Simon noted the pale cheeks. “Have you been ill?” he asked, intending to divert his mother.
“No,” Arthur sniffled. “Nothing more than my usual rails.”
The dowager duchess smiled maliciously at her son and he wished he could bring himself to toss her out bodily. But he had promised the old duke. And Arthur’s rails were quite well-known. They kept him up at night, they kept blue circles under his eyes. His valet often spent the night providing steaming pails of water just so Arthur could breathe.
Simon refused to allow himself to consider Arthur’s worthiness — or unworthiness. His extensive search for an heir, a true heir, had dug up Arthur and that was all there was to it. If Simon himself had been dead, there would have been nothing for it but for Arthur to take up the title.
He could not bear to think of the dukedom lapsing after so many years of vigorous and healthy service. Just as he could not bear the thought that a man without a drop of the Watterly blood might insinuate himself into the proudly unbroken lineage.
Unaware of the serious bent to his cousin’s thoughts, Arthur beamed and clapped Simon on the back. “I hear you’ve brought a bride home, Simon. I hope that means that I’ll soon be an unnecessary appendage and you’ll have a full nursery.”
Simon bit back a sharp retort. His cousin was nothing if not sincere. There was no hint of disappointment — in fact there seemed to be a touch more relief than boded well for the future heir to a dukedom. “Your wishes show what quality of man you are.” He stared at his mother in challenge as he spoke. Arthur was a good man, sterling in character. It was his force of will and his health that were easily destroyed. And he was damnably accident-prone.
His mother nodded. “Yes, you are a good man, indeed, Cousin. And wouldn’t it be grand to have a houseful of children who looked just like Simon or perhaps like his bride.”
She looked at Arthur as she spoke, but Simon knew the words were meant to cut her son deeply. He wished that they didn’t. He thought of Miranda, waiting upstairs for him. He thought of his heedless rush to make love with her in the carriage, and realized with a thread of exasperation that he would now be worrying that they had conceived a child with his bastard blood had not the stay broken — or the carriage door flown open.
He could not think how he had made such a mistake. He was married now. He could not set Miranda aside. He would not. But he must find a solution. He bowed slightly, wanting only to leave his mother’s despicable company. “I must bid you both good night.”
“Ah, yes.” His mother smiled at Arthur. “His bride awaits upstairs.”
“I have other matters to attend to, Mother. Please excuse me if I do not see you off tomorrow. I regret that you must leave so early in the morning, but it is for the best, is it not?”
She nodded. “Who can say what is for the best, Simon? One must do what one must do.”
Fury gripped him as he realized that he was trapped. He could not go up to Miranda; he could not trust himself not to make love to her yet. And he must keep the fury from his face, from his action. He must, in order to keep the truth from Arthur.
“I bid you a pleasant evening, Cousin. I must make sure the horses have been taken care of after our long journey.” He turned on his heel and left Arthur speechless and his mother smiling with smug triumph as he sought the solace of the stables.
His poor excuse rang in his own ears and he could imagine what Arthur was thinking — he had never questioned the day to day running of the stables before. Why start on his wedding night?
Chapter 10
Miranda stood by the window in the vast bed chamber that was now her own. Fairytales rarely went beyond this point. The weight of her responsibilities as a duchess were emphasized in the very gleam of the polished hardwood of the solid, centuries-old furniture and in the tapestries that hung on the wall. Tapestries created by Simon’s ancestors.
She ran her hand absently over the smoothly carved bedrail, able to feel the grain of the wood with her fingertips. How old was this bed? Had the first, newly-made earl had it commissioned to celebrate his success? Or was it the first earl to be made duke? Her wedding night was taking on more import.
If she could not find a cure for Simon’s illness, they had little time to make sure there would be at least a chance for a male heir to inherit. Instead of a bridge between two people, they held the responsibility to create a bridge from the present to the future. She knew how Simon valued his lineage. What if she failed him?
She smiled as she traced a golden thread through its path in one of the tapestries. The historic significance of what would pass between Simon and herself was not nearly enough to sober her. An impatient joy bubbled in her. Simon would come to her tonight. She wondered why she did not feel more sorrow, for if Simon was right, then he would be dead too soon and her joy but fleeting.
Yet she had her plans — Katherine would arrive soon. If her healing skills were as good as the villagers attested, Miranda had hope that the village healer might succeed where Simon’s doctors had failed. She must.
She held her impatience at bay until she had finished tracing the golden thread. What could Simon be saying to his mother that would take him away for so long? Surely he was not nervous, such vagaries of the nerves were for the female on her wedding night, not the male.
She drifted toward the gilt-edged looking glass. She had long since changed into her wedding nightgown, a frill of lace and silk that made her blush, even after she had covered it with a robe of silk.
Where was Simon? If he did not come to her soon, she would be too nervous to ensure that things went smoothly between them. As her mother had often lamented, Miranda was not by nature a person able to wait quietly. She must do something. After a moment more staring at the bed and its imposing grandeur, she looked down at her attire.
