She stared at him in such puzzlement that his scowl relaxed and he found himself feeling groundlessly grim. Purposefully, he began directing their dance to carry them toward the entryway. With barely a pause, he led her into the dining room, its tables laden with food and guarded by huge blocks of sculpted ice. “Look at this.”
Her glance at the tables was not cursory, and no glint of recognition shone in her eyes. He had just decided to explain when he felt her start of surprise. She went nearer, on tiptoe, as if she were afraid, and began to peer at the sculptures: Cinder Ella, her prince at her feet; Rapunzel in her tower, her hair let down; Sleeping Beauty, Little Redcape, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast.
Fairytale characters captured in ice. And that was not the worst: Every woman had Miranda’s face and every man was Simon — except that for the tale of Redcape he had been rendered with angular, wolfish features.
She put her hand out to the familiar features caught in ice and rested her fingers on the chill wolfen brow. “I had no idea.”
His lips tightened, then twitched. “My mother, of course. Her idea of amusement.” He gestured for a footman. “Take these away immediately.”
“No.” Miranda shook her head, and the footman halted, looking at Simon for further instruction. She touched his arm. He could not hide his anger, but she met his gaze full on. “Leave them. They are beautiful.”
“We will be the laughingstock of society for this folly,” he muttered.
Miranda shook her head, a shuttered look of sad certainly on her face. “Your mother would not do that. Your family name is too important to her.”
He jerked his arm away from her. So his mother had even convinced her of the Watterly honor. How ironic.
She reached for his arm again, touching him lightly, “Please. Leave them, Simon. No one will laugh. They are too beautiful for that.”
Her eyes rested wistfully on the Sleeping Beauty sculpture, the handsome, princely Simon bent so that his lips met and melded with the lips of the icy Sleeping Beauty, carved in the likeness of Miranda. “Leave them for my sake.”
He watched her, hoping his inner war was not obvious in the taut lines of his face. Why did he continue to torture them both like this? He should send her back to her family before she was ruined forever — not her reputation, but her heart. He remembered then that his mother had warned him of that very thing. Damn her.
“They’re only ice, Simon. They won’t last.”
Just like your dreams, he thought, but did not say. Of course, as he knew she would, she persevered. “By the end of the evening they’ll be puddles on the floor. Can I not have them for this little while?”
He did not answer her, but turned his attention to the footman, who had watched their exchange wide-eyed. “Leave them. My wife wishes it.”
He would have left her then, if she had not slipped her hand in his. “Dance with me again, Simon. The room is so full of strangers watching my every move. I would like to dance once more with you.”
He sighed, about to refuse and she stopped him. “It is not much to ask, for a husband to dance one full dance with his wife.”
His eyes raked hers, wondering if she would take his agreement as reason to slip into his bed once more. He could not say with any certainty what she thought a dance would mean as he gazed into the dark depths of her eyes.
But he nodded, realizing that it meant some slight relief from the gossiping guests. It was the least she deserved from him, since he could not give her what she truly desired. “It is not much to ask at all.” He led her from the dining room and out into the crush of dancers.
To his surprise, the tension seemed to drain from him as they maneuvered the intricate pattern of the dance. He was smiling faintly at her, his face relaxed in lines of enjoyment and pleasure in an unguarded manner he had not dared since they had driven home on their wedding day. The thought was a sharp pain and he immediately sought to distract himself.
“Your sisters are doing well,” he said when the dance step brought them together. “Even the shy one seems to be gathering beaux.”
Miranda whirled away from him in dance, her gaze searching for her sisters. He hoped she approved of the glow in both Hero’s and Juliet’s eyes as they were plied with food and drink by the eligible bachelors carefully selected by Simon and his mother as worthy candidates for the girls’ affections.
As Miranda watched Juliet flirting outrageously with four men at once, she smiled. “Yes,” she commented lightly when the dance brought them together once again. “They are both ready for a Season. ’Tis fortunate that Hero is not jealous that Juliet is coming out at the same time as she.”
