Because the choice had been removed from him.
From her as well.
But in taking away the choice, he’d been given a freedom he’d needed, craved, and would have denied himself till his dying breath.
He would have her.
And he didn’t have to be worthy . . . he simply had to be willing.
He could be willing.
Hell, he was beyond willing.
The whole thought had him practically taking wing and flying! He only wished the same euphoria translated into Miranda’s heart. As he remembered her words, they pieced him anew. Will I never have a choice in life? At every turn, it is stolen from me, and I wish . . .
How he wanted her to be able to choose him!
But he knew, he knew deep within, that he would never have allowed himself to give her the choice of him for a husband.
She deserved more.
Which brought him right back to the fact that he wasn’t worthy.
Damn, it was a beautiful thought to be willing, though.
“How in the hell . . .” Lucas stormed into Heathcliff’s room, the door making a wide arc as he strode through. He frowned slightly when his gaze fell on Heathcliff, as if disappointed the door hadn’t smacked his friend in the head.
It would have been a mighty blow had it. It was, after all, an oak door, and Lucas had wielded it like a weapon.
Heathcliff decided it was quite possibly his lucky day. He was all but betrothed to the woman he had gone mad over, and he’d been lost in his musings, so he’d neglected to approach the door when he’d heard Lucas’s approach.
Yes. Indeed it was a lucky day.
He’d have to remember that and see what other charms life decided to throw his way today.
“Wipe that bloody smile from your ugly face,” Lucas ground out, but some of the heat had dissipated from his expression. He closed the door none too gently and strode into the room, wiping his hand down his face. “It’s not even dawn and I’m in your bloody room, all because I received a cryptic message that my sister-in-law is in danger and your intention to remedy it.” He took a few steps forward. “Do you have any idea what conclusions I’ve drawn?”
Heathcliff blinked, frowning with confusion. “Pardon?” What in heaven’s name was Lucas spouting off about? Heathcliff had rather thought he’d been utterly clear in his short message. How could there be any conclusion drawn other than the fact?
“Is she with child?” Lucas asked, his expression tight.
Air rushed out of Heathcliff’s lungs as he replayed Lucas’s question, wondering how in the hell everything had gotten so out of hand so quickly. “Dear God, no. Why would she be?” Heathcliff asked once his air returned, and with far more shock in his tone than care.
“Forgive me if my best friend has been mooning and utterly a caged tiger because of the girl, and then I get a message implying her in danger. Am I to assume the danger is not you?”
Heathcliff stood and then, rather wisely, put some distance and a chair between himself and his irate friend. “There has been a misunderstanding, I believe.” He spoke calmly, clearly, watching his friend as if he were a snake about to spring forth and bite him.
“Explain.” It was one word, but it was enough.
Heathcliff gave a shortened version of the evening’s events, starting from his discovery of the errant footman—still imprisoned in the storeroom and heavily guarded by Heathcliff’s most trusted men—and then skimmed over a few of the details, such as his state of undress, as he relayed the agreement he’d reached with Miss Miranda. Adding, finally, that the magistrate had been notified and would be picking up the prisoner sometime that morning.
When he finished, Lucas’s anger had shifted into an alert expression that caused Heathcliff no longer to fear bodily harm.
Or at least a facer.
“You could have bloody well given me more information in your message, Heathcliff. You have to admit, the note you sent wasn’t to your benefit at all.” Lucas shook his head and then all but fell into a chair, his hand coming to rest on his forehead, as if fighting a headache.
Heathcliff came around from the back of the chair he’d used to create distance, an obstacle between himself and his friend, and took a seat across from him. “You didn’t tell your wife, did you?” Heathcliff asked, groaning.
“I was woken up in the dead of night by my valet, my wife right beside me. Do you think she would have ignored such a commotion, not made herself insistent on knowing the cause?” Lucas asked with little patience.
“So I gather she’s on her way here, then?” Heathcliff asked, resigned.
“I’m surprised she didn’t force me to wait for her. Although I may have implied that I would wait for her, and then . . . didn’t.”
