by Jessica Hart
‘She sounds like a nice godmother to have.’
‘She was wonderful. I always had interesting conversations with Dulcie,’ Miranda remembered. ‘She never talked down to me. Even when I was a very little girl I can remember her treating me as if I were an adult.
‘Generally, though, Dulcie preferred animals to humans,’ she went on. ‘She was always rescuing them and nursing them back to health. I remember the cottage being full of cats and rabbits and chickens and hedgehogs and baby birds…and of course all sorts of dogs. Rafferty was my favourite.’
She smiled reminiscently. ‘He was an Irish Setter cross who’d been abandoned on the road. I loved that dog,’ said Miranda. ‘I walked him for hours.’
Rafe studied her dreamy profile. She had told him more about herself than perhaps she realised. Growing up as an ugly duckling in a family of self-absorbed beauties-including her father, by the sound of it-it was hardly surprising that she had retreated behind that prickly, prim, practical façade.
It was odd now to remember how colourless she had seemed when he first met her. Rafe watched her now, sitting on the steps in her neat grey skirt and that good girl white blouse and her muddy shoes. She was different here. He had been able to tell as soon as she got out of the car. Even sitting there he could see that those taut muscles had relaxed. It was as if the sea and the air and this dilapidated old house had lit something inside her.
She was almost shining with it, he thought. Miranda would never be pretty, but she reminded him of a bright-eyed bird with deceptively dowdy plumage, the subtle beauty of whose patterned feathers you only saw when you looked closely.
No, not a beauty, and yet…Rafe remembered how light and slender she had been in his arms as he danced her around the dusty ballroom. The clean, fresh fragrance of her still lingered in his memory, like the gurgle of laughter and the smile that had lit up her face, and, more disturbingly, that peculiar sense of rightness he had felt when he held her.
Rafe shook the thought aside. Really, he was getting fanciful.
‘Are you really going to live here?’ he asked her dubiously.
‘It’s mine. Dulcie left it to me when she died three years ago.’
‘A pity she didn’t leave you any money to make it habitable.’
Miranda turned her head at that. ‘I hadn’t told her about the problems we were having at Fairchild’s,’ she said with a clear look. ‘I’m sure she assumed that I would have plenty of money of my own. She left a fortune to the animal rescue centre, but she knew how much I loved it here, and I’ll always be grateful to her for making Whitestones mine.’
She looked back at the sea. ‘Everything started to go horribly wrong not long after she died. For a long time it was all I could do to keep things together at Fairchild’s. My father was in a terrible state, and Belinda and Octavia simply didn’t understand what was going on and why they couldn’t keep their allowances. I had to sell everything that meant so much to them-the houses, the horses, the paintings, the cars…’ Miranda sighed. ‘It was a horrible time, and all through it the thought of Whitestones was all I had to hang onto. I can’t explain what it meant to me.’
There was a faint crease between Rafe’s brows. It sounded as if Miranda had had to deal with everything by herself. Why had her family let her take on that burden alone? She hadn’t had an easy time of it, then or now.
‘Did you never consider selling? At least then you wouldn’t be spending your evenings as a waitress.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure it’s worth that much. You’ve seen the condition it’s in, and not many people would want to walk over the field to get to the house.’
‘You could put in a track.’
‘Maybe, but you would have to negotiate with the farmer. It would take ages and cost a lot of money. How many prospective purchasers could be bothered? And why should I sell it?’ Her chin had a stubborn tilt that was already becoming familiar to Rafe. ‘It was nothing to do with Fairchild’s. It’s the only thing that’s ever been mine, and I’m not going to let it go.’
‘So you’re going to leave London to live all alone in a decrepit cottage miles from anywhere, without the most basic of conveniences, and run a business you haven’t been able to think of yet?’
The chin went up a notch. ‘I won’t be all alone. I’m going to have a dog.’
‘Miranda Fairchild, I can’t believe you would even think of doing anything so reckless and impractical,’ said Rafe, but his voice was warm with an unmistakable undercurrent of laughter.
