Rogues, Rakes & Jewels

“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?

“Nevertheless, Papa, I did not accept his very flattering proposal.”

“Well then, my girl, do so now!” her father commanded, the smile leaving his lips. “No chit of mine is going to give away her favors freely.”

“Papa, do but listen—”

“Never mind trying to get around me this time. It won’t fadge, girl. I saw you with my own eyes—giving Sir Roland that which should go only to your intended. It’s clear I’ve let you run amuck. Well, I shan’t let you ruin yourself. It’s a husband you need, and Sir Roland here will fill the post nicely.”

“Papa, please do not speak so to me. I am not going to marry Roland. You can scarcely expect me to marry a man simply because I have allowed him to kiss me?”

“What?” shouted her distraught parent, quite on the verge of apoplexy.

“Well, really, Papa—”

“Listen to me, young lady,” interjected her father, barely able to speak. “You are not only going to, marry Sir Roland … I am going back into that ballroom with you both and making the announcement tonight! Good God—next thing you’ll be cradling a babe in your arms and telling me ’tis nothing at all! The very idea. Damnation, Myriah, I don’t like admitting Emily was right, but you have proven her so. She warned me what you were headed for, and I refused to listen. Well, by damn, I have discovered the way of it before it was too late!”

Myriah’s temper was as hot as her excitable father’s. However, she had enough control left to contain her fire. She knew her father to be in the right of it, at least, his right of it. From where he stood things must look bad, and when he was in a temper, there was no curbing his highhandedness. If she were to save the situation, she must act rationally. She calmed herself, knowing that to defy him now would not serve.

“Very well, Papa … if you will but give me a moment to tidy myself, I shall be very happy to accompany you to the ballroom and hear my engagement to Sir Roland announced.”

Sir Roland’s eyes flickered and flew to her face. What was the chit about? ’Twas not like her to concede so easily.

His lordship, on the other hand, thought too much of his authority over his daughter to question her sudden submission. He grunted and allowed her to pass.

Myriah raced up the back stairs and avoided the interested servants as she

made her way to her room. She would have to act quickly or be undone, for once such an announcement was made her father would never make a retraction. Indeed, she felt even she could not weather such a scandal.

“Papa, oh dear Papa,” she said to herself sadly as she rushed about her room, flung off her elegant gown, and donned instead a smartly cut riding habit of dark blue velvet. Her father, beloved, doting, and kind, could be terribly steadfast in his decisions, especially when his sense of propriety had been ruffled. The only way to prevent doom was to absent herself. She flung two gowns into a small portmanteau, scurried about for her toiletries, pulled on her riding boots, and without another glance made her way, portmanteau in hand, to the back stairway.

The sounds of servants rushing about with food trays, wasping at each other in their haste, caused her to slow down cautiously. She must not be seen. Another movement brought her to the side door of their fashionable London town house, and a moment later she was breathing in the night air.

With a hurry born of need, she made the three blocks to the Whitney stables unseen, for there was but one thing she could do and one place she could go: to her grandfather at Guildford House.

The extensive Whitney stables loomed out of the darkness. It was late, well past ten, and she was certain most of the livery boys would be in bed. She pulled on the wide wooden latch, lifted it out of its catch, and swung the door gently open.

“Who’s that?” came the gruff voice of a small man ambling toward her. The stables were dimly lit, and he pushed the candleholder in his hand toward the intruder’s face.

“M’lady!” he cried out in surprise.

“Hush, Tabby,” Myriah whispered, putting one gloved finger to her lips. “I need your help, old friend.”

He squinted at her intently, his dark eyes noting her disheveled attire. He scratched his short gray hair, and his mouth moved dourly. “Eh, now, child, what ye got yeself into this time?”

“Oh, Tabby, there is no time to explain now. Just trust me and help me saddle my horse immediately, and, Tab, I will ride astride!”

“Hold now, m’girl,” said the groom authoritatively. “You ain’t thinking of riding out at this time of night?”