by Unconquered
“No!” Amanda had never felt so frustrated or so angry in her entire life. Why did they not understand? “No, Jon, my sister is not dead. Whatever you tell me, she is not dead!” She turned her back on him so he might not see the tears filling her blue eyes. She jumped, startled, as surprisingly strong hands grasped at her shoulders and spun her around.
“Miranda is dead, kitten,” said Jared Dunham. He was unshaven, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. But he was sober. “I have spent over a month trying to hide from that truth, Amanda. I am sure I have half-emptied Adrian’s fine cellars. But eventually there is no escaping it. My wife is dead. My beautiful wildcat is gone, and part of the blame for it must rest with me.”
“Jared—” Jonathan and Amanda spoke simultaneously.
“No,” he answered them, a sad little smile briefly crossing his face. “That is another truth I have faced. I did not value my wife enough. If I had I would have told Mr. Adams and Lord Palmerston no. Instead I selfishly mounted my noble charger and self-righteously galloped off to help right the world’s wrongs. My first duty was to Miranda. I failed in that duty, but I will not fail the magnificent legacy she has left me—our son. I am taking him up to my house in London where we will wait out the war. I don’t believe I could face Wyndsong quite yet.”
Amanda was deeply troubled by this. “Please,” she said, “please leave little Tom with us here at Swynford, Jared. At least for a little while. The air in town is so bad for a child. I know Miranda would agree. Go to London if you must, and mourn my sister in private, but leave little Tom with us.”
“I will mourn Miranda for the rest of my life,” declared Jared grimly, but no more was said about taking the young Dunham heir to London.
Jonathan Dunham and Anne Bowen, now publicly acquainted for almost two months, announced that they had eloped. Amanda thought perhaps they ought to plan a ball to celebrate the joyful news, but Adrian wouldn’t hear of it. They were all in mourning for Miranda. According to the story they circulated to explain her disappearance, Miranda had been swept overboard from her yacht in a sudden squall. Local society chattered enthusiastically. The Dunhams and the Swynfords had provided them with enough gossip to gnaw on during this dull time between seasons.
How fortunate Mistress Bowen was to have snared the Yankee. He was handsome and rich to boot—and her with two children—but then it was said that he had three! Then there was the deliciously macabre coincidence of both the Dunham brothers’ first wives dying in boating accidents. Best of all was the fact that that elegant devil Lord Dunham would soon be back on the marriage market. He would not, he had announced, mourn a full year for his beautiful wife. At the end of three months he would re-enter society.
Although the season did not officially begin until after the new year, Jared Dunham went up to London in early December. He had no desire to be at Swynford on St. Nicholas Day. They would have been married for two years, and on that sad evening he sat alone in his study before a big crackling fire sipping smuggled French brandy. In his hand he held a small miniature of Miranda painted by Thomas Lawrence, England’s most prominent portrait painter.
The famous artist had actually done a marvelous painting of Miranda and Amanda when they returned to England for Mandy’s wedding. Jared had commissioned the portrait for his mother-in-law, and she had carried it with her when she had returned to America. Dorothea had been ecstatic over her gift. It showed Amanda in a blossom-pink gown seated on a Chippendale side chair and Miranda in a deep blue gown standing behind her twin. She was smiling down at her sister whose head was half in profile and tilted just slightly up, gazing back at Miranda.
Lawrence had caught the girls perfectly. Amanda was sweet in her blue-eyed, blond beauty, with just a hint of steel at the corners of that little rosebud mouth. Miranda was an unconquered spirit with a proud and defiant look in her sea-green eyes. Jared had arranged with the artist to paint the sisters’ heads in miniature also. He then had each of the two pictures framed in oval silver frames decorated with raised silver grapes and vine leaves. He had presented Amanda’s miniature to Adrian on their wedding day. He had kept Miranda’s, taking it with him to St. Petersburg. Dear heaven, how many times had he held the miniature in his hand last winter? How many times had he stared down at her face as he was staring now? Her sweetly haunting, heart-shaped face with its lush mouth, that determined chin with its little cleft, her sea-green eyes? Miranda! Miranda! They had wed two years ago, and in those twenty-four months he had lived with her only seven months. God! He must have been mad!