The dance ended, and they stood for a moment catching their breath. Simon smiled. “Hero does not seem the jealous kind.”
The musicians struck up a waltz, and before Miranda could protest, he had led her onto the floor again and she was caught in the whirl of dancers. He noticed his mother, her American lover conspicuously absent, watching them with an avid eye. He wondered if she were simply ashamed of the man, or if she had sent him away to prevent him from speaking with Simon.
Miranda tilted her head up toward him, her eyes shining, and he worried that he had indeed raised her expectations. “Sometimes I think Hero was born without the capacity for envy. If the situation were reversed, I doubt that Juliet would be so kindhearted. Although I cannot think it is a bad thing that, with them both coming out, Juliet has less gentlemen upon whom to practice her flirtation.”
His hand pressed her side gently. “Do you worry about Juliet being too bold?”
She answered defensively, “Juliet is not like me.”
His hand tightened; and he brought her close enough for the dowager to frown as they swept past her. “No one is like you.”
His compliment warmed Miranda, but she knew better than to believe he meant it in a favorable way. No doubt he was thinking of the unorthodox manner in which they had come to be married. “Juliet is so easily smitten.”
He said nothing, but she did not think it coincidence that, even as she spoke, the path of their steps led them past Juliet and Hero. Both girls seemed singularly untouched by the ardor of their suitors. Juliet gave them a small, gay wave as they spun past. Seeing that Grimthorpe was among those in Juliet’s court, Miranda was not certain if she meant more to reassure Simon, or herself, when she added, “I have warned her well of my folly.”
“I hope you have made it clear that you were not a careless flirt.”
“Of course I did. My foolishness was in going anywhere out of sight of everyone else, and I have made that abundantly clear to both Hero and Juliet.”
Miranda remembered the conversation uneasily. Hero had nodded gravely and promised never to leave the crowd, unless accompanied by Miranda or Juliet. Juliet had laughed and claimed she would not want to stop dancing or being adored by many men simply to be alone with one of them. “Juliet seems to think being adored by one man would be somewhat dull.”
“Let us hope she continues to feel that way.”
Miranda thought silently, let us hope that she meets no one who affects her senses, as well as her common sense, the way that Simon affects mine. Aloud, she admitted to only part of her doubt. “My only fear is that she will form an alliance with someone unsuitable. Someone who might break her heart.”
His voice was hoarse, and ragged, as if it were difficult for him to speak. “It is better not to have the heart involved in marriage, but young girls don’t always understand that.”
“No.” Miranda agreed. “They don’t. “ And neither do some young married women who were old enough to have gathered dust on the shelf. They kept believing, despite everything, that their prince would arrive to wake them with a kiss.
Again they swept by the girls. Juliet was laughing at a joke, her eyes bright as jewels against her pale skin. Simon said calmly, “I do not think it would be wise for us to let her choose her suitors. But put those fears to rest. I’m certain I can choose her an exc
ellent husband.” His voice sounded with confidence and his hands held her with an arrogant sureness that piqued her.
Miranda resisted the pull of his arms. “I don’t want to have her husband chosen for her. How cold, how — ”
His steps grew more powerful, sweeping her inexorably into his rhythm. “What is it you would have her do? Find herself in some loveless marriage with a man who is not worthy of her? Or worse yet, have her reputation damaged beyond repair by some scoundrel like Grimthorpe?”
The waltz ended and he released her. She felt dizzy and yet clearheaded at the same time as she looked into his familiar face. “I want her to love her husband as much as I love you.” His mouth, so quick to smile, was now set in a thin line of displeasure.
“I want her to be willing to follow her husband around the earth to prove her love. I wish her the devotion to pick up feathers, or look for cures, or whatever is necessary, as I would do for you.”
