Reaching the reflecting pool at the end of the rose walk, they halted. She looked at him; the shifting shadows hid her expression as she searched his face, then she inclined her head. “Thank you.” Lowering her gaze to the pool, after a moment she continued, “I can’t tell you how much I value the insights I’ve gained through your family, through having a chance to talk with them. It’s almost as if, in doing what I knew was right and insisting on coming with you to rescue Roderick regardless of any social risk, some kind fate has given me this—my time here at Ridgware with your family—as my reward. They’ve opened doors for me that I never knew were there, and shown me a way forward with a problem I was only just realizing I had.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “So again, thank you for bringing me, us, here. I recognize the trust you’ve placed in us in allowing us to see this side of your life. Rest assured neither Roderick nor I will ever give you cause to regret it.”
He held her gaze and inclined his head, accepting her declaration, not that he’d needed to hear it; he trusted her implicitly. He now knew her well enough to be absolutely certain that he could, that his and his family’s secret was safe with her and Roderick.
Looking down at the pool at their feet, after a moment, he said, “When we were children, we called this our wishing pool. We’d come down here at night, stare into its black depths, think of what we most wanted in life, and make our wish.”
Unbidden, what the man he now was wished for most leapt into his mind; it wasn’t what he’d thought it would be. The reality shook him; he rushed to bury it, to smother the need before it could spread through his conscious mind and take hold. That way lay madness.
Drawing in a deep breath, blinking back to the rose garden and the woman by his side, he was grateful for the shadows that cloaked his face. “So . . . what would you wish for?”
She, too, had been staring down at the pool; for a moment she didn’t respond, then she raised her head and met his eyes. “Everyone knows you can’t tell someone what you wish for, not if you want your wish to come true.”
About them the night lay like a dark blanket; perhaps it was the lack of light that made what flared between them seem more real. More tangible.
More compulsively desirable.
“Let’s go back to the house.” To your room, to your bed. He left the words unsaid, yet they hung in the air between them.
Through the shadows, she held his gaze, then she reached out, took his hand, twined her fingers with his and turned toward the house, her smile as mysterious as the night. “Yes, let’s.”
The next morning Miranda told herself she was content with their relationship as it was. That her thought in the moonlight—the wish that had crowded into her mind—was simply that, a moonstruck thought. Nothing to take seriously.
It had been the atmosphere, the intimacy of the moment. The richly hued closeness.
About her, the breakfast parlor was abuzz with chatter as Millicent and Cassie prepared, finally, to depart. The warmth that existed between the members of Roscoe’s—Julian’s—family was so potent, so strong, that she sensed there had to be some reason, some event that had forged them into such a cohesive, devoted whole. Despite—or was it because of?—the mysterious conversion of Julian to Roscoe.
Watching him interact with his sisters as, fasts satisfactorily broken, the company all rose and went with Millicent and Cassie into the front hall to bestow last hugs and farewells, she wondered again at that transformation. Hanging back a little with Sarah, both of them grinning, touched by the rush of emotions as Millicent and Cassie hugged and kissed their way around the others, she watched and saw.
He’d told her he was Roscoe, and to her he was. She couldn’t think of him by any other name; he certainly wasn’t the idle hedonist depicted in the portrait of Lord Julian Delbraith.
And while society would be shocked and would deplore the change, seeing him now, knowing him now, she had to wonder if, regardless of what had caused it, the transformation hadn’t been the making of him. Hadn’t been the fire that had forged him into such a complex, fascinating, enthralling character.
Such a strong character, although, considering Lucasta, perhaps that inner strength had always been there, latent, hidden beneath the rake’s sophistication, waiting to be tempered in the forge of experience.
Regardless, the man he was now was, in her eyes, infinitely more attractive than the man he had almost certainly been. Understandable, therefore, that her wish in the night had been all about keeping him in her life. About a way to prolong their liaison, to convert the illicit to licit. A dream.
In more realistic vein, she wondered how long their relationship—their affair, their liaison—might last. For weeks, or for very much longer?
Years?
It would, she thought, take years and years for her to learn all about him, to explore and absorb all the facets he possessed. How long she might have with him she didn’t know, but she was determined to make the most of every minute.
Millicent looked around, spotted her, and came bustling over. “Miranda.” Millicent took her hands and, smiling warmly, stretched up and touched cheeks. “My dear, when next you’re in Northamptonshire you must, positively must, stop by.”
“And”—Cassie nudged Millicent aside, taking her place to squeeze fingers and touch cheeks with Miranda—“the same applies to Hampshire. Regardless of what the future holds, we don’t want to lose touch.”
“We’ll always have things to talk about,” Millicent assured her. “We’ll be pleased to show you our local efforts. Whether it’s you and Roderick, or just you, if you want to spend a few weeks away from London, just write.”
“And we will write.” Cassie grinned. “You can be sure of that—we have your direction.”
“Girls!” Lucasta called. “Your carriages are waiting and the horses are literally champing at their bits—and you know coachmen never like that.”
“Yes, Mama!” Millicent and Cassie chorused.
With laughter and smiles, on another rush of potent emotion the pair swept out of the huge double doors.
