Miracle (43 page)

Gently, gently, the tide ebbed. She awakened. Opened her eyes that were streaming with tears.

His face above her was pained, yet his eyes were soft and shining, his mouth faintly smiling. Then the rhythm began again, and his countenance became chiseled stone. He moved his body in and out of hers, striving for the beautiful death himself, faster and faster, nearly bruising her from the mounting, necessary frenzy, each impact lifting her hips from the windowsill, their bodies slapping together, flesh against flesh, sweat against sweat, and suddenly, the spasmodic fire sprang up inside her again unexpectedly.

The climax erupted through him, growled up from his chest, made his body into stone that shook and convulsed and exploded into her. His head thrown back, his fingers digging almost painfully into her bare buttocks, he allowed the flood of life to fill her up, even as her own body shook and quaked and quivered with its final release.

"Meri, Meri,"
he moaned. "My divine little girl. My .. . Miracle." He sighed and shivered and hugged her fiercely to him. "I love you."

The way to love is to realize that it might be lost.

GILBERT K. CHESTERTON

Chapter Seventeen

Miracle sat throughout the morning at the bedroom window, temple resting against the frame, the warm sun in her face, as she watched the hectic activity on the street below. Occasionally, she lifted the freshly cut rose she had found on her pillow when awakening earlier, and she twirled it beneath her nose. Its petals were soft yellow, its leaves dark, waxy green. It smelled like heaven.

She smiled drowsily.

How beautiful the world seemed this morning! Sparkling fresh. Vibrant. For the first time since arriving in the city she longed to join the hustle-bustle going on around her. This was
his
world, after all. She fully intended to accept it. To conquer it. It was the least she could do for the man she loved. Oh, how she loved him!

Her heart thrilled at the very memory of their
lovemak
-
ing
the night before, here, at the window. On the floor. The chair, and, last but not least, the bed, until the first streaks of red-gold sun began to paint the gray sky with dawn light. She had then slept the deep sleep of exhaustion and happiness, stirring only when he lightly kissed her cheek and whispered, "I'll be back, my love, I promise."

"Yes, but when?" she now said aloud, gazing down on the street, then laughing. She turned away from the window, hugged herself, and twirled around, just as Gertrude walked to the door. The servant regarded her with round eyes and pursed lips, causing Miracle to laugh even harder.

Dancing across the room and grabbing the startled servant in a fierce hug, Miracle said, "It's a glorious morning,
Gerti
! Don't you agree?"

"Yes, milady, but—"

"Of course it cannot compete with a ride on Napitov along the channel with sea spray and fog kissing my face. Nay, I shan't think of Napitov now. I refuse to feel maudlin on so wonderful a morning. By the way, did His Grace mention when he might return? I should bathe and brush my hair, perhaps change my dress. I want to look perfect when I see him again. Ethel!" she called from her doorway. "Will you draw me a bath? And use a touch of that rosewater you produced yesterday! Mayhap I'll even weave a few of these roses into my hair. I think he would like that. My dear Gertrude, why are you standing there like a statue? Have you nothing to say?"

The maid wrung her hands and fiddled with her apron. A crease of concern marred her brow. "Milady . . . lass . . . I was
wonderin
' . . . just how long have
ya
known His Grace?"

Dragging a brush through her hair, regarding the bloom of color the mirror reflected off her cheeks, Miracle smiled sheepishly. "Four months total, I think. Three of which I deplored him. Can you imagine, Gertrude? When I first met the duke and his delinquent cohorts, I thought him indecorous. Arrogant. With a heart like a stone and a soul as black as the pit. He was rude and cold and . . .but not any longer," she pointed out to Gertrude's mirrored image. " '
Twas
once said to me by my mother that true love can change the most ignorant and savage of men. '
Tis
proven to be true. Yes! The man who returned to me not so long ago is of a completely different nature, my dear Gertrude. Don't you agree?"

"Oh, yes, milady," she replied under her breath. "He's most definitely a different man. Umm, has His Grace ever spoken of his family, miss?"

Tying her hair to the top of her head in preparation for her bath, Miracle nodded and grabbed a hairpin from the dressing table.

"And did he happen to mention he had a brother?"

"A farmer who lives in a stable. Can you imagine, Gertrude? Where is Ethel with my bathwater? I fear he'll return before I'm dressed."

"The brothers were quite close, milady.
Ya
know what they say about blood
bein
' thicker than water. There's probably naught they wouldn't do for one another."

Miracle ran to the open window and gazed down on the traffic in the street, the pedestrians who moved up and down the walk, the women with their parasols, the men with their top hats and walking canes. No sign yet of Salterdon. Looking back at Gertrude, she frowned.