The moment she spoke, the noises of the ballroom faded to silence for her. His throat worked soundlessly for a moment and then he sighed. “Miranda ... “ His voice became inaudible as the musicians struck up another dance.
She leaned close to whisper, “Can you not bear to hear it? That makes it no less true.”
The lines around his eyes deepened as his gaze narrowed, his irises the dark green of emeralds at dusk. “But you will only be hurt.”
“Yes.” She wanted to ask him why, but she could feel the pain and knew it would only be worse if she pressed him. He would not tell her the truth. He did not love her. He had packed his heart away in the leather pouch and he kept the contents firmly guarded against even her. She held out her hand. “Shall we dance while we are still able? We might as well take the opportunity to set the tongues wagging at how well we dance together.”
He hesitated, and then swept her onto the floor, his touch firm but light. “By all means.”
The moment was still a fading tingle down her spine when Hero began to scream. “He’s turning purple. He can’t breathe!”
The room dissolved into chaos. Miranda tried to turn toward the sound of her sister’s voice, but found herself wrapped tightly in Simon’s arms, unable to see anything but the lapel of his waistcoat. After a moment, when the dance floor was emptied, he left her. Abruptly alone, she could see nothing but a knot of people surrounding the area where Hero and Juliet had been holding court.
As Simon forced a path through to the center of the tight knot of guests, Miranda followed. To her horror, Arthur lay on the floor.
His face was indeed purple. As Simon knelt beside him, Miranda turned and fled toward the nursery and Katherine.
“He’ll be fine, Your Grace,” Katherine said calmly. Miranda could see that Simon was, however, in no mood to be soothed. “How can you be certain?” He paced in the hallway outside Arthur’s bedroom door.
The healer answered wryly, “I gave him something that helped him vomit up most of the poison. And also something to absorb whatever was left in his body. His color is good. He is breathing well and has no fever.”
Miranda said sharply, “Katherine knows what she is doing, Simon.” She had not meant to sound so sharp, but her voice carried her own tension. He had sprinted the steps carrying Arthur, meeting them on the landing. Even now, his breathing remained ragged. She was afraid he had overexerted himself. “You need to rest or you will be joining him in the sickroom.
He shook his head. “I need to see him.”
“Tomorrow — ” Katherine began.
“I don’t intend to wait for tomorrow to make sure my heir is not going to die.” His breathing, rather than slowing, had grown more rapid, and Miranda watched him with alarm.
“Please, Katherine,” she added her appeal. “Just for a moment? To ease Simon’s distress.”
Katherine looked at him with doubt in her eyes. Then she nodded. “But no questions. He is resting after an understandable shock to his system and he needs no more difficulty tonight.”
Simon nodded brusquely. “I understand. I will save my questions for tomorrow. Tonight I just want to assure myself that he will be well.”
Before he passed through the doorway, he turned back to Katherine. “What manner of poison was it?”
She tensed and her brows drew together. “Toadstools. I very much fear they were some I had discarded from my basket this morning.”
“Your basket?”
“When I take the girls for their stroll, I collect leaves, bark, medicinal herbs — ”
“And poisonous toadstools?”
She flushed, and Miranda gasped at the slight to the healer held in his accusatory expression. “She discarded them when she realized that, Simon. You heard her say so.”
“So she did.” He turned his head toward her, and his eyes imprisoned hers. They were sharp as green glass. “Katherine and I will get to the bottom of this, Miranda. You must go back to our guests.”
Miranda went downstairs reluctantly, leaving Simon to check in on Arthur and question Katherine alone. She worried that he would be too hard on the healer, as tense and angry as he was. But he was a just man, and would listen fairly to her story, perhaps finding a clue as to what — or who — was causing all of Arthur’s “accidents.” It had become more than obvious to her — and she was sure that Simon felt the same, that someone was deliberately trying to kill Arthur. But who?