Two years ago this day he had married her. Two years ago tonight she had faced him, frightened but defiant, across their bed. He remembered how she had clutched the coverlet to her sweet breasts, and then he had taken her in his arms and kissed her and soon the world exploded into passion. Now she was dead, and it was his fault, his fault for having left her for so long.
Her love for him had obviously been greater than his, which amazed him. She had borne with him even to having his child alone, and when she could finally bear no more she had come after him. In the first shock of her death he had damned her to hell and back for not staying in England, but what had he expected? She was his wildcat, purring at him one moment, hissing and clawing at him the next. Suddenly overwhelmed by fury and grief, Jared threw his brandy snifter into the fireplace, where it shattered into a thousand shards and the liquid flamed blue for a moment. Jared’s face was wet with tears. “Oh, wildcat,” he spoke into the silent room. “Why were you taken away?” For the only time in his life, Jared Dunham sounded like a lost little boy.
If Jared Dunham’s reputation in his bachelor days had been low key it was no longer so in the days of his widowerhood. Without Miranda, he became, as Amanda had once said, destructive to himself. His bout with alcohol following Miranda’s death taught him that drink did not help one forget, and gave him a bad headache besides. He had to find something to relieve his terrible anguish.
His stable increased to overflowing as he began to frequent the horse auctions at Tattersall’s. He bought whatever caught his fancy, easing his conscience by telling himself that he would bring the excellent new stock with him to Wyndsong, to introduce new blood into the island breed. Some of his horses were racers, and he soon found a trainer and two jockeys. He took to racing his high-perch phaeton on the Brighton road with the other young men, but the amusement faded when he discovered that no other horses could beat his.
Gambling was boring for the same reason. Jared Dunham never seemed to lose, whether it was cards, or a boxer at Gentleman Jackson’s gym, or something as simple as which raindrop would reach the bottom of the windowpane first. The irony amused him. He was lucky in everything except love.
Jared did not, however, forsake the ladies. On the contrary, his appetite was unquenchable. Among the beauties who accepted a gentleman’s protection it was quickly acknowledged that Jared Dunham was a magnificent lover, a generous lover, but a short-term lover. No one woman could seem to keep him for more than a few weeks.
Married women of his class gazed at him with open interest. Ambitious mamas made certain that he was aware of their fresh and nubile daughters. Miranda Dunham was dead, and that handsome Lord Dunham needed a wife to set him straight. Why not their Charlotte? Or Emily? Or Drusilla?
Most of the maidens thrust at him were terrified of the tall, dark-browed, forbidding Lord Dunham. He seemed always to be glowering, and most were not quite sure he was not laughing at them, his narrow lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. This was hardly the sort of treatment they were used to!
One of the season’s incomparables, however, did not quail from Jared Dunham. Lady Belinda de Winter was the Duchess of Northampton’s godchild. Petite, with a pink and white complexion, dark ringlets, and deep blue eyes, Belinda gave the impression of purity, innocence, and goodness. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The daughter of an impoverished baronet, Belinda de Winter would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. She wanted Jared Dunham.
Belinda had come to London for her season courtesy of her godmama, who had been her late mother’s best friend. Aunt Sophia’s husband, the Duke of Northampton, had three daughters of his own to launch, so he had not been enthusiastic about sponsoring a fourth girl. Though one of the richest men in England, he was not a man to waste money on someone else’s child. Knowledgeable beyond her years, Belinda had sensed his reluctance. But she desperately needed a London season.
Her own home, the Priory, was near the Northampton holding, Rose Hill Court, and Belinda was a frequent visitor. Biding her time, Belinda waited until one afternoon when she knew that Rose Hill Court would be empty of all but the duke and the servants. Catching her uncle in his library, she had cooly seduced him. Then she left him before he had a chance to recover. She had made damned sure he didn’t get the chance to be alone with her again before they went to London.
