Taffeta & Hotspur

However, as Myriah and Roland met in the steps of the country dance, their eyes flirted, and it seemed to the onlookers that here was a match indeed.

Myriah’s cheeks were flushed when the dance ended, and Sir Roland eyed her with concern. “You need air, love. Come, the night is too beautiful to ignore.”

She hesitated and glanced doubtfully toward her father.

Sir Roland tugged gently at her arm, and with a shrug she relented, allowing him to open the French door and lead her into the garden. It was a delicious night, smelling of roses and fresh grass. She looked up at the black sky and saw the half-moon shining brightly down on her, its star companions twinkling gloriously. It was the sort of night poets and minstrels sang about, and Myriah breathed it in with pleasure. They walked without speaking, without touching, and she pulled her light shawl about her arms.

“Cold, love?” he inquired quietly, and there was a subtle shading in his words she chose to ignore.

“No,” she replied and walked a bit away from him. He reached out and held her back. “Don’t run away from me, Myriah. There is no need. If you wish, I’ll take you back inside.”

“No, I don’t wish to go back.”

“Then come walk with me,” he said, linking her arm through his. He led her farther away from the house, down the path to a maze of neatly cut yews where a stone bench caught his eye. He coaxed her to sit down beside him. Suddenly, as if exasperated, he took Myriah by the shoulders and turned her face to him. “You want to be alone with me, Myriah. Why do you pretend otherwise? You are no silly miss declaring no when she means yes. ’Tis not your way.”

She laughed good-naturedly. “You are a rogue! Perhaps I do want to be alone with you … perhaps I do not. I really don’t know. But that doesn’t signify at the moment, for apparently I am alone with you!”

His laugh was low and soft as he put his strong arms around her and drew her to him. “Myriah, you feel so good in my arms …”

She knew what she was doing. She invited his caress, hoping he might be the one. He certainly excited her. Suddenly his mouth was hungrily on hers. She yielded to his lips, allowing him the kiss, tasting his tongue, wondering if he could be the one as she waited and hoped for thunder and lightning … hoped for bells … for music—for something. She sighed at length and pulled away.

“I can’t marry you, Roland.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Who is the rogue now, my dear?”

She returned his look, an impish light creeping into her eyes. “Now there is no use telling me that I must not kiss a man unless I mean to marry him, for that is simply stuff and nonsense—and so you know!”

“So I do! But there are many who would not agree with such liberal thoughts!”

“That is because they are from another time and … and I think I am very different.” She moved farther away and frowned sadly over the problem.

“Myriah, what is it you want?” he asked suddenly.

“I … I don’t know. Evidently something other than what I have. I want to feel. But all I can feel is this awful restlessness. Lord … when I was a child, I was never this way. ’Tis just this past year. Here I am flaunting myself for the London bucks … and, Roland, I hate every minute of it!”

“Then end it—marry me!” Roland turned her to face him again. “We shall deal together, you know that we shall. Myriah, there is so much more …”

“Oh, Roland, you don’t need me to tell you what wild fun you are. And there is no gainsaying the fact that I like you better than any other man of my acquaintance, but I am not in love with you.”

“I could teach you to be,” he said, taking her into his arms and pressing her powerfully against him. She let him take her lips again, putting her arms about his neck, aroused by his hot kisses, aroused by her own needs. She returned his kiss, and her own was as urgent as his. She wanted this to be love, though she knew it was not.

“Egad!” reverberated a familiar voice from behind her.

Myriah jumped away from Roland’s suddenly limp arms and looked at her father with dismay. The blood rushed quickly to her cheeks.

Sir Roland pulled himself to his full height and stood calmly facing Lord Whitney, whose expression gave every promise of trouble. His lordship shook one irate finger at Sir Roland.

“What the devil do you mean seducing my daughter in my own home?”

“You mistake, my lord. I have just asked Myriah to be my wife,” Sir Roland offered quickly.

Myriah’s cheeks lost their heightened color, and she opened her eyes wide at her father’s change of expression. The ominous cloud that had hung about him had totally disappeared and been replaced with an open grin. She felt the warmth drain from her body, and coldness clutched at her.

“Eh?” barked his lordship, opening his blue eyes. “She has accepted you. Excellent—excellent! I knew she would. Told Emily, ‘Mark me now, ’tis Roland she wants.’ Very pleased indeed,” her father rattled on.

“Papa … Papa … I have not accepted Sir Roland’s offer!”

“Nonsense! Saw you m’self,” returned her father. Lady Myriah felt distinctly uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. How could she explain?