“We’re talking about marriage, not death.” He trailed kisses along her neck and her shoulder.
She shivered. “Marriage is permanent and should not be taken lightly. After all, there are only two ways to get out of a marriage, death and divorce. And frankly death is the easier of the two.”
“Although so final . . .”
“You wouldn’t want to make another mistake.”
“This is no mistake, Miranda. Trust me on this.”
“You do want to be certain.”
“I am certain.”
“When the time comes . . .” She leaned back against him and his hands drifted over her. She made the most delightful moaning sound in the back of her throat. “I might well marry you.”
“But you won’t say when that time might be.”
“Fairborough should be completed first,” she murmured.
“That appears to be a very long time from now.”
“And who knows what might happen between now and then.” She turned around to face him and stepped backward, to rest herself against the wall. Her eyes were green once again and desire gripped him. She hooked her fingers in his trousers and pulled him close. “We might discover the differences between us are entirely too great to overcome.”
He pressed against her and directed his attention to the base of her throat. He could feel the beat of her heart against his lips. “I doubt that. I rather like the differences between us. I find them delightful.”
She moaned and slid her arms around his neck. “There’s so much we don’t know about one another.”
“And yet, I suspect there is no one who knows me as well as you.” He wrapped one arm around her waist. “And I suspect no one who knows you as well as I.” He slid his other hand down her leg. She hooked her leg around his.
“And do you know what I want now?” Her gaze met his, her green eyes simmering with desire.
“I have my suspicions.” He unfastened his trousers and let them fall. “It wouldn’t be at all civilized.”
“Good.”
He lifted her leg and wrapped it around his waist. Then slipped into her. She was slick and warm and ready.
“Oh, God, Winfield. This is . . .” She clutched at his shoulders.
“Yes?” He thrust into her and she shuddered.
“So good, so . . . oh . . .” She rocked her hips to meet him. “Oh yes . . . yes . . .”
“Not civilized then?” he growled against her ear.
“Not in the least.” She sighed with pleasure. “Civilized is highly overrated.”
“I believe, Lady Garret, you are insatiable.”
“I believe, Lord Stillwell, you have made me that way. . . .” She arched into him and urged him on.
And in that last moment before he lost himself once more in the feel and taste and touch of her, the thought occurred to him that if they didn’t have trust between them, perhaps they didn’t have anything at all.
Chapter 21
“You don’t trust me, do you?” he said abruptly.
Miranda stared at Winfield seated beside her in the Elliott carriage. The driver had met them at the train and was returning them to Millworth. “Is this what has been bothering you?”
The man had been pensive and preoccupied all morning. Indeed, he had been unusually quiet when he had brought her home last night, and he’d scarcely said anything to her on the train. But then he’d had his nose buried in a newspaper nearly the entire time. Still, this was not at all like him. The last things she would call Winfield Elliott were pensive and preoccupied and reserved. An uneasy hand wrapped around her heart.
“Shouldn’t it bother me?”
“No,” she said firmly. “Because it’s simply not true.”
“Then you do trust me?”
“I haven’t given it any thought one way or the other. But I suppose I do, so yes.”
“Yet, you’re not willing to trust me with your future.”
She stared at him. “I never said that.”
“You won’t marry me.”
“I never said that either. If you recall, what I said was—”
“Yes, yes, I know what you said,” he snapped. “You said while you would not be engaged to me that did not preclude the possibility of marriage.”
“Exactly and—”
“It seems to me if you do not trust me enough to agree to an engagement, which is nothing more than a promise of marriage, you do not trust me to keep my word.”
“You’re twisting what I said.” She shook her head. “That’s not at all what I meant.”
“If we don’t have trust between us, what do we have?”
“I never said I didn’t trust you.”
“Do you trust me to keep your secrets?”
“I don’t have secrets.” Well, there was that one. “Not really, nothing of significance. Why, I am very much an open-book sort of person.”
“Not to me.” He snorted. “Indeed, I find you one of the most complicated, confusing creatures I have ever met.”
“Thank you!”
“In my experience, there are three reasons why a woman would refuse to marry. One, she has found someone better.”
She scoffed. “That’s absurd.”
“Secondly, she has found you were not to her liking. That you did not suit for whatever reason.”
“Nonsense.” She sniffed. “I can’t imagine any woman thinking you were less than quite . . . wonderful.”
“Last night you said the differences between us might be too great to overcome.”
“And you said our differences were delightful. Although, admittedly, not at the moment,” she muttered.
“And three, there really is someone else.”
She stared. “And who might that be?”
“How would I know?” he said sharply. “You are not the open book you claim you are. I think you have any number of secrets whether you are willing to admit that or not.”
For a long moment neither of them said a word; then he drew a deep breath. “You said it was time to make changes in your life.”
“I did.”
