“Embarrassing,” Daniel replied. “I trust that we may count upon your gentlemanly discretion should you hear any remarks about it or should anyone question our early departure.” He leaned a fraction closer to the man. “I shouldn’t like to upset Her Grace, the dowager duchess, by letting it be known that I missed a single moment of the extraordinary festivities for any reason.”
Miranda gasped into the crumpled folds of the handkerchief.
Daniel was taking a huge gamble in leaning close enough for Lord Espy to discover how well and truly foxed he was. Or how physically weak he was.
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Espy assured him. “You may stake your life upon it.”
Daniel managed a grin. “I trust that won’t be necessary.”
Chapter Four
“Something between a hindrance and a help.”
—William Wordsworth, 1770–1850
“A nosebleed!” Daniel marveled as soon as Lord Espy was out of earshot and he and Miranda finally made their way through the jumble of carriages to her coach. “Quick thinking, my lady.”
Miranda smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I confess to being nonplussed,” he said. “Pleading a nosebleed was brilliant.”
“I’m not so sure,” she admitted. “It isn’t enough that I’m cursed with red hair and stand head and shoulders above nearly every eligible man we know. I’ve just announced that generations of my family members suffer spontaneous nosebleeds. How attractive! Now I’ll have every eligible bachelor in London believing that in addition to outranking, outweighing, and looking down upon most of them, I also bleed upon them whenever I’m asked to waltz. I thank you for the praise, Your Grace, but I believe I’ve just ruined whatever chances I may have had to walk down the aisle at season’s end, as someone’s bride instead of someone else’s bridesmaid.”
“It was damned quick thinking on your part,” Daniel replied, retrieving his handkerchief and pressing it against his brow once again. “Especially in light of my muzzy-headedness.”
“You’re very foxed,” Miranda reminded him, “and very muzzy-headed, or you wouldn’t have leaned close enough for Lord Espy to smell your breath. Has the pain driven you stark-staring mad? Or are you deliberately trying to drive me so?” She didn’t wait for his answer, but instead propped him up against the side of the coach parked beside hers. It had taken longer to reach her coach, but Miranda was glad her carriage was parked at the end of the long line. It meant that she and Daniel could leave quietly without waiting for a hundred other vehicles to make way, and it was one of the few advantages to knowing she had come without the duchess’s invitation. “Here. Rest a moment while I get Ned to help you.”
“Who’s Ned?” Daniel demanded.
Miranda thrilled at the barest hint of jealousy she thought she heard in Daniel’s voice and was tempted to announce that he was her lover. But she reluctantly settled for the truth. “My footman.”
“I don’t need your footman’s assistance,” Daniel protested, disliking the mere idea of anyone else seeing him in his cur
rent state.
“Ten minutes ago you were certain you couldn’t make it without assistance.”
“Your assistance,” he replied, wearily aware that he and Miranda were doing what they did best—arguing. “No one else’s.”
“I’m afraid I cannot accommodate that request, Your Grace,” Miranda said softly. “You may think you can do without Ned’s assistance, but I happen to know differently. And in any case, I require his help even if you do not.” She knocked on the side of her coach and gestured for her footman.
Embarrassed by his selfish disregard for the discomfort he’d put her through, Daniel reached out a hand and caressed Miranda’s face with surprising tenderness. “Forgive me,” he said, before bending close enough to press his lips against her forehead.
Enjoying the feel of Daniel’s cool lips on her face and the brush of his breath against her hair, Miranda gave in to desire and leaned against him just as Ned alighted from the coach. Tripping over her feet in her haste to put some distance between them before her footman caught them in an intimate embrace, she stepped away from Daniel and the temptation he offered. “My lady, what happened? Are you all right?” Her footman’s eyes were round as saucers when he caught sight of her dress.
“I’m fine, Ned,” Miranda assured him.
“But your gown …”
“An unexpected nosebleed,” Miranda prevaricated. “I’m quite recovered, but His Grace is not quite the pink.” She wrapped her arm around Daniel’s waist. “Please help me assist him into the coach.”
Miranda’s assessment of his condition was an understatement. His Grace wasn’t quite the pink. He wasn’t anywhere near the pink. Whatever and wherever that was. Daniel sucked in a breath, releasing it in a slow, painful hiss as Miranda and her footman boosted him into the coach. If he had to compare himself to a color, he could only surmise that he was closer to ash gray than to pink. And becoming more ashen with every passing moment.
“Mind his side!” Miranda warned, releasing her hold on Daniel in order to hurry around the rear of the coach to the door on the opposite side. Hiking up her skirts, Miranda climbed into the coach. “You push and I’ll pull,” she ordered, as she and Ned worked to get Daniel onto the bench.
Daniel groaned, unable to fully appreciate the sight of Miranda baring her lace-trimmed chemise and drawers as she scrambled over his legs and released the curtain covering the window before propping him up against it, angling his body so he could extend his legs. “You might try helping a bit,” she suggested as she climbed back over him in order to lift his legs onto the opposite seat.
Daniel closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side against the velvet-covered squabs. “Can’t,” he said. “I’m all done in.”