Miranda's Dilemma (10 page)

“Yes, you have. Don’t I deserve some defense in the face of such accusations, such hate?” She studied him thoughtfully. “I used to think you were arrogant and heartless. Now I don’t know what to think. You were kind to me this morning, though I know that you could not have found it easy to remain at my side during the doctor’s treatment.”

Suddenly wariness filled him. He dropped his hands from her face. “I would have never allowed you to face that alone.”

“My lord, I know what happened with your lady.”

Adrian froze. He had assumed that Jane’s father had taken her secrets to his grave.

Now Adrian wondered how much family business Carrville had confided in his lovely mistress.

“She did not intend to poison herself.”

“Yes, but it was no pure accident.”

“It wasn’t her fault.” Renewed guilt over Jane’s death pierced him through, increasing his sense of wariness.

“I know, my lord. Carrville told me.” She looked a little sick now.

Had his condemnation had hurt her?

Yes, it appeared it had. Deeply.

He winced.

But she had seemed so cold toward him. Yet perhaps she had never wanted to admit that he had the ability to hurt her before.

Never allowed herself to admit it.

Just as he had never allowed himself to admit that he was soft on her.

Damned soft on her.

This was more than mere lust. He should call it what it was― infatuation.

She took a deep breath. “He told me all.”

“Carrville had no place to tell you family business.”

“I would never, ever betray his confidences, my lord. He knew that.”

“I asked you to call me Adrian,” he said, stiffly.

“You give me the intimacy to call you by your given name, yet you will not allow me to defend myself against your previous accusations.
He held up a forestalling hand. “Stop.”

“No, I cannot. I will not continue with you until you hear the truth of what drove Carrville to his death.” She began to speak quickly, as though she feared she would lose her nerve or perhaps she feared that he would attempt to silence her again.

His new found compassion for her rode him hard. He sat there, wishing he might do anything to avoid a deep discussion of this matter yet resigned by his new found softness toward her to listen what she was driven to say.

“Someone else knew the secret of your wife’s death. They demanded more and more payment from Carrville. Only payment would ensure their silence.”

This time, his heart seemed to stop. “Someone else?”

She nodded. “Carrville was being pressured to pay money for his silence. He was desperate to meet the increasing demands. He would do anything to protect his daughter, even when it was just protecting her memory.”

Pain sliced through him like a knife to his guts. “Why?” He leapt to his feet and began to pace. “Why wouldn’t he come to me?”

“How could he? He had accused you.”
He stopped and whirled to face her. “He was right to accuse me.”

The words tore from the depths of him. Then he stared at her, aghast at having said them.

He was weak to her. Far too weak.

Infatuation or no infatuation, he was going to have to learn to resist the pull of her appeal. She seemed able to seduce him to say or do all manner of foolish things.

He had also revealed himself because he was intoxicated― no,beyond intoxicated. He was completely foxed. A damned dangerous state to be in with this particular woman.

And now the dryness in his throat demanded that he have another drink. He went to the side board, where he’d left his bottle, poured himself a glass and drank half down immediately.

“I am so foxed,” he said.

“I know, my lord.”

“I have not allowed myself to become intoxicated since the night of Lady Danvers’ twenty-third birthday.” He took another drink, hearing this continued self-revelation with a sense of the same resignation that a condemned man would view a guillotine.

“You don’t allow yourself to indulge in spirits. But today you needed a drink,” she said.

The soft sympathy in her voice surrounded him, caressed him with a beguiling sort of comfort. The type of comfort that only the most warm-hearted, understanding woman could give.

An irresistible sort of comfort.

God help him.

Miranda Jones, the haughtiest courtesan in London, the niece of the woman whose grasping geed had destroyed his father, was offering
him
compassion.

“Don’t feel sorry for me.” He drained the glass then sat it down with a firm clunk.

Chapter Ten

Adrian stood there, frozen, with his own words echoing in his ears.

The beautiful girl in his bed stared back at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. She hugged the sheet to her chest and sat up, her dark auburn hair falling in loose curls about her shoulders.

Her understanding and sympathy were every bit as alluring and seductive as her sensuality and beauty.

But then, that was a courtesan’s way, wasn’t it?

She would have learned these manners from a master, from Cassandra Jones, the woman who had destroyed his own father with such wiles.

A slight tightness in his throat made him pause. He poured another drink but limited himself to a sip.

She made a sound. Was it a gasp? Or did she cry out?

In the glance they shared next, he saw in her eyes, in her expression, that she indeed did know
all
.

She knew not just that Jane had had a lover but that his wife had been passionately, madly in love with another man. A man who had turned out to be a wastrel.

She knew about the baby.

And the abortifacient and the horrific manner of Jane’s death.

And the deeper reasons for Adrian’s estrangement from Carrville.

Those pale green eyes, so often closed and haughty, were large and soft. Glowing. No, not glowing but glossy.

