The Fairy Tale Bride

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty-One

Miranda turned toward the sound of Grimthorpe’s chilling voice.

His smug demeanor so irritated her that she wanted to tweak him where it hurt. But this was her home, every nook and cranny filled with guests this weekend, and conversation with Grimthorpe tended to end with trouble for her. She did not want to embarrass Simon in that manner. No matter how angry she was at him this very moment.

“Arthur is recovering nicely. It was only a minor accident.”

“If accident is the correct word for poisonous mushrooms being served to him and him alone.”

He was fishing, Miranda knew. But she was beginning to become desperately afraid that he was right, as distressful as she found agreeing with Grimthorpe on any subject at all.

Arthur’s accidents were stretching the line of credibility to the thinness of gossamer. It was no surprise that Grimthorpe had realized that someone intended harm to Simon’s heir. No doubt he would be pleased to spread the gossip as thickly as he could.

She sighed. He would get no help from her on that score. “We are all fortunate he is well. After all, he is Simon’s heir.”

“Then there is to be no little Simon Watterly running about anytime soon?”

Miranda was shocked speechless by his audacity. Taking her silence as a sign of consent to the subject of conversation, he moved closer. “Perhaps you would like me to hasten matters?” Suddenly she caught the scent of him, the same scent he had worn five years ago. Her fists curled of their own accord.

She stepped back, “You forget yourself, sir.” She turned on her heel, and would have departed except that his hand had somehow fastened tightly to her elbow, preventing her from moving away into the safety of the group of remaining guests.

“Don’t hurry away, my sweet. You have not heard the ways in which I’d please you.” His face was slightly flushed. Perhaps he was foxed? “I am known among the ladies for my prowess. Surely you would enjoy a taste of spice now that you have had your fill of the dull attentions of the saintly Simon.”

“I will assume that you have enjoyed the spirits a bit too freely this evening,” Miranda said frostily, doing her best to imitate the dowager in her most quelling mood. “And I will not tell my husband of this incident, nor ask you to leave, if you release my arm at once.”

Instead, his hand tightened, and he leaned forward until she could smell the brandy upon his breath. “Just one kiss for a pair of boots? Doesn’t that seem like a reasonable request?”

She went cold with panic. Not now, not another disaster upon the heels of Arthur’s poisoning. “Take your hand from my arm immediately.” He did so, with haste, when he felt the muscles in her upper arm clench. Obviously, he well remembered their last encounter.

“You will regret spurning my attention, one day, Your Grace.” There was vicious emphasis on her title.

Wondering if he intended to display her boots to the remaining guests, Miranda found that she did not care. Arthur’s accident had made such a trifling matter seem completely beneath her notice tonight. “I already regret having this conversation. I should have walked away immediately.”

She half-turned to leave, adding, “But that is something I can rectify immediately. I hope the rest of your weekend is pleasant, but I am certain that you understand my reluctance to spend time in your company.”

He did not seem to understand her words. The smile was still fixed upon his lips. But he did not look at her, rather beyond her.

She understood why when Simon’s voice, deep with anger, sounded from close behind her. “My wife has bid you good evening, Grimthorpe. Did you not understand her clearly?”