Heathcliff winced. “You may pay for that later.”
Lucas returned the grimace. “I’ll tell her it was your fault.”
“She’ll still take it out on you,” Heathcliff assured him.
Lucas signed. “I know.”
They sat for a few moments in silence. Heathcliff’s mind continued to spin over the events of the evening, and the events that would need to take place that day.
Which reminded him . . . “The masquerade; we need to have the party, but with a different intention.”
Lucas turned to him, nodding for him to continue. “It should be a presentation of Miss Miranda—”
“Just call her Samantha. It’s not as if she’s in hiding any longer if what you say is true.”
“Are you implying that I’m not being honest?” Heathcliff asked in an impatient tone.
“No, I believe you. Never mind what I said; I’m simply already weary and the whole bloody mess is just starting. Continue.”
Heathcliff nodded, deciding to let the remark go by. Heaven only knew Lucas had done the same for him countless times. He paused to think where he’d left off before Lucas interrupted him.
“You were talking about a presentation,” Lucas supplied helpfully.
“Ah, yes. It should be a presentation of my wife. That way we can begin the circulation of the news.”
Lucas nodded. “That’s probably for the best. But you do know we’ll have to make a trip to London regardless, just to make everything official.”
Heathcliff nodded. “We would have to return shortly anyway. Ramsey has been left quite alone with the whole bloody mess of the club, and he’s probably in need of a little assistance.”
“Ha, that’s laughable,” Lucas remarked, chuckling dryly. “He’s in his element. The man loves to control things. It feeds his soul. Without us there, he can keep the ribbons tight to his chest and drive the whole lot however he wishes.”
Heathcliff gave a shrug. “You’re right.”
“You always did think highly of your role in the club,” Lucas remarked, his grin wide and teasing.
Heathcliff arched a brow. “I’m the only one willing to get his hands dirty.”
“I take umbrage at that statement, sir.” Lucas feigned offense.
“You’ll stay far from any scandal now. You’re married, proper and surely about to be accepted into the bosom of society.”
Lucas eyed him, watching expectantly, as if Heathcliff were missing something obvious and humorous.
Heathcliff frowned.
“Calling the kettle a bit black, are we? Who is about to be married, and proper—”
“Ah, hell.” Heathcliff groaned.
“Having second thoughts?” Lucas asked.
“No. Just the bit about society, not Mir—Samantha. Damn, I’m going to have to get used to that. How did you keep the bloody secret so well?”
“I’d suggest getting accustomed to it quickly. I don’t think she’s overly fond of that name, and in the throes of passion, if you were to speak another—“
“Dear Lord. You’re an ass.” Heathcliff glared at his friend.
“Just a little marriage advice.”
“Because you’re the expert, being married
for all of... what is it, a month? Two?”
“Long enough.” Lucas shrugged. “And to answer your earlier question, I was not around, so it was easy not to slip up with her real name. Also, technically, it’s Lady Samantha.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Heathcliff rose from his chair and answered it. “Yes?”
Mrs. Keyes was waiting outside, a worried expression on her face. “My lord, it would . . . that is . . . I’ve been informed of the events of the evening and I was . . .”
“Spit it out, Mrs. Keyes.” Heathcliff gave her a boyish grin, hoping to set her at ease.
“Don’t look so satisfied with it all,” she scolded him. “It’s terrible news, and to think, I was treating the daughter of a duke like an in-between! She’s a proper lady, for pity’s sake! I had her in the servants’ quarters!” Mrs. Keyes paled at the words. “How unforgivable.”
“I do think Lady Samantha,” he silently applauded himself for using the right name, “will be quite forgiving. She needed the ruse for protection.”
“From her father, I heard. Dear me, I can’t even imagine. She must have been scared out of her wits!” Mrs. Keyes clucked her tongue even as she wrung her hands, clearly agitated.
“She had a few champions,” he reminded Mrs. Keyes.
