Simon stirred restlessly. “I know all this, Mother. The duke was fond of telling me the story, as you well know. He felt he was lucky to have taken the precaution, since my brother died. I’m sure he was horrified the day he learned I was a bastard.”
Miranda gasped. A bastard? Simon? How could that be? He did not look at her, but she could see that her reaction had increased the tension that surged through him. She pressed her hands against her mouth so that she could make no more sounds, no matter what else was said.
“You are no bastard.” His mother’s eyebrow rose in an eloquent rebuke. “Sinclair knew that he was incapable of siring a child before he married me. He arranged for your conception as carefully as he arranged our marriage.”
“You mean, don’t you, that he condoned your taking a lover?”
“Condoned? That is not the term I would use, but the truth is the truth. Sinclair was your father in all but deed, and there is no one to dispute that fact but you.”
“What about Mr. Watson? He knew you when you were young. Perhaps I should ask him if he knew my father — or if he is my father. Or have you sent him away so that I cannot ask him for the truth? Is that why you are now willing to tell me. To keep him from it?”
“Do you think Sinclair would share such a secret with a stranger? An American?” Her laughter was harsh, and yet there was a glint of fear in her eye. “No one would father his son but a man of his choice.”
Simon’s anger burned at that. Miranda could see his jaw tighten and his fists clench, pulling up clumps of grass without even knowing he was doing so. “Are you implying that he put you out for stud service Mother? I know how proud he was of the direct descent of our family line. I will not believe he would deliberately allow the Watterly blood to be drained from the line.”
“No. You are right. He would not. That is why he...” There was actually a tinge of color in her cheeks, Miranda saw, wondering whether it boded well or ill. “...he commanded his son to sire a child upon me before he would provide the commission fee.”
Silence lay like a blanket of heavy wool over the three. He had not expected this. A lover. An affair. But not this twisted ... no. His mother was many things, but he had never known her to create elaborate fictions to hide her own crimes.
He could not bear to look at Miranda. He had expected her to be shocked. But she had done nothing but give a small gasp. He had not believed that she would turn against him. But he did not want to see her eyes. Not yet.
“And you agreed to this?” His accusation came sharply, cutting through the silent pall. He had no use for expedient truths. His mother had lain with his father’s son to conceive him. Could it be true? “How much were you paid for your compliance?”
His mother’s smile infuriated him. Of course, she was the duchess. What other payment could she expect? The thought made him ill.
“The duke thought it best if I were to remain unaware of his plans.” Even now, her voice was cool and mocking. Even now, when the truth was no longer their secret, but Miranda’s as well. “Your father came to me in the dark and left before daybreak.”
He watched Miranda, not his mother. Her eyes were wide with shock. What did she think of him now that she knew? Would she repudiate him?
He asked mockingly, “And you didn’t know the difference between a man of fifty and an eighteen-year-old boy?” Had she not always known when he was into some mischief as a boy, even when he thought himself safe from her eyes at school? How could she have been so blind?
“I’m certain you cannot credit it, Simon, but at the time I was young and innocent.” His mother’s answer was so dry, the voice he hated when she’d used it to argue with the old duke when she knew she could not win. Not against Sinclair Watterly, Duke of Kerstone. “I had no reason to suspect that my husband was not the one exercising a husband’s right. But now that I have told you what you wanted to know, I hope you see that you are the true-blooded duke and no bastard.”
Simon stared at her in bitterness for a moment and then suddenly stood. “Thank you for telling me the name of my father. I believe you are not lying about that. But this absurd fabrication about the duke condoning — ordering — it, that I cannot accept. Our indisputably direct line was a source of pride for him. I cannot believe that he would sully it with a bastard.”
“He never considered you a bastard, Simon. You were of his blood and his making — his son would never have bedded me without your father’s command.”
“Perhaps it is well that my true father died, then, for he could not have been a man of great character. The duke always hinted that he was not cut out for running the estates.”
“I did not realize that Sinclair ever spoke of Peter to you.” She seemed surprised, even somewhat alarmed.
For the first time, he wondered why the duke might have been so insistent that Simon was a better man than the duke’s older son. “He said little, only that Peter was cut out to be a warrior and didn’t understand duty and loyalty.”
A spark of anger lit in her eye, surprising him. “Your father had a different dream, Simon. That does not make him lacking in character. You have no idea what the sacrifice cost him. He left before he knew that we had conceived you.”
Simon remembered her cryptic comment that he might not have been born if ... it was too painful to consider.
“He confronted Sinclair, refused to continue the charade, forced him to pay the commission fee, and left that very night. We never heard from him again.”
“What if you had?” The horror struck through him. “What if you had to live here with him? All of you knowing — ”
“Do you not recall Sinclair clearly enough? Do you think that would have perturbed him? If Peter had come home, to become duke and leave you as second son, Sinclair would have been overjoyed.”
“And my father?”
“Who can say?” The dowager looked away, her eyes closed, her face shut in tight lines of pain. “The duke did not realize what harm he had caused, of course.”