Impulsively, she chose a gown from her trunk and dressed quickly. She found her way to the front hall with only a little difficulty. There was light from under the drawing room door, but no sound of conversation or argument. Hesitantly, she opened the door.
“I’m glad to see that you have recovered from your earlier indisposition,” Simon’s mother said calmly. Her steel gray eyes missed nothing as she examined Miranda from head to toe. “I wanted to meet the woman who could convince my son to marry her considering his ... condition.”
Miranda was too distracted to do more than blush lightly. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace. I apologize for my earlier indisposition. Our trip was long and exhausting, and neither Simon nor I expected a guest.”
A true smile, with a bitter twist, softened the dowagers’ features briefly. “I hardly think I qualify as a guest in the home I came to as a bride — or in which I raised my son.” She looked directly at Miranda, as if issuing some challenge.
Feeling as if she was being ensnared by a careful spider, Miranda decided that directness would be the best course. “Where is Simon?” Astonished, she felt half embarrassed and half proud that she was able to sound as condescending as the dowager.
“I should try the stables, my dear. I don’t believe he trusts himself in the house at the moment.” She sounded almost amused.
Miranda searched the impassive face for a clue as to how to take such a comment coming from Simon’s own mother. Was this woman evil inside, as Snow White’s stepmother had been? Would Miranda be safer refusing apples from the dowager, lest they be poisoned? Or was her poison one of the soul rather than the body?
After a moment’s silent clash of gazes, she bit her lip and turned to look out into the hallway. What was wrong with Simon’s mother? Miranda, her sense of alarm aroused, had no time to find out. “I shall try the stables, then.”
“Steady, boy,” Simon soothed as he brushed his skittish stallion. He knew that the stallion’s ebony coat needed no more brushing; it shone in the dim lamplight from the hour that Simon had already spent on it. Still, he could not face the end of the task. What could come next to fill the hours between now and dawn?
He moved the brush slowly over the horse’s coat.
He had trapped himself in an impossible situation. He was a fool. Even the servants could see it.
Barcus, the head groom, had looked at him as if he’d gone daft, coming into the stables when he had a new bride in his bed. The man’s mouth had dropped open when Simon ordered his stallion saddled.
Though Barcus had been reticent about refusing, Simon recognized the behavior. All his servants exhibited it at inconvenient times — just when he was most out of sorts. Barcus had acted as if he were unsure how His Grace would react when told he could not ride his stallion into the dark as he wished.
Would it make any difference to the man to understand it was the tempting thought of his bride that had driven Simon to make such an unreasonable request in the first place? But Miranda was exactly what had kept Simon in the stables when informed that his stallion had turned up with a stone in his shoe and needed rest more than a fierce ride across a darkened landscape.
Thus, his stallion was receiving a brushing and currying the likes of which he’d never known, and all of the stablemen thought Simon had completely lost his wits. Simon himself wasn’t absolutely sure that he hadn’t. He had planned everything very carefully, or so he’d thought.
The idea of never making love to his wife was unbearable. He had married her in order to take her to bed, to enjoy his last days as duke with a semblance of what he might have had in other circumstances. But could he risk a child? His mother’s revelation had driven the risk home to him too well. With Miranda so near and so willing, how could he limit himself, as he had intended at first?
And what if, despite everything, she got pregnant? That was unthinkable. He would not have his plans turn to dust this close to realization. In six short months he meant to be done with all his false ties to the dukedom. A child would not be a complication. A child would be a disaster.
The only answer was to remain celibate. He could do it; the consequences of not doing it were too disastrous to dare. But what would Miranda say?
As the stable doors swung slowly open and the glow of a lantern appeared, Simon groaned softly to himself. He had forgotten for a moment that the woman he had married not only had a passionate nature, but a curious and persistent one as well.
When she came to the door of the stable, he was surprised to see that she had taken the time to don one of the new walking dresses he had chosen for her, of a deep gold hue that, just as he had expected, brought out the golden highlights in her hair.
With a muttered oath, he sternly repressed the image that he had enjoyed before, of himself slowly removing that gown from her, her hair hanging loose.
“Simon?” Her voice was a whisper as she came down the length of the stalls until she saw him. She smiled, but he was not fooled by the gesture. She was very aware that things had gone seriously awry between them and this intelligence shone in her brandy-dark eyes.
“I thought you would be asleep by now,” he lied, applying the brush as vigorously and unnecessarily as he could to his stallion’s withers. “Our traveling was most exhausting.”
She looked at him in surprise, taking a moment to respond. “On my wedding night?” Her voice was soft and chiding, though he knew it must cost her to keep her fear and uncertainty from him.
“What difference would it make what night? The trip was long and ... wearying.” He cursed himself the moment he saw her eyes light with misunderstanding. “
Oh, Simon, why are you currying your horse if you are tired? Come to bed and I shall rub your back.”
“I referred to your exhaustion, Miranda, not my own.”
“But I am ... “ Her voice trailed off.
She had meant to say that she was not the one who was dying. His hatred focused on his mother and his black mood darkened.
