Читать книгу Stealing Midnight - Tracy MacNish - Страница 10

Warwick, England

Mira Kimball watched discreetly out her parlor window, impatiently tapping her foot. She tried to focus on something besides her boredom, even toyed with the idea of painting a picture of the landscape.

The sky shone smooth and silver with clouds, the sun a watery gold smear behind tangled, bare trees. Warwick was lovely, stark and beautiful in the way only England can be on a cold winter’s morning.

She envisioned Padraig Mullen finding her seated prettily before an easel, painting the countryside. Would he then report of her talent to his brother, Aidan? If he did, would Aidan be cheered that his betrothed possessed an artistic bent?

When she saw the team of horses and the shiny black carriage bearing the Mullen crest coming up their long drive, her heart picked up its pace and her boredom could be put temporarily aside.

She rushed from the parlor and found her father in his study, pouring over the latest issue of The Herald, the paper he owned and highly prized. Mira did not trouble herself to politely interrupt, but burst out, “Papa, he is here.”

Andrew Kimball, the Earl of Falconbergh, set down the smudged copy and leaned back in his chair, regarding his daughter over the rims of his spectacles. “Who?”

Mira blew out her breath in annoyance, and whirled from the room. Her father, indulgent and doting though he was, did not spare a single moment for her flirtations. It seemed to Mira that he did not realize that she was betrothed to the most lucrative fish in London’s sparsely populated male sea. Other than a few widowers with a few of their own brats, court was littered with impoverished men of good title, and its fair share of unappealing, and dare she say ugly, men of lower birth.

Mira Kimball had set her sights on the Mullen twins, for they were rakishly handsome, incredibly wealthy, and one would be duke.

And after a few glasses of champagne, coupled with just a bit of added insurance, she’d succeeded in securing Aidan Mullen as her own. The cost of her virginity had been a paltry price to pay, and he was now honor-bound to do the proper thing.

It had been perfect. Mira had wept tears of remorse, and Aidan had proposed.

As Mira had planned, she would get exactly what she wanted—a handsome husband whose marital bed would not be burdensome, along with the wealth that she was accustomed to and deserved.

She rushed to the anteroom outside the ballroom, where the accoutrements of a lady’s beauty were laid out. Standing in front of the oversized, gilt-framed looking glass, Mira dusted her nose with powder, pressed a few drops of scented oil behind her ears, and patted her perfect coiffure. Mira, satisfied with her appearance, turned and walked sedately toward the foyer where her betrothed’s brother was most likely being greeted by their butler.

Her hands trembled with anticipation, and so to cover, she folded them demurely across the narrow column of her high-waisted gown. She’d worn one of her finest morning dresses, made of the palest, shimmery pink silk; it flattered her skin and was so fine and delicate, it begged to be touched. And her décolletage, daringly low and dangerously sheer, begged the same as well.

Mira paused in the corridor that led to the massive, two-storied grand foyer. She could see him, Padraig Mullen, her betrothed’s twin.

He was as tall as Aidan, as muscled, and their faces both bore the hint of a Celtic fable, testimony to their Irish heritage. While Padraig was dark of hair and green of eyes like his father, Aidan bore the look of his mother, golden as an Adonis, with blatant sensuality and eyes the color of sapphires.

But as to which of the twins would be duke, the secret had been guarded all their lives by their parents, who had wanted them raised without rivalry.

That may have been true in their youth, but Mira suspected the secret was maintained to keep greedy young women slightly at bay.

And the thought made her so self-satisfied, she wanted to squeal and clap her hands, for she’d managed to snag herself one of them, and was the envy of every girl at court.

Padraig caught sight of Mira, turned in her direction, showed a fine leg, and swept into a formal bow. “My lady, ’tis good to see you.”

Sweet soft laughter tinkled down the hall. Mira laughed as she entered the foyer, and held out her tiny hand. He bowed over it, pressed a kiss upon her glove, and breathed in her feminine scent. Straightening, he took in her petite blond beauty, as softly fragile and adorable as a kitten. While he could clearly appreciate her charms, he still couldn’t quite understand why his brother had proposed to her. They were an odd match, he thought, and she was not the sort of woman he’d have thought his brother would have wanted to marry.

“You’ve gotten even prettier since we saw you last,” Padraig said.

Mira tapped him on the chest with her folded fan. “Such gammon, my lord. I look exactly as I always do.”

