‘Mother.’ His voice was unsteady and his hand trembled as he touched his handkerchief to her mouth.
Her hand tightened on his, but with little strength. He could feel the bones through the translucent skin.
When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper. The glow in her eyes had faded to a pleading, frightened look that he had not seen there before. ‘Please. Before it is too late. Meet the girl. Let me die in peace.’ She smiled in a way that was more a grimace, and he wondered if it was from pain. She’d always tried to keep such rigid control. Of herself. Of him. Of everything. It must embarrass her to have to yield now. And for the first time he noticed how small she was as she lay there and smelled the hint of decay masked by the scent of the lilies.
It was true, then. This time she really was dying.
He sighed. What harm could it do to make a promise now, when she would be gone long before he needed to keep it? He answered stiffly, giving her more cause to hope than he had in years. ‘I will consider it.’
The front door was oak, and when she dropped the heavy brass knocker against it, Miranda Grey was surprised that the sound was barely louder than the hammering of the rain on the flags around her. It would be a wonder if anyone heard her knock above the sound of the late summer storm.
When the door finally opened, the butler hesitated, as though a moment’s delay in the rain might wash the step clean and save him the trouble of seeing to her.
She was afraid to imagine what he must see. Her hair was half down and streaming water. Her shawl clung to her body, soaked through with the rain. Her travelling dress moulded to her body, and the mud-splattered skirts bunched between her legs when she tried to move. She offered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d decided against wearing slippers or her new pair of shoes. The heavy boots she’d chosen were wildly inappropriate for a lady, but anything else would have disintegrated on the walk to the house. Her wrists, which protruded from the sleeves of the gown before disappearing into her faded gloves, were blue with cold.
After an eternity, the butler opened his mouth, probably to send her away. Or at least to direct her to the rear entrance.
She squared her shoulders and heard Cici repeating words in her mind.
‘It is not who you appear to be that matters. It is who you are. Despite circumstances, you are a lady. You were born to be a lady. If you remember this, people will treat you accordingly.’
Appreciating her height for once, she stared down into the face of the butler and said in a tone as frigid as the icy rainwater in her boots, ‘Lady Miranda Grey. I believe I am expected.’
The butler stepped aside and muttered something about a library. Then, without waiting for an answer, he shambled off down the hall, leaving her and her portmanteau on the step.
She heaved the luggage over the threshold, stepped in after it, and pulled the door shut behind her. She glanced down at her bag, which sat in its own puddle on the marble floor. It could stay here and rot. She was reasonably sure that it was not her job to carry the blasted thing. The blisters forming beneath the calluses on her palms convinced her that she had already carried it quite enough for one night. She abandoned it and hurried after the butler.
He led her into a large room lined with books and muttered something. She leaned closer, but was unable to make out the words. He was no easier to understand in the dead quiet of the house than he had been when he’d greeted her at the door. Then he wandered away again, off into the hall. In search of the dowager, she hoped. In his wake, she detected a faint whiff of gin.
When he was gone, she examined her surroundings in detail, trying to ignore the water dripping from her clothes and on to the fine rug. The house was grand. There was no argument to that. The ceilings were high. The park in front was enormous, as she had learned in frustration while stumbling across its wide expanse in the pouring rain. The hall to this room had been long, wide and marble, and lined with doors that hinted at a variety of equally large rooms.
But...
She sighed. There had to be a but. A house with a peer, but without some accompanying problem, some unspoken deficit, would not have opened its doors to her. She stepped closer to the bookshelves and struggled to read a few of the titles. They did not appear to be well used or current—not that she had any idea of the fashion in literature. Their spines were not worn; they were coated with dust and trailed the occasional cobweb from corner to corner. Not a great man for learning, the duke.
She brightened. Learning was not a requirement, certainly. A learned man might be too clever by half and she’d find herself back out in the rain. Perhaps he had more money than wit.
She stepped closer to the fire and examined the bricks of the hearth. Now here was an area she well understood. It left a message much more readable than the bookshelves. There was soot on the bricks that should have been scrubbed away long ago. She could see the faint smudges on the walls, signs that the room was long overdue for a good cleaning. She rustled the heavy velvet of the draperies over the window, then sneezed at the dust and slapped at the flutter of moths she’d disturbed.
So, the duke was not a man of learning, and the dowager had a weak hand on the servants. The butler was drunk and the maids did not waste time cleaning the room set aside to receive guests. Her hands itched to straighten cushions, to beat dust out of velvet and to find a brush to scrub the bricks. Didn’t these people understand what they had? How lucky they were? And how careless with their good fortune?
If she were mistress of this house...
She stopped to correct herself. When she was mistress of this house. That was how Cici would want her to think. When, not if. Her father was fond of myths and had often told her stories of the Spartan soldiers. When they went off to war, their mothers told them to come back with their shields or on them. And her family would have the same of her. Failure was not an option. She could not disappoint them.
Very well, she decided. When she was mistress of this house, things would be different. She could not offer his Grace riches. But despite the dirt, the house and furnishings proved he did not need money. She was not a great beauty, but who would see her here, so far from London? She lacked the refinements and charms of a lady accustomed to society, but she’d seen no evidence that his Grace enjoyed entertaining. She had little learning, but the dust on his library showed this was not his first concern.
What she could offer were the qualities he clearly needed. Household management. A strong back. A willingness to work hard. She could make his life more comfortable.
And she could provide him an heir.
She pushed the thought quickly from her mind. That would be part of her duties, of course. And, despite Cici’s all-too-detailed explanations of what this duty entailed, she was not afraid. Well, not very afraid. Cici had told her enough about his Grace, the Duke of Haughleigh, to encourage her on this point. He was ten years a widower, so perhaps he would not be too demanding. If his needs were great, he must surely have found a means to satisfy them that did not involve a wife. If his needs were not great, then she had no reason to fear him.
She’d imagined him waiting for her arrival, as she made the long coach ride from London. He was older than she, and thinner. Not frail, but with a slight stoop. Greying hair. She’d added spectacles, since they always seemed to make the wearer less intimidating. And a kind smile. A little sad, perhaps, since he’d waited so long after the death of his wife to seek a new one.
But he did not seek, she reminded herself. Cici had done all the seeking, and this introduction had been arranged with his mother. She added shy, to his list of attributes. He was a retiring country gentleman and not the terrifying rake or high-flyer that Cici had been most qualified to warn her about. She would be polite. He would be receptive. They would deal well together.