Miranda sighed, but headed to her own room with a light enough heart. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and hardly recognised herself. Gone was the shy, girlish Miranda from Dorset. In her place stood an elegant, poised, voluptuous woman who had just been brought to the brink of madness by her lover.
She checked to make sure her door was locked, stripped off all of her clothes, and actually dared to look at herself completely naked in the mirror. She wanted to know what George would see. What he had seen already.
She positioned a candle by the full-length mirror, and turned to look at herself from every angle. She had to admit, she had never thought herself lovely before. But perhaps her response to George had made her that way? The blush on her skin, the luminous quality of her breast and backside, the contrast of the ivory with the blushing red peaks, which were usually small, delicate and quite pink…
She spread her legs daringly and gave a tentative touch. No, the moisture had not disappeared, as it would do if she had relieved herself in the chamber pot. It was still there, and her feminine parts now felt as though they had blossomed like a rose.
She sat down and stared. This was what he had seen, tasted? It was like a rose.... Pretty, delicate, with soft dewy petals. And surely something so pretty couldn’t taste bad, not when she was so fastidious about bathing, and used the best soap, though not so cloyingly fragranced that she smelt like a boudoir.
She thought again of the single perfect red rose which greeted her each day on her dressing table, never with any note. Yes, that was what it looked like.
She sighed, got up, snuffed out the candle, and slipped into bed, lying on her stomach as she rubbed herself against the mattress to get comfortable. A jolt told her that was not all she had got, and she explored the sensations as she let her thoughts fill with George. For someone who seemed so enamoured of her, he was singularly lacking in romantic gestures. He never gave her any flowers or gifts.
The Earl, on the other hand, had been most generous. She had thanked him profusely every time a little gift with a note signed ‘G’ had appeared.
Geoffrey Bassett had looked surprised at first, and waved her thanks away. "Don’t think anything of it," the Earl had said airily.
The gifts had been nothing expensive, but thoughtful. She only wished....
But then Oxnard couldn’t make her feel the way she felt now, as if she were floating in a basket of spun sugar, dripping with sweetness...
It wasn’t George’s fault if he didn’t understand chivalry, politesse. And he was the one who said he despised anything between a man and a woman which smacked of a commercial transaction.
In fact, she was surprised he had not hauled her up about the fine ivory box, the fan, the embroidered hankies. Perhaps he could see they had nothing but sentimental value?
Miranda turned over, and put her hands on her bare breasts. She imagined them as George’s and soared. Sentiment was all very well in its place, but she would take sensuality any day if George would only offer it to her unreservedly.
George walked home briskly and let himself into his flat. Once there, he flung himself down on the day bed so violently it shook and groaned. He knew how the furniture felt. He had been doing the same thing himself ever since he and Miranda had met. Why keep fighting it? She had been more than ready to take him to her bed tonight.
But he wanted so much more, he thought as he peeled away his clinging drawers and slipped between the sheets naked. He wanted to woo her. Show her it wasn’t all sensuality, but genuine sentiment and regard. That he loved her unreservedly.
Aye, that was the sticking point. He did have reservations. Not just of trust. She had seemed unmoved by his gifts, the roses, the hankies, the box... Was she really so mercenary? Did she have expectations that that was the way the game was supposed to be played? She had protested she was a virgin... Surely if she were she ought to want to hold out for more—if not in financial terms then in strictly practical ones, like marriage, or at the very least a clear understanding of the terms of an arrangement.
But no, George had never thought of keeping her as a mistress, he determined, his hand splaying down over his bare flesh lightly as he tried to imitate Miranda’s tentative yet curious touch. No, once he bedded her, he was sure he was never going to let her go. And yet giving her up might be the best thing he could ever do for the girl.
For surely the life he led was too dangerous to ever ensure she was safe. The Three Bells and bath house were the perfect cover for the endless messages and dispatches left for him by Castlereagh and his network of spies. Under the guise of taking all of his meals there, he sifted through them four times each day.
He sighed, astonished at his own forgetfulness. He should have headed straight back to The Three Bells to close up shop for the night, but Miranda’s triumph and his need to be with her had put paid to that notion.
Now, in thrall as he was to his desire for her, he was damned if he was going to drag himself out on this cold February night just to look at a bunch of scrawls full of insignificant details.
The ferrety-looking man at The Three Bells crept out of the public privy, and shoved open the secret panel, grabbed a handful of messages, and slammed it shut. He took them back in and sorted through them. He hoped he had the right one.
He couldn’t take them all, of course, or George would smell a rat. But the last thing George needed to know was where the French spy Aumais had been tonight.
