And Then Comes Marriage

by Celeste Bradley

  Cas felt like knocking himself on the back of the head as he trotted down the steps of Mrs. Blythe’s House of Pleasure and away—away from Lily, away from certain pleasure, away from drink and dance and carousel—to where?

  Or to whom?

  The time was well past three in the morning. He could hardly call upon the pretty widow at this late hour. In fact, he’d not actually been invited to call again at all.

  He stopped in the middle of the walk, frowning in consternation. He’d walked out on her. What if she didn’t like him anymore?

  God, I sound like a girl. He shuddered. Such thoughts were mad, anyway. Unfinished business, that was all.

  So finish it.

  If he caught a hack, he could make it to that prim little house in half an hour.

  If he walked, he’d not be there until after dawn.

  Castor Worthington didn’t rush for any woman. It was a fine night. He would indulge in a leisurely stroll through early-morning London. A constitutional, for his health, partaking of morning air, contemplating the awakening sky.

  His pace quickened. No sense in dawdling, either.

  * * *

  Miranda had gone to bed at her usual early hour, and it hadn’t done her a bit of good. She’d lain awake for hours. Then sleeping fitfully, found herself prone to blurred, sensual dreams, tossing and turning, kicking the covers down and then pulling them up again.

  Her flesh seemed to burn too hot for the summer night temperature. Her hungry, sensitized skin felt every irritating wrinkle in the bedsheets. Finally, unable to bear the twisting of her nightdress, she shucked it off and tossed it across the room and lay naked and aquiver in the cool room.

  I want.

  What did she want?

  I want more.

  Oh yes. More would do nicely.

  His kiss. His mouth. His hands, warm and large and caressing on her skin.

  She allowed her thoughts to go beyond such innocent things, since said thoughts would remain in the privacy of her own skull.

  Him, naked and muscled and sweating against her, the two of them in this bed, rising and falling and rolling—

  The place between her legs throbbed and ached. It hungered for him. Raising her arms above her head, she ran her fingers through her fallen hair and tugged restlessly on it as she remembered the feeling of his lips on hers.

  Sliding one hand down her other arm, the way he’d slid his warm palm over her, she slipped it down and cupped her own breast.

  Would he like her bosom? Her late husband never even looked at her, never touched her without a gown on. She thought she filled out her bodice well enough now, but she had the vague notion that men liked a great deal of bosom.

  Her other hand slid beneath the blankets to where her thighs parted, damp and restless.

  Tentatively, she touched herself. This was something she’d only done a few times in her life, mostly after Gideon had left her so empty and unsatisfied. She’d given it up as a bad job, unable to help herself enough, feeling ashamed of her need to do so.

  Not this time. She lay thinking of him, of the hardness of his body, of the weight of him on top of her in the alley, and the strength of him as he’d helped her up.

  The taste of his mouth as he kissed her on the settee. She thought of the heat of him, of the warmth of his palms as they cupped her arms … his mouth, his lips …

  Pleasure grew and quickened as she quickened her touch. Her breath came fast until she panted and moaned, carried away on the wave of her lust, reaching … reaching.…

  She shattered, there, alone, at her own hand—a small burst of pleasure yet quite intense. She gasped loudly in the silent room, glad at her solitude, glad at the lack of judgment and constraint. As she lay sighing, sweating, soothing herself gently once more, she smiled to think of him—what would be his opinion of her if he could see her now?

  She rather thought he would like what he saw.

  The floating pleasure drifted away. Her body at peace at last, Miranda pulled her covers up high to her chin and snuggled into her pillow for a few hours of sleep. The sun would rise soon.

  I wonder if I shall see him today?

  Her eyes flew open, staring into the black darkness of her room.

  I want more.

  Oh, damn!

  * * *

  Cas loitered in the park across the street from Mrs. Talbot’s front door. Miranda. Mira.

  He ought to feel like a fool. The hour still lacked several minutes of dawn and he’d walked as slowly as he could force himself to. Which wasn’t terribly slowly.

