Miranda's Dilemma

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She sank back against the pillow and hugged herself.

  Last evening. Those boys. Taunting her. Shoving her. Grabbing her all over. Tearing her clothes. Oh God.

  You’ll never know when or from where I will strike.

  Winterton.

  He was behind the strange attack. She knew it. She just did.

  The last bit of energy drained from her. Her eyes closed, and she could not hold back the darkness that enveloped her.

  Adrian stared down at the girl in his bed. Her vivid red hair lay lank against the snow white sheets and dark shadows showed around her eyes. Her fair skin was stark pale.

  He touched her shoulder. “Miss Jones?”

  He gave her a gentle shake.

  She moaned, softly, but did not awaken.

  “You have slept so long. The doctor says you must awaken and drink something.” He gave her another shake.

  She whimpered and turned away, as though trying to bury her face in the pillow.

  “Come, love, you must awaken and drink.” The endearment slipped so easily from his lips. He felt like he had been through hell itself over the course of last night. Whatever she was, no woman deserved that kind of suffering.

  He froze. The terrible gurgling sounds his wife had made were suddenly as real as they had been when she’s made them three years ago on her death bed. He saw, again, his wife’s lips turned blue.

  They had fought so hard to save her.

  But the very method they had used to save her had killed her. Accidentally.

  Christ. This morning he had prayed. Prayed like he had never prayed in his life.

  Those prayers had been answered.

  Miss Jones had not aspirated any of the water forced down her. She had survived whatever noxious substances or poisons she had swallowed along with the wine.

  Her heartbeat, temperature and breathing had all been declared normal by the doctor before he’d left. But he had warned Adrian that he must watch over her.

  She must drink and begin to take on nourishment.

  “Miss Jones,” Adrian said, more sternly, and gave her a harder shake.

  Her eyes drifted open.

  Pools of pale green, iridescent as pearls. Open and warm, with no trace of haughty disdain.

  The beauty of her eyes made him catch his breath.

  “You must drink.”

  “My lord.” Her voice was hoarse and filled with incredulity.

  He reached for the cup sitting on the night table. As ordered by the doctor, Adrian and mixed the concoction himself: wine, laced with honey and a beaten egg. He put his other hand under her head and lifted her up. He put the cup to her lips.

  She took a small sip then choked and coughed. She turned her face away.

  He stroked the back of her head. “Drink for me, sweeting.”

  “It hurts. My throat hurts.”

  “I know, but you must.” He caressed her lank hair. “Come now.”

  “Let me sleep.” She closed her eyes, and her body went limp.

  He placed the cup back on the table with a heaviness in his chest. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts and listened to her deep breathing.

  How long would she sleep?

  Though he knew it was not good, he had vowed that he would not be so weak. He still reached for his bottle of brandy.

  For the first time in years, he allowed himself a second glassful.

  ****

  Adrian sat in his study, at his desk, staring into the brandy he swirled in the glass.

  He’d come here for some peace, just a moment of rest whilst his valet watched over Miss Jones.

  But peace eluded him.

  All he could see were images of Jane, her lips turning blue. He could hear the sounds of her choking. He was watching his wife—the mother of his sons—die all over again.

  So damned futile.

  He had helped the doctor work to save her.

  So damned futile.

  He had just stood there and watched her die!

  He’d been able to do anything to prevent it.

  He bent his head and ran his hand through his hair.

  It had been Jane’s twenty-third birthday and in the midst of the gala celebration, he, Jane, Dorothy and her husband had formed their own group in a cozy corner. The talk had turned to sophisticated topics of lovers and side-slips in marriages within their circle of acquaintances. She had put her hand on his arm and laughed up into his face. “And my lord, what would you do, if I were to ever tell you that I would bear another man’s child?”

  He had thought she was jesting.

  He had thought she wanted a gallant answer, one suited to please her vanity. She had, after all, just been rejected by her latest lover. What husband wouldn’t be sensitive to his wife’s bruised vanity at a time such as that. He had glibly replied, “Why I would be forced to call that man out.”

  Pain sliced him through, not like a clean sharp knife but like a rusted razor, one that worked dully, slowly, a never-ending, blood poisoning sort of gutting. He put his hands to the back of his head, pressing down then he let his frustration and pain out a wail.

  Damn it.

  Damn his careless tongue.

  He had been drinking that night. Heavily. He had lost track of Jane at the party.

  The next time he had seen her, near dawn, she had been lying on the floor of her chamber, doubled over and writhing with the agony in her womb as the draught she had swallowed worked to expel the child.

  If he could only go back in time, he would have said the right words. He would have taken her someplace private. He would have given her the correct answer.

  If he had there would now be a third toddling child in their family and his sons would still have their mother.

  It had been his fault.

  All his fault.

  The door burst open.

  He jerked himself upright, his eyes focusing dizzily upon Dorothy.

  Her eyes blazed with uncharacteristic outrage.

  “I thought you had left,” he said, hearing the disjointed note in his voice as if from a distance.

  “I was about to depart.”