‘I know.’
She did know. Miranda turned her head back to look at Rafe and was gripped by a feeling of unreality. He really was impossibly handsome. He had no business looking that good.
It was hard to imagine anyone who belonged less at Whitestones than Rafe did right then, but Miranda was suddenly, desperately aware of him again. It was as if every cell in her body were tingling with the knowledge that he was there, sitting only inches away, close enough to touch.
In spite of looking so utterly out of place, he was relaxed, long legs drawn up on the steps, broad wrists dangling between his knees, and yet still exuding vitality and virility. Those big hands had held her as he waltzed her round the floor. His palm had been warm against her back, his clasp strong around her fingers.
The memory quivered in the pit of her stomach, and Miranda made herself look away. Not that it did much good. Not looking at his hands meant looking at the masculine, exciting lines of his face instead, at his jaw, his cheek, his chin. At the cool, humorous mouth with the heart-tugging curl at the corner, and her mouth promptly dried.
Feeling her gaze on him, Rafe turned his head to meet her gaze, and she was snared helplessly in the gleaming dark blue depths of his eyes, unable to look away as the oxygen was sucked from the air. Unable to breathe, Miranda was left dizzy, trembling, and yet exhilarated at the same time.
She had never felt like this before, never been so overwhelmed by the intensity of her senses. She could feel the roughness of the wooden step beneath her with a preternatural clarity, hear the sound of the sea on the shingle as she had never heard it before. The sun was warm like a caress on her arms, and the salt tang of the air mingled with the scent of fresh grass and bleached wood.
And of the lethally attractive man next to her, sitting there with those wickedly glinting eyes and that mouth…oh, that mouth! Rafe Knighton was way out of her league, Miranda knew that, and yet right now it seemed utterly right that he should be there, inexplicably bound up in the perfection of the moment, and without warning she was seized by a wild happiness, so sharp and intense it was almost painful.
This moment was hers, and she would never forget it.
‘I know,’ she said again, not quite steadily. Tearing her eyes from his at last, she laughed, still giddy with it. ‘It’s madness.’
‘Complete madness,’ Rafe agreed, but then he was laughing too, and with a mixture of relief and regret Miranda felt the terrible, wonderful intensity dissolve. ‘I like the idea that you’re not always sensible and careful.’
‘I am except when I’m here.’
‘Then this is where you should be.’
Grateful to him for understanding, Miranda smiled at him as she got to her feet. ‘I’ll show you the beach.’
They followed the coastal path a little way until it dipped down to a stream, where they could clamber over the stones to reach the empty beach that stretched back under the cliff towards Whitestones. Gentle waves broke onto the shingle with a whoosh and a rustle before they were sucked relentlessly back into the sea.
A light breeze lifted their hair, teasing tendrils out of Miranda’s tight band. They blew around her face, tickling her cheek, so that she had to keep lifting a hand to smooth them away. Their feet crunched over the stones, but it was hard walking in heels.
Miranda muttered an exclamation of frustration at last. ‘These shoes are hopeless for the beach,’ she said, bending to take them off. ‘Turn your back a m
oment.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to take my tights off.’
‘I’m certainly seeing a new side to you today,’ he said, but he turned obediently away to pull off his own shoes and socks while Miranda wriggled awkwardly out of her tights.
Rolling up his trousers, Rafe followed her down to the narrow band of rough sand by the water, where it was easier to walk than on the uneven shingle.
‘You’ll get wet,’ Miranda warned as the waves broke over their feet, and swirled around their ankles.
‘You can’t come to the seaside and not paddle.’
Rafe was enjoying the sight of the prim and proper Miranda Fairchild wandering barefoot along a beach, sensible shoes dangling from one hand, hair escaping at last from that horrible severe style she insisted on wearing, but when she turned to smile at him she looked so happy that his heart stumbled for a moment.
Just a moment, though. Rafe recovered so quickly that he almost managed to convince himself that it had never happened.
