“A young woman?” Adrian offered helpfully.
“A fancy piece!”
“She was at the party.”
“You assured me that all the guests would be gone once I brought the boys.”
“She became ill during the course of the party. She needed time to recover.”
“Your sons are here now.”
“Being noblemen, she will not be the last courtesan they will ever meet. They must learn to conduct themselves around such women.”
“But at such a tender age?”
“They will not know what she is, unless, by some indication in your manner, you alert them.”
“What if I had brought my lady wife here?”
“Caroline would never dare set foot here, we both know that.”
“Yes, because of your salacious parties and the reputation they have developed.” Percy scowled. “I do not like it. I do not like it all, my lord. I watch over the boys’ education and welfare. I made a solemn vow to do so on the day my niece died. I take my duty seriously.”
“Yes, I know that you do. I also appreciate that Caroline gives them mothering that Jane can no longer provide. I know that your home life is so much more stable than the life I lead. But I am still their father.”
“Papa!” Davey’s high-pitched voice carried to him, the sound full of an intensity of impatience that only a six-year old boy who knows he is about to be introduced to his first pony could feel.
“We’re coming, Davey,” he called out loudly, walking away from Percy, who still seemed about ready to explode with indignation and outrage.
And the whole time he walked with his sons to the stables, with Miranda at his side, he asked himself why he had allowed this meeting to occur?
Why?
Because for some reason, he had wanted Miranda to meet his sons. It had been an urge he couldn’t resist. His sons were the most important part of his life. His love for them was his daily motivation for everything he did. He had wanted her to see that and to understand it.
But why should she need to understand any of that? She was not and never could be a part of his family life.
Long term, she could never be anything than a highly paid mistress to him.
And he had no interest, no business, to keep a long-term, expensive mistress.
So, he and Miranda had no future. Only a present. And those days were dwindling fast.
****
Since the arrival of Adrian’s sons, the weather continued to be pleasant, and everyone but Percy passed the time pleasantly engaged in a flurry of activity, from horse riding to bowls and nine pins to more shuttlecock. Now on the afternoon of the third day, Miranda held a glass of cool lemonade to her forehead as she struggled to catch her breath.
Percy cocked a brow. “I would think a woman with…” He dropped his gaze meaningfully. “Lungs as large as yours would have problems with her breath.”
Miranda had turned away from him, ignoring him completely for the remainder of the day.
But that night, in bed, she listened to the clock chime the two o’clock hour, still fuming.
What a hypocritical lecher!
She could hardly credit that he was even related to a true gentleman like Carrville, much less that he was a brother.
The bed curtains had been removed that day for deep cleaning before the winter season. Now the cold leached in through the bed covers. Shivering, she arose, naked, and rushed to the wardrobe where she wrenched her valise open and drew out her heavy flannel night dress. She threw it on and then rushed back to the warmth of the bed, huddling under the covers as shivers continued to wrack her.
Adrian groaned in his sleep and rolled to lie on his back.
She held herself still, so as not to wake him and willed herself to drift off.
It didn’t happen. She kept thinking about how lovely a tray of steaming hot tea and scones would be.
She hated when she couldn’t sleep, for it was this time of night that the difficulties that awaited her in London preyed on her mind. She had told herself that she could have a week alone with Adrian. But then she must return to her rooms in Soho. She must try again with Lord Holston.
If he wouldn’t have her now, then she’d have to swallow her pride and lower her standards.
How successful would she be at playing humble?
Adrian murmured in his sleep, drawing her attention. How boyish he looked in sleep. She touched his cheek, tracing her fingertips over the dark, prickly stubble.
Suppose he could change his stance about keeping a regular mistress?
But could he really afford the amount that Winterton was asking in order for Mama to stay in her house by the sea?
Rumors and innuendo, that was all she knew of Adrian’s true financial situation. It wasn’t the sort of thing that lovers spoke of in bed and she had refrained.
But her sense of desperation was creeping in on her.
It was a matter they would need to discuss, sooner or later.
She earned her living sleeping with and pleasing noblemen. She would vastly prefer this gentleman.
But that choice was not hers to make.
She sighed. Oh, the powerlessness of her position was something she had always resented. As Winterton’s unacknowledged child, living under his largess. As an adolescent girl, living under Cassandra’s charity. Then as a fledgling courtesan herself, forced to allow Cassandra to auction off her virginity to the highest bidder.
Only Carrville’s utter kindness had saved her from the sting of that sort of humiliation for all those years.
The door to the bedchamber creaked softly.
Holding her breath, she watched the door come open. Moonlight from the window shone on a small tow head. Stockinged feet padded on the floorboards. Davey passed into the shadows between the door and the bed, where the carpeted floor muted his footfalls.
The bed rocked, and cool air rushed in as the coverlet was lifted.
Davey came crawling into the bed.
Icy hands touched her arm.
She cried out softly at the shock.
He made a small gasp.
