Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to be heard and read dramatically, “You witness in my beauteous first, the wonders of creation; my next is blessed or cursed, as he fulfills his station. My total whole dances around the year; the present will soon disappear.”
Miranda furrowed her brow as answers to the riddle were called out by various guests.
“A Maypole!”
“The sun!”
“A ballroom!”
The viscount shook his head at each one, further puzzling Miranda. She’d been certain that maypole must be the correct answer. More guesses flew about the room, all to no avail. She flinched when a stream of warm air tickled her neck, and Roger’s voice rumbled in her ear.
“Season,” he whispered.
Jerking her head to glance back at him, she found him staring down at her, his face set in grim lines and rigid angles. There was a twinkle of something in his eyes, however. Amusement?
The viscount grew increasingly agitated by the failures of the other guests. Roger’s answer made perfect sense when she thought over the words of the riddle again.
“It’s a season,” she called out, coming to her feet. “We ‘see’ it in the beauty of creation. It fulfills its station like a ‘son’. See-son. Season. It dances around the year from one to the other, and each one soon disappears!”
The viscount grinned. “Well done, Lady Hughes. You are correct.”
Miranda glanced back at Roger to find him still watching her, one eyebrow raised. She had no time to wonder why he hadn’t simply given the answer himself, because then the viscount was thrusting the book of riddles into her hands. After flipping a few pages, she found one she liked.
“My first makes nature appear with one face, my second has music, and beauty, and grace. And if this charade is not easily said, my whole you deserve to have thrown at your head!”
Her lips quivered at the confused looks traded between guests. Then she looked to Roger, who had cupped his hand at his mouth and leaned down as if to whisper to his sister. But then he caught her gaze and faltered. Miranda gave him a little nod of encouragement and raised her eyebrows expectantly. If he knew the answer, he should simply say so instead of allowing someone else to take credit for what Miranda was coming to realize was a quick mind. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d puzzled out the answer before she’d gotten to the third part of the riddle.
Straightening, he waited for a break between shouted, incorrect answers. For some reason, Miranda held her breath as Roger parted his lips, chest swelling with an intake of breath. She couldn’t explain why a sharp spike of anxiety went through her as every eye in the room seemed to settle on him at once.
“Snowb-b-” he managed, before ducking his head into his sleeve and erupting into a coughing fit.
Miranda’s fingers tightened around the book of charades when Roger turned away, still coughing and sputtering as several handkerchiefs and sympathetic looks were offered to him.
Emily Thornton came to her feet. “Snowball. Snow is what makes all of nature appear to have one face—a white one. A ball is filled with music and beauty and grace. And the whole can be thrown at someone’s head. Is that correct?”
Emily’s answer stole the attention from Roger, who had calmed and accepted a tumbler of spirits from a servant. Mary had made her way across the room to see to his welfare, and Miranda nearly forgot to respond as she watched him nod and murmur something she could not hear—some form of reassurance most like.
“Yes,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “You are correct, Miss Thornton.”
Emily offered a smile that seemed poignant with gratitude, accepting the book. As Miranda returned to her seat, her eyes strayed once more to Roger, who remained on the edge of the gathering, eyes lowered. The redness in his face had faded now that he’d stopped coughing, and he was his composed self once more.
The game went on for several more hours, with Miranda unable to help periodically searching over her shoulder for glimpses of Roger. He remained where he stood, nursing his spirits and avoiding eye contact with anyone, including her.
Chapter 5
The hour was scandalously late when Roger slipped into the drawing room that Miranda’s note had directed him to. Having never participated in such a liaison, he was uncertain whether drawing rooms specified for late-night meetings were par for the course. Therefore, he was in no position to ask questions. His hands were unsteady as he let himself into the room to find Miranda had yet to arrive. Lady Rodingham’s staff must have been tasked with preparing this room for its occupants, as a fire blazed in the hearth and a filled decanter awaited with two glasses.
Roger filled one of the tumblers and took a healthy swallow, hoping to strengthen his nerves before Miranda entered the room. Though it had been hours, he was still rattled by his misstep during the charades game. He had survived amongst the cream of high society his entire life by making himself nearly invisible. Most people of his brother’s circles knew who he was, and while none could claim to dislike him, neither could many of them call him friend. It was by design that he was mostly left to his own devices at functions such as these. He served his purpose as a male to round out the numbers. He was polite enough not to be thought odd, but still quiet and reserved. He could dance and often partnered the daughters and sisters of his acquaintances. He enjoyed cards and could round out a game without feeling the need to contribute to too much conversation. As a result, no one ever pushed their daughters in his path or begged his presence at any affair where his brother wouldn’t be in attendance.
It had never bothered him, as solitude and time spent with his family meant no one outside his household would be privy to his secret. It was why, whenever games such as tonight’s round of charades were being played, Roger tended to act as a silent observer. Even though he loved figuring out riddles and always bested his siblings when they played charades at home. There were many things he refused to take part in while in polite company—including spirited conversations about subjects in which he held an interest. At times it physically pained him to keep quiet and only offer the occasional agreement to some point or another. However, he knew very well why it was necessary. If he grew over-excited about astronomy, literature, or philosophy, his mouth might run away with him. He might begin talking too fast and bumbling his words. He’d make himself look like an idiot in front of everyone who was anyone. Word would spread that the brother of the Viscount Thornton was an imbecile, and it would reflect poorly on Angus and Emily. People would speculate that such flaws ran in the Thornton family blood. Who would want to marry Emily if they thought she’d produce a child who couldn’t speak properly?
Roger felt ill at the very thought. Sinking into an armchair, he took another sip of his drink and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out on a long, slow exhale. He’d forgotten himself tonight. Miranda’s sly smile after he’d given her the answer to Angus’s riddle had tied his stomach in knots. A dimple had appeared in one of her cheeks, and he’d been struck with the notion that he would very much like to kiss right where that adorable little divot accentuated her cheek. Then, he’d press short, soft kisses toward her berry-ripe mouth and discover how she tasted. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt strong physical desire, but it was certainly the only time he could recall being overwhelmed by nothing more than a smile. Lady Miranda Hughes was a force of nature—one that could prove dangerous to a man like him. He had to proceed with caution going forward—remaining calm and in control at all times. He had managed to cover his stuttering on the word ‘snowball’ by faking a coughing fit, but it had been a near thing.