Her mouth twisted as she let out a cry. He had never seen her lose control like this — except on the day of the old duke’s death. She gazed at him steadily and said in a cold, hard voice, “You might not be his son, but you are more like Sinclair than you know.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “How I wish it weren’t so.” And then, her anger returned, she added, “And so will this girl you intend to marry — unless you give up your plan to run away from your title and the duty you were bred to perform.”
“I believe we have covered that completely in the past, Mother.”
The duke knew, Simon. He ...” Her voice trailed off, the emotion that had burst from her words going flat in a way he knew well from the days when he had thought himself his father’s son, the legitimate heir, and had listened to her rare arguments with his father. No one ever won an argument with his father. After a while, most learned not to try. “He wanted you to inherit. If he had not, he would have disowned you without a moment’s hesitation.”
“Good day, Mother.”
“Think of that innocent young girl, Simon. Does she deserve what you want to put her through? Just so that you can amuse yourself for a few months’ time? You will ruin her.” When he would have answered, she allowed her voice to rise. “I don’t mean her reputation. I mean her heart and soul.”
He thrust that thought away from him. He wanted Miranda as he had wanted no other woman in his life and Fate had dropped her into his arms. No matter that it was foolhardy to marry for the few months he had left, he would do so. He would be a good husband to her, no matter how brief their time together. And for the rest of his life, he would know that he had had at least a tiny part of the life he had dreamed of once, long ago.
He was not without self-control and he knew several methods that would assure he left no child behind. He was not, in truth, being unreasonable. He could not risk marrying in his new life. Years of deception would wear him down to nothing. But six months was a heartbeat in a lifetime. If he could have her for six months, then so be it. Still, he could not help his urge to justify himself. “She will be ruined if do not marry her, Mother. And she will only be a widow — heart, soul, and jointure in her possession if I do.”
His mother winced. “Simon, reconsider this foolhardy action of yours. If you are determined to keep the integrity of the Watterlys unscathed by scandal and pass the line to a true descendent, you do not want to bring a wife into this mess.”
Simon refused to listen. She was not one from whom he would take counsel. “I must go Mother.” He bent to press a light kiss against her cheek, avoiding her clutching hand.
Chapter 7
Miranda slipped soundlessly into the darkened main hallway of Anderlin. She stopped for a moment to shoot the bolt, leaning against the sturdy oak door. Safe.
Gradually, the trembling within her abated as she drew strength from the peaceful familiarity of Anderlin at night. No servants or younger sisters stirred to ask embarrassing questions, or silently note her discomposure.
The incident yesterday had affected her more than she supposed. As she walked the familiar pathway from the village to Anderlin she had seen highwaymen in every sway of a tree branch in the breeze.
She straightened and headed for the library to check on Valentine. What was she going to do now? Simon seemed intent upon marrying her, Valentine upon marrying her off. And now, at the whim of a scoundrel, she had lost her chance to put the family finances back in order for a while longer.
Her hands clenched. If she had carried a small dagger or a pistol with her, maybe she would have had a chance to fight the cutthroat off. It was amazing the way he had known she had something hidden beneath her skirts, almost as if he could read her mind.
She felt a shiver go through her. He had been one of the meanest, ugliest creatures she had ever had the misfortune to meet. She would never forget the stink of his breath, nor the bushy dark beard that hid his face from her. She hoped never to come across him again.
She entered the darkened study quietly, so as not to disturb Valentine if he were sleeping. The fire had burned low and she could make out only a shadowy outline in the chair by the fire. The sound of his breathing was even and light. She hoped he slept soundly, for then she could avoid any awkward questions.
With an ease born of a lifetime’s familiarity, she moved carefully through the darkness. One thing she needed, whether he approved or not, was a medicinal glass of brandy to steady her nerves.
She nearly dropped the crystal decanter when she heard the duke’s familiar voice. “How does the invalid you tended fare, Miss Fenster?”
She whirled to face the figure in the chair. If he was still here, it meant that he intended to try once more to convince her that the marriage was necessary. She would need all her wits about her. Looking at him she had to suppress a shiver of anticipation when it crossed her mind that he might kiss her yet again in his attempt to change her mind. “Where is Valentine?”
Fortunately, he dispelled the image of a passionate embrace when he said calmly, “I imagine he has quite sensibly retired, considering the hour. I expect he thought you would stay the night with your invalid.
She flushed in the dark, wondering what had possessed her to think of kissing when she needed to think of how to convince him that she was not interested in marrying him. “Yes. Well, as you can see, I did not.” She replaced the lid on the decanter, and put the bottle back. She wasn’t comfortable taking a drink with Simon present.
“What kind of an illness was it, Miranda, to be over so quickly?” he asked.
Miranda frowned. She felt that if she told another lie to him she would become the poor bitter girl in the tale who spit frogs and snakes when she spoke. “That is of no consequence, Your Grace. No doubt you wish to discuss another, more pertinent matter, but I’m afraid this very conversation with you is improper. Perhaps we should continue it tomorrow, in Valentine’s presence.”
