The dark want in her eyes deepened and he added quickly, lest she realize that he shared the fire of her desire, “Women do have an affinity for jewels, I suppose.”
The palpable need she radiated abated somewhat, he noted with relief. “Let me get them now. That will give you time to change your mind a dozen times or more before the weekend.”
He moved to the safe with heavy limbs, took his time opening it, struggling to batter down the urge to do as she suggested and wake the Sleeping Beauty within her. Even with his back to her, he could feel the heat of her desire calling to him.
He put the box in front of her, knowing what she would say. Her eyes were on him as he flipped up the leather box lid to reveal the jewels, nested in black velvet. The velvet made him think of her skin and how it felt beneath his fingers. Soft. So soft.
With one last glance at the settee, she looked through the box distractedly. He wondered if she thought of his skin when she touched velvet — and drove the thought away. Impatience caught him as she looked through the box with little interest. He had buried her necklace at the bottom, under all else.
She did not find it before picking up a strand of pearls. “These will do.”
“Of course they won’t do.” He took them from her hands and held them critically against her throat. Her pulse beat under her fingers. “You need something more striking to complement your gown. Something with more elaborate gold work.”
“These will be fine.” Her hands covered his as he held the necklace, pressing his knuckles against the smooth skin that stretched over her collarbone. He forgot for a moment why he was holding the necklace as his heart matched the beat of the pulse in her throat.
After the silence had drawn tight between them and he could think of nothing but kissing her, he remembered his resolve and broke free of her hold. He dropped the pearl necklace into his pocket. “Look for something else, Miranda. You are a duchess, now.”
With a sigh that disturbed the tendrils of hair that had managed to escape her pins and wisped at her cheek, she went back to looking through the box.
He knew the moment she found the necklace because she grew absolutely still. She did not even breathe.
“What is this?” Her voice was sharp, and yet it trembled.
He hoped he had not just made the worst mistake of his misbegotten life as she lifted her eyes, wide with shock, to his.
Chapter 18
“What is what?” he asked, pretending innocence, though he was braced for the anger that he expected any moment, once she realized what he had done. He hoped her anger would burn cleanly through the fog of desire and passion that they shared.
Her hand reached in and came up with the necklace he had stolen from her. “This.” She held it up between them, looking at him. No anger yet, only puzzlement. But her breathing had slowed and he could see the pulse at her neck beating more normally. He strove to control his own response to her nearness, her scent.
“That is something I picked up in London.” He was not lying. He had indeed picked it up in London. He just happened to be dressed like a common thief and blessed with breath that would kill a dead man.
“Where in London?” Her voice was urgent. He could well imagine her hurrying there to find the thief and chastise him for stealing from her. Fortunately, she would not have to travel so far.
“On the street, actually.”
She was still puzzled. He could see it, but had no idea what would be best, merely to let her have the piece and think he had bought it from a dishonest man, or to tell her the truth of how he had acquired it.
Telling the truth would encourage her anger, and keep her away from him, as he had been so successful in doing these past few weeks. It would also serve, he hoped, to teach her how dangerous it was for her to take matters into her own hands. But she would trust him no longer.
“It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” she whispered. The reverence in the tight planes of her face as her fingers traced the lines of the swans made him glad that he had chosen to return the necklace. Most probably, it was her last tangible link with her mother.
If he’d realized how much the piece meant to her, he could never have kept it from her for so long. He had foolishly assumed that if she meant to sell it, she could not hold it dear. But he had been thinking of it as a piece of jewelry, not a connection to her mother. How he could have misjudged so badly he could not imagine. He knew how much she was willing to sacrifice for her family. They meant everything to her.
It was blind luck that made his delay suit his purposes. Initially, he’d planned to give the necklace to Valentine to dispose of as he would. But any lesson to Miranda would have been muted, as she would not have known the disposition of the piece.
With it here, there was no choice for her but to acknowledge that it had found its way back in a quite unorthodox fashion. He wondered if she would confess her part in the loss of the necklace were he to press her. So he pressed her.
He closed the box, hiding away the rest of the jewelry. “You seem to be partial to that trinket. Why don’t you wear it?”
“I will.” She still could not take her eyes from the swans.
When she said nothing more, he prodded further. “You are quite enamored of the piece, I see.”
He was rewarded by her singular admission. “It was my mother’s.”
“What!” He pretended astonishment. “Then how did it come to be on a London street.”
He saw the war between expedience and innate honesty within her; the slim column of her throat worked as he stood watching her try to shape a response. “It was stolen from me.”
Of course she would tell the truth. He was the one caught in a web of lies. “Stolen from you? How?” He pretended to be outraged, which he found to his surprise was not difficult. The desire to bed her was still strong in him and that passion, along with a healthy dose of self-loathing for what he was doing, rekindled his anger at the danger she had put herself in by going to London alone.
She pursed her lips and exhaled softly. “I went to London hoping to sell a few things, including that necklace, and I was set upon by the rudest thief you might imagine.”