“If you were this beautiful six months ago, how did Aidan let you leave London?” he asked, saying the right things, but not thinking them. In truth, he’d been glad to see her go.

“Winter in London is dreadful. All that wet soot and those dirty puddles.” Mira pursed her rosebud lips and lightly shuddered. “At home here in Warwick, I love it when the gardens slumber beneath a blanket of snow, and I am tucked up beside a warm fire with my sewing. ’Tis a fact that I don’t require much to make me happy. I’m quite satisfied with simplicity, really.”

If Mira thought the great stately mansion in Warwick simple, Padraig would not disabuse her of that notion. True, she was spoilt and indulged, but that was only part and parcel to the rearing of a proper lady. For that he could forgive her.

Padraig wondered how his brother thought he could marry a girl such as Mira. She was like a little porcelain doll, with her flaxen hair and her fine, fair skin. Her lips were always pink and pouting, and her wide cornflower eyes, so innocent and adoring, were the very picture of ladylike perfection.

He couldn’t imagine bedding her; she looked breakable. And, he couldn’t help but think, she looked highly proper as well. Too proper, most likely, to enjoy the earthy, sensual delights he hoped to find in his marriage bed.

Padraig steered his thoughts in a more gentlemanly direction. It wasn’t appropriate to be envisioning the woman his brother would wed in such a way, and Aidan certainly wouldn’t appreciate it. His brother had such an overreaching sense of honor where women were concerned. Come to that, his brother had an overreaching sense of honor, period. Aidan was a man who always did the right thing.

“Have you heard from my brother?” Padraig asked.

“Yes, I received a letter sent the day before he was set to leave Ireland,” she answered sweetly, and her eyes sparkled. “Have you?”

“Aye, a letter reached me as well, written the same day. He mentioned that he looked forward to us all reuniting in Chester.”

“I miss him so,” Mira sighed.

If that were true, Padraig thought, perhaps she could have worn a less revealing gown. The bodice, so sheer and clingy, was not the sort of thing he thought a proper lady ought to be wearing, especially in front of her fiancé’s brother. He could scarcely stop looking down.

“Last I saw you, you mentioned you had a special project you were working on,” Padraig said, hoping for a distraction from her nipples. “I’m sure Aidan won’t mind if you showed me.”

“Never mind my silly project. I must see to your refreshment.” Mira gestured to the parlor but Padraig shrugged off her offer.

“I’ve no needs. Why don’t you show me what has so absorbed you. I’m intrigued.”

“Very well, if you insist,” Mira answered, and she lowered her eyes modestly, as if uncomfortable having such attention lavished on her and her project. “It really isn’t much. Certainly nothing in comparison to the ships your company builds. Isn’t it true that you’re one of the largest shipbuilders in the world?”

“’Tis a bit of an exaggeration,” Padraig demurred smoothly. If Aidan’s venture in Ireland went as they’d planned, however, Mira might indeed be correct. Padraig could scarcely wait to get to Chester to meet up with his brother and hear how things turned out.

Mira led the way to a set of closed double doors, and placing both her hands on the knobs, tossed a questioning look over her shoulder. “You’re certain? ’Tis not my wish to bore you with my trivialities.”

Padraig thought he saw something in her clear blue eyes for just a second, a shine of pure pride. Or was it something else?

Was there more to her than she usually showed? Padraig wondered. He hoped so. Both his mother and his grandmother were formidable women, complex and dynamic. It would be good for Aidan to find that Mira possessed qualities beyond the normal simpering flirtations of the spoiled and wealthy daughters of the peerage.

Mira opened the doors and they entered. The grand, richly appointed room smelled strongly of varnished wood and fresh paint, a smaller version of a very fine museum. The walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets; the floor space filled with tables that had been built so that glass lay in the top, showcasing shallow recessed cases. The marble floors shone without a speck of dust, and the tall windows were draped with gold velvet hangings.

“What do you keep in here?” he asked.

Mira cast her eyes to her folded hands, and her sweet voice drifted through the cavernous room and off the high, coffered ceiling. “When I was a girl, I used to love to play in our attics. You see, they span nearly the entire manse, and are filled with hundreds of years worth of my family’s belongings. About two years ago, it occurred to me that a hobby was what I needed. Something to do that was more useful than painting tiny boxes and such. And so, my lord, I have been cataloging and displaying the Kimball artifacts that tell the story of our history.”

