But she couldn’t stay, and even now her eyes stung at the thought that this would be the most he could ever be to her. A friend, a lover…someone with whom to share laughter and affection but not a future. Sebastian might find joy with her, but the Duke of Trent had to find a life with someone else.
She blinked hard. “I should leave,” she whispered into the dark shadows as the ache in her chest began to grow stronger.
“Stay.” He reached down to draw the coverlet over her to keep her tucked into bed with him, then placed a delicate kiss on her bare shoulder. “We have all night, remember.”
She latched on to the only excuse she could give without revealing her heart. “I need to return to Audley House before the servants wake and see me slipping in through the cellar door.”
“I’ll make certain you return home safely without any problems.” His arms tightened around her. “But for tonight I want to hold you right here.”
Even as he said that, though, his words slurred from exhaustion, and his voice thickened with sleep. So she stayed, because she knew he would soon fall asleep and then she could slip away without disturbing him. And without him seeing the tears she was certain would fall. Not in regret—never. She would never regret a moment of tonight. But she knew she would mourn for what more they would never share.
Sebastian Carlisle…Whoever would have thought she would have surrendered her innocence to him? All these years her heart had been infatuated with Robert and never once considered that it might very well be Sebastian whom she wanted to kiss her instead, with whom she wanted to engage in scandalous conversations at operas and plays, whom she…
Loved.
Her heart skipped hard as the utter hopelessness of their situation washed painfully over her.
He was an impossible choice, yet she’d known when she came here that what she felt was so much more than simple physical attraction. Somehow, creeping upon her so slowly that she never saw it coming, she’d fallen in love with the other Carlisle brother.
And there was no hope for it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thunder rumbled through the silence of his room, and Sebastian stirred from sleep. His eyes opened slowly to the gray darkness of a morning rainstorm striking at the windows, the coals in the fireplace now completely cold. But the bed was warm. He smiled as he languidly stretched. He’d awoken happier than he had in years, and his body ached pleasantly in places where it hadn’t ached in far too long. All because of Miranda.
“Rose,” he whispered blissfully as he rolled over, “are you—”
The bed was empty. He flung back the coverlet and bolted to his feet to search for her. She wasn’t in the adjoining sitting room nor in the connecting bedchamber after that. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.
She was gone.
He scrambled into a pair of trousers and yanked a shirt over his head, then charged from his room to search the house for her. But the town house was quiet, and there was no sign that she’d been there at all last night, except for the small stain of blood on his sheet where he’d taken her innocence and the scent of rosewater, which still clung to his skin.
He charged downstairs. The frustrating woman had left him in the middle of the night, without a chance to say good-bye or explain to her the way things had to be between them going forward. She’d left, damn it! When she should have stayed all night, when she should have been emotional and clingy like any other woman would have been. Oh no, not her—she never did as expected, not even in intimacy. She’d sneaked out under the cover of darkness as if she’d never been there at all. As if last night meant nothing to her.
And that bothered him most of all.
He flung open the breakfast room door and caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. “Miranda!”
Quinn turned away from the buffet, his heaping plate in his hand, and popped a sweet roll into his mouth. “Why would Miranda be here?” he mumbled around the roll.
Why, indeed? Sebastian’s shoulders sagged with more disappointment than he wanted to admit. He’d been looking forward to spending the morning with her, to prolonging their night together. He’d felt more relaxed and at peace last night with Miranda than he had in the company of any other woman in his entire life. And he felt more alive than he had in years. For a few hours, she’d lifted the weight from his shoulders, and he’d wanted that lightness and sense of freedom to last as long as possible before the burden settled back onto him. Even now he felt his back growing tighter.
But Quinton was still staring at him in bewilderment, still waiting for an answer.
He forced a casual shrug. “Mother mentioned something last night about Miranda bringing something over this morning sometime,” he muttered as he slumped down into his chair. Well, that was certainly vague. But the answer seemed to satisfy Quinn, whose attention had already returned to the kippers piled on his plate. “I thought I heard the front door.”
“Must have been Saunders fetching the post.” Quinn sat at the table and snatched up the morning Times, which the butler had already ironed and left at Sebastian’s place. Then he glanced up and frowned with concern. “You look like hell this morning.”
“Thanks,” he grumbled, stealing a slice of bacon from his brother’s plate and taking a bite. He felt like hell this morning.
“So…you had a woman in your room last night.”
Sebastian choked.
Quinn slapped him hard on the back with an appreciative grin. “Sowing wild oats before you’re leg-shackled, then?”
He rolled his eyes. Leave it to Quinn to bring up his search for a wife, something he hadn’t thought about since he parted from Lady Jane at Vauxhall. That moment now seemed like years ago rather than less than one day, and something that felt as if it had happened to someone other than him.
Quinton arched a brow, his eyes shining mischievously. “And how is Lady Jane this morning?”