The duke had been shocked by her behavior, shocked and fascinated. He had never known a woman as aggressive as that slip of a girl with her angel’s face. He ached to have her again, but she avoided him and laughed at him from behind her little hands, her blue eyes dancing wickedly. He had finally succeeded in cornering her at a musicale, and heard himself sounding like a green boy.
“I want to see you again,” he had said.
“If you take me to London you can see me every day,” she had replied.
“You know what I mean, Belinda!”
“And you know what I mean, uncle dear.”
“If I take you to London you will be nice to me?”
“Yes,” she said, and brushed past him.
Belinda de Winter had gotten her season in London, and a magnificent wardrobe as well. But the Duke of Northampton never seemed to be able to find his godchild alone again. She was far too busy leading the exciting life of a London debutante. He continued to watch her, though. Eventually his time would come.
Jared Dunham, the American lordling whose beautiful wife had been swept overboard from their yacht in rough seas, was the subject of endless gossip that season. Belinda watched as other women sought to attract his attention. She listened silently to the talk that surrounded the incredibly attractive man, and she vowed to become his second wife. He was perfect—wealthy, handsome, and he would take her away from England, away from her damned father and brother!
Their behavior and reputations were an albatross around her pretty neck. Although men desired her, and she had had several proposals since bursting upon the London social scene, none of the gentlemen wanted Baron Chauncey de Winter and his son, Maurice, as relations. Belinda couldn’t blame them.
The weather that winter was very bad all over Europe, and Miranda had been confined to the house for several days because of rain. Sasha had quickly tired of Vanya’s jealousy and beaten the boy one day in October. After that, Vanya no longer complained if Sasha chose to play chess or talk with Miranda. And Miranda, feeling sorry for the child, was teaching him French. He was surprisingly good at it, and she suspected that Vanya was one of Lucas’s offspring. She never asked, however. It was better not to know.
She was setting up the chessboard one evening when Sasha entered the room, wineglass in hand. “I’ve just been talking with Dimitri Gregorivich. You won’t have to go to the breeding hut any longer, Mirushka.”
Miranda looked up, surprised. “Why not?” she asked.
He gaped at her. “Why not? Come now, Mirushka, don’t be coy with me. You know you are with child.”
“What?” She looked stunned. “No!” she said. “I can’t be!”
“Mirushka, since we have arrived here you have not had one show of blood, Marya tells me. When was your last cycle with the moon? I know. It was those first days on the road when you were unconscious. You began your flow the day after we left St. Petersburg. I made and changed the pads for you. And before that? Do you remember?”
She was white-faced. The last moon cycle she could remember had happened in England a week before she had left. He was right, she had had no flow in months, but she had simply put it down to shock. But she hadn’t had any other symptoms! At least she didn’t think she’d had any symptoms. Oh God! To return to Jared a soiled dove was bad enough, but to return with another man’s child would be unforgivable.
Sasha’s hand covered hers. “Are you all right, Mirushka?” His voice was kind, genuinely concerned.
“I’m all right,” she said slowly. “Well, Sasha this means you will be able to return to St. Petersburg in the summer. You must be happy.”
“Yes!” he answered excitedly. Then seeing her sad look, he said, “This doesn’t mean you can’t see Lucas, Mirushka. You can, but there can be no more love between you until six weeks after the child is born.”
“There is no love between us now, Sasha. There never has been.”
“Oh, you know what I meant, Mirushka. I meant lovemaking.”
“Making love, Sasha, is not love. It is copulation, and animals do it that way. Without caring.”
He looked at her strangely. She was a curious woman, and he didn’t understand her, but then who could really understand a woman? “Let us play chess,” he said, and they sat down facing each other over the table.
Miranda played badly that evening. Her mind was elsewhere. She could not escape the farm now. She would be forced to remain here until the child was born. Of course, as soon as she was able she would get away—before he impregnated her again. She would leave the child behind. It would be taken from her at birth, anyway. How could she have any feeling for it? It was an alien being, forced upon her, and she meant for Jared never to know of her shame. No, she could not love this baby now growing within her. Why should she?
