Work Text:
Miss Miranda Barlow hadn't truly given Lord Thomas Hamilton all that much thought until that day.
Ever since her coming out, there had been many suitors, each as bumbling, boring or brutish as the next. Some had been young, but that had been their only saving grace. Some had been older, and no wiser for their years. At best they were temporarily amusing; at worst, nasty pieces of work that took time and effort to fend off.
Miranda was to celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday that year. Spinsterhood had never seemed more tempting, were it not for the fact that she would forever depend on her father, and then on her pig-headed brother. On the other hand, they were an evil that she knew.
Which brought her back to the seemingly perfect young peer standing in the drawing room.
Thomas Hamilton was ridiculously attractive; tall and lithe, fine of feature, blue eyes twinkling with wit and cleverness, and a voice as soft as velvet. They had crossed paths a few times at dances and parties; he had always been courteous, but spent most of his time involved in some kind of discussion with his friends, only showing polite interest in any of the ladies attempting to attract his attention.
In fact, if Miranda's information was correct – and it usually was – Thomas Hamilton had habits in Covent Garden coffee houses that were frequented mostly by gentlemen and young boys. Miranda wasn't sure whether his apparent lack of interest in the fairer sex was a boon for her, or a great pity. It certainly was a useful piece of information to carry as a weapon, were there to be an ugly soul beneath his apparently angelic looks.
The Earl of Hamilton and his son had been invited to the Barlow residence in London. Their visit had brought on a flurry of excitement in the household. Miranda's family were only baronets, far beneath the Hamiltons, but they were certainly well-off and well connected enough for the Earl to consider the union. Miranda's father had considerable influence in Wales, after all.
“Is this her needlework?” was the first thing out of the Earl's snappish mouth when he saw the handkerchief Miranda had been embroidering. “By god, what a shambles. You can barely recognise the lettering!”
His son, who'd been quietly watching all the goings-on in the room, turned his attention to Miranda. Refusing to let the Earl shame her, she showed her needlework off to the young Lord Hamilton. He looked it over, then into Miranda's eyes, and smiled. It was the sort of smile that lit up a room. Miranda was aware of the Earl complaining in the background, and her mother attempting to make excuses for her daughter's ineptitude.
“I recall that you are remarkably talented at the clavichord,” the young Lord said to Miranda, as though there wasn't a whole other conversation happening at that time.
“It would be immodest of me to agree with you,” Miranda replied, a little flutter of pleasure beating through her stomach. Thomas Hamilton had noticed her playing, and for some reason, this made her happy. How silly of her to let herself by taken in by flattery.
“One cannot be talented in every field, can they, Father?”
The Earl scowled at him, then at Miranda, and then went began a lecture about the importance of having a wife whose dowry chest contained items that might be displayed without shame around the house. Miranda found that she didn't care one whit, particularly when the young Lord was looking at her rather than paying much attention to his father.
Miranda's mother, who despaired of ever seeing her daughter married and who had likely noticed the glances between Miranda and her potential suitor, swiftly told Miranda to show the young Lord Hamilton their library.
The Earl scoffed at this, grumbling that his son spent too much time with books already. Miranda barely heard him as she led the young Lord away. Miranda's nurse, who now had the impossible task of being her chaperone, followed them out with her sewing.
“Do you read at all?” the young Lord Hamilton asked as he perused the rather small collection of books.
“I do. Poetry, mainly. I like the classics, too.”
His face lit up. “Do you? Illiad or Odyssey?”
Miranda chuckled. “The Odyssey, I think.”
“But the Illiad has the most beautiful woman in the world!”
“And she plays no active part in the story, save to cause a war. No. The Odyssey has the most loyal woman. And a sorceress, too.” She smirked, and added: “And a man with beautiful thighs.”
The nurse, who'd sat down to continue her work, tutted at Miranda and shot her a disapproving glare. Miranda barely noticed over the young Lord's charming laugh.
“That is true. But the Illiad has Achilles and Patroclus,” he said, “and I'm afraid I must choose them over Odysseus.”
Miranda wasn't at all surprised by his choice, but she was rather surprised by his openness about it. “They were certainly truer to each other than Odysseus was to his wife.”
“Quite.” He smiled, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I hope you'll excuse my father, he's an absolute boor. He despairs of ever finding me a wife, whilst effectively chasing anyone suitable away.”
“Would that my father had the ability to chase away my suitors,” Miranda said with a rueful smile.
He grinned ruefully. “Is that your way of telling me to desist?”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Are you my suitor now, then?”
The nurse loudly and angrily cleared her throat in the background.
“I hadn't expected you to be so forthright,” he replied with a chuckle, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.
“I'm only teasing.” She had to curb the impulse to reach out and place a hand on his arm; she wasn't usually that familiar with strangers, but his blush was terribly endearing. “I certainly have been called forthright before. Impertinent, even.”
“That became all too clear when you wholly ignored my father's reprimands,” he said. “And I'm glad that you did. Do you know how many young ladies he's upset over the years?”