Miranda stood with the others at the top of the front steps and waved the two coaches away.
Lucasta and Caroline heaved identical sighs; both turned with similiar smiles on their faces. As they started back into the house, Miranda went to step aside to allow the pair to pass, but Caroline reached out and slid an arm around her waist and, still smiling, drew her with them.
Miranda acquiesced and joined the duchess and the dowager, with Edwina and Sarah bringing up the rear. Roscoe and Henry had dallied on the steps; she heard them debating whether to walk to the stables or check on the hounds.
Beside her, Caroline spoke pensively. “It’s going to be quieter without those two here.”
“True.” Smiling fondly, Lucasta glanced at Edwina. “But now perhaps those less forthright might be able to get a word in edgewise about their own wedding.”
Edwina chuckled. “You know that in the end I’ll do precisely as I wish.”
“Yes, dear.” Lucasta led the way to the morning room. “I know, but at some point you really will need to let your elder sisters into that secret, too.”
Two hours later, Miranda, Roscoe, and Henry followed Caroline into the schoolhouse that stood at the edge of the tiny hamlet of Mill Green.
Pausing in the small foyer just inside the outer doors, Caroline peeked through the glass in the inner double doors, then whispered, “It was originally an old meeting hall.” She glanced at Miranda. “We—the board—took it over and refurbished it, and found Mr. McAllister and Miss Trimble to teach here. Both live nearby. Miss Trimble used to teach at a girls’ school in Bath, while Mr. McAllister was tutor to Lord Tewkesbury’s sons until they grew too old.”
Straightening, squaring her shoulders, Caroline pushed the door open and led the way in. Miranda followed, with Roscoe and Henry in her wake.
Mr. McAllister and Miss Trimble were delighted to receive them. Their classes, defined b
y age and separated by a movable partition erected across the hall, were sufficiently well behaved for the teachers to give their attention to their primary benefactor, diligently answering Caroline’s questions on their progress with the agreed syllabus, and reporting on the amenities and facilities of the building, discussing what was presently in place and what ideally should be budgeted for in the coming year.
Miranda listened but also looked. She was impressed by the numbers of children attending—fifteen in the older group, all busy with arithmetic, and twelve in the younger group, their noses buried in well-worn readers. Miss Trimble had been reading to the latter group but had instructed them to read by themselves while she spoke with the visitors.
One towheaded boy, about seven years old, sat at the end of one bench. Miranda noticed he was staring at a page, his finger on it, but not moving. His face was set in a scowl.
Leaving the others, she went to stand beside the boy’s bench, then bent so her face was level with his.
His eyes swung her way and he blinked, wary.
She smiled and nodded at the tattered reader. “Is it too hard?”
The boy regarded her gravely, then whispered back, “Not so much hard as . . . it’s just this word here, miss.” He pointed.
She looked. “Easy. The word is easy.”
The boy frowned distractedly. “I would’ve thought easy would have a z in it.”
“It doesn’t. Just s and y.” Miranda straightened and saw a girl two places down, waving.
“Miss, can you help me with this one?”
Miranda slowly circled the class, helping with this word, then that, smiling, sometimes at the children’s comments, but mostly simply smiling to herself.
Despite paying attention to McAllister’s and Miss Trimble’s reports, Roscoe found a part of his awareness tracking Miranda, taking in her interaction with the children, their responses to her and hers to them.
When it came to bridging the social divide, she was, it seemed, a natural. Possibly because she had never developed the overwhelming arrogance of the nobility, the aristocracy, those of the upper ten thousand families known as the ton. Even committed as they were, all his family, and even he, had to work to set people at ease, but she achieved that effortlessly.
He wondered if she had any idea how truly useful such a talent was.
If he’d needed any proof of the genuineness of her commitment to learning more about charitable projects, her patience with the children left the matter beyond doubt. She’d decided that the path suited her and was intent on learning all she could . . . before setting out to establish and manage her own project?
That was something he could assist her with—something that would give him an excuse to continue to see her after they returned to London.
A connection that could easily last for years.
He couldn’t remember when philanthropy had become an intrinsic part of his life, but he knew himself well enough to admit that it fulfilled a certain need he’d always had, a facet of the same drive that had compelled him to become Roscoe in the first place. Once he’d discovered what a drug helping others was to him, he’d grown addicted, but it was an addiction neither he nor anyone else saw any reason he should fight.
Watching Miranda as she straightened from helping another little girl, he suspected that she and he shared the same driving need. He wasn’t at all surprised by her rapidly developing focus on charitable works. In his case, his family needed him still, but Roderick’s need of her was over; she needed something to fill the void, the hole in her life. That need was something he understood not just with his mind but with his heart, with his soul.
As she stepped away from the benches and drifted back up the room, he stirred and strolled to join her.
Miranda saw the children’s attention rise from their readers and fix on Roscoe; until he’d come forward he’d been hidden from them by the partition. Now boys and girls alike stared. Gawped. Visually devoured with the intensity only the young could get away with.