He found the scroll, pocketed it, and with the utmost care and skill, returned the rest to their basket, and rejoined Emma in the Turkey red parlor.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunday dawned clear and bright, and Miranda dressed with care in the dark blue gown with black braided frogs which she had seen George admire so much. She knew she had better gowns which her sister had sent, but it wouldn’t do to change too much overnight or he might wonder where and how she had acquired so many fine things.
George called for her at nine, and Miranda noted angrily that Viola stalled him with chit chat, as if to show how much power she had over him, and that Miranda came second in his life. Finally Miranda raised her eyebrows to look at the clock.
George stood up at once. "Forgive me, but we need to go—"
"Aren’t you coming with us?" Viola demanded almost angrily.
George looked at Miranda and shook his head. "No. I’m sure four is a crowd."
Before Viola could protest further he got Miranda’s outwear, bundled her up against the cold tenderly, and escorted her from the house. They made it into the church with about five minutes to spare, and she bowed and preceded him up to the altar. The music was sublime, and with the sun pouring in through the stained glass window, illuminating the entire ancient stone building, bathing them both in sunlight, George felt a true sense of peace for the first time in years.
He stared at Miranda as if she were a stranger. Dressed in the dark blue gown with a matching bonnet trimmed with black lace, which contrasted with her radiant chesnut hair, he suddenly realised many shocking things about the woman by his side and her place in his life. That he was in love with her. Really and truly in love, for the first time in his life. More so than he had ever imagined himself to be with Viola.
That he never wanted to leave Miranda’s side. That he wanted to wake up beside her every morning, be inside her day and night, grow old with her. Laugh with her, cry with her. Have children with her. Never let her out of his sight for an instant.
And that he could understand, even if he could not forgive, why Castlereagh had done this to him. For when people loved, all reason flew out the window. They would do anything for it. England and its safety had become his superior’s whole life, to the exclusion of all else, just as his love of his brothers, all that remained of his family, had caused him to shut everyone out.
But was that part of the problem with Miranda? He found himself trembling with all sorts of unnamed fears. Had he simply fallen in love with her because he was tired of being
alone?
Or did they have enough in common to be able to build something upon the foundation of respect, esteem, and desire he had tried to construct ever since they had met?
But there could be no love without trust. George hated his suspicions and uncertainty, wondering if she was really all she seemed to be, or if she was just a professional who had been sent to toy with him.
Others had the luxury of falling in love with whomever they wished. But this was a huge decision in his life. And he had been burnt so badly in the past….
There had been so many women who had only wanted him for his fortune, his family name when he had been younger. Later, they had wanted him for the secrets, the power...
Miranda saw him tense, heard his sharp intake of breath, and took his hand. He grasped her hand convulsively in return. She stroked the back of his with her other hand, wondering at his evident and sudden change of mood.
The contact was so thrilling he had all to do not to grab her to him and kiss her senseless. The sun shining down on her made him tug the lace bonnet aside lightly, so he could catch more of the glow of it upon her vibrant deep chestnut hair. He thought of her delicate darker curls he had tasted and teased, and his loins tightened painfully.
Drat it, he was supposed to be praying, not lusting after her like an adolescent schoolboy who could barely keep it in his trousers. He held onto her hand more firmly, putting his other hand over both of hers as he prayed silently.
Lord, please make this real. Please make this the happily ever after I’ve always wanted. I’m sorry for my pride and arrogance, the evil I’ve committed. I want to love her for all time, make Miranda happy. More even than myself. I want her love even more than I want the truth about my brothers' fates….
Miranda's thoughts were running along a similar groove—what would he say when he found out who she really was? Did he actually truly care about her? Or was it all mere lust which would burn to cold ashes one day? She had put her trust in him as far as she could considering her past. She would have to tell him, but not yet. Later. After….
The service ended at eleven. They explored the church hand in hand and he enthused quietly over the statues, showing her another side to himself. He certainly was not a thug, but a cultured, urbane man of the world.
"Stand there in the light," he requested suddenly, positioning her under a shaft of golden light streaming through one of the stained glass windows. "You look like an angel."
"Oh no, George," she whispered. "I’m no angel. Not after last night. And perhaps I’m not what you really want or need after all," she added almost tearfully, recalling the shocked expression on Viola’s face when she had seen them together in the alcove.
He saw the earnest gaze and shook his head in disbelief. "Is that what this is all about? Do you think I’ve just been, what? Toying with you or something?" George demanded.
"No, no! There’s just nothing worse than feeling you’ve made a mistake, and can’t draw back."
George stood squarely in front of her and brushed the bonnet down to her shoulders. He cupped her chin in his lean strong fingers. "Listen, Miranda. The only mistake I’ve made is in not being more honest about my feelings before. The only thing I regret is being so prickly that I treat harmless people as if they are going to lie to me, hurt me."
