Chapter Seven
Miranda waited until the viscount turned the corner, then released the breath she’d been holding.
Dear lord.
His voice made her insides melt like butter on hot toast, and his eyes—that caramel shade warmed her from the inside out. For the first time, she had an inkling of what her sister felt for Lord Heightfield.
“That was close.” Iris turned around, her gaze wide.
Miranda smoothed her skirt in an effort to collect her wayward reaction to her new employer. “Well, I think we made an impression.”
“Not exactly the kind I was hoping for.” Iris scrunched up her nose.
“Nor I,” Miranda responded. “But what is done is done. Shall we continue?” Miranda bit her lip to keep from smiling as she gestured to the dance floor.
“I’d rather . . . not,” Iris replied tersely.
Oddly enough, Miranda smiled. That was progress! A polite decline was a milepost in Iris’s education. A week ago, she wouldn’t have been as kind.
That should have given Miranda hope. Instead, it simply reminded her just how far they had to go.
Yet, it brought up a question that had plagued Miranda from the beginning: How does one teach without extinguishing the spirit? It would be easy to require Iris to suppress her fire and energy, but in the end, was that what was best for her?
She thought about Liliah, and how any pressure to conform only made her more rebellious. It was a miracle she kept to the social rules as well as she did. Each day, Iris reminded Miranda more and more of her sister, only the roles were reversed. Where Liliah tried to set a good example for her, Miranda was trying to set the good example for Iris. It was opposite, yet not.
And still utterly confusing.
“Miss Miranda?” Iris inquired.
Miranda shook her head to dispel her thoughts. “Yes, we can take a break. I’ll ring for tea.” She smiled to Iris, then went to ring for the tea service. As she came from the bell, she took a seat across from Iris on the sofa. Rather than engage in conversation, Miranda watched.
And in observation, she noted the way Iris’s shoulders curved in on themselves. Iris picked at a frayed edge of the upholstery and sighed. A thought flickered through Miranda’s mind.
“Iris, did you know that my mother died when I was around twelve years old?” Miranda was taking a risk. Never had her governesses spoken to her about their family or private life. They had only worried after her education and performance of said education when called upon.
She and Liliah had made it through life because of each other.
Iris had no one.
And maybe, just maybe, Miranda could be that someone for her.
So she took a shot in the dark, wondering if it would hit a mark or not.
Iris’s hand stilled, and she lifted her gaze to Miranda. “Truly?”
Miranda released her pent-up breath. “Yes. I know the pain of missing a loved one.”
Iris nodded slowly, then bit her lip. “How, rather, when does it get easier? To not miss them?”
Miranda glanced away to the ground, gathering her thoughts and the unexpected onslaught of emotion. When she felt mostly in control of herself, she glanced back to Iris. “It never stops hurting, it simply gets easier to adjust to life without them.”
Iris gave a slow nod. “I see. Is it horrible of me to say I miss my father even more than my mother?”
Miranda shook her head. “No. I missed my mother significantly more than I miss—missed my father,” Miranda amended belatedly.
Iris twisted her lips. “When did you lose your father?”
Miranda took a deep breath, wondering how to answer that question, when a knock sounded at the door. A parlormaid came in with the tea.