  Yet somehow, he didn’t feel foolish. He felt eager.

  Now he lurked like some spy, hands behind his back, pacing restlessly in the shadow of a large oak. He witnessed the early deliveries of milk and vegetables to the houses around the square. He even witnessed a few husbands sneaking into their homes with the help of collusive servants, well past the hour that a fellow might wish his wife to know.

  Now, there’s an idea. Go home.

  He ought to. The Cas of even a few days ago would have. If Poll ever learned of such antics, he’d never hear the end of his brother’s mockery.

  A movement at an upper-story window caught Cas’s attention. It was the little maid—Tildy?—pulling back the draperies of her mistress’s bedchamber.

  She’s awake.

  Awake at dawn? Surely not.

  Yet as he watched, he saw a slender figure move behind Tildy, in a pale green dressing gown, dark hair tumbled about her shoulders.

  Mira.

  He didn’t think twice. He didn’t think at all. His feet made up his mind for him and he was across the street, tapping at her door before he realized it.

  After an excruciating wait, her door opened and Miranda’s irritated butler glared out at him. “May I help you, sir?” came out with a bit of a snarl attached, and then the fellow blinked. “Oh, Mr. Worthington!”

  The man obviously remembered him from the day before. Cas nodded. “I wish to speak to Mrs. Talbot.”

  The butler frowned. “But … the hour—”

  A feminine voice came from behind the man. Cas leaned forward eagerly, then realized that he heard the uncultured accent of the maid. The butler turned away from Cas for a moment.

  “Yes, but—truly? Now?”

  Cas shifted on his feet, tempted to push past the officious fellow and make a break for Miranda’s stairs. He’d actually stepped forward when the butler turned back to him, a look of profound disapproval on his face. “Mrs. Talbot will see you.”

  Cas stepped smartly into the house and tossed his hat and gloves to the annoying bloke in the livery. He looked about, thinking he’d await her in the parlor, as people did.

  “Upstairs, sir.”

  Oh yes. Invitation to the inner sanctum!

  Mira. Cas pushed past the butler and up the stairs, his eagerness more than he could bear. He found his way to her room and let himself in, opening the door in a rush.

  She stood in the middle of the room. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she had dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looked like heaven.

  She held her dressing gown clutched tightly closed, but her eyes … her eyes offered a vast ocean of invitation.

  Cas stumbled to a stop before her. He ought to say something polite, make some apology for the inexcusable hour.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” Her words came out in a rush. “I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you.”

  Cas let out a sigh, all pretty stilted words swept from his mind by her breathless honesty. “I didn’t even bother to try,” he told her.

  A smile started at the corners of her mouth and widened until it reached her eyes.

  He moved forward slowly, unsmiling, intent on her skin, her voice, her tumbled hair, the sea green of her eyes. When he reached her, he took her hands in his.

  “I had to come back to finish that kiss, Mira.”

  Her smile brightened even more, and something new tinted her sweet expression. He could see the
gleam of awareness in her eyes—a first blooming of a new confidence, a fresh belief in her feminine powers.

  Cas moved closer, enjoying her shy blush as her nervousness warred with her evident eagerness.

  “No one ever kissed me before,” she blurted.

  What? Cas halted. “But … your husband?” Oh hell, she wasn’t some kind of rare married virgin, was she?

  She shook her head. “On the cheek only, after.…” She glanced away. “Afterward.”

  Cas considered the strangely innocent temptress who stood before him. Lifting one hand, he brushed back her tousled hair and looked into her eyes. “The very first kiss?”

  She nodded, biting her lip in embarrassment. “It was so wonderful,” she whispered. She blushed and looked away. “You surely think me simple.”

  He pulled her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I think you’re delicious. Such honesty is a refreshing change, I must admit.”

