And Then Comes Marriage

by Celeste Bradley

  “Look at me! I’m soaked and my dress is ruined and—oh, this water is cold!”

  He reached for her again, and this time she allowed him to help her out. Her black gown was soaked, though truly that was no loss. Her perfectly pinned hair was a mess of fallen, dripping tangles. She looked as disgruntled and awkward as a wet cat. He tried to keep a straight face; he truly did. Really.

  There was no help for it. He laughed so hard, he had to lean his hands on his knees to stay upright.

  She scowled all the harder, which sent him off again. Straightening finally, he swiped at his watering eyes and bowed his apology. “Mrs. Talbot, allow me to offer you my coat—”

  “Well, bloody well hand it over! I’m freezing!”

  He whipped off his surcoat and wrapped it around her. Oh, damn. She was like ice.

  The hired hack still waited by the gate to the park. Cas swung her up into his arms, ignoring her scandalized protest, and rushed her back to the carriage.

  Once there, he ignored the wide-eyed driver and stuffed her inside.

  “Hurry, back to Breton Square!”

  While the carriage rattled on, Cas took Miranda’s hands in his. Her fingers were icy and her entire body trembled. “Damn it!” He wrapped her more tightly in his coat and pulled her into his lap.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and didn’t move again. Cas pounded on the small trapdoor above his head. The driver flipped it open.

  “What the bloody hell is taking so long?”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s all them folks leaving the theaters. Can’t wedge me way in.”

  “Damn it!” He settled back down next to Miranda. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t think.” He never did, neither he nor Poll.

  She was fully shivering now, her teeth chattering like dice. “It’s su—summer. How c—can it be so ch—chilly out?”

  Miranda was beginning to feel decidedly odd. She shuddered so hard she felt as if her bones were clacking together. She huddled on Mr. Worthington’s lap, wishing she could dig further into his warmth, no longer concerned about proprieties.

  He wrapped his arms tightly around her, and took her hands in his again to warm them.

  She could scarcely feel her fingers or toes. Without thought, she kicked off her sodden slippers and drew her feet up to his lap as well. He tucked her hands into his waistcoat to warm up and used his to rub at her icy feet.

  The heat of his body began to seep through her skin, though she still shivered. She squirmed and turned her face into his neck, for if she could only get closer still.…

  “Miranda.” His voice was tight and strained in her ear.

  “Hmm?”

  “I—ah—”

  She looked up, realizing that she was practically crawling up his chest. “Am I too heavy? Should I move?”

  “Don’t move!” He held her more tightly. “Please—if you squirm any more, I’m likely to embarrass myself.”

  Shocked, she went entirely still. She could feel it now, the stiffened organ pressing against her thigh. For several long moments, she hardly dared breathe.

  Then, she sneezed, rocking deeply in his arms with the strength of it.

  He gasped and his hand fisted around her bare ankles. “Miranda—” His voice was full of dark desire. His touch on her skin felt like fire and need.

  Oh my. The seed of curiosity that had never been truly tamped out rose and stretched cat-like within her. She truly couldn’t help herself. Pretending to pull her soaked neckline higher, she rotated her bottom in his lap.

  There was a small lantern affixed to the inside of the carriage. With a flailing hand, he reached up to turn the key to douse the wick. The interior of the carriage plunged into darkness, lighted only by the streetlamps passing slowly outside.

  However, the street was crowded with pedestrians and carriages alike. There were people only a few feet away from them.

  The knowledge should have sent Miranda scrambling for the opposite seat. As she lay in the heat and security of Mr. Cas Worthington’s arms, she thought she probably ought to ponder her indifference further—but she simply didn’t care.

  She wanted to be closer to him. Her last proper resistance disappeared when she thought of how he would feel against her, skin to skin, and how his warm hands would feel on her chilled breasts.

  She undid the buttons of his waistcoat one by one. “I need to be warmer.”

  He clenched his eyes shut. “Mira, we’ll be back to your house soon enough.” Really, it was sweet—but entirely hopeless.

