The Seventh Season

By Cathy Peper

Beautiful, wealthy and the daughter of an Earl, Miranda Blake has been the reigning belle of the London Season for the last six years.  In love since childhood with her neighbor, Beau, she enjoys the balls and her circle of admirers, unconcerned with finding a husband.  But when she overhears a jealous matron refer to her as being “on the shelf,” she fears she has postponed marriage too long.

Derek Lang has come to England to purchase inventory for his family’s business and to clear his grandfather’s name of an old embezzling scandal.  When he sees Miranda fleeing from the ballroom in obvious distress, his instinct is to try and help her.

Equally annoyed and intrigued by the brash American, Miranda accepts his offer to pretend to court her in an attempt to make Beau jealous and spur him to action.  Will their scheme work, or will what began as a charade turn into something far too real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gluesticks and Gemstones
• Release date: Nov 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781536502237

Book preview

Prologue

Miranda felt as though she was always hungry. Cold, too, through the long winter months. Her governess told her that this was good for her that it built character. At ten years of age, Miranda didn’t care about character. She wanted to be warm and well fed.

Since she and her governess retired early, apparently another character building practice, Miranda often sneaked into the kitchen at night. She ate the food she found and sometimes even slept by the warmth of the fire rather than return to her cold bedroom. She suspected that Cook knew and approved of her visits for there was often food available and never any fuss made about anything missing. The servants, with the exception of Miss Glover, were fond of her.

At first, leaving her room in the murky night and making her way downstairs through long halls that looked very different during the day, frightened her. Portraits of ancestors appeared to gaze at her with disdain as if they reviled her for not submitting to privation. Shadows had loomed in every corner like a predator ready to spring. Gradually; however, she’d come to enjoy her night-time forages. The path had become as familiar in the dark as in the light, her ancestors had become friends and the quiet grew peaceful and calm.

She saw nothing unusual as she crept down for her nightly snack nor did she hear anything suspicious. Some rolls resided near the banked fire and a quick search found a jar of honey nearby. Even a few slices of chicken were under a towel on the worn pine table. Miranda gathered the items and settled by the fire with her back to the wall. The food tasted delicious, far better than the watery gruel she’d been served in the nursery. Savoring the sweetness of the honey, she licked her fingers to rid them of the stickiness and munched on the chicken, relishing the strength it offered her.

If only her parents would return home. She knew they would be appalled at how her governess treated her, but they preferred to spend most of their time in London and her brother had gone off to school. Her governess had been harsh when he lived at home, maintaining a strict schedule and never hesitant to use her switch, but it wasn’t until Michael left that she began restricting Miranda’s food and not allowing a fire to be built in the nursery. Many of the servants disapproved of Miss Glover’s ways, but only a skeleton staff remained at the abbey when the earl and countess were not in residence. The housekeeper, the only one that might have had any clout, didn’t want to be bothered with the matter. The other servants were too afraid to intervene.

Growing drowsy with the warmth and food, Miranda curled up beside the fire. Having carried her favorite blanket down with her, she pulled it over her body and dozed. She feared sleeping too deeply, the threat of being caught by her governess all too horrifying. Once she’d awakened to the sound of the kitchen maids coming down to start breakfast, but ever since then she’d been more careful.

She couldn’t have been sleeping long when she heard something. A sound so slight, it took a moment for her to realize it was out of place. Once she did, however, sleep fled, and she lay quietly, trying not to even breathe, as she focused on listening.

There it was again, a soft footfall. Someone stealthily approached. For a moment Miranda clung to the theory it was a servant hoping to steal food from the kitchen or perhaps a maid returning from a late night rendezvous, but this hope was short lived. The fearsome form of her governess soon filled the entrance to the kitchen.

So this is where you go, she said. Rummaging for crumbs and getting fat and weak.

I was cold, so I came down to the fire, Miranda said. She expected Miss Glover to slap her or even get out her switch, but the woman seemed uncannily still. She stayed in the entrance, her features in shadow.

If you want fire, then you shall have it, she said after a long moment of silence. She stepped within the doorway then, heading straight towards the coals that smoldered in the kitchen grate. Grabbing the poker, she pulled them out onto the floor.

Miss Glover, what are you doing? You’ll catch the house on fire, Miranda said. She ran to the sink to fill a pot with water. The blow came from behind and knocked her to the stone flags. Miranda lay there for a moment, stunned with pain. Then she scrambled to her feet and turned to face her attacker. Miss Glover still held the poker in her hand, brandishing it as if it were a sword.