“Yes, yes, she did. I’m going to offer her a proper apology, but I wanted to see if you’d be wishing for tea or to break your fast? I realize it’s early, but the whole house is up already with the ruckus.” Her gray brows drew together in a bit of a disapproving frown.
“Aye, it would be a good idea, I’d imagine.” Heathcliff glanced to Lucas, then back to Mrs. Keyes. “And tell Cook that we’ve guests for the morning meal. Lord and Lady Heightfield will probably be in residence most of the day, I’d imagine.”
Mrs. Keyes nodded. “Of course, my lord. I’ll tell Cook straightaway. And when I speak to Miss . . . Lady Samantha, is it?” She tilted her head questioningly.
At Heathcliff’s nod, she continued. “I’ll let her know as well. I’m assuming she’s already aware of last night’s events?”
“Technically, it was this morning’s . . .” Heathcliff drawled, earning a disapproving glare from Mrs. Keyes. “But yes, she’s aware, and I’m certain still awake. Probably hoping someone will rescue her from propriety and tell her the house is awake so she may quit her rooms.”
Mrs. Keyes gave a glance down the hall. “Poor dear. I’ll go directly.” She gave a stiff curtsey and then darted down the hall in the direction of Miss . . . well, it was Lady Samantha’s room, wasn’t it?
Heathcliff closed the door and gave his head a wry shake. It was easier if he just referred to her by Christian name, rather than her title. Soon enough, she would be his wife, and formalities would be unnecessary.
He anticipated that with acute ferocity.
“That’s a disturbing expression on your face,” Lucas broke into his thoughts.
Heathcliff glanced at his friend, reading the guarded expression on his face. “Is it now?” He grinned wolfishly.
“It was . . .” Lucas drawled out. “Now I recognize it.” He gave his head a little shake. “Go easy on the girl, will you?” Lucas said warningly. “Sexual tension can be quite powerful, and while you weren’t exactly the monk I was—”
Heathcliff snorted.
“I’m ignoring that,” Lucas replied flippantly. “It will be best for you, and for her, if you take things slowly.”
Heathcliff’s grin sobered. “I understand.” And he truly did. He wasn’t some animal in rut, but he also knew he was already experiencing delicious anticipation for when he’d have the delight of living out several of his nighttime fantasies.
“You’re wearing that expression again. It makes me bloody uncomfortable.” Lucas sighed.
“You were an utter cake when you were in denial over your wife, so forgive me if I’m actually delighting in the idea of being married. Words I never thought I’d utter.” He shook his head astoundingly.
“I know how it feels.” Lucas gave a knowing grin. “But it pleases me that you’ve come full circle. If you love her half as much as you are distracted by her, you’ll have a good marriage indeed.”
Heathcliff nodded distractedly. It was a solid point, and he hadn’t quite considered that aspect of love. Was he in love with her? He wasn’t sure; he honestly didn’t know what love felt like. He’d imagined himself in love long ago, but it clearly had not been love. Would he know the feeling when or if it happened? He wasn’t sure.
“We should assemble in the parlor downstairs. My wife will be arriving shortly, if she isn’t already here.” Lucas stood, twisting his neck. “I’m sure she will have much to say to me.”
“Scold you, you mean,” Heathcliff added helpfully.
Lucas arched a brow. “Your time will come soon enough.” He headed toward the door and placed his hand on the handle, pausing. “Just in case you were wondering, I’m glad it’s you.”
Heathcliff adjusted his shirtsleeves and tugged on them. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Lucas gave a curt nod. “After all, she’s wanted it to be you all along. And I think the feeling is more than mutual, is it not? That’s far more than most couples start out with.”
Heathcliff’s heart soared at the implication that Lady Samantha had wanted him, had wanted to choose him all along. It was a desperate type of hope, the kind that he wasn’t sure was utterly true; it was simply too good, too lofty. Heathcliff didn’t trust himself to respond and not make a cake of himself, so he just nodded.
“Don’t screw it up,” Lucas finished, then left.