  “No, we won’t. This crowd will take hours to get through and you know it.” She slid her hands beneath the weskit, seeking warmth, seeking strength, seeking him.

  She truly was on the verge of being dangerously chilled. It was all in the name of good health. And he felt so good. His big body was hot and hard and she was so blasted cold.

  She felt his body shudder beneath her, around her. “Mira.” His low voice rumbled into her, setting off vibrations in unexpected places.

  Tensing for his rejection, she waited, but he only wrapped his arms more tightly about her and rested his chin on the top of her wet head.

  “Burrow in, Mrs. Talbot,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe and warm.”

  At his concerned tone and his protective embrace, Miranda’s eyes abruptly filled. Had anyone ever in her life promised to keep her safe and warm?

  And she was, both out of harm’s way and no longer cold.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her damp face into his warm neck and let out a deep sigh. His arms tightened about her.

  Gratitude filled her. If not for the dousing that forced her to cling to his warmth, she might never have given in to her desire to feel his hard chest once more, to feel cradled safe in his arms.

  Most of all, she might never have acknowledged her own secret craving to press her body to his as he rescued her once more.

  Her nipples throbbed, as hard as rubies in mingled chill and arousal. However, she’d never known a little chill to ignite the sweet, hot ache that grew between her thighs. It was the scent of him—a mingled perfume of damp wool and clean, aroused male. It was the solidity of his broad body and the strength of his powerful arms wrapped tightly about her. She allowed the melting, quivering awakening to fill her, to expand beneath her skin, Her blood heated, burning away the chill.

  Miranda turned her head to rest upon his chest, over his heart. The deep, potent sound of his racing pulse rang through her like a bronze bell.

  I want more. Heaven help me, I want it all.

  He didn’t know it, she was quite sure. The silence and darkness wrapped about them, keeping her secret for her. She could ache for him with no one the wiser.

  They rode that way all the way back to Breton Square and home.

  * * *

  Cas left Miranda in the capable hands of her bossy little maid, Tildy, who shooed him from the premises with a hard look for any man who would be foolish enough to give her mistress a chill—and on a night with no rain yet!

  Cas left reluctantly, for he knew Miranda was exhausted.

  Their adventure was a first for Cas. Oh, he’d nuzzled a few bosoms while on wheels, but no woman had ever ridden quietly in his arms as if he were a shining knight rescuing her from a dragon’s lair!

  There was something different about her. Was it her eagerness or her naïveté? Except … Miranda wasn’t naïve! She was a good woman, a kind and intelligent creature … with just a touch of naughty wench within. He’d felt her desire in her touch when she sought the warmth of his body. He probably could have seduced her right then and there, if he’d put a little muscle into it.

  But he hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t want to see that expression on her face, the one he called the day-after look, the one of mingled shock and shame and delight, tainted by the growing realization that he was on his way out the door.

  And Miranda would be shocked if she knew him at all—if she knew what it was that he wanted from her.

  She�
�d give it to you anyway. You know she would.

  Yes, he did know it. She would submit with the same vulnerable, sweet generosity that she did everything, from dealing with her snippy butler to tolerating old Seymour’s haughty puffing.

  Cas had been alone for a while now, longer than he would confess to anyone, even Poll. He’d told himself that he was bored with all the women he knew, but in truth he had become very weary of hunting tigers.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning, Miranda received yet another letter from her sister-in-law, Constance Talbot.

  “Miranda—

  It has come to my attention that you are neglecting your duty to maintain the house in its original condition. In particular, it seems you are being somewhat cavalier with the ancestral treasures held within.”

  Ancestral treasures? For a moment, Miranda frowned, picturing secret caches of Egyptian booty stolen by early Talbot grave robbers. Then she realized that Constance was referring to the damned dogs!

  “Twigg, you are a dead man,” Miranda murmured.