  Honesty. She liked that. She twined her arms around his neck and sighed into his shirt. “I like you,” she whispered, risking more honesty. “Now I think I like you even more.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. Then, very softly, “I like you too, Mira.”

  She smiled, sifting her fingers through his curls. Then she yawned, so deeply that her jaw popped. She ducked her head, mortified. He only laughed and bent to sweep her into his arms, lifting her easily. Then he carried her to the bed and tucked her in, dressing gown and all.

  “Sleep,” he said. “You are up much too early. My sisters would never be about at such an unholy hour.”

  She curled beneath the covers, smiling. His sisters … Callie and Ellie and Attie. She yawned again, this time without apology. He’d told her so much about them, she felt as though she knew them … and his brothers … Dade and Zander and Rion … and the other one … what was his name?

  “Sleep well. We’ll have plenty of time for that kiss later,” Castor whispered as he tucked the covers high under her chin. Such a beauty she was, with her slender legs and her long neck, like a swan or a Thoroughbred horse, shimmering with life and sweet honest lust.

  Absolutely delicious.

  Perhaps he did have a new girl.

  Chapter Seven

  When Cas left Miranda’s house, it was still early morning.

  She had fallen asleep at once and he’d not had the heart to wake her, for she seemed so tired. He’d stayed awhile anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep with her forehead tucked down into the pillows and her long limbs curled up beneath the covers.

  Before he’d left, and when he knew she was quite deeply asleep, he’d buried his face in her fragrant hair and breathed her in as he stroked his fingertips down her arm with a tenderness he did not remember ever feeling before.

  Not only was it a relief to spend time with a woman who did not seem to know the concept of romantic strategy, but her bashful sincerity made him feel trusted. He felt a rare desire to be forthcoming in return, as though he might be able to share things with her that he’d never shared with anyone.

  Not that he would truly spill his heart, of course. That was not his style. There were places inside him that he would just as soon not know about himself, much less share with a woman—a woman who might look at him differently after, or might not wish to look upon him at all.

  Although, if ever there was such a woman, he thought she might be a lot like Miranda.

  At the bottom of the steps, he had the good fortune to hail a hack right away. Swinging himself up into the taxi before it even stopped rolling, he called out his destination and settled back into the shabby velvet seat.

  * * *

  Poll stood on the grass of the park across the street. He’d cut across rather than try to hail a cab at one of the busiest hours of the morning. Now he stood openmouthed as he watched his twin ramble down the steps of Miranda’s house and ride away.

  Cas? And Miranda?

  Snap. Poll looked down at the double handful of splinters in his palms. Splintered wood that had once been a pretty little carved hair comb. He’d begun it years ago, probably as a gift for his mother, but had finished it in the wee hours of the morning, inspired by Miranda’s rich dark hair.

  There was nothing left but splinters. Ruined past repair.

  How could she? With his own brother? His twin—which was somehow worse, although he couldn’t say precisely why.

  How could she do such a thing to him?

  Fury swept him, yet there was a single, dissenting voice in his mind.

  Miranda is not the two-timing sort.

  But Cas—with the rumpled hair—

  Your hair still looks like a woman’s had her hands in it.

  No. Miranda was painstakingly honest. She simply wouldn’t.

  A horrifying thought crossed his mind. If Miranda was seeing them both—yet was a woman who would not do such a thing—

  That could only mean she didn’t know she was seeing two men at once.

  Which meant that bloody Cas was lying to her, sneaking in on Poll’s sweet, innocent widow! The rotter!

  And how is it that the lady you’ve been seeing for weeks does not know you are a twin? Everyone knows.

  Her very conservative marriage had sheltered Miranda from Society for years. She was aware of only what was printed in the newssheets. The Worthingtons, unholy terrors that they might be considered, weren’t rich enough to be truly newsworthy.

  And you somehow neglected to mention it.

  There was a very good reason why he hadn’t mentioned his brother, other than in a general “I have scads of brothers” kind of way.