Chapter Twenty-five
Samantha Durary. She whispered her name out loud and sighed with the rightness that washed over her. It was strange, really; it was only a name, yet it had felt like a weight around her had just been lifted. She hadn’t realized how much of her identity was wrapped up in her name, in how others saw her. When it was taken away—rather, exchanged for a different one—she had felt bereft, lost, and insecure in who she was. It didn’t make sense because she hadn’t changed, just what others called her. But it had seemed like more.
And now, now she was free. Her name felt like the softest, most comfortable day dress, the kind that fits perfectly and is exactly the perfect shade of blue that highlighted her skin. Calling herself Miss Miranda had felt like wearing itchy wool, in the wrong shade of pink and poorly fitting to boot. There was no other way to describe it. From now on, she would simply be Samantha, well, Lady Samantha if one had to be utterly correct.
Mrs. Keyes had been a dear, apologizing profusely when she’d knocked on her door a few minutes earlier. Samantha had accepted her unnecessary apology quickly, assuring her it was nothing of consequence, but the poor housekeeper was scandalized by her mistreatment of a gently bred lady.
Samantha had tried to keep her smile in check because she was the one soothing Mrs. Keyes’s ruffled feathers, not the other way around.
And when Mrs. Keyes had left to alert Cook about seeing to the morning meal, Samantha had closed her door, allowing her thoughts to flit back to earlier.
She was betrothed.
She didn’t feel differently, at least about the betrothal part. Yet something monumental had altered in her life. She was to be married, and knowing Heathcliff, it was probably going to be soon.
Which was perfectly acceptable.
It was perfectly perfect. She couldn’t think of a more apt word. Perfect. Now, if only she could be convinced it was more than just necessity and a healthy dose of attraction that was leading them down the aisle. Was it wrong to want more? Yet she didn’t exactly have a choice.
But it would be nice for it to exist regardless.
A knock sounded on her door and she opened it, not having moved away from it when Mrs. Keyes had gone.
“Oh!”
Her sister gave a little jump, then pulled her into a tight hug. “Were you directly behind the door? Never mind, I’m so happy to see you! What in heaven’s name is go
ing on?” Liliah asked, releasing her and frowning with concern. “Lucas is in the parlor with the viscount, I’m to take you there, but I only just arrived myself, and neither of those beasts have told me a farthing’s worth of news.”
Samantha gave her head a little shake. “That doesn’t surprise me. Let’s go, and I’ll give you the shortened version on our way.”
Samantha watched as Liliah’s mouth popped open as she started to relay the story to her sister. When they approached the parlor, she finished with the fact that she and the viscount were betrothed.
“Well, that was certainly an eventful night.” Liliah blinked, then walked into the parlor.
“Ah, Wife.” Lucas stood and opened his arms.
“Ah, Husband, who will be sleeping alone.” Liliah glared, then made a wide arc around the room and took a seat far away from her husband.
Heathcliff’s snicker pulled Samantha’s attention away from her sister. His amusement was a warm sound, and it echoed in his expression, drawing her in, causing her belly to do odd flips of attraction as she soaked up the sound.
Heathcliff’s gaze met hers, and he gestured to the seat beside him, inviting her.
How often had she wished for him to give her any real indication of his affection? It was so much the opposite from what she had expected. He would kiss her, caress her, speak kindly to her—but only in those stolen moments. All the other times, when he could be tender or attentive, he would alienate himself. Yet, finally, blessedly, it seemed that the man he was in those private, stolen moments, was the same man all those other times. She wondered if maybe he had been that man all along, but had some misguided sense of propriety. . . though she never thought him as one who followed any social protocol.
Men, she decided, made no sense.
“I’d stop laughing.” Lucas cast the words toward his friend, and Heathcliff sobered the tiniest bit.
Samantha glanced at her sister, who was shooting daggers with her angry eyes toward her husband. “Liliah?” she asked, curious. The earl must have done something nearly unforgivable to earn such a response from his usually quite amorous wife.
“I do believe my husband should explain what happened, and I’m also quite certain part of that explanation will have a very humble apology,” Liliah remarked, arching a brow.
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