“Do you imagine that thieves are known for their courtesy? You are lucky you escaped with only the loss of your silver candlesticks and your necklace.” He had not consciously chosen to tell her then. But his slip of the tongue had hastened her understanding.
Her eyebrows lifted as one and a cloud of anger began to brew in her eyes. “What do you mean, my silver candlesticks?”
“Didn’t the thief also get a fine set of candlesticks?”
He struggled with the smile that seemed to want to break out on his face. He knew she would not appreciate it, but he was rather proud of his effort to teach her not to pawn goods in London again. The little fool, not knowing what might have happened to her. He shuddered, as the possibilities rolled graphically through his mind.
He could see the realization dawn upon her as a thundercloud upon the horizon speeds to bring rain. She was so quick-witted, his anger turned into admiration as her anger rose, erasing the last traces of desire from her gaze. “I thought those candlesticks on the mantel during our wedding reception looked familiar. What do you know of my thief?”
“I put them back the morning of the wedding. I didn’t want them, and I didn’t think you’d notice another pair of candlesticks on your wedding day.”
“How dare you.” Her body grew rigid. The skirts of the yellow gown gave not a whisper of movement. “You hired someone to steal them from me and replaced them on the mantel without telling me.” Her brow knit in puzzlement. “But how could you have known what I was about and hired someone so quickly?”
He could not resist. She was angry at him and he could risk touching her. He bent, shambled the few steps toward her, and pressed her back against the wall. “What’s under your skirts, lass?”
It was a mistake. He knew exactly what was under her skirts and he could barel
y prevent himself from lifting away the layers of silk and cotton to find the heat of her beneath them. Fortunately for him, she was distracted by the revelation of how he had tricked her. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You didn’t!”
He allowed one hand to rest on her hip, feeling the warm curve beneath the cloth, as he answered her in a way calculated to fan her anger to full flame. “I did. You needed a lesson badly. For dressing like a fishwife and walking the London streets alone.”
She pulled his hand away. “But you were at Anderlin ... “
He put it back, caressing the curve and stroking downward, to the swell of her bottom. What perversity in him made him cause himself such torment? He would be better served to stand away from her and fan the flames of her anger.
But he did not. “I was there to make certain Valentine was informed of our engagement, remember? I followed you out, saw you board the coach, and followed. And I traveled faster on horseback than you could in the coach.”
Her eyes were fixed on his face, and he realized that her anger was not as unaffected by his touch as he had thought. It had dimmed dangerously in her eyes. “How could you?” Her words were soft, the accusation faint.
“You needed a lesson. I provided it.” He pressed his palm against the rounded underside of her breast and felt the rapid beat of her heart beneath his fingertips. He kissed her. It was not wise, but he was beyond caring. When he realized that she would not push him away, he brushed her forehead with one last kiss and stepped back. “I must finish my correspondence. I will have little time this weekend for business matters.”
For a broken moment, it seemed she would not heed him. She took a step toward him as if she might be the one to kiss him. A kiss he knew without doubt he could not resist, could not recover from.
But then she blinked, and held up her hand to gaze at the necklace she still clutched in her fist. Anger rekindled in her eyes. He told himself fiercely to be relieved.
He did not look at her as he resumed his seat behind his desk and lifted his pen to paper, wondering why he had chosen this particular torment for himself, as if it might expiate his sin of bastardy.
It was long after the door had closed sharply behind her that he noticed he had written several pages of nonsense. He crushed the papers with undue savagery before throwing them into the fireplace, and watched them catch flame and burn into ash in an instant.
Her bedroom was too hot, even with the curtains billowing in the breeze from the open window. So he thought to teach her a lesson, did he? Well, perhaps it was time for her to teach him one. He thought he knew best. But he didn’t always. And not making love to his wife was a mistake. It was time for her to prove it to him.
He was abed, she knew. She had heard the muffled sounds of undressing near midnight. She longed to put her plan in action tonight, while she was still angry enough not to worry so much over his health. But she did not want to wake him if he slept. He needed his rest.
Unable to restrain herself, she crept to the door and pressed her ear tight against the cool wood. There was no sound. Thinking that perhaps he was not even in the room, she turned to go downstairs and see if he might still be working in his study, when she heard him call out. Without considering how he might feel at her intrusion, she opened the door a crack and slipped through. Simon was calling out a man’s name as he tossed and turned restlessly. His voice was harsh with horror, and she realized he was reliving the man’s death, yet again.
As she listened to the unintelligible words that came in fitful murmurs from the restless figure, she wondered if there was any possibility that his experiences might have contributed to his apathy over his own death. After all, facing death day after day and avoiding it while others didn’t might have made him feel that he didn’t really deserve to live.
Perhaps that was why he refused all her attempts to help him find a cure. Valentine might have told her, if only he were here. The murmurs stopped, plunging the room into a silence that felt like the heavy weight of a mantle around her.