  For some mystifying reason, there had never been a woman born who did not think longer on Castor Worthington, who did not linger more at his side, who did not listen more closely or gaze more longingly than she might at his identical twin, Pollux.

  Cas, of course, couldn’t care less, except to dally briefly and move on.

  When Poll realized that sheltered Mrs. Talbot had never heard a single word of gossip or otherwise about the Worthingtons, he knew at that moment that he would never introduce her to his family and, most especially, would not introduce her to Cas.

  Now he regretted that impulse. He should have told her—warned her—that his predatory brother would be circling her!

  It must end. Now. If a bit of Worthington blood must be spilled to make it end, so be it.

  This time it would be Cas who bled.

  * * *

  Poll strode through Worthington House, too furious to pause as usual to enjoy the marvelous mess that was his family home.

  He found Cas sitting in their attic study, pouring himself a brandy and contemplating the afternoon city through the large-paned, leaky window that made their haven a challenging spot to linger come January.

  Cas turned his head when he entered, and grinned. “Had a good time at Mrs. Blythe’s, did you?”

  For lack of any more deadly projectiles, Poll stripped off his coat and threw it at his brother. “You poacher!”

  Cas drew back, his expression confused. “What? Poach? I did not! Dilly was all yours!”

  Poll stood over him, fists clenched. He’d never hated his twin before. His more-than-brother, his other piece—at the moment, he’d like to tear that piece away and toss it from that grimy, smeared window and watch it fall to the street below!

  Cas tossed the balled-up coat aside and peered at him a little worriedly. “Poll, you don’t look well at all. Have a brandy.” He held out the decanter, still uncapped.

  Poll struck it from his hand. The crystal smashed on the floor, sending brandy splashing over both their boots.

  Cas was on his feet in a flash. Not one to let something like that slide, not his brother. Good. Nothing would satisfy Poll more right now than to thrash Cas within an inch of his life. But first, a confession!

  “You couldn’t bear it, could you? You couldn’t bear that I’d found a good woman, a widow who is a million times finer than your usual
jades! You thought you’d slide in, tricking her, making her think you were me, and … and.…”

  Poll couldn’t say it. Cas had been in her house.

  Cas had been in her arms!

  It would not do to merely thrash Cas. Poll deeply and sincerely wanted him dead.

  Cas held up a hand to halt his brother’s threatening advance. “Wait … wait, Poll. Are you speaking of Mira—of Mrs. Talbot?”

  Poll growled. “Of course I’m speaking of Miranda! I’ve been courting her for weeks, as you well know!”

  “You have?” Cas’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh hell.” He put a hand to his face, rubbing at his cheeks.

  Cas didn’t want to think it. He didn’t want to know it.

  However, it was terribly, horribly possible.

  I suppose you’ve had time to perfect your Tempest! Very good!

  She’d been speaking to Poll, not him.

  I wanted to see you.

  Cas didn’t know why it had not occurred to him before. Why would a woman, even a free and sexually available widow, take a man home within moments of meeting him? When did a woman require no preamble, no dancing or flowers or pretty conversation?

  All the things Poll was so very good at.

  Cas took a step backwards, away from his brother. Guilt washed over him. He’d been so casual, so reckless.

  He thought of lovely, honest Mira—who belonged to Poll.

  I like you, she’d whispered to him as she sheltered in his arms. Now I think I like you even more.

  Him, not Poll. “You courted her for how long?”

  “Since the beginning of last month.”

  “Nearly four weeks. Four weeks before I first encountered her.”

  “Yes! You saw what I had and you wanted it for yourself!”

  Cas shook his head. “No. Poll, no. It was a mistake. She confused us … as people so often do. She must have followed me into the alley, thinking I was you.” He explained his flying leap of rescue and that he had escorted the lady home.

  Poll halted in his fury. “That’s—but how could you let her think you were me?”

  Cas shrugged. “It honestly didn’t occur to me. She was pretty and bold and I thought she was just another widow with a taste for adventure.”