Amused, she glanced at him, and in that moment saw him as they must. As a god, tall, physically powerful, superbly proportioned, his every movement invested with predatory grace, his features bearing the stamp of a warrior-prince, his arrogant assurance a cloak he’d never lose.
He was all and everything they would aspire to, the boys to emulate, the girls to possess.
That was no bad thing. Having high aspirations never hurt.
Reaching her, he halted. “Have you seen all you need?”
All, and a bit more. She smiled. “Yes.”
He offered his arm and she took it, and let him lead her to where Caroline waited with Mr. McAllister and Miss Trimble.
Taking their leave of the teachers, both of whom were delighted and encouraged by the visit, they walked out into weak sunshine.
Miranda allowed Roscoe to hand her into the gig. Henry helped Caroline to the seat beside her.
Taking the reins, Caroline asked, “Well, what did you think?”
She waited while Caroline turned the horse and set it pacing back up the lane. Roscoe and Henry, mounted on heavy hunters, fell in behind. “I think,” Miranda said, “that you have every cause to feel proud of your achievement. I take it Henry is involved with the school, too?”
“I’ve insisted that he learn enough to, once he comes of age, sit on the board.” Caroline negotiated a turn, then said, “I want the school to grow and continue after I’m too old to oversee it. I want Henry to be there to take over and, bless him, he seems very amenable to accommodating me.”
The men riding behind couldn’t hear them, not over the rattle of the gig’s wheels. “From what I’ve seen, Henry’s had an excellent male mentor in that regard.”
“Indeed.” Caroline dipped her head in acknowledgment, a smile of a sort Miranda couldn’t quite place softening her face. “Twelve years ago when my husband died, I never would have dreamed I’d ever say such a thing, but Julian’s been a rock. Literally a rock. He’s as immovable and as unflappable as granite, and while there are times none of us appreciate that, he was the one to hold us all together and get us through . . . what we had to weather.”
Miranda held her tongue and hoped for more about what they’d had to weather, about what Julian—now Roscoe—had done to hold them together through what she inferred had been a turbulent time.
Caroline glanced at her, then her lips curved wryly and she looked ahead. “There was a time when I despised Julian to the heels of his well-shod feet. In that, I was mistaken, but it took a disaster for me to see him clearly. For him to show himself to me clearly.”
The wheels rattled on, a repetitive, soothing sound.
Caroline said nothing more, but she didn’t have to; Miranda could see the parallels well enough. Through disaster Julian had been revealed to Caroline as the white knight he truly was. Now, through Roderick’s kidnap and rescue, she, too, had been given a chance to see past the shield Roscoe—like the Julian he’d previously been—hid his shining light behind.
He was a white knight to his soul, but like the best of that breed he saw no reason to flaunt what many would term his goodness. He wasn’t a philanthropist on a grand scale in order to garner public accolades or social recognition. He was as he was because that was the sort of man he was—under the glamour of the idle hedonist Lord Julian Delbraith had been, and now behind the more dangerous persona of Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king.
As Caroline turned the gig between the massive twin pillars that guarded the entrance to Ridgware’s drive, Miranda felt like giving thanks to the deity, to fate, to whatever it was that had arranged for her to fall in with such a deeply fascinating man.
Chapter Twelve
After luncheon, Roscoe and Henry left the dining parlor to pursue estate business. Having visited Roderick and been assured by him and Nurse that all was under control and her presence unnecessary, Miranda left Sarah reading the latest news sheets to Roderick and joined Lucasta and Caroline in the famil
y sitting room. Edwina had retreated elsewhere to write letters.
A pleasant room on the ground floor, the sitting room looked out over rolling lawns and woodland to the rise of the hills beyond. Both other ladies had settled with embroidery hoops in their laps. Sinking onto the end of the sofa on which Lucasta sat, Miranda offered to untangle the silks Lucasta was attempting to tease apart.
“Thank you, dear.” Lucasta handed over the mess with alacrity. “My eyes, sadly, are not what they were.”
Miranda smiled and set to work.
Heads bent over their tasks, they sat in quiet companionship. She was very conscious of the inclusive, soothing atmosphere; it wasn’t something she’d previously experienced. Her aunts had always been too tense, too reserved, too much on guard, watching like hawks for any potential social gaffe, no matter how tiny.
Here, all was calm, serene, and no one was overcritical. Here . . . she suspected the difference lay in this being a true home, inhabited by a real family, not, as her and Roderick’s “home” had been, a household forced together by circumstance, with less affection than might have been.
That prevailing sense of acceptance gave her the courage to voice a concern that had gradually grown. Passing the untangled silks back to Lucasta, Miranda sat back and regarded the other women, who were still focused on the works in their respective hands. “We, Roderick and I, have been here for five days.” When both ladies glanced up, Miranda caught Caroline’s gaze. “We’ll need to remain for another five. You’ve all been very kind—you’ve included me in your gatherings as if I was family, and Sarah has been so helpful with Roderick. I’m more grateful than I can say, but I fear we’re becoming a very real imposition on your household and your time—and I hope you would tell me if that were the case. I wouldn’t wish to repay your many kindnesses with obtuseness as to your true needs.”
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