“It wasn’t Jane Sheridan,” he corrected in a growl, despite knowing that Quinn was simply baiting him. Then he came as close as he could without openly lying— “It was a woman from Vauxhall.” There was no point in denying he had company last night. He should have known he would never be able to keep Miranda quiet, not with all that eager passion bubbling inside her. Nor had he wanted to. One of the things he liked best about her was her exuberance. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a long swallow of the black liquid, letting it burn down his throat. “Jane Sheridan isn’t the kind of woman who has trysts in a gentleman’s bedroom.”
“Pity.” Quinn sighed in exaggerated disappointment and returned his attention to the newspaper. He asked with mock solemnity, “Still set on marrying her anyway?”
Instead of laughing at his brother’s teasing—or even scowling at him—Sebastian stared down into his coffee as fresh guilt rose inside him. What happened last night with Miranda was special and amazing, a wonderful gift he wasn’t certain he deserved. Yet it didn’t change the fact that he’d promised his father to find a proper duchess to represent the title and his family’s legacy. Or that Miranda, with her pirate plays and boisterous laughter, was not that woman.
But the events of last night had proven one very important point to him with complete certainty—Lady Jane Sheridan would never be his wife.
“No,” he said somberly, raking his fingers through his bed-mussed hair. “I’m not marrying Jane.”
Quinn froze in mid-chew, his eyes darting to his brother. “Are you certain? She seems perfect.”
“She is.” Jane was perfect in every way—perfect for some other man.
He frowned, puzzled. “I thought she was at the top of your list.”
“She was. But not any longer.” He gulped down half a cup of coffee, wishing Quinton would talk about something other than his hunt for a wife. He couldn’t even entertain the thought this morning of courting anyone, not when his skin still smelled of Miranda. Not when his chest continued to ache with disappointment that she wasn’t here with him
.
“But you’re still planning on finding a wife this season, then?” Quinn pressed.
“Yes,” he grumbled into his coffee cup. Although he had no idea how he’d manage to do it when the only woman occupying his mind was Miranda.
“And this woman from last night—”
“Is not the sort of woman Father had in mind to be Duchess of Trent,” he interrupted firmly to put an end to the conversation before Quinton could question him further. The very last person he wanted to discuss with his brother was Miranda Hodgkins, especially when he had no idea how he felt about her himself. Except that she confused the hell out of him. The thunder rolling overhead and the rain beating at the windows only dampened his spirits more to realize how right she was for him when they were alone, how wrong in every other way.
And if he held a riot of emotions inside him at the memory of last night, then God only knew what confusion Miranda felt. Because while he’d never experienced a woman like her before, she’d never experienced any other man.
Quinn returned his attention to the paper and scanned the land listings as he did every morning, hunting for possible properties he could purchase and turn into an estate of his own. Sebastian knew that his brother had chafed under the limitations of the work he’d done for the dukedom during the past two years, despite being brilliantly successful at managing the estate’s operations, and that he wanted to forge his own path away from the influence of the Carlisle family. Sebastian certainly understood that. He suspected that by the end of the season Quinn would have made up his mind where that path would take him, and that possibility both pleased Sebastian and spiraled hot jealousy through him.
“Just keep in mind that you can have a mistress once you’re married,” Quinn threw out helpfully as he simultaneously popped a strawberry into his mouth and traced a forefinger down the listings as he read them. “Most every peer does. It’s nearly expected of a duke.”
A mistress…He stared at his coffee as a dark, desperate thought surged through him of the only way he could have both his respectable duchess and his passionate lover. The lady he needed as a duke and the woman he wanted as a man. Perhaps Quinn was right for once. Perhaps he could make Miranda his mistress and—
No.
A wave of self-loathing surged through him. She deserved better than being his mistress, and he would never use her like that. Just as he knew that once he married, he would never go outside his marriage, for either pleasure or companionship. He wanted the same kind of marriage his parents had, one of friendship, support, and love. A mistress? Christ, what was he thinking?
He wasn’t, that was the problem. When it came to Miranda, all rational thought ceased. Even now she bothered him to distraction, creating more questions than answers. She’d come to London in pursuit of Robert, but last night, she’d come to him. She knew he couldn’t offer her a future, yet she’d surrendered her innocence anyway, asking for nothing in return. She’d admitted to having an affection for him, yet she’d vanished in the night without a word.
His male pride wanted explanations.
But his heart simply wanted to see her again.
He set the coffee aside and asked as casually as possible as a plan began to form in his mind, “What do the ladies have scheduled for this evening, do you know?”
“They’re attending a museum lecture with Emily Grey.” Quinn turned the page. “And Robert and I are planning on heading to St James’s Street.”
Sebastian bit back the urge to ask if that was wise, given how many nights his brothers had spent in the clubs recently. But he didn’t have time to worry over them. Not when he had to deal with the oncoming storm that was Miranda.
“Robert and I will most likely be at Boodle’s all night,” Quinn said pointedly, then glanced up from the paper and sent Sebastian a crooked grin. A not-so-subtle signal that he’d have the house to himself if he wanted to invite back the woman from last night. “All night.”