Miranda’s back throbbed where she had been struck, but keeping tabs on her governess, she inched closer to the sink. Get away from me, she said. My parents will dismiss you without a character for this.

Only if they find out, she said. She raised the poker and although Miranda shielded her head with her arms, the heavy metal knocked her unconscious.

When Miranda regained her senses, the kitchen had filled with smoke. Miss Glover must have dragged furniture in from another room for otherwise there was little to burn beyond the heavy preparation table. Coughing, Miranda crawled towards the door, but the heat and flames kept her back. She pulled herself to her feet, planning to make a run for it, but as she did so, something within the conflagration exploded, raining bits of flaming wood upon her. Her sleeve caught fire and she screamed, the sound barely piercing the roar of the greedy blaze. Crazed with pain, she stumbled to the sink and pumped water from the pipe, dousing her clothes. She choked on the heavy smoke and sank to her knees in despair. There was no way out. Scrambling backwards, she slipped into the larder and closed the heavy door, hoping it would protect her from the growing inferno. She curled up in a ball as blackness swamped her once more. Miranda was barely aware when the door swung open, bringing with it crushing heat and blistering embers, but also rescue. Strong arms reached for her, pulling her from the space and cradling her against a firm chest. Her head swam, but she felt him rush her past the still glowing flames as servants armed with buckets dumped gallons of water into the pyre. When they reached the relative safety of the hall, Miranda peered over her rescuer’s shoulder at the horrifying scene. The servants were winning, by a slight margin, but someone cried out as a runaway tendril of flame snaked up the wall. Miranda tried to scream, but her throat was raw and she was whisked away to the drawing room where her rescuer dropped her upon the settee and doubled over coughing.

When he raised his head, all Miranda could see for a moment were his vivid green eyes glowing in a face blackened with smoke. She recognized her neighbor, Jason Elliott, Lord Beaumont, a youth about her brother’s age with whom she had not exchanged two words in the past.

You saved me, she said, though she could barely speak. Even such a small effort set her choking again, but Jason waited until she could draw air once more.

It’s not every day I get to rescue a princess, he said, a handsome grin lighting his face.

Miranda might have giggled if her throat hadn’t been raw, but his words resonated deep inside. He was her knight and he had rescued her from the fire-breathing dragon. From that day on, she knew she was his.

CHAPTER ONE

While it has often been noted that listeners rarely hear good of themselves, Lady Miranda Blake did not intend to eavesdrop when she slipped behind a potted palm to escape the crush of the ballroom. Chandeliers filled with burning candles and the press of a couple hundred guests spiked temperatures to an uncomfortable degree. From her vantage point, if she twisted her head, she could view the delicate hues of the ladies’ gowns and the heaps of flowers spilling over onto the polished wood floor. In the far corner, half hidden by a screen, the orchestra played. Her hostess appeared to have spared no expense and the ball would be on everyone’s tongues for some time to come. Still, as Miranda opened her fan and waved it in front of her face, she felt a hint of boredom. After the number of balls she had attended, they all seemed the same. She was contemplating this rather melancholy thought when the sound of her name caught her attention. Lady Miranda Blake? You cannot be serious.

Very serious, Mama. I know that Denby fancies her. She is a known beauty.

Be that as it may, I have it on the best authority that she is four and twenty if she's a day. That places her quite firmly on the shelf, dear. You needn't worry about any competition from that corner!

Miranda caught her breath and peered around the palm that shielded her from the speaker's view. That old harridan, she thought, recognizing Lady Eastman and her insipid daughter. She was on no more than nodding terms with the baronet's wife, but the woman's callous comment chilled her like a blast of winter cold.

On the shelf! As Miss Eastman had declared, she was considered a beauty, even a diamond of the first water, and had been for six seasons running. Or was it seven? Miranda had lost count. Her palms grew damp with perspiration. Was there some truth in Lady Eastman's vicious remark?

Standing on the edge of the ballroom with her heart racing faster than it did after a night spent dancing holes in her slippers, Miranda knew she needed to escape the crowded ballroom before someone spotted her. Mercy, if she didn't get herself in hand, the story would be making the rounds before the supper dance and by tomorrow afternoon she would be the laughingstock of the ton. Her family held a great deal of clout in society. Lady Eastman probably would not repeat the line to others, but eyes were always upon them. Someone was hoping to see them slip. She needed to keep up a strong front. Leaving her position, Miranda darted across the corridor, out the French doors and onto the terrace. The moment she left the overheated room behind, her breathing slowed. A few couples mingled, but for once Miranda wasted no time speculating on whether they were enjoying the view or escaping the vigilance of the lady's chaperon. She strolled past them and a lone gentleman who stood near the edge of terrace enjoying a smoke. She hunched her shoulders, trying to remain unobtrusive. With one hand holding the hem of her dress off the ground, she glided down the steps and melted into the garden, quickening her pace when she felt the cloak of darkness surround her, shielding her from curious gazes. She sped up, but tripped over an exposed root, nearly spilling to the ground.