He did not meet her eyes as he searched for a reason that would make her turn and leave him in peace. “I’ll not come into that house until my mother has seen fit to depart.”
“Do not damage your health because you are vexed with your mother, Simon.” She moved toward him as he spoke, and he carefully stepped away, keeping the horse between them.
Vexed? She thought him vexed? Leave it, a cautious voice in his ear warned him. If he let even a scrap of his true feelings for his mother surface, Miranda would not rest until she knew every bit of the truth. And that he would not allow.
“I cannot sleep.” That was certainly the truth. He would be hard-pressed to stay in his own bed knowing that Miranda was one door away and legally and willingly his.
She said nothing for a moment, but he could feel her gaze burning on his back. He hoped she would turn and leave. Her voice was gentle as she finally asked, “Are you afraid of making love with me?”
“Afraid?” He strove to hide his incredulity from her and his voice was a bark. How had she hit upon that so quickly?
“Afraid for your health, I mean,” she amended hastily and he could see that she believed he was angry for the affront to his manliness. “It seems to require some exertion ... and ... I did notice your heart beating violently when ... when ... in the carriage.” She smiled. “I’m sorry for my missishness, but it is difficult to find the appropriate words for our situation.”
“Had you any fear for yourself, then?” When she gave him a puzzled frown, he smiled. “Your own heartbeat was rapid, as I recall.” With vivid clarity, he thought ruefully. He would not soon forget the eagerness of her response to his touch.
She blushed. “I presume, then, such a reaction is natural?”
He nodded, and continued unwisely, “It is terribly natural although many proper ladies are said not to be able to react so with their own husbands.”
“So I do have improper feelings?” She looked chastened. “And I am too much for you, my poor Simon? You require a proper, calm lady for your wife and I am too wild?”
He suppressed the urge to laugh at her suggestion. It offered him a surcease, for this evening at least. Hesitantly, he nodded at the absurd idea that a night with her would be too much for him. A thousand nights would be too little to satisfy him. He wanted forever. But it did not matter what he wanted. He could not have it.
“Come to bed. I will not trouble you. I will stay in my room. There is a door between us. I will not disturb your rest.”
He was considering her offer when she continued. “And when your health has recovered, I shall endeavor to be calm during our encounters. After all, I will not have broken stays next time.”
He wondered how to convince her that there would be no encounters. “I do not need more than your company, Miranda.”
“Of course you do. You must have an heir. Why else would you have married when you believed yourself dying?”
He looked at her, shocked. She had said nothing to him about children and heirs before the marriage. Foolishly, he had assumed that meant she did not consider it a possibility. Indeed, he had thought she would not have wished it, as a child would put a halt to much of the coveted freedom that her widowed status was to offer her. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to curse.
Misinterpreting his silence, Miranda stepped closer to him and laid her hand on his chest. “I know I behave in an unladylike way at times. But I promise I will do my best to remain calm and not strain your health.”
The scent of her came to him, despite the stronger odor of the stables that surrounded them. It triggered his anger. “Miranda, I do not require your coddling. And my cousin Arthur is all the heir I need.” Even as he said it, he vowed to see Arthur wed before he left. To a strong young woman with broad hips.
“Please come to bed. Don’t hurt your health because of this discord with your mother — or because you fear I will endanger your health.”
He turned his back on her. “I will retire when I wish to.”
“Promise me you will come to bed soon.”
He ignored her.
“I will not leave until — “
He sighed. “I wil
l retire when I wish. Now, go to your room and leave me in peace. I won’t last another hour, never mind six months, with you nagging at me this way.”
His harsh words worked as reason had not. He did not turn around to watch her defeat, but he heard the swish of her skirts and the rapid beat of her feet that indicated that she nearly ran. For a moment, when she spoke of being “gentle” with him, Simon had seen true anguish in her eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him. Which meant that he would have to hurt her. Often.
He felt remorse for the course he had set by marrying her. But he ruthlessly crushed it. He had made a mistake and they would both pay for it. He could not make love with her and he could not trust himself not to take her to his bed. She would need to exert the control that would keep them apart and prevent a child of his bastard blood from inheriting.
Chapter 11
“Had you no luck?” The dowager duchess stood in the hallway, as if she were still the house’s mistress and going about the unappetizing chore of questioning the help. Her spine was straight; there was not a wrinkle in her glossy black silk skirts. Her dark gray eyes bored deep, as if to delve the depths of Miranda’s soul.
Despite the older woman’s air of composure and command, Miranda had the odd impression the dowager had been standing there, unmoving, ever since Miranda had left the house.
“What did you say to him? He was not in the least unhappy until he spoke to you.” The harsh words came unbidden. Though she was horror-struck at her own audacity, she was still reeling from Simon’s painful rejection, unable to temper her words with the respect due the dowager’s position.
Most frustrating of all, from her perspective, was the ambiguity of her mother-in-law’s expression. The older woman’s face was serene, as if she had asked after her son’s choice of apparel for the day — as if Miranda’s reply had been coolly civil and not flagrantly rude and angry.
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 12