She sighed. “Not even to his dying day. He sent news of your birth to Peter.” She put down the stitching she had been gripping in her hands. “It was shortly after that when we received the news of his death. He never even knew he had a son.”
His gaze sought Miranda, sitting silently through the news of his disgrace and humiliation. Her glance was one of sympathy, as she rose in one graceful move and came toward him, her arms held out. He remembered the time long ago, the night of her scandal, that he had known even then she would not hold his birth against him.
“Thank you for this information, Mother.” Simon’s eyes did not focus when he glanced toward his mother. He had to get away. Away from Miranda, away from his mother, away from this ill-fated life. His bow was brief, and then he was gone. Gone as far away as he was able, to ride away from this house of guests who all thought him the Duke of Kerstone. To ride away from his pain, his shame.
His brother his father, his father his grandfather.
His mother — could she have told him the truth? Could the old duke and his son really have acted so callously? Creating him as a spare against the possibility that Peter might not return?
Miranda had never seen the dowager more shaken than she was now. There were tears running down her cheeks, although she made no sounds of sobbing as she watched her son’s retreat.
She asked calmly, “Why did you lie to him?”
The dowager looked shocked. “I did not lie to him.”
“I heard you in the garden. I heard you with the American. He is Simon’s father, isn’t he? Not Peter.”
The sewing fell from her fingers to the ground unnoticed. “I can hold on to none of my vile, hurtful secrets, can I?” Her fury was intense when she raised her eyes. “Peter. Mr. Watson. They are one and the same.” Her anger faded. “And yet not. Mr. Watson has taken America as his land and will not give her up.”
“Find Simon,” she whispered. “Go to him. You are his last hope. My last hope. I do not w
ant to lose my son, but I have no power to sway him, only to hurt him. Perhaps you will believe me now that you have seen for yourself.”
Nodding, Miranda wondered where he might have gone.
As if she read her mind, the dowager said softly, “He will ride. Perhaps he will fish at the pond. It is what he did when he was troubled as a boy.”
“He is a man now,” Miranda reminded her.
“Yes. He is a man. And I fear that I have been wrong in believing I knew him. I knew the boy, but perhaps I do not know the man.” She gazed at Miranda, her eyes awash with tears. “I can but tell you to try the pond, for perhaps he is acting with the wounded nature of the boy he used to be, before he learned the truth.”
Miranda did not even excuse herself before fleeing the gardens for the stables.
She tied Celestina several hundred yards away from the pond and picked a path through the high grass until she heard the sounds of rhythmic splashing. Had the dowager been right? Was Simon fishing with such fury that the water splashed?
Within moments she could see him swimming, pumping his arms furiously in the air as he raced toward the edge of the pond where she stood. She watched for a moment, knowing that he was coping with the battle within him, worried that he would kill himself from the exertion.
Water cascaded from his body and yet still the silence grew loud as he stood up in the waist-deep water and shook himself. His gaze met hers and she burned from the anger in his eyes.
“Go away, Miranda. I am not in the mood for company.”
“You will kill yourself with all this exertion. Come and ride with me.”
His laughter was bitter. “I would like nothing better. But it is far safer for both of us if I stay in the water and you ride home alone.”
Miranda blushed, understanding the hidden meaning in her words now that she had been privy to the talk of the married women this weekend. In the heat of his passionate anger he was too easily roused. It was amazing the difference in the conversation between the married women and the conversations she remembered from her partial Season as an unmarried virgin. Some of the women seemed to relish inciting their husband’s anger just to get them into their beds.
The idea appealed to her. He could expend his frantic energy upon her, and she could offer him the comfort a wife offered a husband.
Certainly the risk was worth it, if only for the fact that he would begin swimming again were she to leave. No wonder he did not want to find a cure for himself. He thought himself a bastard, unworthy of his title and position. And yet he had been created to be duke with more forethought than most children could claim. Three people had chosen to create him, although two had apparently been destroyed in the process.
I will not let him be destroyed as were his mother and father, she vowed to herself. I will show him that I am proud to call him my husband. “I would prefer swimming. Surely that is a more satisfying exertion than riding?”
Slowly, she began unfastening her bodice. She had unhooked it completely before he closed his gaping mouth and said sternly, “Go home, Miranda.” His gaze, however, was trained upon the skin that she was slowly revealing.
She stood nude for a moment upon the bank before modestly plunging into the water and wading toward him. The pond was surprisingly cold and the moment after she began regretting her impulse, she began worrying that the cold water could not be good for him.
“If you insist upon exerting yourself, then do so by making me your wife in truth. At least then I can put my arms around you and hold you as I wish to. I can offer comfort — and I will not be too wild, Simon. I promise you have nothing to worry about from me.”
Absurdly, as she approached him, he backed toward the opposite bank. She stopped two feet away from him. “Simon, I know we have been worried about your health, but this time, even if I am not perfectly calm, I can do you no more harm than this frantic swimming of yours.”
