“No, not at all. Thank you.” Iris stood from her place on the sofa. “In fact, I shall take advantage of this time while it’s still being offered. Excuse me.” Iris curtseyed, grinned, and headed to the door.
With a quick glance behind her, she darted out into the hall, leaving Miranda quite alone with her tea and her thoughts. She lifted the cup to her lips once more, remembering the introduction to the viscount. There was a flash of something in his gaze. Recognition? Did he see the resemblance between Liliah and herself? It was unlikely. It did beg the question, however, how would he take the information concerning her close connection with the new lady of Heightfield? Would he resent his friend’s dishonesty regarding her identity? Would he perhaps understand the necessity of it?
Would he resent her?
The questions continued to flicker through her mind, and as she gazed into her almost-empty teacup, the now-cold tea gave no answers.
She supposed only time would tell.
And she was growing tired of waiting.
It seemed so much of her life had been consumed by it.
Wait till you master the waltz.
Wait till your French is flawless.
Wait till you come out.
Wait till you meet the man I’ve chosen for your husband.
Wait, wait, wait.
Even in her escape from her father, she was in a perpetual state of waiting.
Waiting for her sister.
Waiting for the viscount.
Waiting for the truth about her identity to be revealed.
When would she finally move past the purgatory of her life?
She set down her teacup and smoothed her skirt out of habit.
Because it was what ladies did when they waited.
She was bloody tired of waiting!
A blush heated her face at the thought of the vulgar word, but it was also honest.
What would it be like for the world to wait at her leisure? To have that kind of power, that control? To determine her own course, to be brave enough to try? She wanted to have that kind of courage, but the truth about courage was that you never knew you had it till you used it.
Or failed.
Well, she had gotten this far, hadn’t she? There must be some courage buried deep within her. Impossibly, her father hadn’t extinguished its flame. Resolved, she decided to fan the tender fire. Who knew? Maybe it would grow.
It had to, because the opposite was unacceptable.
She simply had to await the opportunity to feed the flame.
Bloody, blasted waiting.