His throat tightened in response.

Damn it.

He cut her a severe look. “Don’t offer me pity. I don’t need it.”

She threw back the coverlet, leapt from the bed then ran to him.

The sight of all that gorgeous, glorious nakedness held him spellbound. But she seemed unaware. Or was it that she was that comfortable in her own skin? It did remind him, again, that she was a seasoned courtesan. Her breasts bobbed in front of him, and whilst he fought the urge to reach up and touch, she wrapped her arms about his neck. She bent and pressed her cheek to his, and her curls fell over his face.

He couldn’t resist putting his hands to her waist. Couldn’t resist sliding them down to rest on the flare of her hips.

“It’s not your fault.” Her voice was hoarse, breathless. She pressed her cheek more ardently to his. “Not your fault.”

Firm conviction sounded in her voice. It put warmth into him, and he couldn’t help a smile. “Carrville blamed me.”

“I know.” There was sadness in her voice.

“Carrville thought I ought to have challenged her lover early on.” Adrian listened to the words pouring out of his mouth with horror. “He said I needed to send the blackguard  packing, that it was my place as her husband. But how could it be my place to dictate my wife’s pleasures and companions? Carrville didn’t know but we had a marriage of pure convenience.”

“It was not your fault.” She pressed her lips to his cheek. “
Not
your fault.”

The feeling in her voice warmed him like the rays of the sun. It beguiled him to just  accept her judgment. To allow her strong conviction to comfort him and soothe the long suffering guilt that had haunted his days and nights.

“Friendship is always so much safer and trustworthy than passionate love. Yet  a marriage of convenience not always so comfortable I am told,” she said, her voice soft as a feather against his ear.

“I knew my wife since we were children. Both of us had watched our parents’ marriages disintegrate. Neither of us wanted to risk passionate love. We thought we could be friends and make a reasonable marriage.”

She kissed his ear, the touch of her lips as delicate as a butterfly’s. “You were friends, not lovers. I understand.”

“Friendly love has it is own troubles.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Of course.” She touched the side of his head, her hand slowly caressing his hair, her lush curves seeming to press him more intensely.

He had never spoken of his disappointments in his marriage with anyone. He had not admitted them to Jane. He had not discussed them with Dorothy.

Heretofore, he had barely admitted his own disappointment even to himself.

“Marriage can be difficult. You must not continue to blame yourself.” She stroked the side of his cheek.

Christ. She was treating him as though he were some soft-in-the-belly, older man. Like Carrville. Like Froster.

Anger swept through his blood like a flash fire. He grasped her wrist.

“Don’t,” he said

Her mouth parted. “Don’t what?”

He yanked her onto his lap. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know.”

“I-I do not understand.”

“I think you do…” He put his mouth to hers and pressed hard against her soft, slack surprised lips as he moved his hands under her bottom to lift her slightly. His fingertips glided along the incredible satin texture of her skin. The saucy curve of her arse— God, she was perfection. He pressed his lips to hers more fiercely.

She moaned, the sound muffled by his kiss, and she put her hands to his chest and shoved.

He tightened his hold around her.

She bit his lip.

The sting cut though his pleasure. He growled and lifted his head.

She glared up at him. He had never guessed her eyes could blaze with such fire.

“Release me!” She hit him in the shoulder with her fist.

Christ, she could really deliver a fair-sized punch.
He stared at her, licking the blood from his lip whilst maintaining his hold. “Be still,” he ordered.

She went rigid. “Release me, immediately’”

Her imperious tone nearly made him laugh; however, those ice-green eyes, the cutting, superior way she stared down her small, narrow nose took his breath. He’d seen this exact expression on the Duke of Winterton’s face when delivering speeches in the House of Lords. No one could ever deny that she was the duke’s child. Despite the lust pounding through with each heartbeat, despite his throbbing erection, Adrian was taken aback by this strong resemblance.

God, but for an accident of birth, he’d be facing the business end of Winterton’s pistol for having dared taste the pleasure of her delectable round arse squirming in his lap.

She was almost as noble-blooded as he.

Wasn’t she also just as deserving of respect?

She was just a courtesan, and she had come to him, naked, and embraced him of her own accord.

A scheming little tease…

The words those boys had spoken the morning before, the echo of that sense of entitlement just because she happened to be courtesan and he happened to be a nobleman. His blood froze.

He loosened his hold.

She pushed away with a snort of disgust then swept from his lap and stood, glaring at him with one hand placed on her hip. “I had begun to allow myself to believe that you were different.”

“You thought to offer me all of this…” He let his gaze sweep her, lingering over every gorgeous inch of nakedness. “…and that I would be happy with a mere caress of your hand on my cheek?”

She made no attempt to cover herself. Instead, she stood there, with her head held high.