“Still, one wonders if you have truly put the past behind you.” His gaze locked with hers. “If you have truly put your husband behind you.”
“Of course I have.”
His eyes narrowed. “And yet you continue to run his business. You continue his work.”
“That’s different.” She shrugged off his charge.
“Is it?” His gaze pinned hers.
“Of course it is. He is dead. I accept that.”
“So my third question about your marriage is do you still love him?”
“He will always have a piece of my heart. He was my husband after all.”
“I don’t think you’re willing to let him go.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Prove it.” His eyes narrowed. “Give up Garret and Tempest. Close it or sell it.”
“I will not,” she said without thinking.
“I didn’t think you would.”
“I don’t see—”
“You said you were tired of hiding. I think you’re hiding behind your husband’s name and your husband’s work and everything you shared. Everything you refuse to give up.”
She sucked in a hard breath. “I am not!”
“Prove it. If not to me, then to yourself.”
“I see no need to prove anything to anyone. Not to myself and certainly not to you.”
“Imagine my surprise.” Sarcasm colored his words. “You said you were amenable to marriage should the right man come along.”
“I do wish you would stop telling me what I have said! I know full well what I have said! And I resent having my words thrown back in my face!”
“I merely want to make certain you have not forgotten. I haven’t. And it is apparent now that I am not the right man.”
“Winf ield—”
“I’m not willing to give my heart to a woman who does not trust me. A woman I ther
efore have difficulties trusting entirely. That, my dear Lady Garret, is one risk I am not willing to take.”
Her breath caught. “Your heart? Are you—”
“If you’re going to ask again if I am in love with you, again I will say that I don’t know. But I have never felt about any woman the way I feel about you. If I were asked to wager on it, I would say yes, blast it all, I am in love with you. Either that or I am completely mad. I can’t imagine it feels substantially different!”
“Winfield, I—”
“Let me tell you something about my previous fiancées. I quite liked every one of them and I assumed I would grow to love every one of them. There was no reason not to. I believed in every case we were right for one another. But in hindsight, I realized I chose them as much for what I needed in a wife, a perfect wife perhaps, and a future countess as for any feelings of affection. And that, aside from the ladies themselves, was my biggest mistake.” He shook his head. “I did not let my heart rule my head then and frankly, I am afraid to do so now. I am afraid to trust my heart, my life and my future to a woman who does not trust me.”
Shock held her tongue. There were a dozen things she knew she should say, a dozen more she wanted to say, but the words would not come.
“If we don’t have trust, if we don’t have honesty between us, I’m not sure we have anything at all.”
Her heart twisted. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I accept your rejection of my suit.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Oh, but you did.” Resolve sounded in his voice; his blue eyes were hard, cool. A shiver ran up her spine. What had she done?
The carriage pulled up in front of the manor. He got out and came around to help her down. His manner was again reserved, polite, cold. He held her hand no longer than was necessary and escorted her into the house. She didn’t know what to say. A horrible weight settled in the pit of her stomach and a voice in the back of her head screamed she needed to say something, to do something, anything.
“Lord Stillwell.” She stared up at him.
“I assume you will wish to go to Fairborough as soon as possible.”
She nodded. At least that would give her some time to talk to him. To reason with him. To attempt to explain.
“Very well. I shall have Prescott arrange for someone from the stables to drive you. Mr. Clarke can escort you back.”
“Why aren’t you—”
“I have a number of pressing issues to attend to. Grayson has charged me with taking care of his business interests while he is out of the country and I have responsibilities of my own to see to.” He nodded. “Do have a pleasant day, Lady Garret.” With that, he turned and strode toward the library.
Without warning, anger, irrational and unrelenting, swept through her and she called after him. “Tell me, Winfield, is it your heart I have wounded or is it your pride? Is number four the straw that breaks the camel’s back?”
“Governess!” His faint response drifted back, punctuated by the slamming of the library door.
“Twit!”
“Ahem.”
She jerked her attention to Prescott standing a short distance away.
“Yes?” she snapped.
“Do you wish me to call for a carriage now, Lady Garret?”
“In a half an hour, I think. I wish to change first.” She drew a deep breath. “And my apologies, Prescott, for my ill temper. And for Lord Stillwell’s also.”
“Not at all, my lady,” Prescott said smoothly. “We have been expecting it.”
Expecting what?
Miranda had never thought the ride to Fairborough was either long or dull, but today it was both. Of course, there was no one to talk to save the man assigned to drive her and she had no desire to chat aimlessly. At the moment all she wanted was to get to Fairborough, confer with Edwin, assess the progress, answer any questions that had arisen in her absence, then return as quickly as possible. Impatience gripped her. The sooner she returned to Millworth, the sooner she could confront Winfield.
But to what end?