The whites of his eyes glittered back at her, his chocolate brown irises, Carrville’s kind eyes, looked black in the dim light.
“Papa?” he whispered.
“Hush,” she whispered, in reply, taking his cold little hands into hers. “Goodness, have you been out of doors?”
“My stomach hurts,” he said, in a soft wail.
She put her hand to his forehead and found it damp but cool. “Lie down,” she said, shifting in the bed to a half-sitting position, staring down at him.
“I am going to be ill…I know I will.”
The boy had been allowed to eat too much pudding with his supper. It was plain that Adrian overindulged him.
Everyone did.
Everyone loved him.
Of course they did for he had Carrville’s sweetness.
She stroked his forehead softly. “Hush, take slow breaths.”
“I dreamed of the lady in the white gown.”
“What is that?” she whispered.
“The one in my dreams.” His pale brows drew together. “She is taller than you but she moves just as gracefully as you do. Like a lady should.”
She couldn’t help a smile. “Like a lady should, eh?”
She kept stroking his forehead, slowly. His eyes closed.
“You have soft hands,” he said, his voice becoming lispy with sleepiness. “A lady is graceful, and she has soft hands, like my mama.”
“What do you remember about your mama?”
“I remember that we went to the fair with her.”
“Tell me about that,” Miranda urged.
Adrian listened to his son recount their last trip to the fair, at his seat in Norfolk. Davey described all the events almost perfectly, describing his memory of all the sights and his mother so well.
Except that Jane had been in her grave for years now, and the woman that Davey
remembered was Dorothy. He took shallow, short breaths, trying to ease the increasing tightness in his chest, in his throat.
Christ.
His heart was breaking for his son.
He would do anything he could to bring Jane back so that she could be the mother that Davey so desperately needed. He would gladly throw himself into the very fire of hell if it would bring her back.
Nothing was ever going to bring her back.
He opened his eye, the barest slit, and watched Miranda hold his son, stroking his forehead and speaking words of soft comfort.
Normally, when Davey dreamed of the lady in the white flowing gown, the one who ran into the woods and never came back, he was profusely ill for the remainder of the night.
No one knew what would set off the dreams or how to stop them. They seemed to come and go of their own accord, their own time.
Yet, he listened to Davey’s voice trail off, and the boy’s breathing became deep and even. After several moments, Miranda’s eyes closed. Her mouth parted slightly, her flannel-covered chest rose and fell in a regular pattern as she fell asleep with her hand resting on Davey’s tow-colored hair.
****
Miranda awoke to find Adrian lifting his sleeping son from her arms. The boy moaned a protest, sleepily.
“He belongs in his own bed,” Adrian said tersely.
His stony expression froze her blood and wiped the drowsiness from her brain. She sat. “He slipped in here during the night. He had a bad dream…”
“Yes, he often does.” Adrian glanced at the door. “I should have thrown the lock last night.
“He’s an innocent, Adrian. He doesn’t realize the significance of me being in your bed.”
“He has a loose tongue, Miranda.”
She clamped her mouth closed and watched as Adrian bore his son from the chamber. She shivered and hugged her shoulders. The chill of autumn seemed to have arrived all at once, and in more ways than one.
Perhaps it was for the best.
She should be back in London.
Back to her work.
Adrian returned, his expression inscrutable as he walked to the sideboard and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He downed half the glass quickly and then topped it off again.
She gaped at him. “You said it was not your habit to drink to excess, my lord.”
He glanced at her over the rim of the glass. Then he lowered it. “Seems to have become my habit since I became better acquainted with you.”
She gasped, hot anger sweeping through her. “Do not blame me! Where was the boy’s nurse? If she was doing her job to watch over him and comfort him, why should he have felt any need to seek you out?”
He paused, with the glass halfway to his lips once more. “Well, now that is a very good question. One I cannot answer right now.”
“You are too lax with your servants. You spoil and overindulge your son…”
“Oh, the lady of manor, are you? Tell me, Miss Jones, where did you become so intimately familiar with the running of a large staff? Where did you ever learn how to comfort a small child in the night? Where does a fine, expensive, exclusive Mayfair bird learn such skills?”
She narrowed her eyes at him speculatively. “Why are you so damned angry with me, my lord?”
He glowered at her then took another drink.
“Why? I’ve done nothing that could possibly displease you so much. But then you’ve always disliked me. You’ve always taken such easy offense to my least action. Now that you’ve had me in your bed, has the novelty worn off so soon, my lord?”
She couldn’t help the bitter note in her voice. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and her throat burned. She blinked and swallowed hard, hating him then for provoking such a shameful reaction in her.
He muttered a profanity, and then he slammed the glass down on the sideboard.
The sound made her startle.
“I want to know one thing, Miss Jones.”
“Yes, what is that?”
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much to keep a fine night bird such as yourself? How much per month or is it per year?”
“My lord, please, not like this…”
“How much?” he said, louder this time as he brought his fist down on the sideboard, hard, making the bottle and glass rattle.