Miranda’s attention was pulled away for a second, and she started quickly when something bumped her hip. She looked down to see a silver fish nibbling at her, apparently in the mistaken opinion that she was dinner. She cupped her hands to capture the fish and with a gentle push, released it in the opposite direction.
“I thought you would be fishing. That, at least would be a peaceful sport.”
“My health is my concern, Miranda. I have told you that before.”
She stepped closer to him, and this time he didn’t move away. Frustratingly, he did not seem any closer to taking her in his arms, either — though his gaze slipped from hers to rove lower more and more often.
“Simon, I know the idea of the duke deceiving your mother as he did is intolerable to an honest man like you, but you must not let your worries affect your health.”
“My health is the last thing you should be concerned with.” The anger in his eyes was so fierce she actually trembled at the sight of it. Or from the chill of the water. She could not be certain.
“These things happened in the past. They do not have to affect the present.”
“Miranda, you do not understand — ”
She opened her arms and stepped toward him.
“Let me hold you, soothe you. I am your wife ...” Another fish bumped at her hip and she reached for it. “Oh!”
Her fingers tightened on the “fish,” and it pulsed heatedly in her hand. Shocked she stared into Simon’s face. His eyes were closed and he was holding perfectly still.
“Miranda, please release me at once,” he said, his jaw barely moving.
She began to loosen her grip instantly, and then changed her mind, tightening again. “Not until you agree to let me be your wife in all ways, Simon.”
He said nothing at all, moved not a muscle. Curious, Miranda looked down into the murky water, but she could not see what her fingers encircled.
With her thumb, she explored the rounded tip of him, to find a valley at the very center that made her feel a dizzying rush of warmth throughout her limbs. For a moment, she thought she might faint, she felt so very strange.
Simon did not allow himself to move when her fingers curled over him. He could not. “Release me.”
She looked down into the water. And then she swayed toward him, her fingers tightening with delicious results. He crushed her to him with a groan, and she had to grab his shoulders for balance.
He buried his face in her neck and she released him at last. But it was too late. Far too late. “Miranda you have no idea what you’re asking of me. This is impossible.”
“You’re wrong, Simon.” She smiled as she rubbed her silken belly against him, pressing closer.
He groaned again and tightened his arms around her. “Miranda, Miranda, Miranda ... “ His control broke as he stared down into her eyes. There was a triumph in her eyes that she had affected him. And no sign that she thought him one whit less desirable now that she knew the truth.
The flash of triumph fled however, when he bent to claim her mouth. He knew his passion was too much for her. It was too much for him. But he could not stop.
He had wanted her five years ago, he had wanted her that night in the hunter’s cottage, and he wanted her still.
She pushed against his chest with her hands as if to slow his sensual assault, but he did not release her mouth, and in a moment he felt her relax against him once again. He lifted her easily, and carried her to the bank.
He touched her breasts, her throat, her belly; he parted her thighs with his knee and rubbed himself against her. He knew he was moving too quickly and tried to slow himself. But when she brought her hips up to meet his, he was consumed with the need to be one with her.
He did not pause, knowing and yet not able to know, that he would regret this haste as he pushed into her, entering her, stopping only for the briefest of times before he groaned into her mouth, deepened his kiss, and pushed past the flimsy barrier that was no barrier at all against his need.
It was only once he was deep inside her, when she lay stiff and still under him t
hat he remembered that he should have been cautious. He took his mouth from hers and buried his head in her neck, as still as he had been when she first touched him, thinking he was a fish. He laughed raggedly against the dampness of her skin. Certainly she would never make that mistake again.
She bucked her hips under him. “Simon, you’re hurting me. Stop.”
He wanted to. He tried to. But the urge to make her his was a burning need that overrode everything. His arms tightened around her as he began to shake in a silent battle with his body’s need to stroke into her until he made her forget the pain and cry out with the wonder of joining.
“Simon!” She tightened her arms around him then and tried to roll him beneath her.
“Stay still, Miranda,” he gritted out between his teeth. “Stay very still, and I think I may manage to remove myself before I — ” He did not finish his sentence, but rolled away from her and lay still for another moment. She reached out to touch his hip and he jerked away from her as he began to shake. “Don’t touch me Miranda. For God’s sake — and my own — don’t touch me.”
She leaned over him, ever eager to ignore what he told her.
He looked into her beautiful eyes and wished with all his heart that he could forget his burdens for a moment longer. He had hurt her. Worst of all, if he had not hurt her, he would never have had the strength to pull out of her before he achieved his own release. And then he’d be worrying about babies. “That should never have happened.”
“Why not?” He could see she was hurt. But she was trying to make sense of things, as always. “You seem to have survived it, Simon.” She smiled. “And I am your wife in truth, now, am I not?”
He knew, suddenly, the words that would send her away from him for good. “Of course I survived it. I am perfectly capable of making love to you. I am not really dying Miranda. I lied to you.”
“You are not dying?” He could see her confusion, but terribly, there was joy there. He needed to puncture the hope that might even now be burgeoning in her fairytale heart.
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 23