  “So what happened?” He raked a hand through his disheveled hair.

  “Miranda Jones is in your bed!”

  “Where did you hear that?” he asked dumbly, as he tried to focus his still swirling thoughts. There was an adequate reply in this situation. He just needed to think of it.

  She crinkled her nose. “You stink.” She cast a scathing glance over his wrinkled and stained shirt. “My God, I never thought to see you like this. Not after all these years of sobriety.”

  What the devil was she still doing here? He had already sent a note to her chamber and told her that a crisis required his immediate and personal attention. Then he had made expressed clear that he wished her to embark for Mayfair before her presence at his party could compromise her. Then he had ordered her carriage readied.

  On last report, he’d learned that her carriage stood ready and waiting.

  “Have you come to bid me good bye, Dorothy?” he said, impatiently.

  “I’d like to hear your explanation.” the two spots of color highlighted her cheeks. “Why is Miss Miranda Jones still here? You tried to send me packing. So why not her?”

  “This is my house. Why should I need to provide any explanations?”

  “She’s in your bedchamber. In your bed.” Dorothy’s voice resounded with disgust.

  “Where the devil did you hear that?”

  “Oh, don’t bother to lie to me. I had it from a very trustworthy source and that look in your eyes confirms it!”

  One of the servants had damned loose lips. Or she was paying someone to spy for her in his house. Which was an infuriating thought. What occurred at his hunting box was certainly none of her business. When he found out which servant had told her, he would dismiss him–or her. He frowned. “Miss Jones is ill.”

  Not willing to confront Dorothy further on the matter o
f a spy, he made a promise to take the subject up with her later. Later when Miss Jones was recovered and he could breathe a little easier. He downed the remainder of his drink.

  “Ill?” Dorothy placed one hand on her hip, leaning forward.

  “Very ill.” He sat the empty glass down on his desk.

  “But she’s in your bed.”

  Too much brandy had made his wits slower. He was already becoming drunk. He held up both palms. “I have to watch over her.”

  “You have to watch over her?” Dorothy asked, speaking as though he were a wanwit.

  Why can’t you simply leave her to servants and the doctor?”

  “It happened in my house. On my watch.”

  “Some night bird becomes ill at your party, and somehow you’re personally responsible for her welfare?”

  He frowned, more deeply. He certainly did not wish to tell Dorothy all the gory details of the morning’s events. He took his bottle and poured another brandy. “I am lord of this manor. So I am responsible.”

  “You are ridiculous,” she said.

  “You never talk to me like this.”

  “You never drink like this, not anymore.”

  “It is just a small drink.”

  “Before dinner?”

  “Dorothy, please, you’re making too much of everything.”

  “You’re going to become like you were before.”

  “No, I am not.”

  She glared at him.

  Who could blame her? He had once had a problem with drinking too much and, when he was drunk, he had not been the easiest person to cope with. This he freely admitted. And yet…

  I just need a little pain relief today, that’s all, Dorothy.”

  “Pain relief?” She scoffed.

  She never scoffed.

  “Why don’t you return to Mayfair?” he said. “I’ll see you when I return.”

  “How soon do you plan to return?”

  “Brentwood and Davey are coming here on Monday, and I plan to spend the week with them.” At the mention of his sons, he smiled briefly. “Davey is getting a new pony for his birthday.”

  Davey was a favorite with her, and he had expected her to join him in a smile.

  She didn’t.

  It wasn’t like her to be a demanding lover. And what was all that business about the possibility that she would wed again? How often had they both gloated, privately to each other, about the privileged nature of their situation? He had his heir and his spare. She had her fat jointure. Neither of them need ever wed again.

  He liked her. They understood each other’s needs and limits. He was comfortable with her. They were friends, and that friendship had seen him through some of the darkest days of his life.

  Now she would try and bait him with talk of her remarrying?

  Damn. He didn’t need this difficulty with her. Not today.

  “Dorothy, I shall be home in Mayfair soon enough.”

  She gave him a speculative, penetrating look. “You fancy her.”

  He paused with the rim of his glass to his lips. “What?!” he said.

  “You fancy her, admit it.”

  “I fancy Miss Jones?”

  “Yes, you do.” Her nostrils flared slightly. “You always did.”

  He chuckled softly, to cover his increasing sense of discomfort. “You’re losing your perspective, my dear.”

  “Am I?”

  “Indeed. Go home. I shall see you soon.”

  “You intend to bed her!” Dorothy accused.

  Under the heat of her blistering glare, he blinked. “You cannot honestly believe that I have any intentions of taking that chit to my bed!”

  Even as he spoke, the image those words created sent a jolt of lust through him.

  “I think the day you begin turning toward a woman like Miranda Jones is the day I should consider a remarriage more seriously.”

  He paused. Was that a threat? He regarded Dorothy sternly. “Go home. Get some rest. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I have been a tolerant mistress.”

  He raised his brows. “Mistress? Since when have you given me the kind of fidelity and constant attention that a man enjoys from a mistress?”