Did she trust him? Of course she did; that was not in question. At least not to her. And while she wasn’t a superstitious sort, she did think an engagement was tempting the forces of fate. Perhaps the man simply was not meant to be engaged. Which, of course, then led to the question of whether he was meant to marry at all. And the further question of whether she wished to marry him.
She’d not even seriously considered it before last night. She’d been entirely too busy enjoying his company, the stories he told, the way he made her laugh. She liked how everything with him was a battle—exhilarating and exciting. He never made her feel stupid or foolish. She loved the look in his eyes when he teased her or the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he was considering something of importance. And she loved the way he looked at her, not just last night but on occasions before then, as if she were something precious and special and rare. And she loved . . .
And she loved him.
It was as simple as that. It was more than merely having become accustomed to his company. Loving Winfield had crept up on her slowly with every touch of his hand, every shared laugh, every argument. He had slipped into her heart and captured her soul when she wasn’t looking, wasn’t aware it was so much as a possibility. Now, the thought that she had lost him, the idea of living her life without him brought with it a pain nearly too great to bear. She had to set things right, although she had no idea how to do so. At this point, agreeing to an engagement was obviously not enough.
But how could she tell him she too was afraid?
Afraid of loving him and afraid of losing what, in the years since her husband’s death, she had found.
She had loved designing buildings and planning constructions and the like when John was alive and she loved it now. In many ways it had become part of her, part of who she was. Indeed, it made her who she was. Her confidence in her work had somehow become confidence in herself. And change, too, had crept upon her without notice.
But in spite of Winfield’s words to her family, she was under no illusion about his attitude toward a woman’s proper place. There was no conceivable way he would allow her to continue her work. Was she willing to give it up? The woman she had once been would have done so without hesitation. But she was a far cry from the woman she had once been.
She’d always thought she was completely herself with John. She could be the Miranda no one else knew with him. It was only after his death that she’d realized their life together had been so perfect because she’d made it so. She’d never questioned him. Never really felt her own thoughts were important. It was, after all, much easier, much safer.
It had, as well, always been much safer to keep her mouth closed with her family and avoid conflict and confrontation. And it was much safer to hide behind a man, real or fictional, to do the work she so enjoyed.
Winfield had called her courageous, as had his mother; even Bianca had commended her courage. They were wrong.
She didn’t have the courage to admit publicly to her work and face ridicule and failure. She didn’t have the courage to become fiancée number four, and become as well the subject of gossip and speculation. To risk the curse—real or imagined—that had plagued his fiancées and ultimately lose him. She didn’t have the courage to tell him everything about herself and then be forced to choose between what she loved and who she loved.
The truth of the matter was that she was terrified.
Of being the woman she truly was.
And of losing the one man who might well love her for it.
It was obviously a tenet of life that the more impatient one was to complete the task at hand, the more obstacles were thrown in one’s path. Nothing was especially wrong at Fairborough, but there were all sorts of minor difficulties that needed to be resolved ranging from supplies that had been misplaced to a dispute over the placement of a water closet. Miranda was embroiled in one problem after another and
was unable to return to Millworth until it was nearly time for dinner.
She considered seeking Winfield out before dinner, but she barely had enough time to change. Besides, given the way they had left things today, it might be better to see him again at the dinner table in the presence of his parents. Surely he would be back to his usual self by now. Why, with any luck at all he would have realized how unreasonable he had been and would be ready, even willing, to discuss things in a calm and rational manner.
Lord and Lady Fairborough had already been seated when Miranda slipped into the dining room and took her chair, moments before her soup was served.
“Lady Garret.” Lord Fairborough nodded.
“Good evening, Miranda,” Lady Fairborough said in an overly bright manner.
“My apologies for my tardiness.” Miranda glanced at Winfield’s usual place. Empty.
“How are things at Fairborough today?” The older woman’s smile matched her tone.
“There were a few difficulties. Minor, really, and easily resolved.”
“I am certain you handled it with your usual efficiency.” There was something not quite right about Lady Fairborough’s manner tonight. Almost as if she was trying to be cheery when she was anything but.
“Isn’t Lord Stillwell joining us for dinner?” Miranda said in as casual a manner as she could manage. It was not at all easy.
“I believe he went to London.” A gruff note sounded in Lord Fairborough’s voice. “Didn’t he, Margaret?”
“Yes, dear.” She nodded. “That’s what he said.”
He’s gone? Miranda’s throat tightened. “But we’ve just returned from London.”
“Yes, well, it did seem a bit odd . . .”
Coward! Miranda toyed with her soup. “Did he say when he might be back?”
Lord and Lady Fairborough traded glances.
“I can’t imagine he’ll be gone for very long,” Lady Fairborough said. “After all, the ball is in a mere three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Miranda stared. Surely he wouldn’t be gone three full weeks?
“Oh, I can’t imagine he would be gone that long,” Lady Fairborough said quickly, “although he did seem rather out of sorts.”
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 25
