In a flat, heavy voice she announced, “Mrs. Murrish. Housekeeper.” When no one else appeared behind her, Mira determined that the woman was introducing herself. Before Mira could return the courtesy, Mrs. Murrish executed a sharp, almost military turn, and forged a path back into the house. Kitty grabbed Bella’s hand and hurried to follow Mrs. Murrish. George, too, tottered up the steps and disappeared into Blackwell Hall.
With one last glance to the now-vacant curtain wall and a silent prayer for strength, Mira followed her family into the intimidating house that would, one day soon, be her home.
…
The Fitzhenrys had arrived.
Mira had arrived.
When they had not shown up on the appointed day, Nicholas had decided that they were not coming. Perhaps Mira had run away, perhaps the whole family had. Whatever the reason, they were not coming.
Nicholas had told himself it was for the best that Mira should stay away. He should not marry her, or any woman, yet he did not know if he could bear to push her away. Yes, it was for the best, Nicholas told himself as he tried to ignore the pain in his gut and the urge to saddle a horse and ride like the devil for London to fetch her.
But now they were here—she was here—and Nicholas wished them gone again.
He sat before the fire in his cavernous tower room, his left leg propped on a small upholstered footstool. He was alone with the rhythmic roar of the waves and the cracking of the sappy wood in the hearth. He was often alone in this room, his personal sanctum sanctorum.
Nicholas sighed and took another deep pull on his port. His leg burned like fire, the twisted bone and tortured sinew pushed past their limits by his recent travels and his late-night wanderings.
With his father home, Nicholas got little sleep, and now, when he finally had a chance to nap a bit and give his shattered leg a chance to rest, the troubling Miss Fitzhenry had arrived.
She was never far from his mind. The rare sunlight flashing on the waves would remind him of the brilliant blue of her eyes. A fiery sunset over the leaden gray of the ocean would remind him of the intriguing contrast between her blazing hair and her drab clothing. The whisper of the wind through the camellias and magnolia trees reminded him of her gentle, throaty laugh. The creamy, succulent petals of the magnolia blossoms reminded him of the luscious texture of her skin. Every unexpected beauty of the Cornish wilds now conjured thoughts of Mira.
There was no question about it. He was maddeningly, infuriatingly preoccupied with Mira Fitzhenry. In the presence of her earnest intensity, he found himself abandoning his usual reticence in favor of talking at length and more candidly than he had to any person he had ever met. He had only met the girl three times, yet he had already divulged—quite without forethought—one of his most treasured memories of his mother. In Mira’s presence, he became a new man.
It was a luxury he could ill afford.
A light knock on the chamber door interrupted Nicholas’s reverie. “Yes, Pawly,” he called out, “come in.” The door creaked open, and Pawly Hart, the young man who served as Nicholas’s valet and all-round manservant, strode in.
Pushing a shock of sandy curls from his eyes, Pawly announced, “They’re here. Mrs. Murrish took them to the blue drawing room where everyone was waiting for them.”
A pang of guilt jolted Nicholas as he envisioned Mira wandering defenseless and unaware into the hostile territory of the Blackwell drawing room. Nicholas’s stepmother, the Lady Beatrix, was furious at having this upstart chit and her boorish family dumped on her doorstep. She would not welcome Mira with open arms. Quite the contrary, she might very well give the poor girl the cut direct.
Jeremy, Nicholas’s half-brother, took his cues from his mother. If Beatrix was unhappy about Mira and her relations, Jeremy was sure to follow suit.
What’s more, Nicholas’s uncle, Harold Ellerby, Lord Marleston; his wife Elizabeth, Lady Marleston; and their vague and mousy daughter, Lady Phoebe, were all visiting. Over the last few years, they came for a fortnight at least every other month and would not wish to run afoul of their hostess. So they, too, would lend their support to Beatrix’s condemnation of the Fitzhenrys.