Thankfully, the New Town of Edinburgh wasn’t more than a forty-minute carriage ride away. As they drew closer, Miranda studied the scenery. Gothic buildings rose amongst the newer additions of New Town, built to draw in the English nobility who preferred their London residences to their Scottish ones. Edinburgh Castle grew large and mammoth as a sentinel over the city, the newer and older areas.
“Oh, I know that! I read about it in theTimes.” Liliah pointed. “It’s the Nelson Monument. They’ve been working on construction but I think we can at least see part of it. Its something about paying homage to the victory at the Battle of Trafalgar.”
Miranda studied the cylinderlike structure. “It’s a telescope,” she murmured, remembering the article.
“Yes. It was crafted to replicate his telescope,” Liliah acknowledged. As they passed the stone structure, Miranda glanced to the other carriage window, watching as they passed a domed structure and, if she craned her neck ever so slightly, some body of water that was a shade of blue amidst the constant stone shade of the buildings.
“We will also see the Prince’s Street Gardens, and the Register house. It’s a rather interesting building, or so I’ve read,” Iris remarked.
Miranda nodded in response. “It’s quite impressive. I must say, I was expecting something less civilized than London. I’m not sure why. This is actually quite comparable.”
Liliah nodded. “Indeed. Ah that’s the gardens! I’m sure it’s lovely this time of year.” She sighed happily. “I miss Hyde Park.”
Miranda agreed. It was a lovely thing, to take an afternoon stroll through Hyde Park, see friends and acquaintances and simply amble about. Not that she couldn’t take various rambles at Kilmarin, but it was different, less familiar. And that was a something she missed: the familiar.
The carriage slowed as they pulled up beside a long row of shops. Miranda read their signs: Edinburgh Haberdashery, Tobacconist, Mrs. Penniworth’s Shop of Lace and Frilly Things, Mrs. Anne’s, and several others. Her sister waited, and soon Lord Heightfield opened the carriage door, offering his hand to her.
After she alighted from the carriage, Iris followed suit, taking the viscount’s offered hand, and then it was Miranda’s turn. The viscount released Iris, then turned to her.
Extending his hand, his eyes met hers. Heat flooded her, and she could no more deny her attraction than she could deny herself breath. But it was for naught. He didn’t want her; that much was clear. She glanced at his hand. It was a warm hand, one she loved to feel wrapped around hers. She swallowed and steeled herself against the sensations that would surely course through her once she touched him.
Her fingers tingled, then her arm as he tightened his grasp on her hand, supporting her weight as she stepped into the sunshine. “Thank you,” she murmured, relaxing her fingers, giving him a signal to release her hand.
But he did not. He firmed his grasp.
She glanced up, meeting his gaze, expecting—something.
“There is a slight step up.” He motioned with his chin to the cobblestone below.
Her heart pinched with hope denied, and she hadn’t even realized she’d allowed herself to expect anything. But hope was heartless and rarely asked for permission to exist, even where it wasn’t wanted or welcome.
There was nothing to do but step up, and again say thank you. He released her hand then, quickly, and strode forward to meet the rest of their party. Miranda squeezed her now-empty hand into a fist and followed everyone down the street to the sign that said William’s Paper Company.It made sense it would be their first stop; the invitations were far more of a priority than anything else, with the masquerade only a week away.
It was shocking, really, to think that in a week so much could change. She found she both wanted and feared it. Change was always a brutal taskmaster, especially when considering how it would involve her future. Miranda straightened her shoulders just a fraction. She wouldn’t be fearful. She’d lived in the shadow of fear for far too long, heaven knew how long. She was moving forward in . . . She paused for a moment, in midstep, and tilted her head, searching for the right word.
Her party had already entered the store, and she was given a few moments of privacy. Remembering the word from her musings a week before, she decided it was an apt description once again.
More.
She was going to move forward and expect more.
More from life.
More from herself.
It was an oddly powerful feeling, to think she had control over her own happiness, her own future, even if only some small measure. It was far more than what she would have had if she had stayed in London.
She moved forward to the entrance of the store before her sister could notice her missing. With a gentle shove, the door swayed inward and the scent of vanilla-scented papers floated in the air, welcoming her. Liliah was easy to find, already being assisted by a clerk. Miranda studied their little party for a moment. Lord Heightfield and the viscount hung back, allowing Liliah to take the lead as far as choosing the paper and colors for the invitations, but it was clear they were, if not peers of the realm, men of quality. Their clothing was the first indication, with their beautifully tailored waistcoats and shined boots, but it was more the confident air they presented. Both Lord Heightfield and the viscount carried themselves with consequence, with an expectation of deference and power, not in a way that made them seem arrogant, but as if their words held weight.
And they certainly did.
Liliah was tapping her chin as she considered two colors of paper. “Miranda? What is your preference?”
Miranda navigated gracefully past Iris, then felt her cheeks burn as she skirted past the viscount, her skirt brushing his breeches as she did. It was a moment before she could focus on the two colors. One was a light shade of purple, almost blue. The other was a pink that was as light as the last hue before the sun rose in the morning sky. While both were lovely, neither seemed to conveymasquerade.
A masquerade should be dark, mysterious and secretive. Nothing about those colors seemed to speak to that fact. She glanced at her sister, then back to the paper. “While both colors are lovely, they seem more appropriate for an invitation to tea, or a perfectly proper ball, not a masquerade.”
A chuckle from behind had her turning toward the sound. Lord Heightfield was attempting to restrain another chuckle, while the viscount was covering his mouth with a gloved hand, clearly trying to keep from making a reaction.