  Her eyes flashed with rare ire. “I have given you more than my sister ever did.”

  Her words sliced into him. He paused for a moment, frozen. What was going on here? Why was she so determined to lash out at him, on this of all days? He glowered at her. “That was uncalled for. You will not speak ill of Jane.”

  “I will not tolerate Miss Jones.”

  “I will not be dictated to. By anyone,” he said.

  “That is your final word?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I leave with this matter unsettled between us, I shan’t welcome you back in Mayfair.”

  “That’s your decision.” Dorothy gaped at him. “I cannot believe I am to be cast aside for the likes of Miranda Jones.”

  ****

  Two hours and several more brandies later, Adrian sat beside his bed, his mind still beset with images of Jane and her death.

  Images that became blurred and confused with images from last night. Dorothy’s parting words rang in his ears. She was wrong. His concern was solely because of what had happened to Miss Jones whilst under his roof.

  Under his protection.

  The girl in his bed moaned, softly, drawing his attention. God, she was so pale. She had suffered so greatly. He had felt her pain and fear as though he had gone through it himself.

  She had suffered nearly as deeply as Jane. It was not an easy procedure.

  Compassion encompassed his heart.

  Even after all of her travails, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She possessed the kind of beauty that went bone deep, every line and angle was symmetric and perfect. He placed the back of his palm against her forehead. The feel of her skin, warm, satiny, against his flesh, sent a wave of shock through him.

  He had not intended to touch her.

  Not again.

  Surely he could control himself better than he had this morning when he had kissed her forehead?

  He could still feel the softness of her skin against his lips.

  “They asked me…” Her voice was horse. Adrian picked up the wine glass on the night table, then brought it to her. “You must drink, Miss Jones.”

  “They seemed like nice boys. Kind.”

  “Here,” he said, placing a hand under her head and lifting her gently. “Drink.”

  She opened her eyes.

  He put the glass to her lips, and she took a slow, gingerly sip.

  Then she pushed it away. “They asked me…please share a drink with them.”

  “I know.”

  “It seemed harmless. They’re just boys.”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes, beautiful opalescent green, were glazed with unshed tears.

  The sight caused a sort of tearing sensation in his chest.

  “They are gone. You’re quite safe here.”

  She looked around. “Where am I?”

  “This is my chamber.”

  Her eyes widened. “This is your bed?”

  He nodded. “You need to drink more.”

  “I don’t think I shall fancy a drink for the remainder of my life,” she said.

  Her attempt at a wry expression belied the haunted shadow in her eyes and he had to suppress a wince.

  “It was necessary to purge you. There was some drug in that wine the boys gave to you. They couldn’t tell me what it was, and the doctor said we couldn’t take any chances. You were slipping into a state of shock.”

  If she had been pale a moment before, now she turned downright grayish. “I see.”

  He could see how hard she worked to keep her composure. But fear flickered in her eyes. Her mouth turned downward, her face crumpling just a slight bit.

  But he knew she’d probably rather die than show such weakness. Knowing what it cost her, the sight of that brief loss of c
ontrol on her part twisted like a knife in his belly.

  She did not like his touch.

  He knew that.

  Yet, he couldn’t help but go sit beside her in the bed and wrap his arms about her. Her body weighted but a feather . She seemed so fragile. Vulnerable.

  That tearing sensation increased.

  “I don’t understand…” Her voice broke on a sob. “We were sharing wine on the terrace. And then...s-suddenly we were in the woods, and they…they…” A tear dropped from her eye.

  He watched it roll down her cheek, and the tearing sensation became unbearable. “My darling…” The endearment rolled from his tongue before he could stop it. He fished in his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. He dabbed at her cheek. “My darling.”

  He couldn’t stop the words of endearment and comfort.

  He hugged her close and rocked her.

  And she clung to him, clutching a fistful of his banyan sleeve, pressing her face into his chest, crying.

  He felt so protective.

  And she needed a protector. Her profession was a more dangerous one than he had previously given it credit for being.

  Things like this might keep happening.

  And he had just sent Froster to the continent to sow his wild oats. If those boys hadn’t seen Froster give her a direct cut and then go to his bedchamber alone, they might not have risked tonight’s attack.

  “I miss Carrville,” she gulped. “I miss him so!”

  “Of course you do.” Somehow, his hand had found the tangled mass of curls at her nape. How soft. How silken.

  “Aunt Cassandra says I must stop indulging such thoughts. She says a young courtesan cannot afford such a luxury as grief for a deceased protector.”

  “You loved him?”

  “I was not in love with him, no.”

  “But you were friends?”

  “Yes, he was my dear, dear…” She gulped for a breath. “Dearest friend in all the world. He kept me safe. He took care of me.” She sniffled.

  Her voice rang with sincerity.

  Christ.

  He tried to take a deep breath but found his chest constricted.

  He’d wronged her.

  Deeply wronged her.

  “Aunt Cassandra said three months was more than enough time.” Her voice grew weaker.

  “Hush.” He tightened his arms about her.