All the Pleasures of the Season by Lecia Cornwall

his life.
    He ran a hand through his hair, checked his cravat in the mirror once more. He’d been dressed to go since seven o’clock this morning.
    Was Westlake right? Was there a chance?
    He had to try.
    Carrington was older and wiser than both of them, sensible to the fact that there was a very slim chance that an ordinary man could keep Miranda and make her happy.
    Gilbert’s own father would be shocked that his son would even dare to reach so high above his station. He would predict the worst, say that those who the climbed to great heights where they did not belong fell. Sir William would be the first to tell his son “I told you so.”
    And if he succeeded, won Miranda’s hand?
    Nothing else in the world would matter. He would spend his life making her happy, loving her, repeating that kiss a dozen times a day.
    He loved her. The thought made him dizzy. He glanced again at the clock, but the hands seemed to have stopped. He went over and tapped them to make certain they were working. He checked his watch, but it offered the same depressing news. Still two hours to go. He glanced at the door, wondered if Westlake had been in earnest when he said that he intended to forbid the admission of callers who arrived early.
    Perhaps he should send Miranda a note, let her know he was coming at precisely three this afternoon to see her. He got out paper, quill, and ink.
    What if she had patched things up with Kelton? What if her sister had convinced her that she could not break her betrothal mere days before the wedding?
    He crumpled the paper, tossed it away.
    He couldn’t wait. He picked up his hat and his cloak, since it was raining the cold, gray, icy drops that meant Christmas was nigh in London.
    He tried to ride slowly through the streets of Mayfair, pace himself, not arrive too early.
    His watch showed he was half an hour early when he arrived at De Courcey House.
    â€œBugger it,” he said, and marched up the steps.
    Northcott glanced at the clock as he opened the door. “Are you here to see his lordship?” he asked.
    â€œI am here to see Lady Miranda,” Gilbert replied.
    Was it his imagination, or did the butler’s snowy brows twitch ever so slightly? Northcott did not say anything. He simply led Gilbert to the salon, put him inside, and shut the door.
    Gilbert paced the carpet, humming to try to keep his tongue from knotting itself around his tonsils when Miranda appeared. He clasped his hands behind his back, wondered if he should be standing by the fireplace or near the settee. Would that remind her of the kiss they’d shared there, on the floor?
    He realized in a panic he’d completely forgotten the proposal he’d practiced all morning. He reached into his pocket, took out the simple betrothal ring he’d bought. It wasn’t as grand as Kelton’s. It was two small diamonds set among pearls, ice and snow, when she deserved the fire of rubies and emeralds.
    He turned when the door opened, expectant, his heart climbing into his throat. Marianne entered. “Mr. Fielding. I expected Lord Kelton.”
    Gilbert’s heart rapidly descended to his boots, hid there. He tucked the ring back into his pocket and bowed, trying to keep his expression bland. “I came to see—” he began, pinned under her sharp gaze.
    Her hands flew to her mouth before he could continue. “Good heavens, it’s you, isn’t it?”
    â€œIn the flesh, countess. Is Lady Miranda here? I’m sure she is very busy preparing for the wedding, and I will keep her only a moment—”
    â€œI meant you’re the one she loves !” Marianne blurted. She began advancing upon him, her eyes glowing. Gilbert backed up, felt his skin heat. “I assure you we have not acted upon our feelings, countess—” He bumped into the settee, the exact spot where they’d kissed. “Aside from a single kiss,” he felt honor-bound to