by Heather Boyd
A growled wife was all the greeting she received.
She curtsied and pasted a smile on her face. “Husband. Did you pass a pleasant day?”
“No, but that was your intention anyway.” He walked toward her and held out his hand. “Come. Supper has been delayed long enough while we waited your return.”
“Wait.” She gestured to Mr. Landry, who’d followed close behind her. “See to it that my man is given a place.”
Taverham appraised her servant from head to toe, his expression critical. “A groom?”
“No. A place in the house. I would have him abovestairs where he can be of greatest use to me.”
Her husband’s brow rose at her request, but eventually he nodded in agreement. “Addison, see to it immediately.”
She smiled in relief as Peter Landry moved toward the servant’s stairs. “Now that’s settled, I should change first.”
He stared at her, his eyes narrowed as he inspected her. “As you are is good enough. Come, I’m hungry.”
He drew her toward the dining room she remembered from a previous brief visit. Nothing had changed too much since her last time to this house. Taverham’s ancestors still looked down on those passing before their disapproving faces. Haughtiness appeared ingrained in each generation of Taverhams. What would they make of her son when his portrait was hung upon their precious walls and he was smiling?
Taverham paused a moment, his gaze darting in each direction of the hallway. Suddenly Miranda was in his arms again, her lips claimed, her length pressed tightly against Taverham’s heated body. He devoured her mouth, tongue sliding against hers in a sensual dance as she belatedly remembered his intention to claim ten years’ worth of kisses. Miranda had mistakenly thought he’d wait for the privacy of a bedchamber before he attempted to claim the next. She wasn’t to be so lucky.
He released her as a footman appeared then disappeared. “You taste unbelievably good,” he whispered against her lips. “Good enough to eat.”
Miranda swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat. Compliments came easily to his lips and she wouldn’t fall for them. Compliments she’d once believed as truth, especially when they were alone and he whispered them with a soft smile lighting his eyes, had once made her think he cared. To hear them now hurt and she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut to block him out. She couldn’t bear Taverham’s attempts at seduction coming so soon on top of finding Christopher missing. She wasn’t a good mother nor a compliant wife. She was failing on all fronts, and there was no one to blame for the mess but herself.
“Miranda? What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t be fooled by Taverham’s concern. He just wanted her available to kiss and make love to when he wanted. He wanted his heir. Well, so did Miranda. She swallowed and glanced up, hoping her eyes didn’t give away her feelings. “Supper?”
For a moment, Miranda thought he’d hold her there in the hall and question her. But then he smiled ruefully, held out his arm for her to take, and dragged her toward the dining room. Miranda had dined here once with her father and Taverham’s three guardians, who had arrived unannounced and insisted they had every right to stay. Taverham had been furious, but when it came to his guardians, he had not had the ability to send them away. At least tonight’s dinner couldn’t be as uncomfortable as that one.
A footman in sharp black livery opened the double doors smartly, and Kit dragged her through. She stopped and looked at the table with a sinking heart. What she hadn’t expected was to find the room filled with three familiar and unwanted faces. The faces she’d most dreaded to see were already ensconced in Taverham’s household. She smiled at them, hiding just how much she detested both Lady Brighthurst and her brother Lord Acton, not to mention the Dowager Marchioness of Taverham. Had one of them conspired to remove Christopher from the succession?
The dowager marchioness sat at one end of the table and nodded regally, though her gaze flittered over Miranda from head to toe. She’d not been given a chance to change for dinner, so Miranda was sure she looked less than presentable to that lady’s exacting standards. It was Taverham’s fault, so she beamed at the woman. The dowager’s eyes widened only a fraction in shock at her response to silent criticism. Miranda was sure her face would split apart if she ever encountered something that pleased her and turned away.
Lord Acton and Kit’s lover, Lady Brighthurst, stood on the far side of the table, leaving two places empty for Taverham and Miranda to sit near each other. At least no one else was expected to dine with them. The siblings, Taverham’s dearest friends, would be bad enough. The pair had been close at the time of her marriage and appeared to still be in each other’s pockets to this day. As she inspected them, she wondered if Acton and Emily were the well-dressed couple who’d discovered Mr. Fenning had harbored her son and forced him to burn down the house.
Neither appeared friendly toward her. Neither spoke.
Taverham held out a chair for her on the unfilled side of the table, set closest to him, and then took his seat nearby. “Supper can be served.”
The footmen went about the task of filling glasses and laying napkins on laps while Miranda’s skin crawled in the heavy silence. The dining room was so opulent and reeked of so much power that she felt adrift and very shabby by comparison.
The dowager sniffed the air as if a bad smell lingered in the room. “Where have you been, madam? Explain yourself.”
Miranda sipped her water, aware that Taverham had groaned softly. She didn’t expect any help from him and it seemed he still allowed the old dragon to rattle about in his gilded cage. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly as the footmen laid out the first course. She would not give the servants fodder for the gossips as answering honestly surely would have done. She picked up her soupspoon and ignored her mother-in-law.
The dowager marchioness slapped her hand down on the table. “I will not be ignored in my own home. You will answer to me and do it now.”
“Mother,” Taverham growled but said no more on the subject.