Lucas. Poor Lucas. She had been a great disappointment to him, for after that first night she had never again reached that peak of passion. Although it frustrated him, angered him, and confused him, she had not been disturbed by it. She had been distressed instead at actually enjoying relations with a man other than her husband. Her body had betrayed her, but her prayers had been answered and now she felt nothing. She had willed it so, and if she had to endure his touch, at least she would not allow her body any pleasure while her spirit was being so heinously violated.
Lucas had been kind to her, though, and for his sake she had pretended, but after a week or so he had stopped in the middle of his rutting, and said, “Why do you pretend?”
“To make you happy,” she answered him. “You are good to me, and I would have you happy.”
He immediately withdrew from her. “My God, Miranda, why do I not give you pleasure any longer?”
“It is not you,” she said.
“I know that!” came the proud, quick reply.
“I warned you in the beginning, Lucas. I am Jared Dunham’s wife. The prince cannot change that. All Prince Cherkessky has done is remove me from my world and place me here, but my world is still there in my heart and mind. The first night you took me my body did indeed respond to yours. I will not deny it. I do not know why it happened, but I prayed it would not happen again and it has not. I am sorry if I have hurt you, for I would not do so deliberately. You are my friend.”
He was silent for a few moments, and then he said quietly, “You are still hoping to go back, little bird, but that will not happen. In time you will come to accept that fact, but meanwhile I want you to know that you have not lost my love. I am a patient man, and I adore you, little bird. But please do not pretend. I will continue to make love to you, and eventually I will melt the ice in which you have encased your heart.”
“Check, and mate!” came Sasha’s triumphant cry. “Mirushka! Mirushka! Whatever is the matter with you? I have taken your queen with a pawn!”
“I am sorry, Sasha. I am simply not in the mood tonight, I am tired.”
“Well, I hope that you’re not going to turn into a dull companion just because you are breeding,” he pouted.
“You must bear with me, Sasha,” she mocked. “After all, I have only done what Alexei Vladimi
rnovich wanted me to do.”
“Indeed,” he brightened. “I shall write him tomorrow with the good news.”
“Be sure to include my felicitations,” she said sarcastically. She rose. “I am going to my chaste bed. Good night, Sasha.”
In the morning she put on a woolen cloak and walked to the men’s quarters to find Lucas.
“Miranda, my love!” he called to her from across the kitchen.
“I am with child,” she said.
“I am glad.”
She almost screamed at him. She turned to go, but he caught her and drew her back. “I must return to the villa,” she said.
“Stay with me,” he answered. “Let us talk. Sonya, some tea, my darling, and some of that good apple cake of yours.”
“There is nothing to talk about, Lucas. I am with child, as everyone has planned. In mid-June I will give birth to a beautiful silver-blond slave, who in five to ten years can be sold in Istanbul for a small fortune. Perhaps she will even become a sultan’s favorite. What a credit she will be to the Cherkessky slave-breeding farm! It is just what I have always wished for a child of mine!”
“Little bird, don’t!” He put his arms around her and held her close.
To her chagrin she burst into tears, and he soothed her until her sobbing stopped. “Damnation,” she hiccoughed in English, and he laughed. She was teaching him English, and he had understood her. “Why are you laughing?” she demanded.
“You are adorable,” he chuckled, “and I love you.”
She sighed with exasperation. He would never understand.
But over the next few months she had to admit that he was most attentive and loving. She had carried little Tom alone, without her husband’s love and support, but it had not mattered for she had wanted Jared’s child. She did not want the baby now moving so actively within her, yet this child’s father was with her every chance he had, and strangely, she found his presence helped. As she grew bigger and bigger, and the painful reality of her situation bore down on her, she needed his honest kindness. She believed she would have gone mad without it. She was having another man’s child while, far away, her husband believed himself a widower!