Confound it! she muttered, limping to the nearest bench. Her silk slippers didn’t protect her feet. Along with the throbbing in her toes, she felt the evening damp soaking through her stockings. Despite the heat of the ballroom, it was still early spring and a chill hung in the air, but anger and dismay kept much of the cold at bay. She rubbed her abused toes, relief gradually overcoming her agitation. No one had seen her. Catastrophe had been averted. Nevertheless, she sighed. She wondered if she was truly at her last prayers. Lady Eastman spoke no more than the truth. Miranda would celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday in July.

It wasn't as though there hadn't been plenty of offers. Miranda reviewed the list of beaus and gallants who had applied to her father for permission to marry her. Some, of course, were unacceptable, but the majority had been perfectly eligible candidates. She refused them all, the cads and those who won her father’s approval. A number of handsome, wealthy and charming young men had been sent away while Miranda waited for that one particular offer that now seemed unlikely ever to occur.

Would she have considered a few of those offers if she had known that Jason Eliot, Lord Beaumont, intended to leave her languishing on the shelf? It was a question Miranda couldn't answer, a question she had never expected to confront.

How could you do this to me, Beau? she whispered into the darkness. Tears clogged her throat, but Miranda refused to release them. She fought her misery. Did some people think her a spinster? She could not countenance it. Oh, she had seen a dollop of malice in the eyes of spiteful dowagers touting their daughters' catches and even a spark of commiseration in some friends' eyes, but it had never bothered her in the past. She enjoyed the attentions of her suitors, loved dancing and flirting with her partners.

Miranda shook her head in bewilderment. She didn’t seriously accept that she was on the shelf. Why, she was as sought after as ever, never sitting out a dance unless she chose to. There was little doubt in her mind she could marry tomorrow if she wished, but it wouldn't be Beau taking the vows with her. It would be one of her rejected suitors, one who hadn't already found consolation elsewhere.

Miranda bent her head. Perhaps this was her penance for setting her sights on a man instead of leaving the pursuit to the dominant sex. She raised her head again. Balderdash! Women had been chasing men since the beginning of civilization. Her own mother was proof of that. Miranda chewed on her thumbnail. Where had she gone wrong? Were her feelings for Beau one-sided? She’d thought they shared an unspoken understanding.

The distinctive cracking of a twig underfoot alerted her to someone's approach. Who's there? Silence answered her, but a faint whiff of tobacco smoke drifted past.

I know you're there. Make yourself known, sir!

A tall figure stepped out from the cover of the trees and Miranda held her breath. Her spine tingled with uneasiness as she realized she didn’t recognize the man.

Forgive me for following you, but you seemed to be in some distress, the man murmured. I'm sorry if I'm intruding. Perhaps you wish to be alone.

Miranda was struck by the audacity of the man, a complete stranger, following her into the seclusion of the garden and then allowing himself to be caught spying on her. Yes, I wanted to be alone, but now I wish to return to the ball, she said coolly. You had no right to follow me here. I no longer need a nursemaid and your presence here can only harm my reputation.

I've already apologized, but I didn't give a flying fig for your reputation when I thought you a fellow human being in need of comfort. Frankly, I still don't.

This time Miranda noticed an unusual cadence to his words. You're an American, are you not? 

Even under cover of darkness, Miranda knew he sketched a mocking bow. Born and bred.

So I see.

Yes, I think you do. It's well known on this island that Americans lack sense and manners, hmm?

Miranda disliked the thread of amusement in his voice. I expressed a desire to return to the ball. Any gentleman worthy of the name would have escorted me there immediately.

But I thought we already established that I am an American.

Despite herself, Miranda was enjoying the thoroughly irregular conversation. Are there no gentlemen in America then?

Would you believe me if I told you that America is just chock full of gentleman? No fancy titles, mind, but the inner mettle that marks a man of character.

Since I doubt I'll ever be there to put your theory to the test, I must accept your word, sir.

The man laughed at that, a low, rich laugh that compelled the corners of Miranda's mouth to twitch in response.

It's obvious that you have no notion who I am or you would not be so trusting of my word, Lady Blake.

Miranda frowned, some of her original irritation with the man returning. How do you know my name? Besides, you have it all wrong. The correct form is Lady Miranda, not Lady Blake.