Almost.
‘Won’t you be lonely here on your own?’ he asked her. ‘And pets don’t count!’
‘I’d rather be lonely than with the wrong person,’ said Miranda after a moment. ‘I’ve seen what that’s like.’
‘Your parents?’
She nodded. ‘I suppose they must have loved each other once, but I think the attraction they had for each other can only ever have been physical. Once that had worn off, they were just two strangers who didn’t like each other very much, living in the same house. They used to fight all the time and throw recriminations at each other.’
Miranda hugged her arms together, the shoes still hooked over the fingers of one hand. ‘My father would claim my mother had only married him for his money, which was partly true, and then she’d shout that he’d only wanted her for her title, which was also partly true. I think they must have liked fighting, actually. They were both very emotional and dramatic, so perhaps it satisfied some craving for attention, but it was exhausting for the rest of us. It was actually a relief when Mummy finally left.’
Rafe was surprised at how vividly he could picture Miranda as a small, too-restrained child, hating the constant drama and scenes her parents created around her. ‘How old were you?’
‘I was twelve, but Octavia was only eight. She was only a little girl. It was awful for her.’
Twelve wasn’t very old to cope with losing your mother either, Rafe thought.
‘It was hard for Belinda too,’ Miranda added fairly, unaware of his mental interruption. ‘Even though she was fourteen, she was closest to our mother, and she looks exactly like her. My father was terribly humiliated, but he put a good face on it and we soon got used to an ever-changing succession of girlfriends who all looked remarkably like our mother.’
Poor little kid, thought Rafe. He’d bet that, even at twelve, Miranda had been the one to look after her sisters. ‘So you lived with him rather than your mother?’
‘In theory. We’d go and stay with our mother sometimes, but it was never a great success. I think we made her feel old.’ She smiled, but without much humour. ‘Daddy did his best, but his idea of parenting was to send us to expensive schools, but not so that we could go on and get good jobs. It was to make sure we met all the best people and were invited to all the best parties, so that eventually we could marry just as he and our mother did and make all the same mistakes!’
Miranda shook her head, releasing more little tendrils from her ponytail. ‘He was absolutely delighted when Belinda married Charles, mainly because Charles has a minor title. They had the society wedding of the year. You’d probably have been invited if you’d been around,’ she said with a sideways glance at Rafe, walking barefoot beside her and managing to look perfectly groomed with his trousers rolled up to his ankles.
‘It cost an absolute fortune, but it was all worth it apparently,’ she went on, unable to disguise the thread of bitterness in her voice. ‘The wedding was featured in all the glossy magazines. Everyone said it was a great success, so I suppose it must have been. Never mind that it was the final straw that broke Fairchild’s.’
She broke off a little guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, that sounds like sour grapes, doesn’t it? I ought to be happy for Belinda. She’s happy, and that’s what matters. She’s got the perfect yummy-mummy lifestyle she always wanted, even if she does have to put up with Charles braying like a donkey whenever he laughs-
‘There I go again,’ she caught herself up once more. ‘I was always being told how I would never get married unless I learnt to sweeten my tongue a bit, as if that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me! I ought to be nicer, but it was so frustrating to see my father spending money hand over fist when the company was in such trouble.’
‘The company didn’t pay for your sister’s wedding, did it?’
‘My father treated Fairchild’s like a private bank account,’ said Miranda bitterly. ‘He thought it was there to provide him with the lifestyle he felt entitled to. He never thought about the people whose jobs depended on the company. Actually, I don’t think he ever realised that everything he liked to do-eating out in the most expensive restaurants, buying the best wines, getting his shirts made in Jermyn Street, skiing in Gstaad, all that stuff-all of it was dependent on Fairchild’s.’
Frustration churned in her still whenever she thought about it. ‘I tried so hard to turn things round. Daddy couldn’t be bothered with the business side of things, so he was happy to turn most of the day-to-day running of the company over to me, but as soon as Belinda announced her engagement it was hopeless. He was determined that she should have the best of everything.