“Well, I for one have had enough of this lady’s scandalous behavior,” the dowager complained.
Miranda set her spoon aside and pressed her napkin to her lips. The servants were listening, every ear trained for her response. She met her mother-in-law’s gaze with unwavering confidence, as she hadn’t been able to do as an expectant bride. “This is Taverham’s home, is it not, and supper, not an inquisition. I have no intention of answering any question you demand of me, or anyone else’s, for that matter, when they are so rudely put. I owe you nothing.”
“You will answer to him,” Lord Acton said then scowled fiercely, attempting to intimidate her as he bounced in his seat as if about to leap across the table and do her harm. Unfortunately it worked. After discovering someone had attempted to kill her son, she had little trust left. There could be a cruelty about some men, hidden for the most part but certainly felt when they were denied what they wanted most.
She did not know what Lord Acton was capable of, and she could not let down her guard around him. She turned her gaze from Acton and tried to slow her breathing to normal.
“Come now, Miranda, surely you can appease our curiosity a little,” Lady Brighthurst pleaded, her eyes skipping to Taverham’s with a soft smile that didn’t bother to hide how highly she regarded Miranda’s husband. “Kit has been very generous and patient with you.”
He’d been generous? Hardly. Miranda wanted to scream.
The pair sickened her. It was too much even now after ten years of knowing about their affair. Her chest tightened with the old pain she’d thought lost and long buried. Try as she might, Miranda could not sit by and watch the pair flirt. She was no longer the daughter of a merchant but a marchioness. It was past time to put her title to good use. “I do not recall ever giving you leave to address me by my given name, Lady Brighthurst. I still do not.”
“That was unkind, Miranda,” Kit protested.
Miranda ignored him and stared the wom
an down, little caring that she was now making the scene she’d promised not to have. Coming home to Taverham was bad enough without seeing his lover here, flaunting their mutual affection across the mahogany of what was supposed to be her home too.
Emily patted his hand. “It’s all right.”
“Please,” he begged. “Let’s all just eat our supper and enjoy having Miranda back where she belongs.”
Miranda turned her head slowly to glare at her husband as the soup bowls were cleared away and new plates placed before them. He appeared almost as uncomfortable as she felt but likely for far different reasons. Miranda did not care if she offended his lover. She was no longer interested in pleasing anybody but her own son, and until Christopher was here, she would make all the waves she liked.
When she glanced down at her own plate and saw pork had been served to her without regard for her dislike of the meat, she knew how little she mattered in the scheme of things. She pushed back from the table and tossed her napkin aside. “Would you excuse me?”
Miranda stood and, before Taverham could insist she stay, walked from the room as regally as she could manage. Her hands shook and she gripped them together before her churning belly. She would not ask him for directions even if she had no idea where she was going. The marchioness’s bedchamber had to be upstairs someplace. She’d find it eventually.
At the foot of the stairs, Taverham caught her and spun her about. “I apologize. Mother must have changed the menu when I was busy elsewhere. She does that from time to time if the housekeeper can’t find me. Please come back and I’ll have something else prepared for you.”
His hands stroked up and down her arms but did not soothe her.
“I will not. The meal is just a small portion of the problem between us. Your friends will never accept me, and your mother is determined to put me in my place. I warned you how it would be. I don’t need to live here to be married to you.”
“You belong with me.” He bit his lip, a gesture of uncertainty that she’d never seen him wear before, and then slipped her arm through his. “I won’t lose you over a mistake. Things will become more settled soon, you’ll see. Let me help you get situated for the night. You don’t know this house, do you?”
Why couldn’t he just leave her be? She wasn’t interested in a house that best resembled a palace. “There was no need to worry about what my money saved from ruin. Your staff has done you proud.”
“Our staff,” he corrected.
Miranda shook her head. “Nothing here requires my attention when the dowager marchioness is in residence. Let us leave it that way.”
“No.” He tugged her to the steps and started up them, one arm lodged behind her back so she couldn’t resist. “Everything must change or there was no point to our marriage. I will not accept that outcome and neither should you be willing to.”
At the top he curled her arm through his and they strolled through the upper-level hallway. Taverham pointed out rooms and amenities previously unknown to her congenially enough, but Miranda tensed anyway. When they came to his bedchamber, he walked her past the door without opening it. He stopped at the next one, an adjoining room. “Your room was ready hours ago, though I must confess I did leave it to your maid to unpack your trunks.”
Relieved but unable to show it, Miranda rubbed at her temple as her head began to throb. “My maid? I don’t have a maid.”
He smiled. “I noticed the lack, so I took pains to employ one. I hope you’ve no objections when you see her.”
Not returned more than an hour and he was already trying to smother her in how things must be done his way. Miranda did not take his presumption well. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. She could have purchased new dresses very cheaply to make up for what clothing had been stolen. There were other hotels in London that wouldn’t rudely deny her entry as Mivart’s had done that afternoon.
He nudged open the door and allowed her to walk in first. Miranda feared what she would find. Another of the dowager’s cast-off servants who cared nothing for her but the gossip she could supply to the other servants of the house. Yet when she looked, Miranda saw no haughty abigail across the room but the tiny girl from Mivart’s Hotel. The one that talked far too much. The one she had instantly warmed to.