Padraig moved to one of the glass cabinets. Behind it was a battle-scarred medieval shield, its flaky paint displaying the Kimball coat of arms. It had a brass plaque beneath it, engraved with a small paragraph about Lord Randolff Kimball, the first Duke of Somerset, whose valiant service to the king was greatly rewarded.

All around the room were various such treasures: ancient swords and tapestries, journals and Bibles, chain mail and armor, and an entire case filled with ancestral jewels and jewelry.

“You did all of this yourself?” Padraig asked, greatly impressed.

“Yes. Papa allowed me to hire contractors to build the cabinets and such, and of course, he has indulged me with many trips to various towns so I could gather information. In fact, ’tis part of the reason I journey to Chester on the morrow. I am in search of any information about a Marquis in our family line, who apparently was quite the hero. I have his journals and a riveting log he kept during the War of Spanish Succession. He kept a home in Chester, and I’ve been in correspondence with the current owners, who have agreed to allow me access to their attics.”

Mira brushed her fingertips lovingly over one of the highly polished tables. “There is much, much more for me to do. I have only begun to sort through the many treasures in our attics. But I am taking my time with it, and enjoying the process. ’Tis been quite absorbing and rewarding.”

“What you’re doing here is wonderful.”

Mira blushed and fluttered her lashes. “I’m merely expressing my familial pride. Someday I shall do this same thing for my future husband’s family, should he approve of it, of course.”

Padraig fought the grin that wanted to break across his face. Mira Kimball did not waste time on subtlety. But her veiled promises aside, he couldn’t help but wonder if he or his brother would ever find the rarest sort of a woman: one who spoke her mind and heart.

Mira turned her eyes up to his, and laid a hand on his arm. Her touch was light and fleeting, as if a tiny songbird had landed on his jacket. “My lord, may I show something remarkable?”

“Certainly.”

Mira led him to the center case and pointed down at a slip of paper that was pinned to a soft cushion of velvet. The letter had tattered edges and a rich velvety texture that made the scrolling words bleed into the parchment. Though it had been carefully smoothed out, it still bore the lines that told tale of once being crumpled down the center, as if by an angry fist.

An odd weight settled in Padraig’s gut, though he knew not why.

Mira, oblivious to his reaction, said, “Look, my lord. Here is a letter summoning my great-uncle, Bret Kimball, to your family’s property in Southampton, then called Beauport. ’Tis dated 1742, and appears to be written by the hand of your great-grandmother, Amelia Bradburn, the Duchess of Eton.” Mira turned her lovely face toward him, obviously quite proud of her discovery. “Isn’t it wondrous? It seems our families have known each other for more than sixty years.”

Padraig leaned forward and inspected the letter with more interest. “Her handwriting looks like my grandmother Camille’s.”

“Yes, well, that may be. There is more, however, my lord.” Mira’s eyes were shining, and her enthusiasm was evident. She fairly vibrated with it. “I have found journals from my great-uncle, as well. Bret Kimball was a man who understood history, I think, for he left several diaries that are filled with his writings. I’ve yet to read them, but the discovery spurred me to send a request to your mother, asking if I might tour the attics of the home in Southampton. Who knows what other links I might find between our families?”

“You did?” The girl was certainly tenacious. The property in Southampton was where Aidan had made his home, far away from London and court, where he could pursue his own interests. Mira could have waited a matter of weeks for Aidan to return, and asked him if she could join him there.

“I just couldn’t wait. Aidan is always so busy with his animals and his ships and his whiskey nonsense.” Mira wrinkled her nose prettily. “Your mother was just lovely about it. Not only did Her Grace send permission for me to spend as much time as I needed at Beauport, she sent a letter to the staff there, letting them know I am welcome anytime.”

Padraig smiled, thinking of the appropriateness of his mother’s formal address, Her Grace. Yes. If there was one thing Emeline Mullen had in spades, it was that.

Mira continued, burbling on, seeming nearly manic in her enthusiasm. “I am very passionate about my family’s venerable and prestigious history, and now to find such a link between the Kimballs and the Bradburns has just exceeded my wildest expectations.”

Mira drew in a deep breath, a sigh of pure happiness and excitement. “As soon as I am finished in Chester, I am going to travel to Southampton, to Beauport. I cannot wait to see what fantastic discoveries that will yield.”

And Padraig couldn’t help but notice that Mira hadn’t acted nearly so excited at the prospect of seeing Aidan again as she was to go digging in their attics.

Nor had she indicated that she thought of Beauport as more than a place to discover historical facts. When Mira and Aidan married, it would be her home.