If only he could share his thoughts with her, she knew she could ease his fears. The illness must be a terrible drain on his energy, and yet he refused to talk about it with her. He refused to share the burden with his own wife. But he needed her comfort, and she had every intention of providing it.
Even though she knew he would disapprove, she slipped into his bed and when he shifted restlessly, she took him into her arms, stroking his arm, his back, his neck, with gentle care.
He settled against her with a groan of satisfaction and his restlessness faded as his breathing grew even once again. The feeling of closeness and warmth was exquisitely pleasurable.
Miranda could not bring herself to move away, though she knew he would not be happy to find her here if he awoke. His mouth rested against her neck, his hands were warm on her hips. She lay very still, so that she would not wake him, as she had the first time, when he had sent her so decidedly back to her own bed.
Having her sisters in the house had somehow intensified her desire to be closer to Simon, for some unexplainable reason. But now, with Simon’s warmth and heat surrounding her, she recognized from where her desire stemmed. She had always thought that a husband and family were an unattainable dream. To marry, to give up one shred of her autonomy had filled her with fear. But it was not so hard to lose a battle to Simon now and again.
If they only had a long enough time together, she was certain that he would cease to question her judgment and learn to trust her. Certainly, she could manage to accomplish that. He was a reasonable man.
About most things.
For example, now that she had the husband, she found it impossible not to wish for the family. If only she knew how to accomplish that without risking Simon’s life. She was certain that having a son would be enough to make him want to fight to live. How could it not be? Look how tender he was toward Betsy, and he had thought her mother unworthy to be in his home.
Snuggled against him, she was tempted to kiss him.
That had always roused his passion before. Asleep, he would not fight her, would not pull away. And when he woke, he would bed her and would have nothing else to fear.
She wished she had consulted Katherine on exactly what manner of seduction would be the least upsetting to a dying man. Perhaps the shock of waking to find her in his bed would be more than he could bear?
“Coward,” she whispered to herself, deciding she would stay only for a little while, and then quietly go back to her own bed. She would lay as quiet as Briar Rose in her hundred-year sleep. Her anger with him had fled when she had understood what caused his bad dreams. She could wait for a better time to seduce him. But she wanted the feel of him in her arms, and soon the comfortable warmth of his body lulled her to sleep.
Simon’s dream was as always since he married her.
She was in his arms. She felt right, her curves against his skin as if made to fit only his body ... the warmth of her, the silk of her skin under his fingers. He brushed his lips against the softness and heard a sigh like the spring breeze through budding branches. Under his palm, he could feel the curve of her hip and the warmth spread through him until he felt as if he were dissolving, his flesh melting into her flesh not as men and women joined, but as two beings who become one.
His fingertips traveled along the curve from her hip to her rib cage and she moved in to him so that they were one from head to toe, their arms entwined so tightly that he knew he would never let her go. Never.
She was soft and warm and seemed to come alive at his touch. He felt a flare of possession as a rush of quickened breath warmed his cheek and earlobe. He reached for the heat of her and found it, was rewarded with a moan like the low wild sound of the wind just as the storm approaches. He released his own groan to entwine and mingle with the moan until there was nothing left of the sound but a fierce vibration in his very core.
He bent his head and filled his mouth with softness, roundness, heat. A rough, pleasurable pressur
e built in him as their one flesh began to undulate in a primitive rhythm and he held to the dream farther than he ever had before, unable to give in to the need to wake and learn that there was no one next to him, no heat, no flesh melded with his.
And he touched her with his hands, his mouth; there was no part of him that did not touch her, that did not feel her swell with passion and know that passion himself. He did not want the dream to end, even when their body, her body, began to quiver and she whispered his name in his ear. “Simon,” she said.
“Simon,” she screamed, softly and their bodies shattered apart as he woke to the feel of her beneath him and knew that he was not dreaming.
She protested his retreat, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He hesitated, his body not yet his to control. And then he felt the tide of pleasure take her; her arms clutched him tight against her and she murmured against his ear. “I love you, Simon.”
His body went cold in an instant and he raised his head to look into her eyes. They were open. Somehow, her words had given him the strength he needed to halt himself on the edge of a pleasurable abyss. He felt an absurd sense of panic as he pleaded, even as he knew it was futile, even as he mastered himself and his own need, “Tell me you are a dream, Miranda.”
Her hands drifted up his side, deepening the feeling that he was on the verge of going mad. “I’m not a dream. I promise to be still, Simon. As still as you need me to be. I will not be too wild. I promise.”
She tried to pull him back down to her, with gentle pressure on his shoulders. To his distress, he found he had barely enough strength to fight the insistent press of her fingers. A hoarse cry escaped him as he twisted away and left the bed.
He felt like a fool, standing nude and shivering in the cool breeze, afraid to come any nearer the bed where she lay. Even the distance between them gave him no sense of safety. He knew how easy it would be for him to slip back between the covers and finish what he had started.
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 19