“I've heard the stories. I've also heard that you're very different from him. It seems you are quite chivalrous, in fact, and have only upset young ladies by keeping your distance with them.”
“I see that you're well informed, Miss Barlow.”
“I am very well informed, Lord Hamilton,” she said with a smile and a quirk of her eyebrows to suggest that she knew a few more things yet.
“Thomas,” he said. “Lord Hamilton is my father, and I cannot bear the comparison.” He paused, cocking his head, a thoughtful smile on his lips. “And I do hope you'll consider marrying me.”
Miranda's mouth fell open, but no quip or witty retort came forth. She chuckled instead, hoping that the burning in her cheeks didn't mean she was the one blushing now. “You barely know me, My Lord.”
“Oh, but I've heard about you too,” Thomas said, leaning down towards her and lowering his voice. “I've heard about the scandals, and the forceful rebuttals, and the dismayed and heartbroken men you leave in your wake. You have a little of both Penelope and Circe in you, do you not?”
This was the first time anyone had congratulated Miranda on her behaviour with men. There had been a few affairs, and Miranda supposed the word had got out, as it was wont to do. Scandal, after all, were a good way of remaining free. It also attracted a certain type of man, one that would rather enjoy an affair than want to marry.
And yet, that wasn't what Thomas seemed to be pursuing. Still, Miranda decided that Thomas' suggestion of marriage was likely in jest, and not to give it too much credence.
Dinner followed promptly. It started out as a quiet affair, until the Earl of Hamilton began talking to Miranda's father about religion. Soon the conversation turned into a rant about treacherous Jacobites trying to insinuate their way back into England and spread their religion and influence wherever they could.
“And do you know what I blame? Those confounded coffee houses! You don't have any in your part of the country, do you, Barlow?”
“Our troubles are quite different in Pembrokeshire, My Lord,” Miranda's father answered.
“Pardon me, father, but isn't condemning places of intelligent conversation because some people might take advantage of them rather like throwing away the baby with the bathwater?”
The Earl looked like a toad that had just swallowed a wasp. He shot his son a withering glare, then turned to Miranda's father. “Please excuse my son, you'd have thought the canings would rid him of some of his unsavoury opinions, but he's stubborn as a mule.”
Miranda's father gave the Earl a polite smile, and sent a meaningful glance at his daughter, one that said she was lucky he hadn't applied the same sort of discipline with her. She smiled back pleasantly, but the Earl's comment about canings left a nasty taste in her mouth. Thomas had rolled his eyes at his father, but had also gone rather quiet thereafter.
“At least girls are too busy primping and playing coquettes with their suitors to have opinions about anything but ribbons and dresses,” the Earl muttered. “Isn't that right, Miss Barlow?”
“Indeed, my Lord, and it is a boon not to be encumbered by opinions. Were we inclined to have any, we would find that there is indeed no place for us to express it, not even in a coffee house.”
Miranda felt her mother's sharp elbow dig into her ribs, but it was worth it to see the look on the Earl's face. He stared at her with beady eyes, clearly confused by the fact that she had been insolent whilst at the same time agreeing with him.
Thomas caught Miranda's eye and beamed at her across the table. “Marry me,” he mouthed silently.
Miranda looked away, but couldn't keep the smile from her lips. She was rather distracted throughout the rest of the meal, particularly when Thomas, now quiet and meek, glanced her way as though to silently ask her opinion on his father's many rants. She responded with a cocked eyebrow, a smile, even a very discreet yawn – apparently to Thomas' great delight.
She barely touched her blancmange, so fascinated was she by this strange man who wanted to know what she thought and revelled in her impertinence. It was likely a game, she told herself, perhaps stemming from the desire to conquer the unconquerable. Or simply a way for him to pass time at a boring dinner. She had certainly done as much before.
But then again – what if it wasn't?
The Earl of Hamilton was already in his carriage when Thomas hurried back inside. Miranda had been expecting him. She held up the pomander he had left on the dinner table for her to find.
“Ah, thank you Miss Barlow.” His face was once again lit by this incredibly warm smile. “Whatever would I do without you?”
“You have spent all your life without me, my Lord,” she pointed out.
“Indeed. Funny thing, isn't it, to miss something without knowing what that thing is until you encounter it. Has that ever happened to you?”
“That is much too profound a question for a coquette like me,” Miranda replied. It wouldn't do to admit that he'd very much described exactly what she felt when they both stood in the same room.
Thomas took the pomander from her outstretched palm. She shivered where his fingers brushed her skin and she had to remind herself, once again, to be cautious.
“I do hope you will do me the honour one day,” he said, for the third time.
“Surely you cannot be serious, my Lord.”
“I can be, on rare occasions. And this is one of them.”
“Well in that case, I shall take it into consideration,” she said, with much more reserve than she actually felt.
Thomas' eyes twinkled as he bent to brush his lips on her knuckles before he took his leave. Miranda watched him go, certain now that he'd remain in her thoughts long after he left.