  “I hope this letter finds you more inclined to see to your responsibilities. I should hate to have to oversee matters myself—”

  “Oh, no.” Miranda’s throat tightened. She’d have to allow it, of course. This was Constance’s childhood home. Miranda could hardly ban her from it, as much as the notion might appeal!

  Her fury at Twigg’s betrayal boiled over, happily concealing the deep anxiety of the possibility of living under Constance’s heavy thumb once more.

  Striding into the hallway, Miranda let her head fall back. “Twigg!”

  The butler popped up from whatever realm butlers frequented when not needed. “Yes, madam?”

  Miranda regarded him sourly. “This is my house, Twigg. Mine.”

  Twigg took a step back. “Ah, yes, madam. This is your house.”

  She glared at him through narrowed lids. “Good. I’m glad we resolved that little question. My house. Not Miss Constance Talbot’s house. Gideon—Mr. Talbot—left it to me.”

  Twigg nodded, paling slightly. “Mr. Talbot left it to you.”

  Miranda pinned the butler with one last furious glare, then turned away. “My house,” she muttered as she strode away down the hall. “I bloody well earned it.”

  “Yes, madam.” Twigg’s voice followed her down the hall. “Your house.”

  * * *

  When Mr. Poll Worthington called on Miranda the next afternoon, she greeted him with a relieved smile. “I am very happy to see you,” she told him. “And that you are unaccompanied.”

  He tilted his head, his smile of greeting fading slightly. “Is Cas giving you any trouble, Mira?”

  Miranda shook her head with a small laugh. “No, not trouble. However, this is all a bit … confusing. I preferred things the way they were, I suppose.”

  Her reply eased Poll’s tension, yet he could not help but think that “the way things were” had been a little too safe and a little less than satisfying.

  Before she was kissed by Cas.

  Yet he was surprised and gratified when she trustingly tucked her hand into his arm and turned to walk him back to her parlor.

  Back to tea and conversation.

  Poll truly enjoyed Miranda’s company, and his admiration for her mind grew by the day, and he certainly found it refreshing that she required him to do more than simply rely upon his charm—but today he’d made other arrangements.

  “Miranda,” he laughed. “Wait, wait!” He took her hand and led her back down the steps. “Come with me. I’m taking you somewhere special!”

  By the way her eyes lighted, he knew he’d been right to draw her out of her safe surroundings at last.

  He waited with an expectant smile while she donned her spencer and gathered her gloves and reticule. Tildy was ready with everything, which to Miranda meant that her maid knew more about this afternoon’s surprise than she did. This was irritating, yet intriguing.

  A hack waited in front of the house. It occurred to Miranda that, aside from her opera-and-fountain adventure of the previous evening, she had left the house very little in the past week. Resolved not to allow herself to continue to wait around for her handsome callers, she laughingly took Mr. Worthington’s proffered hand and stepped into the weathered hack.

  Poll murmured some complicated directions to the driver, then settled back on the cushions next to her. “As the day is so fine, I told him we’d take the long way round. After so much rain, I thought it would be lovely to take a drive in the air.”

  Miranda leaned back in the velvet-tufted seat with him, realizing that the world was indeed summer fresh and gleaming.

  They drove through Mayfair at a sedate pace until they turned down a lovely small street lined with gracious old houses set impressively far from the street, though a few had gone a bit shabby with neglect. The hack rolled to a stop before one of them.

  Miranda peered out curiously. “Who lives here?”

  Mr. Worthington smiled. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  Miranda frowned at him, then squinted at the distant door. “I believe … oh, dear. I do not think they are at home.”

  Mr. Worthington vaulted lightly to the street and helped her out until she stood beside him, her brow still wrinkled in confusion.

  “I don’t understand. We are not making calls?”

  Mr. Worthington reached behind the seat and tugged free a well-loved woven wicker picnic basket, latched shut.

  Then he bowed, gesturing her up the walk of the deserted house.

  “Come this way,” he whispered, taking her hand and pulling her aside as she automatically made for the front steps. Hand in hand, they crept around the side of the house. Miranda felt like a naughty child, back when a simple scolding was the worst thing she had to worry about.