Taverham nudged her arm gently. “She said her name was April. As for the rest, I’ve no idea. Her suitability and experience I leave for you to judge, but I thought you might like a familiar face, someone you’d already met, taking care of you over a complete stranger. She can always be taught to do things your way.”
Miranda’s throat tightened and she swallowed the unexpected feeling of gratitude. Taverham had actually done the right thing for a change. She wouldn’t have believed it possible without the proof grinning at her from across the room. April might be a little lax in her manner, but Miranda had requested her over others at the hotel during her stay because she had potential. How had Taverham discovered that preference and why had he bothered to care? It was difficult, but Miranda decided she had to say something. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He kissed the back of her hand, a lingering kiss that promised so much more than it might appear to the maid. Then he turned her hand over to kiss her bare palm and his tongue skipped across her skin lightly. He lifted his head suddenly to peer at her hand and the burn scar resting here. Miranda closed her fingers over her palm, hiding the unsightly blemish from his view. The burn had happened so long ago that she had almost forgotten how she’d come by it. The reminder was all she needed to regain her bearings.
Christopher had given it to her with a hot fire poker. An accident, of course, when she’d not watched what he was doing with enough care.
Taverham’s brow rose as she sucked in a sharp breath, but then he smiled quickly, asking nothing of the scar. “Now you must excuse me. I had better return to my mother’s guests. Until later, dear wife.”
A ball of dread filled her as he hurried for the door. His title was all she managed to choke out before he was gone again to be with his best friends. Later would be when he returned and joined with her in bed. She didn’t think he would let her sleep alone, not when he’d already had her before. She hoped he was with his friends for a very long time so the night might be as short as possible. Tomorrow she had to set out in search of Christopher and find him before another day had passed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kit normally enjoyed the company of friends and encouraged them to accept his hospitality for as long as they liked. Tonight though, he was torn between good manners and the urge to suggest they leave. Mother should never have invited guests on such an important night. He and Miranda had a lot to talk about, and they could not begin until he was free.
He also suspected she was much more upset with him than she let on.
Perhaps he’d been in the wrong for taking her possessions without permission, but damn it all, she was his wife and he wanted to watch over her here and not in some third rate hotel.
He turned aside the suggestion of a third port and checked the time on his pocket watch. Would Miranda be asleep already?
An exasperated sigh reached his ears and he glanced across to the source. His mother stared at him, her expression thoughtful. “I believe I will take my leave of you young folk and retire for the night. There seems to be an issue with the staff that I must attend to.”
“Miranda and I will take care of any staff issue in the morning, Mother.” He stood when she did. Mother likely would take issue at Miranda’s man joining their household, not to mention her chattering maid. He did not want to make Miranda feel she could not employ anyone she pleased, although she could have picked someone with a less frightening appearance for a footman. “Pleasant dreams.”
She scoffed at that. “Dreams are for the young and foolish.”
“You’re not so old as to have none at all, surely, Lady Taverham,” Emily soothed, glancing between them quickly. Emily was always the one to cajole his mothe
r into lighter spirits, although some days she had little success.
Today it seemed Emily was unequal to the task as his mother did not soften her expression one bit. Her brow rose haughtily instead. “There is but one dream I have, and it preys on my mind. Taverham’s need for an heir under his roof.”
When she strolled from the room, murmuring a blunt good-night, Emily’s face grew red.
After a few minutes where Kit struggled for something to say in the embarrassing silence, Acton rose to his feet and held out his hand to his sister. “Come, Emily. You will have to leave him at some point. Any goose can see your presence is not what he needs right now. Man’s hardly been able to hold up his end of the conversation all night, and I’m sure he has much to… to discuss with his wife tonight. I don’t envy him the chore.”
Emily’s skin turned an even brighter shade of red. Kit glanced at Acton in annoyance. He’d never confided in Acton that Miranda had been his lover before the wedding. Meeting Miranda in their marriage bed would not be a chore to Kit but a joy. Yet that could only happen if she wanted to be there of her own free will.
Emily looked dreadfully uncomfortable and he felt sorry for her. “It’s been a stressful day,” he murmured softly so she would not feel slighted.
“I imagine it has.” She grimaced. “I do find myself weary too. Good evening, Kit. Perhaps we will have a chance to talk again tomorrow at the Huntley soiree. You promised me a dance if you recall, although your wife may not like to have your attention diverted.”
“Yes, of course we will dance,” he quickly assured her. “Just because Miranda has returned doesn’t mean I cannot dance with anyone I please. We shall have a great time.”
She smiled brightly then, her eyes flaring with anticipation, and he cursed that he might have made a mistake in saying that.
He saw them headed for the door, waited a few minutes longer, then climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. His valet was waiting and silently assisted him in changing out of his evening clothes. Once he was alone again, Kit strolled toward the adjoining bedchamber’s door. His stomach was in knots, uncertain whether he should disturb Miranda at this hour to say goodnight. He had no idea of her sleeping habits, although she’d seemed to retire early when she’d been a guest at Mivart’s Hotel.