She managed a tremulous smile. "That’s all right, then. I haven’t lied to you. And I wouldn’t hurt you either. You’re a wonderful man. The kindest, best man I’ve ever known."
He forced himself to stay calm, for he could see she was frightened by the intensity of what was between them, always just bubbling under the surface like some intoxicating brew. He took a deep breath, and exhaled. "On that happy note, let’s go have that walk."
They headed towards the door, but the light shining down on her filled George with an uncontrollable urge to see her true response to him in daylight. He longed for everything to be out in the open. Want to blurt out who he was, what he wanted. The who was the hard part. He knew he ought to tell her the whole truth now before she got in any deeper.
But she looked so lovely he couldn’t bear the thought of not having her for his own, spreading her glorious hair out on his pillow. Spreading her glorious legs to take her even higher than she had gone before.... Making love to her without any restraints or barriers.
His need was so urgent he kissed her hard, until she began to yield to him, and at last kissed him back. Her ardent response set him on fire until he was almost scorching.
He dragged her into the shadow behind a pillar, and his hands were practically everywhere. She felt completely swept off her feet, and unable to do anything other than cling to him desperately.
At last she pulled away while she still had a shred of something resembling sanity left, pushing hard on his chest at the same time. "Good Lord, George, we’re in a church in the middle of London, for Heaven’s sake. What are you doing?" she hissed, yanking her hem down over her knees.
George turned away from her at last, rubbing one trembling hand over his face. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— Oh, Lord. I’m sorry."
When he had calmed, he took a deep breath and ventured a look at her white face and wide blue eyes.
"Come, let’s leave before we’re arrested for indecency," Miranda said quietly, taking his arm once more.
Once on the stairs outside, Miranda sat down on the cold stone steps off to one side and said quietly, "George, would you care to tell me what that was all about?"
"I don’t know. I just, hell, I panicked."
"About what?"
He shook his head."It was all in my own mind. All my fault. I’m sorry." He laughed shakily. "Crikey, I really lost control in there. You should have stopped me."
"But I don’t understand—"
"You looked so, well—"
"What?" she pressed.
"Lovely and different, ethereal, I guess. It’s like, like trying to keep hold of mercury. Every time I think I know you, I see you a new side of you the next minute, and I ask myself which Miranda is the real one."
"They’re all real. I’m not pretending," she said, her tone gentle.
"I think I’m beginning to understand that. It’s like Antony speaking about Cleopatra. It could almost describe you. ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale/ Her infinite variety. Other women cloy the appetites they feed,/ But she makes hungry/ Where most she satisfies.’"
"Thank you, I think. Viola in Twelfth Night, Cleopatra. But I’m just plain old Miranda."
"Most certainly not plain, and if you ever grow old, I’ll never notice, for I’ll have grown old with you."
Miranda stroked his cheek. "Oh, George." She kissed him tenderly then.
"I’m an ass. A mere man, very confused. Please don’t hate me."
"Never."
He threw one arm around her in a bear hug, and took a steadying breath. "Come on, love, forget any of this ever happened. I’ll be on my best behaviour, I swear. Let’s walk back home, get an early dinner and put our feet up in the conservatory and go over our lines. I love stroking your hands. If you let me take off your shoes and stroke your feet, I shall be in heaven."
She nodded. She stood up, brushed off her cloak and drew it around her, then took his hand. "All is forgiven, so long as you promise to kiss me like that again when we’re alone at last."
George took in a tremulous breath and grinned. "When we’re alone, all you have to do is ask. Then just let anyone try to stop me."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Monday was frenetic with last minute preparations for the first performance of Twelfth Night that evening. Everyone scurried about trying to make everything perfect, from props to costumes. The strain of the day was compounded by the fact that Maggie and Hugo returned, and seemed determined to sneer at everything.
"You, Olivia?" she said mockingly to poor Liz. "Well, I suppose if the audience wants to see a trained monkey—"
Milly made the mistake of trying to defend her friend.
"Or a
hippopotamus," Maggie added witheringly.
Miranda, heard the disparaging remarks coming from the common dressing room. She stormed in and glared at Maggie. "You have no right—"
"I have every right. I set the tone as lead actress and—"
Miranda’s eyes glittered. "In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the lead any more. I am."
"Only until George is finished futtering you."
"Well, since he hasn’t started in the first place—"
Maggie waved her away. "You taught me that amazing whore’s trick and you expect me to believe that you and he don’t—"
"Not that it’s any of your business, Maggie, but no, we don’t," George growled, coming in from his office, where he too had heard the commotion. "A fact I shall remedy one night very soon, not because she’s my actress, but because she’s the woman who completes my life in every way.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6 Page 53