The mask of his stony expression seemed to crack, and she caught a glimpse of something softer. Something vulnerable. His blue eyes shone so brightly, their beauty transfixed her.
“Ah,” she said.
“Ah, what?” he demanded.
“You’re angry because I am a courtesan.” She paused as the truth of the matter crashed over her. “You’re actually angry with me for what I am.”
White showed around the edges of his mouth. “How much, Miss Jones?”
“No, not like this.”
“Like what?” He scowled.
She balled her fists at her side as rage poured through her so intensely that she shook. “I will not be accused like this!”
“It is a simple question, name the amount and the terms, monthly or annually?” His tone was hard, merciless.
Tears flooded her eyes, blurring his image. “You do not understand, my lord. I had no choice, no say in the matter. He would never claim me. He hated me, as you do!” She leaned forward at the waist with the stridency of her voice. “Should I or my mama accept a lesser life just because he will not have me?”
She buried her face to hide the shameful flood of tears from his prying eyes, resisting the urge to howl in her frustration with her weakness.
His hands touched her shoulders, pulling her close to his chest. “Hush, hush, love.” His voice was harsh as glass. “Hush.”
“You accuse me!” She gulped back a sob. “You accuse me for being what I am!”
“No, I don’t.” He pressed his lips to her wet cheek and he smoothed her hair back. “I simply want to know what I must do to have you.” His voice became hoarse. “I have an old and respectable name, I have a title and a fine estate. But I am not wealthy man. Not like Froster. What terms will you accept from me?”
“Ha, what terms will I accept?” She released all her pent up cynicism in her tone. “You say that as though I held all the power in this situation.”
“Don’t you?”
His words, so softly spoken, seared into her. “I have no power. No choices other than to be what I am, my lord.”
“How much do you need from me?”
She whispered the amount.
His body went rigid. “Christ, Miranda,” he said softly.
Chapter Fifteen
She had said it. The matter was in the open between them, finally. She released her breath and sagged against him.
“Christ, Miranda,” he repeated.
“I must have it.”
He released her then stared down at her. “What kind of a woman are you?”
“Adrian, please, don’t look at me like that!”
“That’s fucking fortune!” His eyes blazed blue fire.
“It isn’t for me.” She reached out and grasped his arm. “It is for my mama.”
“Why should your mother need such an incredible sum of money?”
Words slipped from her lips. How Winterton had always disliked her. How opposed he had been to her brother’s birth and how pitiless he had been at his death. She explained how he had purchased the land and estate house adjoining Mama’s house by the sea, how he set the price for all of that three times as high as its market value. Then she explained all about Mama’s fragile state and how important it was that she not have any shocks or disappointments.
“But it is Winterton’s doing. You cannot help it, Miranda. There are limits to family duty. You are only flesh and blood.”
“Nothing super human is required of me. I can earn the money through my trade.”
“That’s a lot of damned money.”
“Froster would have paid it.”
&nb
sp; “Froster has gone to France. He’ll find other interests there, Miranda, he was ripe for the picking. And he is as loyal as a puppy dog. Once his attention is set, it will be fixed.”
“I know,” she said, resigned. “But there are other noblemen in Mayfair.”
“Damn it, Miranda!”
At the pure rage that flashed into across his face, she dropped her hand from his arm and jumped back several paces.
“I would kill any man who…” He closed his mouth, his jaw tensing. They stared at each other for several moments. “I would.”
“No, you cannot say things like that!” she cried. “What if Froster does return? What if he would take me back? I would be powerless to do anything but accept him. I have a duty to protect and provide for Mama. Would you kill your friend?”
“I couldn’t bear for him to have you.”
“Then you would be a murderer.”
“No, I mean before, I couldn’t stand the thought of him with you, touching you. The ultimatum, the trip to France, I convinced him that he ought to teach you a lesson, to bring you to heel.”
Disbelief consumed her. “What?!”
“It was all my idea. Mine.” The guilt stamped into his face stunned her as much as his words.
“Oh my God…” She threw her hand to her throat. “You hated me so?”
“No…No!” He scowled. “I knew you’d spit in his eye, and I knew he’d react to it like a spoiled little boy. I wanted to put enmity between the two of you, and I did.”
“Do you realize what you have done?”
Determination shone in his gaze. “I’d do it again.”
“But why?”
“Because I want you!” His expression hardened. “But I cannot afford you.”
She’d suspected that. Known it in her heart.
Still, hearing him say it sent a shock through her. She rocked back on her heels reeling from it. “Can’t you?” she asked, her voice full of pleading.
He shook his head. “No, love, I can’t.”
Her lower lip trembled. She bit it to keep from begging him to say something else, anything else, rather than that he couldn’t afford her terms.
“My sons mean everything to me. Everything I do, everything I strive to become is for them. I was careless in my early adulthood. My carelessness lost them their mother.”
Miranda's Dilemma Page 16