"Oh my,
Gerti
, you look white as a sheet. Is something wrong?"

"Well, I . . . I . . . milady, I don't know how to say this, and I'll no doubt lose me position, but . . ." The woman chewed her lip, her worried eyes closely regarding Miracle's features. "
Yer
truly in love with the man, milady?"

Miracle nodded.

"And I reckon it would break
yer
heart if he turned out to be . . . less than what you thought him to be?"

"Miserable. I've given up everything I once had for him. I should be lost as the proverbial goose if it weren't for His Grace. Why, Gertrude? Have you something to tell me? Is there something I should know?"

Ethel appeared at the door, clutching a sloshing bowl of steaming water. Hair spilling into her eyes from beneath her frilly cap, she announced, "
Y've
got a visitor, milady."

"His Grace—?"

"A Mistress
Ellesemere
, milady. Says she's come by orders of His Grace."

Ellesemere
?

Miracle eased from the room, walked lightly on the balls of her bare feet to the top of the stairs. Below her in the foyer waited a slender, prim, gray-haired woman in a plain, high-
waisted
muslin gown and a frilled tucker with tiny pleats around her neck.

Ethel tapped her on the shoulder. "
Yer
shoes, milady."

Miracle took the slippers and slid them onto her feet. Only then did she cautiously, watchfully, make her way down the stairs.

Mistress
Ellesemere
regarded her closely, her brown eyes bright with curiosity . . . and humor? "Lady Cavendish?" she said, smiling. "I was sent to Park House
by . . .
His Grace, the duke of Salterdon . .." Clasping her hands before her, tilting her head first one way, then the other, her gaze ran up and down Miracle, hesitating on her hair, then her dress, and finally, her somewhat tattered shoes. "Fascinating. I can see what he meant now. A diamond in the rough. A jewel in need of a bit of spit and polish."

Miracle frowned.

Mistress
Ellesemere
circled her, her "
hmms
" punctuated by an occasional "
ahh
."

"I feel like a bleeding horse," Miracle finally blurted. "Would you like to see my teeth as well?"

"Spoken crassly, but reflecting a certain quantum of humor. But to be witty is not enough, my dear. One must possess sufficient wit to avoid having too much of it. Especially in this day, when women are encouraged to be seen and not heard."

"Who are you?" Miracle demanded. "And why are you here?"

"How remiss of me." Mistress
Ellesemere
offered her hand. "I assumed he had spoken to you on the matter. Obviously, he hasn't. His Grace has employed me for your benefit. To act as your companion,
to . . .
smooth away a few of your rougher edges. To . . . educate you in your role as the future duchess of Salterdon."

"Oh," she mouthed, and felt the slow creep of anger rise up her neck to settle like hot torches on her cheeks.

"Obviously, His Grace feels I'm lacking in certain qualities deemed important to his family and peers," she said in a tight voice.

Mistress
Ellesemere
moved up behind her and gently brushed a length of hair that had tumbled from the knot on her head back over her shoulder. "He's not ashamed of you, my dear. Far from it. In truth, I've never known this particular man to care so deeply for a woman. He simply wants to assure that you're happy as the duchess. A life that such a position offers can be trying, even for the most prepared—"

Miracle moved away.

Mistress
Ellesemere
took a deep breath and slowly released it. "He told me there could be some resistance—"

"Then he shouldn't have sent you. I fear he's wasted your time and mine. I'm perfectly capable of carrying out my duties as the duke's wife without any sort of interference
or . . .
tutoring . . . or— If His Grace finds my person and manner so objectionable, I cannot imagine why he would harbor the least amount of desire whatsoever to marry me. Therefore, you may leave and inform His Grace that your services are not required."

Hands clasped again in a show of patience, her chin set as stubbornly as Miracle's, Mistress
Ellesemere
shook her head. "I cannot, Lady Cavendish. I'm employed by His Grace; therefore, I take my directives only from him. My personal belongings should arrive—"

"Your personal belongings?"

"Of course. I'm to live here. To companion you."

"Then
I
shall leave."

"Whatever pleases you, my dear."

They glared at one another.

Finally, Miracle turned on her heel and marched for the door, threw it open, and came face to face with three burly, whiskered men hefting trunks on their backs. She watched them parade past her into the house, then continued her belligerent descent down the steps, her stride lengthening down the path and out the gate, into the throng of citizens in high hats and neat broadcloth cutaways, smack into the middle of the beautiful women draped in their fancy silks and simpler clinging muslin gowns with scalloped hems that dragged the ground.

Bumped and jostled, swept helplessly along in an effort not to be tripped or trod upon, Miracle moved amid the crowd, her face still burning, her mind racing, paying little attention to where she was going.