  When they reached the back garden of the place, Miranda sighed in delight. The place was magical, a garden returned to the ownership of the fairies. Flowers bloomed riotously, weeds and exotic blossoms alike. Rampant ivy transformed a pretentious little copy of a Roman ruin into something quite charming. A cherub fountain sat askew, the sculpture looking down as if in contemplation of the green weedy liquid beneath, dotted with water lilies and Miranda would bet not a few frogs!

  “Oh, this is wonderful! What an ideal picnic destination.” She could not help but notice the privacy as well. Daring Poll!

  He kept going through the garden, just when she would have stopped to spread the picnic on a patch of golden sunlit grass gone to hay.

  “Oh no,” he said, grabbing for her hand and tugging her onward. We aren’t there yet.”

  Mystified and, yes, a little disappointed, Miranda let the wild garden go with one last longing glance and followed him back, back past the neglected kitchen vegetable beds with their tangle of onions gone mad, past the ivy-covered mews, long since cleared of the scent of horse. There was a wall and a gate, which led to the alley, a sort of private drive for the houses on this row, where the driver would exit with the horses and carriage to pull around front for the inhabitants of the house.

  Beyond the gate, which Mr. Worthington nonchalantly forced open with a grunt, there was the aforementioned graveled alley and across the drive was a high wall, also green with ivy so old the vines were branches and the branches like great tree trunks. Mr. Worthington grinned at Miranda, his eyes alight with mischief—

  And tossed the picnic basket over the wall.

  Miranda drew back. “Mr. Worthington, what is on the other side of that wall?”

  “A very nice place. You’ll adore it.”

  She examined the wall doubtfully. It had to be more than nine feet high. “The person who built that wall doesn’t seem to me to be a person who would be casual about trespassers.”

  He grinned and lifted one foot to place it on a low, horizontal vine. “It’s an easy climb. You can do it, even in skirts.”

  She took a step back. “I like the garden. Let us have our picnic there.”

 
; “What?” He scoffed. “That weedy pit? Wait until you see. I know you love gardens. That’s why I thought of this.”

  “But, Mr. Worthington—” She tilted her head at him, perplexed. “Why do you want to climb someone else’s wall?”

  He eyed the wall for a moment, then gave a careless shrug. “To me, a wall such as that is like a dare.” He turned to bestow a beautiful smile upon her that she could only interpret as having criminal intent. “I dare you, Miranda,” he sang teasingly. “Climb the wall. Just to take a peek.”

  She folded her arms. Despite herself, she was beginning to be curious about the other side of that wall. What if it were no more than another, larger deserted garden, where they might safely while the afternoon away? Or it could be a busy street with shops and she could stroll on his arm for all the world to see.

  Or it could be something altogether new and wondrous and she would wonder for the rest of her life if she’d missed something new and wondrous because she wouldn’t step up on an ivy vine.

  Shooting Mr. Worthington a filthy glare, she dumped her reticule and gloves into his care and took hold of a vine just above her head. She put her foot on the first vine he’d indicated and climbed a foot.

  It was all that easy, really. She had to reach down and toss a portion of her skirt over her arm, but as there wasn’t a soul in sight, it didn’t seem so scandalous at the time.

  Soon, vine after vine, step after step, for it was rather like a bushy sort of ladder, her head rose high enough over the top of the wall to see what lay past.

  “Oh my stars.”

  Mr. Worthington was right. The garden behind her was a weedy pit. This—this acreage of flowers and sculpture and emerald lawn and cunning plantings—this was a garden!

  He popped up next to her on his own vine-ladder and folded his arms across the top of the wall in satisfaction. “Like it?”

  “I—” She couldn’t help herself. She clambered up another vine-step, and then another, until she could sit atop the wall with her legs still dangling demurely on the proper side. She absently released her skirt from its tucked captivity and let it fall, forgetting it immediately in her awe. “I don’t understand—how could this be in the middle of London and I not know about it?”