When she saw the team of horses and the shiny black carriage bearing the Mullen crest coming up their long drive, her heart picked up its pace and her boredom could be put temporarily aside.
She rushed from the parlor and found her father in his study, pouring over the latest issue of The Herald, the paper he owned and highly prized. Mira did not trouble herself to politely interrupt, but burst out, “Papa, he is here.”
Andrew Kimball, the Earl of Falconbergh, set down the smudged copy and leaned back in his chair, regarding his daughter over the rims of his spectacles. “Who?”
Mira blew out her breath in annoyance, and whirled from the room. Her father, indulgent and doting though he was, did not spare a single moment for her flirtations. It seemed to Mira that he did not realize that she was betrothed to the most lucrative fish in London’s sparsely populated male sea. Other than a few widowers with a few of their own brats, court was littered with impoverished men of good title, and its fair share of unappealing, and dare she say ugly, men of lower birth.
Mira Kimball had set her sights on the Mullen twins, for they were rakishly handsome, incredibly wealthy, and one would be duke.
And after a few glasses of champagne, coupled with just a bit of added insurance, she’d succeeded in securing Aidan Mullen as her own. The cost of her virginity had been a paltry price to pay, and he was now honor-bound to do the proper thing.
It had been perfect. Mira had wept tears of remorse, and Aidan had proposed.
As Mira had planned, she would get exactly what she wanted—a handsome husband whose marital bed would not be burdensome, along with the wealth that she was accustomed to and deserved.
She rushed to the anteroom outside the ballroom, where the accoutrements of a lady’s beauty were laid out. Standing in front of the oversized, gilt-framed looking glass, Mira dusted her nose with powder, pressed a few drops of scented oil behind her ears, and patted her perfect coiffure. Mira, satisfied with her appearance, turned and walked sedately toward the foyer where her betrothed’s brother was most likely being greeted by their butler.
Her hands trembled with anticipation, and so to cover, she folded them demurely across the narrow column of her high-waisted gown. She’d worn one of her finest morning dresses, made of the palest, shimmery pink silk; it flattered her skin and was so fine and delicate, it begged to be touched. And her décolletage, daringly low and dangerously sheer, begged the same as well.
Mira paused in the corridor that led to the massive, two-storied grand foyer. She could see him, Padraig Mullen, her betrothed’s twin.
He was as tall as Aidan, as muscled, and their faces both bore the hint of a Celtic fable, testimony to their Irish heritage. While Padraig was dark of hair and green of eyes like his father, Aidan bore the look of his mother, golden as an Adonis, with blatant sensuality and eyes the color of sapphires.
But as to which of the twins would be duke, the secret had been guarded all their lives by their parents, who had wanted them raised without rivalry.
That may have been true in their youth, but Mira suspected the secret was maintained to keep greedy young women slightly at bay.
And the thought made her so self-satisfied, she wanted to squeal and clap her hands, for she’d managed to snag herself one of them, and was the envy of every girl at court.
Padraig caught sight of Mira, turned in her direction, showed a fine leg, and swept into a formal bow. “My lady, ’tis good to see you.”
Sweet soft laughter tinkled down the hall. Mira laughed as she entered the foyer, and held out her tiny hand. He bowed over it, pressed a kiss upon her glove, and breathed in her feminine scent. Straightening, he took in her petite blond beauty, as softly fragile and adorable as a kitten. While he could clearly appreciate her charms, he still couldn’t quite understand why his brother had proposed to her. They were an odd match, he thought, and she was not the sort of woman he’d have thought his brother would have wanted to marry.
“You’ve gotten even prettier since we saw you last,” Padraig said.
Mira tapped him on the chest with her folded fan. “Such gammon, my lord. I look exactly as I always do.”
“If you were this beautiful six months ago, how did Aidan let you leave London?” he asked, saying the right things, but not thinking them. In truth, he’d been glad to see her go.
“Winter in London is dreadful. All that wet soot and those dirty puddles.” Mira pursed her rosebud lips and lightly shuddered. “At home here in Warwick, I love it when the gardens slumber beneath a blanket of snow, and I am tucked up beside a warm fire with my sewing. ’Tis a fact that I don’t require much to make me happy. I’m quite satisfied with simplicity, really.”
If Mira thought the great stately mansion in Warwick simple, Padraig would not disabuse her of that notion. True, she was spoilt and indulged, but that was only part and parcel to the rearing of a proper lady. For that he could forgive her.
Padraig wondered how his brother thought he could marry a girl such as Mira. She was like a little porcelain doll, with her flaxen hair and her fine, fair skin. Her lips were always pink and pouting, and her wide cornflower eyes, so innocent and adoring, were the very picture of ladylike perfection.
He couldn’t imagine bedding her; she looked breakable. And, he couldn’t help but think, she looked highly proper as well. Too proper, most likely, to enjoy the earthy, sensual delights he hoped to find in his marriage bed.
Padraig steered his thoughts in a more gentlemanly direction. It wasn’t appropriate to be envisioning the woman his brother would wed in such a way, and Aidan certainly wouldn’t appreciate it. His brother had such an overreaching sense of honor where women were concerned. Come to that, his brother had an overreaching sense of honor, period. Aidan was a man who always did the right thing.
“Have you heard from my brother?” Padraig asked.
“Yes, I received a letter sent the day before he was set to leave Ireland,” she answered sweetly, and her eyes sparkled. “Have you?”
“Aye, a letter reached me as well, written the same day. He mentioned that he looked forward to us all reuniting in Chester.”
“I miss him so,” Mira sighed.
If that were true, Padraig thought, perhaps she could have worn a less revealing gown. The bodice, so sheer and clingy, was not the sort of thing he thought a proper lady ought to be wearing, especially in front of her fiancé’s brother. He could scarcely stop looking down.
“Last I saw you, you mentioned you had a special project you were working on,” Padraig said, hoping for a distraction from her nipples. “I’m sure Aidan won’t mind if you showed me.”
“Never mind my silly project. I must see to your refreshment.” Mira gestured to the parlor but Padraig shrugged off her offer.
“I’ve no needs. Why don’t you show me what has so absorbed you. I’m intrigued.”
“Very well, if you insist,” Mira answered, and she lowered her eyes modestly, as if uncomfortable having such attention lavished on her and her project. “It really isn’t much. Certainly nothing in comparison to the ships your company builds. Isn’t it true that you’re one of the largest shipbuilders in the world?”
“’Tis a bit of an exaggeration,” Padraig demurred smoothly. If Aidan’s venture in Ireland went as they’d planned, however, Mira might indeed be correct. Padraig could scarcely wait to get to Chester to meet up with his brother and hear how things turned out.
Mira led the way to a set of closed double doors, and placing both her hands on the knobs, tossed a questioning look over her shoulder. “You’re certain? ’Tis not my wish to bore you with my trivialities.”
Padraig thought he saw something in her clear blue eyes for just a second, a shine of pure pride. Or was it