Downstairs, everyone seemed subdued. Although the musicians still played, there were few dancers on the floor. Many people had apparently chosen to retire, and had already been led away by footmen to their guest chambers. She checked anxiously for Hero and Juliet, relieved to find them still surrounded, though sparsely so, by admirers.
Although, she reflected, seeing her sisters still holding court in the ballroom, that meant they had not found anyone to lure them out to enjoy the fragrant gardens. She smiled, thinking that there might have been young men in the group disappointed that neither girl had agreed to a walk in the garden, or a turn about the balconies for fresh air. But she could only be glad. Perhaps her sisters did have more sense that she had had at their age.
A sinking feeling began in her stomach when she heard a familiar oily voice addressing her from behind. “The duke’s heir seems likely to predecease him. Have you and my dear cousin been making a concerted effort to produce a less accident-prone male?”
Chapter 22
Miranda turned toward the sound of Grimthorpe’s chilling voice.
His smug demeanor so irritated her that she wanted to tweak him where it hurt. But this was her home, every nook and cranny filled with guests this weekend, and conversation with Grimthorpe tended to end with trouble for her. She did not want to embarrass Simon in that manner. No matter how angry she was at him this very moment.
“Arthur is recovering nicely. It was only a minor accident.”
“If accident is the correct word for poisonous mushrooms being served to him and him alone.”
He was fishing, Miranda knew. But she was beginning to become desperately afraid that he was right, as distressful as she found agreeing with Grimthorpe on any subject at all.
Arthur’s accidents were stretching the line of credibility to the thinness of gossamer. It was no surprise that Grimthorpe had realized that someone intended harm to Simon’s heir. No doubt he would be pleased to spread the gossip as thickly as he could.
She sighed. He would get no help from her on that score. “We are all fortunate he is well. After all, he is Simon’s heir.”
“Then there is to be no little Simon Watterly running about anytime soon?”
Miranda was shocked speechless by his audacity. Taking her silence as a sign of consent to the subject of conversation, he moved closer. “Perhaps you would like me to hasten matters?” Suddenly she caught the scent of him, the same scent he had worn five years ago. Her fists curled of their own accord.
She stepped back, “You forget yourself, sir.” She turned on her heel, and would have departed except that his hand had someho
w fastened tightly to her elbow, preventing her from moving away into the safety of the group of remaining guests.
“Don’t hurry away, my sweet. You have not heard the ways in which I’d please you.” His face was slightly flushed. Perhaps he was foxed? “I am known among the ladies for my prowess. Surely you would enjoy a taste of spice now that you have had your fill of the dull attentions of the saintly Simon.”
“I will assume that you have enjoyed the spirits a bit too freely this evening,” Miranda said frostily, doing her best to imitate the dowager in her most quelling mood. “And I will not tell my husband of this incident, nor ask you to leave, if you release my arm at once.”
Instead, his hand tightened, and he leaned forward until she could smell the brandy upon his breath. “Just one kiss for a pair of boots? Doesn’t that seem like a reasonable request?”
She went cold with panic. Not now, not another disaster upon the heels of Arthur’s poisoning. “Take your hand from my arm immediately.” He did so, with haste, when he felt the muscles in her upper arm clench. Obviously, he well remembered their last encounter.
“You will regret spurning my attention, one day, Your Grace.” There was vicious emphasis on her title.
Wondering if he intended to display her boots to the remaining guests, Miranda found that she did not care. Arthur’s accident had made such a trifling matter seem completely beneath her notice tonight. “I already regret having this conversation. I should have walked away immediately.”
She half-turned to leave, adding, “But that is something I can rectify immediately. I hope the rest of your weekend is pleasant, but I am certain that you understand my reluctance to spend time in your company.”
He did not seem to understand her words. The smile was still fixed upon his lips. But he did not look at her, rather beyond her.
She understood why when Simon’s voice, deep with anger, sounded from close behind her. “My wife has bid you good evening, Grimthorpe. Did you not understand her clearly?”
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 21
