Page 33 of A Damsel for the Wounded Earl
“I couldn’t, but his scars have faded a little with time,” Miranda said brusquely, scraping butter onto a piece of only slightly blackened toast. She was sparing with the butter – it was a luxury they couldn’t afford to waste.
“Yes, and now we’re hardly in a position to be too choosy,” Mrs. Sinclair pointed out. “Arthur was head-over-heels for Miranda. It’ll take no time at all to win him back.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Carrie snorted. “Men have their pride, and you hurt his. I’d wager he won’t take you back.”
“Don’t say such a thing,” Mrs. Sinclair snapped. “We are all counting on Miranda to make this match, so you keep your opinions to yourself, my girl. You ought to be praying day and night for Arthur to make her another offer. And you Miranda do not engage in flirtations with him, leading him on. We haven’t time for that. Snap him up quick and let’s be done with it. The bills are piling up.”
Miranda flinched a little at that, her eyes going automatically to the bureau in the corner, where scraps of paper overflowed. They were Notes Acknowledging Debts, bills, demands from milliners, butchers, grocers, etc. They simply kept coming, and the paltry sum of money they had did not come close to covering it.
Mr. Sinclair had died suddenly about a year ago, shortly after Miranda’s engagement with Captain Hawdon had fallen through. That had been infuriating. He was a second son whose older brother had unexpectedly died, leaving him the heir of a remarkable fortune. She had barely had time to congratulate herself on her good luck when he broke it off, revealing that he simply could not marry her now that he would be his Grace the Duke of so-and-so.
It had stung, of course, but it wasn’t as if Miranda had loved him, and there would always be another man, a better match. She was older than was comfortable for an unmarried woman, but she was more beautiful and charming than most of the debutantes, so Miranda was not feeling threatened.
Then their father died and plunged them smartly back into poverty. Such was the fate of women, it seemed. Reliant on a man to the end, be it their father, brother, husband, or son.
Or, in Mrs. Sinclair’s case, it would be her son-in-law.
That son-in-law would be Arthur Langley, Miranda was determined.
“I heard that Felicity Thornhill and her family are staying at Lanwood Manor,” Carrie said, with a light, calculated air, meant to throw the cat among the pigeons. Miranda shot her sister an annoyed look which was ignored.
“Who is she, then?” Mrs. Sinclair asked, lip curling. “No great beauty, I’m sure.”
“No, but she’ll have money on her marriage, and she’s an only child. The estate is all entailed to her cousin, but he’s like a son to the family, by all accounts,” Carrie picked up another slice of toast and took a thoughtful bite. “Oh, and Miss Thornhill’s a very good friend of Lucy Langley. You know, the late earl’s daughter. I’d say she’s already got a foot in the door.”
Miranda shot her sister another poisonous look. “I’ve met Felicity Thornhill. She is no rival. I’m not afraid of her. I doubt he’ll look at her twice, even if she does have designs on him.”
Did Felicity Thornhill have designs on Arthur? Miranda wasn’t entirely sure. She wasn’t a very artful girl, entirely untutored in the way to grab a man’s attention. If she didn’t know better, she’d say that sweet, stupid Felicity just talked about the thingsshewanted to talk about, instead of figuring out what the gentleman wanted to hear and saying that. Madness, really. That would get a woman nowhere.
Mrs. Sinclair seemed unsettled now, though. She tapped her white, delicate fingers on the table and eyed her daughters.
“You can’t be too careful, Miranda,” she said at last. “Youarestarting with a disadvantage when it comes to Arthur. He won’t forget that you rejected him. Even once you get the proposal, be sure to get the wedding done quickly. The fact is…” she swallowed hard, averting her gaze, “… the fact is, the bills are beginning to worry me. We may have to leave this house. I’m sure none of us want to ask our darling cousin for money.”
That, of course, meant the Reverend Sinclair and his pious wife, a frugal, joyless couple who’d inherited almost all of Mr. Sinclair’s estate, and made no secret of their contempt for the rest of the Sinclair family. In Miranda’s opinion, asking them for money would be an exercise in humiliation and nothing more, as there was no way the good Reverend and his wife would share a single penny.
“You won’t have to worry about that,” Miranda said, with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll secure him soon enough.”
Mrs. Sinclair nodded, seeming to be reassured, and they went back to their disappointing breakfast.
Miranda glanced down at her toast. Her appetite was mostly gone, but it would fairly be a sin to waste that butter.
Truth be told, she wasn’tquiteas confident in her own abilities as she once had been. Shewasgetting older, it couldn’t be denied, and two broken engagements – plus all the other relationships which were discreetly kept out of the public eye as best she could manage – were not going to work well in her favour. She would have to be careful. Felicity Thornhill was simply not a threat – Miranda would absolutely not lower herself to worry about abluestockingas a rival – but she ought to be watched and watched carefully.
Eating the toast in a few mechanical bites, Miranda dusted the crumbs from her hands and sat back in her chair, thinking.
She intended to corner Arthur at the picnic. Mrs. Langley was clearly happy for them to make a match of it again, but others would be watching, knowing their history. Arthur himself would be wary. She couldn’t risk showing her hand too soon. If things fell through with Arthur, she might not get another opportunity to snag an earl.
With a feeling much like incredulity, Miranda finally realised that at this point in her life, Arthur was the best match she was likely going to get.Arthur. She shook her head, almost disbelieving.
If only Father had lived a few more years, I might have snagged Mr. Carver. Not a titled man, of course, but those things can be managed. He was rich as Croesus, and that’s all that mattered.
“One word of warning, Miranda,” Mrs. Sinclair said suddenly, once the silence had spread itself over the room like a heavy blanket. When she was sure everybody was listening to her, she put down her forkful of eggs with a sigh. “Nobody likes a poor girl, Miranda. A gentleman can forgive many things, but a poor, grasping girl is a thing of disgust.”
Miranda’s cheeks reddened. “I am not a poor, grasping girl.”
“Of course you are,” Mrs. Sinclair said, matter-of-factly. “The world has no idea how far we have fallen, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as I can. Do you know how many doors would be closed to us, if it were known that we cannot pay our grocer’s bill? If you fail with Arthur, Miranda, we’ll have to look to Matilda to make our fortunes.”
All eyes turned to the pretty youngest Sinclair girl, who looked rather like a rabbit cornered by a cat.