“I will be taking my leave at sunrise.” He rose from the chair and crouched by the fire. “Besides, I find I enjoy speaking with you at night, by firelight. And my question is a simple one — do you wish to be married here, in your family home?”
Unbidden, the image of Simon in the old chapel, smiling as he awaited her vows, came to her. Miranda brushed it aside. “What has made you change your mind about marriage? I recall when you thought I was trying to entrap you, you were quite certain that you did not want to marry me.”
He did not look at her as he answered. “I’m surprised you need to ask, after the night we spent together.” Suddenly, he looked deep into her eyes. “Remember — you are the one who is so certain that physical attraction can cause a man to behave foolishly. Surely you can understand that I have accepted that the only way for me to have you in my bed is to marry you.”
Miranda felt the heat of his words all the way to her toes. She refused to give in to it. “But I am a woman, Your Grace. And my mind has not been changed. I do not want to be married to a man who does not love or trust me —” Afraid her words were too harsh for his, after all, gallant behavior, Miranda tried to soften them with a touch of honesty. “Even though there is a physical attraction between us.”
His whisper was as loud as a shout in the silent room. “A strong attraction. The kind worth risking a little pain for.”
“Surely you would not force me to marry you when I am so set against it? This is not the eighteenth century, sir.” She appealed to his honor, knowing how much a part of him it was. “You are too fine a man to do so.”
There was a short silence and then the shadowy figure stood. “Perhaps it is the taint of bad blood in me, Miranda, but I want you and I will do everything in my power to have you.”
“Bad blood? The Earls and Dukes of Kerstone have an impeccable line.”
He stirred restlessly. “Perhaps from my mother’s side, Miranda. One never knows these things, does one? Now, about the wedding — will it take place here? Or shall I make arrangements at
my seat? Or would you prefer London, perhaps?”
Discomforted, she noticed that there was an edge about him that there had not been there earlier. Somehow, he was quite certain she would marry him — and it was not simply masculine arrogance. She had dealt with that before.
This was more, and she was afraid of his intensity as he stared down at her in the darkness of the quiet study.
“Why? When we neither of us have a true desire to be wed?”
In the darkness he moved to light the candles, one by one from the dying glow of the fireplace until the room was filled with leaping shadows and she could see his implacable eyes. “That makes us a perfect matched pair.”
Aware that a scream would merely complicate matters and bring the rest of the household down around their ears, she settled for grinding her teeth. “Your Grace, please, I would prefer that you allow me the liberty of crying off.”
He came toward her, until she could see his face clearly. “But my dear, the ink on our engagement announcement is still wet. Surely you will not embarrass me so?”
She bit her lip. That was a dilemma, was it not? If she cried off ... “Well, then, you cry off. My reputation and feelings are of no consequence.”
He shook his head and smiled. “I cannot humiliate myself that way. I made a promise to the old duke on his deathbed never to disgrace the family name. I have made an honest bid for you, and Valentine has accepted it.”
“Valentine is not thinking clearly.”
“Your brother knows his duty, my dear. And I mine. I don’t know why you persist in fighting your own. Have you a tendre for some other fellow?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why not marry me?”
“Because Grimthorpe is the only reason you feel the need to marry me. I know it is not physical attraction that compels you to make the offer — it is your damnable sense of honor.”
He interrupted the abrupt silence with a deep laugh that held an irritating amount of smug satisfaction. “I think you have mistaken the reason for my offer, my dear. Though, of course, it might not have happened if not for Grimthorpe. I look forward to the task I have set myself.”
She was confused. “Task?”
“I have decided it is my job to make you into a wife any man might take pride in — especially your next husband, should you decide to marry again.”
She felt the sting of his insult first, then took in the import of his final words. “My next husband?”
He sighed. “I want you, my dear, but I cannot keep you.”
“You are making no sense. Marriage is not a temporary state. Are you foxed?”
“No. I have not been drinking. I am trying to explain that you will have me as a husband for only six months’ time.”
“Are you going away?” Some former soldiers did that, she knew, to explore India and Africa. But, as duke, Simon had responsibilities. Surely he would not shirk them?
“You might say so.”
“Do not be cryptic with me now. Where will you be in six months’ time?”
His gaze focused on the leaping flames in the fireplace. “In six months’ time, Simon Watterly, Duke of Kerstone, will be dead.”
She gasped. “But how? Have you the pox?”
It was the duke’s turn to gasp. “Where the devil did you hear about something like that?”
“I overheard Valentine’s friends. They say many soldiers ...”
“No, Miranda, I do not have the pox. And I assure you that you will not be overhearing such conversations in the future. As my wife, you will begin to keep suitable company and discuss suitable subjects.”
She ignored his comments, more intent on the unbelievable thought that this vibrant man was dying. “You are certain of this? Perhaps if you see another doctor?”
“There is no hope, Miranda. I have seen all the doctors I need to see to be certain.”
She stared at him as she reeled under the impact of the news, unable to accept it. Her objections to the marriage were swept away in a single breath. “Perhaps we should apply for a special license?”