Despite knowing what a shameless little piece she was his pulses quickened. God, she stood before him proud as any duchess. Yes, he admired her daring, her spirit. He even found her amusing. Yet he wanted to go to her and tilt her face up to his and give her most ardent and tender of kisses. However, he’d be damned before he’d let her know the power she welded over him.

“You’re a vexing little tease,” he said.

“I thought you were a gentleman.”

“I am. But gentlemen are just the sort of men you prey upon, are they not?” He stood.

He strode to the mirror where he paused to adjust his clothing and then smoothed his hair. “You mistook me for a witless man who would be completely dazzled by your excessive beauty and would be willing to be led by his lust. Someone you could flatter and manipulate and gain your own way with.” He glanced up and met her eyes in the glass. “Well, I am
not
that kind of man. So take warning.”

****

Miranda hugged her shoulders, staring at the door as it swung closed behind the Earl of Danvers. Then a chill passed through her.

She had almost allowed him to seduce her.

She had also almost allowed her own sympathy for him to seduce her.

On shaking legs, she walked to the bed and sat.

When he had kissed her, so harshly, so forcefully his fierceness had pleased her, and she had melted for him.

That frightened her.

For those few seconds, he had held all the power.

She would never let a man gain the upper hand. Never.

A woman couldn’t afford that sort of a thing, especially a woman in her position.

Foolish, foolish girl!

If Aunt Cassandra knew that she had allowed him to see her bared like that without an offer of protection, why… she would be livid. And with good reason. When Miranda had first turned to the life of a courtesan, Aunt Cassandra had made a handful of private appointments with only the most wealthy of earls and dukes. One by one, the noblemen had paid a small fortune to see Miranda naked, alone in a chamber. Carrville had been Miranda’s first protector, but the highest bidder out of this first group of gentlemen had paid a dear price to take Miranda’s virginity.

Aunt Cassandra promised her a very profitable trust, and she wouldn’t allow Miranda access to any of it until she reached thirty years of age.

Miranda’s jaw tightened in frustration. She needed money now, not years from now.

Strategy, my dear, strategy. Your beauty is your only commodity. Never let anyone sample your wares without making a promise of more.

Aunt Cassandra’s voice echoed in Miranda’s mind.

Her aunt would have no sympathy for how Miranda had allowed things to fall apart with Froster and now with Danvers.

In both instances she’d acted emotionally. She’d reacted like the silly, spoiled girl that Danvers had predicted she would be.

Now he was likely vexed with her all over again, just as he had been the night of the courtesans’ ball. He would want her to leave.

A knock on the door made her sit and draw the sheet over herself. “Yes?” she called.

The door came open and two maids entered, one of them carrying a tray of food. They nodded to her, seeming shy, hesitant.

“His lordship sent us to assist you,” the one with honey-colored hair said. The  tray had contained a light meal of cold duck, fresh bread with honey, and crisp pears.

At the first taste of it, hunger overwhelmed Miranda. Her stomach had never felt so empty and she devoured the meal. Sleepiness had immediately overwhelmed her and she had barely summoned the cognizance to crawl back into the bed. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She awoke after sunset, with her stomach growling again and her mouth dry as dust. She had called for tea and had been brought another light meal. This time whilst she ate, the servants prepared a steaming bath.

Now with her damp hair wrapped in a linen towel, Miranda sat in the large oak tub with her chin resting on her knees. The maids had returned moments ago with several buckets of hot water to fresh the cooling temperature. Now she lingered, luxuriantly, in the bath.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” she called out, thinking it was the maids.

The door opened and Aunt Cassandra swept in, all smiles, her eyes large.

“Ha!” Miranda scoffed. “You must not have spoken with Danvers yet.”

Aunt Cassandra frowned with dramatic effect. “My dear, what are you talking about?”

“I have managed to provoke him again.”

Aunt Cassandra raised her brows into a wry expression as she sat in the wing chair and arranged her skirts. “You’re sleeping in his bed.” She waved toward Miranda’s tub. “Bathing in his chamber. My goodness.” Her smile broadened into a grin. “I never knew you were capable of such quick action. And how delicious, devious and, dare I say, clever of you to arrange matters whilst poor, dear Froster has been called back to London on urgent business. You are most resourceful.”

New respect rang in the older woman’s voice.

Miranda looked down at the water and scooped up a handful of the remaining suds. “I am here because I was ill, and Danvers had his physician attend to me here. Danvers felt responsible, that’s all.”

Aunt Cassandra’s face froze. “What? What?” She frowned. “You’ve been ill?”

“I was ill, and the manner of that illness reminded him far too much of his wife’s death.”

“His wife died from a sudden fever. Everyone knows that.”

Miranda shrugged. “So, I had a sudden fever.”

Aunt Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “What you are keeping from me?”

Miranda hugged her knees tighter. “I need my trust turned over to me, now.”

“Your trust?” Aunt Cassandra blinked several times, cocking her head in an inquisitive expression as though she didn’t understand what language Miranda spoke.