He grimaced into his coffee. He should have been glad that his brothers were willing to help cover his tracks, just as they’d done for one another all their lives, no matter what kind of trouble they’d gotten themselves into. But this time, it grated, reminding him of the very last time he’d secreted a woman away in order to be with her. He’d sworn to himself that he would never do that again, that he would never darken his father’s memory by placing a woman before his family. But that was exactly what he’d done last night with Miranda; he’d been unable to deny himself a night of happiness with her, and this morning, he despised himself for it.
She deserved better from him. For Christ’s sake, he deserved better from himself.
Yet it didn’t stop him from wanting to be with her again.
“We’ll probably be out until dawn,” Quinn added, pretending he was still interested in the newspaper listings.
“Then I’ll most likely join you,” Sebastian answered dryly, wanting to put an end to any of his brother’s suspicions.
“Of course you won’t,” Quinn replied with a knowing wink and raised the newspaper between them.
* * *
Miranda took a deep breath and tried to focus on the museum’s evening speaker. She’d been looking forward all week to hearing Georgiana Bradford talk about her most recent African adventures and to meeting the famous adventuress in person, but now, she couldn’t remember a word of what was being said. Something about crocodiles and rapids, pyramids and…Oh, concentrating was impossible!
Her eyes pressed closed in misery. She’d lost her innocence. To Sebastian Carlisle, of all men. It was all she could do to bite back the groan at her lips and not interrupt the lecture as she once more thought about last night.
She didn’t regret being with him. How could she? The night was simply magical. He was tender and caring with her, even laughing with her to put her at ease, and in those precious few hours together, he’d been more relaxed than she’d seen him in years. If ever. Yet it wasn’t only being intimate itself that was wonderful but also afterward when he held her in his arms, the deep rumble of his voice when he told her she was beautiful, and how happy she was to simply lie next to him. Being with him proved more special and thrilling than she could ever have imagined being with a man would be. Precisely because that man was Sebastian.
But it was Sebastian she cared about, not the Duke of Trent. It was as if she’d left Vauxhall in the carriage with one man, then left the arms of another three hours later. Two men, indeed—the Duke of Trent, who wanted a society lady with good breeding and sophisticated manners for his wife, and Sebastian, who wanted her, a woman who was the exact opposite of all that. The Duke of Trent, who frustrated her with his obsession with propriety and station, and Sebastian, who she loved. No matter that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Sebastian, the Duke of Trent made that impossible.
Oh, she was a fool! Even though she knew she had no future with him, she couldn’t help replaying in her mind all the wonderful moments they’d spent together, all the soft touches and affectionate kisses, all the happiness and laughter. She desperately wanted to be with him again, and not only for the scintillating pleasures of the night. She wanted the chance at a life with him, to create a home together in which there was love, comfort, laughter, children…oh, lots and lots of children!
She wanted nothing less than his love. But he would never let himself give it.
Dear God—what was she thinking? And this time she did hang her head in her hands and groan.
Sitting next her, Lady Emily Grey whispered with concern, “Are you all right?”
She nodded at Josie’s sister-in-law, who had accompanied her to the lecture. Although Miranda had sneaked through the streets of Mayfair last night on her own, twice, she didn’t dare venture out to a society event without a proper chaperone. So when the other ladies had begged off, Miranda had practically dragged Emily out with her tonight because she didn’t want to miss the lecture…and because spending a quiet evening at home, surrounded by Sebasti
an’s family, would have been pure torture.
So now she sat in a gallery at the British Museum, refused to let her eyes stray to Lady Jane Sheridan sitting in the front row with her mother and sister, and tried to concentrate on the lecture without hearing a single word.
Lady Emily frowned. “You look rather ill.”
“Only a headache,” she assured her. Sebastian was that, all right. Her own personal trouble-rousing, heartbreaking headache.
Emily squeezed her hand. “We can leave, if you’d like.”
“No, I’d like to stay.” She forced a smile. “I’m finding the lecture fascinating. Truly.”
The look that Emily gave Miranda told her that she didn’t believe her. But her friend knew not to press. “All right. But if your headache grows worse, we will leave.” Emily was only a few years older than Miranda, but she had the demeanor of a well-seasoned mother and the regimented authority of a colonel’s wife.
With a smile of genuine warmth at the woman’s concern, Miranda nodded. “Agreed.”
Emily released her hand and glanced past her down the row of chairs. “Oh—there’s Olivia Sinclair. I promised to help her plan her upcoming garden party. Would you mind if I excused myself for a few minutes to speak with her?”
“Not at all.” And Miranda might be able to use the time to actually hear what new knowledge Miss Bradford had to share about the ancient Egyptians. After all, that was the point of being here. Not to wallow in her own misery.
Emily rose and made her way to the Countess of St James. The two women were quickly ensconced in a private discussion, their heads bowed together to catch each other’s low whispers.
Miranda turned her attention back to the young woman standing at the front of the room, holding a large crocodile skull in her hands. Georgiana Bradford was a wonder. One of the foremost adventurers of the day, with her exploits rivaling that of any man, she was brave enough to travel the world, face down natives in jungles and sandstorms in the deserts…while Miranda couldn’t seem to survive a season in London. Or find a way to save her heart.
If the Duke Demands Page 22