‘It was obscenely extravagant.’ Miranda shuddered at the memory. ‘I can’t bear to think about it: the dress, the invitations, the flowers, the table decorations, the food, the champagne, the special entertainer for children…It was all so over the top.’
‘Weddings often are excessive,’ Rafe commented mildly.
‘But why?’ Miranda stopped and watched a tanker inch its way along the horizon. ‘It seems to me that if you want to get married, you shouldn’t need all that brouhaha. It should be about two people making a commitment to each other. You don’t need five hundred guests and a flotilla of bridesmaids and pageboys for that.’
‘You’re very severe,’ said Rafe, standing beside her. ‘A wedding is the most important day of most people’s lives. What’s wrong with wanting to make it special?’
‘Well, if I ever get married, it’s going to be just me and a man who loves me,’ said Miranda defiantly. ‘All we’ll need is each other. We’ll have a simple ceremony, then we’ll come here and sit on the beach when it’s dark. Maybe we’ll have some champagne and listen to the sea and just be together.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we’ll go back to Whitestones and make love all night, and know that when we wake in the morning the sun will be streaming through the window, and we’ll have the rest of our lives to spend together.’
‘Miranda, you’re a romantic!’ Rafe’s smile held more affection than mockery. ‘I never expected that.’
Up went the chin in a gesture that already seemed heart-clenchingly familiar. ‘You’re not, I suppose?’
‘I don’t think I can be,’ he confessed, ‘but I can certainly see the appeal of your wedding. What will you be wearing?’
She stared at him, disconcerted by the abrupt question. ‘What?’
‘You seem to have imagined your wedding in some detail. I just wondered what you were going to wear to make the occasion special-or will you just be in one of your neat little grey suits?’
‘Of course not,’ said Miranda, but she hesitated. ‘I don’t know about a dress,’ she admitted after a moment. ‘I’m not very good at clothes.’
Rafe put his head on one side and considered her. ‘I think you should wear something very simply designed, but in a soft, beautiful fabric. Something floaty, with chiffon perhaps, to make you look ethe
real…like a mermaid.’
Miranda was embarrassed by how clearly she could imagine it as Rafe described her dress in his deep, warm voice. ‘If I’m going to look like a mermaid, I should carry a bunch of seaweed perhaps?’ she said in an attempt to puncture the sudden tension in the atmosphere.
‘Meadow flowers would be better,’ said Rafe, unfazed. ‘And, of course, you’ll have to let your hair down.’ Without thinking, he reached out and pulled the band from her ponytail so that her hair slithered silkily forward. It was just as soft against his fingers as he had imagined, and he let out a careful breath.
Thrown ridiculously off balance by how she looked, standing there with the sun in her eyes and her hair spilling down to her shoulders, he made a great show of fluffing it up in a caricature of a hairdresser while he got his breathing under control.
‘That’s better,’ he said.
Realising that she was trembling, Miranda snatched the band from his hands, and stepped back from the tantalising warmth of his hands.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ she said, hating the fact that her voice wasn’t quite steady. ‘If I ever get married, I’ll certainly remember your advice.’ She began walking along the sand again. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, though. I won’t get married until I can find a man who is everything to me, a man who doesn’t feel as if he’s quite complete unless I’m beside him. I realise that may take a long time,’ she added, hoping that she sounded wryly amused, but suspecting that instead she simply sounded wistful.
‘Ah, so you’re holding out for the fairy tale?’
Why couldn’t she sound like that? Miranda wondered resentfully. That was exactly the tone she had hoped to achieve. ‘It’s that or nothing,’ she said, glancing sideways to find him watching her with an indecipherable expression. ‘I suppose you don’t believe in fairy tales either?’
‘No, I can’t say I do,’ said Rafe. ‘I think that kind of all-encompassing love is overrated, to be honest. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist. My parents had that kind of marriage. They were everything to each other, just the way you want to be with your husband.’
