folded and smooth cheeks flushed. The utter want of civility of him! The inconsiderate … ill-bred … cad, thought Myriah heatedly.
She crossed the room quickly, picked up a well-used deck of playing cards, and handled it agitatedly. Lord … if he but knew who she was, but thankfully, he did not … for he could use it against her, couldn’t he?
And she did not want Lord Wimborne to be civil to her because he was impressed
by
her name or her wealth. No, she wanted him to like her for herself. For some inexplicable reason he seemed bent on finding fault with her. ’Twas not only over the incident with the military man, but earlier that morning in Billy’s room. She had felt his coldness
—
even his dislike—and had been surprised by it.
She looked at the deck of cards in her hands
for
the first time and thought of Billy Wimborne. A soft smile crept into her eyes. At any rate, here was someone who took her as she was. She turned and left the room, crossed the hall, and knocked on his open door.
“It’s about time!” yelled the young man inside. As Myriah entered he pulled a long face and complained, “Thought you had all forgotten me, and I’m devilishly hungry!”
She laughed. “Well, ’tis only noon yet—so you shall have to wait, but how would you like a game of faro to help pass the time?”
“She-devil!” returned young Mr. Wimborne. “Here I am half-dead, and you after m’blunt!”
For answer she laughed, drew up the stained wood
table, sat across
from him, and smiled.
“I
shall deal.”
“Then do so, but
I
warn you,
m’girl, keep
your hands above the table!”
They played a few hands before Billy asked casually who had been at the house.
Myriah eyed him for
a
moment. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Kit left m’room to go greet our guest, and we get so few these days, and then he up and disappears. And you … you slam doors—well, it fair sets a chap to wondering,” he said, raising his eyes to her face.