However, she thought about what she would gain from the arrangement and snapped her mouth closed. She hadn’t gone along with any of her father’s previous plans to marry her off, mostly because they hadn’t involved an interesting baron.
The year before, despite how obtaining a ticket for Almack’s had been next to impossible, her father had called in a favor. Thus, holding “stranger’s tickets,” as they were named, Miranda and her older sister, Grace, had attended on two successive Wednesday evenings the year prior. There were easily five hundred in attendance at each ball. Men pranced and posed. Ladies giggled and batted their eyelashes.
Miranda ended both evenings wishing she hadn’t wasted her time, although her sister had found a suitor who offered for her almost at once. Consequently, Grace was now married — happily or not, Miranda couldn’t say as her sister had been whisked away to the north country of the Yorkshire Dales and hadn’t been seen since. Her letters indicated she was content, and her husband doted upon her.
Whereas two unmarried daughters had been a tremendous worry, with one taken care of, her father had been less insistent. When he’d tried to get her to attend a ball with his sister, her widowed Aunt Lucinda, she’d refused. Her father had allowed Miranda to decline his offers to get her out into society. And lately, he’d stopped trying.
Not that she didn’t want a husband and a family of her own — it was simply how awkward and forced the whole ballroom experience had felt.
Yet with a nobleman as her escort, everything would be different. Instead of Almack’s curated but public balls, she would attend the private Mayfair ballrooms.How exciting!
Miranda could hardly imagine what stories she could tell her cousins once she began rubbing elbows with the quality folk. All those people she read about in the society column would be directly in front of her in the flesh.
And already, there was Lord Mercer’s surprising kiss to be described.
Of the men who had tried to kiss her, this stranger was one of only three who had succeeded, and he was the first who hadn’t made her want to wipe her mouth and rinse it with her father’s best wine.
This was what happened, she supposed, when one loitered mid-afternoon in an apron and kept company with a rake. And now she would do so for weeks, except without an apron. And amazingly, it was at her father’s behest.
When the men finally turned to her, she managed to present to them a neutral expression before taking a sip of tea and even shrugging a little. Inside, she was bubbling with the thrill of this endeavor. Whether she found a husband or not was of little consequence. She would experience a great deal in the meantime.
Her father narrowed his eyes, clearly having anticipated her protest and staunch resistance. Lately, she had told him she would rather read in her room than waltz. Instead, she nodded.
“Very well,” she said and left it at that.
Lord Mercer nodded, too, as if he’d expected nothing less of a dutiful daughter. Finally, her father relaxed.
Let them both think her docile.
“She’ll need ball gowns,” her father said, once more addressing Lord Mercer.
“Surely you don’t expect me to dress your daughter,” the baron protested.
Her father crossed his arms. “A small price to pay in comparison to the large cost of supporting a wife and babe,” he shot back. “Anyway, don’t you want the female on your arm to look like a diamond of the first water? Or would you prefer she accompany you dressed in rags?”
Miranda smiled. She usually wore better than rags. On the other hand, she had only two acceptable evening dresses made for Almack’s, and neither of them new.
“We can’t have my Miranda being embarrassed,” her father continued.
“Miranda,” Lord Mercer echoed thoughtfully, and she shivered upon hearing her name on his lips.
He had kissed her, and therefore, a measure of intimacy had already occurred. Nevertheless, hearing him say her given name aloud, especially in front of her father, made her cheeks grow decidedly warm.
“Hm,”her father said, apparently also noting the infraction. “Remember, you will treat her with respect and utmost decorum.”
Lord Mercer put his right hand over his heart and gave a shallow bow in confirmation.
“When shall we begin?”
MIRANDA BARELY HAD time to send a missive to her cousin Helen, which would be shared with her other cousin Peter, announcing her unexpected turn in fortune. They would most excitedly be awaiting each and every letter describing her attendance of the remaining six weeks of the Season. For while she shared a special bond with her female cousin, Peter had also been known to appreciate good London gossip.
The following day, in the company of her father’s sister, Aunt Lucinda, Miranda infiltrated the exclusive establishment of Madame Devy’s at the juncture of Grafton and New Bond Street. The experience of choosing fabric for so many gowns was practically overwhelming. While being measured, Miranda mentioned the first event was within the week, and she would need an evening dress.
“Unheard of!” exclaimed the modiste, shaking her head.
“Impossible!” cried the head seamstress, throwing her arms up.
However, when Aunt Lucinda pointed out how this was for the Baron of Mercer, a war hero, suddenly everything became possible. Miranda accepted this development was not due to the service he’d performed for his country but rather that he was known to have a sizable estate and upward of thirty-thousand pounds a year.
