Turning abruptly, Nicholas left the dining room, a heavy cloak of silence billowing in his wake.
He paused in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Mira had no sanctuary here at Blackwell Hall other than her bedchamber. Nan Collins would be there, however, and Nicholas suspected that Mira would seek total solitude in which to recover herself.
After only a moment’s hesitation, he turned away from the stairwell and headed, instead, toward the library.
He knocked lightly to announce his presence before poking his head into the room. Mira sat perched on the edge of a wing chair staring intently at a book held open in her lap, and she did not look up to acknowledge his entrance. She ran the tip of one finger along the lines of text, down one page and then the next, before touching the fingertip to her tongue, turning the page, and beginning again. Her movements were ritualistic, reminding Nicholas of a Catholic priest he had once seen at the Midsummer revels in Upper Bidwell whose lips had moved silently as he rhythmically stroked the beads of his rosary.
She looked terribly small sitting alone in the vast room, a bright little flame amidst the cases full of moldering books and the dark, oppressive furniture.
“Mira?”
She did not falter, simply continued caressing the book.
Nicholas crossed the thick carpet to where she sat, the room’s heavy shadows seeming to swallow the sound of his footsteps. He pulled a chair close to hers and lowered himself into it. He caught her scent, sunshine and roses, over the stale smell of decaying paper and dust. Leaning forward, he reached out and gently laid a hand on the page she was trying to scan, effectively halting her small sacrament.
“Mira,” he repeated. She still did not look at him, and he sighed deeply. “I am sorry for what happened in there.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped her, and then she was quiet again. “No, my lord,” she said finally, “I am the one who must apologize. It seems I have placed you in a very awkward position. In several very awkward positions, actually.”
“I have been in an awkward position for most of my life. It is none of your doing.” Nicholas shifted his hand to lay it atop Mira’s own, and he felt her trembling.
“But I have made matters worse. I have stirred up all of the rumors and drawn unwelcome attention to you with my investigation.” She punctuated her confession with a soft sniff.
Nicholas gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Nonsense. I promise you, the rumors have rarely subsided over the past few years. And you can hardly be blamed for this slight resurgence. People were bound to begin talking again when my engagement was announced. Nothing you could have done would have prevented that.”
“Still,” Mira insisted, “it would be better for you if you were to marry someone else.” She paused. “Perhaps someone more like Bella.”
He reached out to cup her chin in his palm, lifting her face to meet his gaze.
“Mira, do you think I am disappointed to be marrying you rather than Bella?” His voice was firm, demanding an answer.
Although he continued to hold up her face, she managed to avoid his eyes by closing her own. With her brow furrowed and her lips pressed in a tight miserable line, she was the very picture of desolation.
She nodded.
“Mira-mine, your cousin…” Nicholas stopped, unsure how best to express himself.
Squeezing her eyes even tighter, Mira rushed to fill the silence. “Yes, I know. She is quite beautiful. Stunning, really. And she knows her way about Society. She would make you a wonderful viscountess. It is difficult to fathom that we are even related.”
“On that point you speak the truth.” Nicholas regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, as he felt Mira tense even further, wincing away from him as though she were in physical pain.
“Mira, open your eyes and look at me.”
He was surprised that she did as he asked.
“Mira, your cousin is dreadful.”
She frowned in confusion.
“I was trying to think of a diplomatic way to say it,” Nicholas continued, “but there really is no way around it. The girl is dreadful. I suppose one might say she is pretty, if one had a penchant for girls with all the complexity and color of a cup of warm milk. But she does not appear to have one whit of sense. She never ceases to squeal and squawk about every meaningless bit of drivel. It is quite maddening.”