For a moment, there was the faintest of smiles on his lips. “I would not be averse, but do you think Valentine can stand the strain of gossip?”
“Valentine admires you very much. I should think he would be happy to know that I will be applying my abilities toward getting you through this crisis and making you well again.”
The smile on his lips was not at all faint this time. “Ah, yes. I would delight in as quick a recovery as your patient had.”
He looked at the mantel. “It is quite dark in here. I can’t see your face. Perhaps that is because of the lack of candles. You really ought not to allow the servants to polish the silver without replacing the candlesticks promptly.”
She suppressed a start. The candlesticks would never be back and it was certainly not the servants’ fault. She realized, very suddenly, that if the duke married her, all would be well for her brother and her sisters.
It was only her own foolish, miserable heart that would suffer. And certainly she deserved that. “I hope you never regret marrying me. I am impetuous and ...”
In a moment he had crossed the distance between them and swept her into his arms. “And loyal and brave and sweet.” His lips brushed her neck as he whispered.
“I don’t know what good I can do your health, Simon, but I will do all that I can and more to see you well.”
“I won’t need anything but your companionship.”
His arms tightened around her, leaving her in no doubt about what he meant. “Although perhaps your nursing skills might be brought to bear upon my heir apparent. He always seems to be sniffling — when he isn’t falling off his horse.”
“I have enough patience for two patients.” Miranda gave herself entirely up into his embrace. “I shall do my best to make you a good wife.”
She had expected a look of subdued triumph to overtake his features, not the bitter twist that came to his mouth. “I think, Miranda, that I will be the one making you into an excellent wife. And your next husband will no doubt thank me.”
Miranda would have protested, but his mouth came down on hers and all thoughts were swept away in the pleasure of the kiss.
Betsy swept a pretty curtsy as Miranda came up the pathway to the neatly kept cottage. Unfortunately, in her excitement, she forgot that a young lady never ran and dashed away behind the cottage calling loudly for her mother.
Miranda had to quickly stifle her laughter behind her palm as Katherine came running, clutching two handfuls of uprooted herbs. Her eyes lost some of their panic when she saw Miranda. Her face became quite pretty when she smiled.
“How did the wormwood tonic do?”
“Oh, quite successfully, thank you. Valentine’s spirits and his appetite have both picked up,” Miranda answered, her smile disappearing as she remembered her task here. “But I’m afraid I need more than a simple remedy this time.”
Katherine’s expression grew grave. “For yourself?”
Miranda shook her head. “No.” She looked into eyes she had learned to trust, after only one short meeting a few days ago. Katherine had been nothing like Miranda expected. She was indeed a good mother — and no lightskirt. Grimthorpe had come to her for a remedy of a very personal — and herbal, nature.
Though it was obvious the family had no money, the garden and pathways were well kept, the cottage itself in repair and neat. Miranda took a deep breath, knowing that she was trusting Katherine with a very important secret. “His Grace has confided in me that he is very ill.”
Katherine murmured in shock. “No.”
“His doctors have told him that he is to die within six months’ time.” Miranda grasped the other woman’s slender arm. “Can you help him? He sounds as if he’s given up hope.”
The healer frowned. “He certainly seemed healthy the little I saw of him. “What are his symptoms?”
The logic of the question caught Miranda by surprise. She had been so
shocked by Simon’s news that she had not thought to find out. She shook her head in annoyance at her own stupidity. “I never thought to ask.”
Katherine smiled sympathetically. “Will you see him sometime soon? Could you ask him then?”
“We are to be married tomorrow — “
Katherine laughed, and Miranda was surprised to hear it. Such a serious demeanor had led her to believe that the healer was incapable of laughter. Then she realized the cause and blushed. “It is not what you think —”
“I think nothing but that when you speak of him your eyes glow. And I shall do my best to see that you have him for as long as you live.” Her eyes darkened. “Although, knowing nothing, I cannot promise. Still, he seemed so hale I can’t believe ...”
Her voice drifted off as she looked full at Miranda. “My goodness, if you are to be married so quickly, how shall I find out the cause of his illness. Will you write?”
Miranda shook her head and began to guide her into the cottage. “No. I have a plan...”
Chapter 8
It was done. She was married. Standing in the only home she had ever known, her beloved Anderlin, Miranda realized she could no longer call it “home” now that she had wed. She stood quietly for a moment in the corner of the dining hall, amazed at the transformation that Simon’s army of newly-hired servants had wrought for their wedding feast. The silver and gold gleamed. Doubt assailed her at the thought that this formidable army of a staff was now hers to command. She hoped she had not made a mistake, marrying a man who did not love or trust her. Truly, what did she know of him? For all she could be certain, beneath the saintly demeanor might lie the heart of a robber bridegroom waiting to chop her up and eat her in a bride stew.
She frowned and walked nearer the mantelpiece. Somehow, candlesticks had been found that matched the ones from the study. The very candlesticks that had been stolen from her in London. She sighed. She had almost put that incident from her mind — Simon was no robber bridegroom, and he would not let her family starve. Valentine had given up his melancholic hibernation to throw himself into new plans to revitalize Anderlin.
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