The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (18 page)

“Have you really never been in love?” she said abruptly and turned toward him.

He stared. “Why would you ask that?”

“This afternoon you said that you knew love was a fragile and elusive thing from poetry and not from experience.” She studied him carefully. “I took that to mean you had never been in love.”

“Well, then you know my secret.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure.”

“But if you have never been in love how would you recognize when you weren’t?”

He drew his brows together. “I have no idea. I just assumed I would know when I was.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He huffed. “Birds and butterflies would be flitting about. The sun would be shining. A choir of angels would be singing in the heavens. You know, the usual sort of thing.”

“Now you are being sarcastic, whereas I was being quite serious,” she said in a lofty manner.

“It’s a ridiculous question. How does anyone know when they’re in love?”

“I would still like an answer.”

“I don’t have an answer.”

“How can you have had three fiancées and never have been in love?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “Luck? Fate? Timing?”

“Even so—”

“How did you know when you were in love with your husband? I assume you were in love with him.”

“Of course I was and . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that your second question? About my marriage, that is?”

“Yes, yes, it’s not the question I had intended, but yes.”

“Oh.” She paused. “What question did you intend?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought of it yet, but I suppose this one will do. How did you know when you were in love with your husband?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just did.”

“Aha!”

“Aha?”

“When I said the very same thing, when I said I just assumed I would know, you would not accept that answer.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Therefore I cannot accept yours.”

“Now you’re being childish.”

“I am not,” he said, though he did feel rather like a child at that.

“Well, that’s the only answer I have.” She shrugged.

“Nonetheless, you shall have to do better.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Come now, Miranda. While I have never known love myself, I am not completely ignorant of what is supposed to occur when love is involved.”

“The birds, the sun and the choir of angels, you mean?”

“Among other things.” He slipped off the balustrade and straightened. “First.” He took her hand. “Your heart should flutter oh so slightly when he takes your hand.”

“Oh?”

“Then, as he raises your hand to his lips, and you gaze into his eyes”—he matched his actions to his words—“your breath should catch as you wait for the first touch of his lips upon your hand.”

“I see.” Her voice had the faintest breathless quality. His stomach tightened.

“You feel the tiniest stab of loss when he releases your hand.”

“Do I?”

“But then he steps near to you.” He moved closer. “So close you can sense the heat of his body next to yours”

“Can I?”

“Indeed you can.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “His hands slip around you and he gently pulls you closer. And the beat of your heart speeds up.”

“Does it?” She swallowed hard.

“And then he gazes into your eyes, his lips moving inevitably closer. And you can’t look away because in his eyes you see a reflection of your own feelings. And that, I suspect, is the final piece. That, I suspect, is when you know.” His lips met hers and he murmured against them. “And you know, when he kisses you, as he will, that it’s not just a kiss, it’s an acknowledgement of what he holds in his heart. And a promise that this is only the beginning.”

“Is it?” she whispered.

“If I am very, very lucky.” He gathered her closer and pressed his lips to hers. She hesitated, and then her mouth opened to his and she tasted of spring and promises and everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d ever longed for. He deepened his kiss and she responded in kind. And for an endless moment there was nothing in the world beyond her and him and the two of them together. At last he raised his head and gazed down at her.

She stared up at him. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

“But what does it mean?”

He smiled. “It means, my dear Miranda, that I wanted to kiss you and judging from your response, that you wanted to kiss me back.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“Love?” He hadn’t really considered love. He stared down at her. “That was not the reaction I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

He released her and stepped back. “I’m not sure, but that was not it.”

“I haven’t done this for a very long time, you know.” She turned and paced the terrace.

“I assumed as much.”

“Therefore you must forgive me if I am out of practice.”

“I thought it was a most excellent kiss.”

“Oh yes, well, that.” She waved off his comment. “That was indeed excellent. It might well be the most excellent kiss I have ever had.”

Ever?
“Well, then I don’t understand what—”

“Goodness, Winfield, it was obviously an excellent kiss because you have had so much practice at it.”

“You did say you rather fancied a wicked man.”

“Indeed I did, which was why I was prepared for your kiss.” She stopped mid-pace and looked at him. “And it was an outstanding kiss.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How outstanding?”

“Why, my toes curled inside my shoes.” She nodded. “That outstanding.”

“Good.”

“Which is why I am so confused.”

“No more so than I,” he muttered. “Go on.”

She resumed pacing. “How am I to know if, when my toes curled and before that, as you so expertly described, when my heart raced and I forgot to breathe, that it truly meant something of significance. If you are kissing me because it is indeed love, all those things are to be expected, even welcomed. Or did I only experience all that—”

“The toes, the heart, the breath?”

She nodded. “Was that significant, or did that only happen because you are so good at what you do?”

The woman made no sense whatsoever. “What I do?”

“Seduction,” she said with a dramatic flourish in her voice.

Damn it all. Didn’t she know him better by now? “Do you really think I would seduce you right here, Miranda? On the terrace—”

“All sorts of things could happen on a terrace,” she said darkly.

“When I have the perfect opportunity every day on the way to or from Fairborough—”

“I have often wondered if you had thought of that.”

He stared at her. “Of course I have thought of that, which is neither here nor there at the moment, and as inappropriate as that might be, it is surely not as inappropriate as seducing you here on the terrace when we are about to be called into dinner. With my family!”

“It did seem rather dangerous. Still, you are a dangerous sort, aren’t you?”

He closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “I was not seducing you. I kissed you. It was one simple kiss.”

“I’d scarcely call it simple,” she pointed out. “It was a very good kiss.”

“Indeed it was. On both sides, I might add.” He narrowed his gaze. “Given that, one might well think you have had a great deal of practice as well.”

She gasped. “I cannot believe—”

“Ahem.”

Win didn’t have to look to know that was Prescott’s way of discreetly announcing his presence. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or annoyed. Probably both.

“I assume you’re here to call us to dinner.”

“Yes, my lord,” Prescott’s voice sounded from the shadows near the door.

“Very well then. We shall be right in.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“What is it now?”

“I was told to wait for you.”

Win’s jaw tightened. “Why?”

“I was instructed to do so by Mrs. Roberts.”

“Ha!” Miranda leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “She too is obviously concerned about seduction.”

“As well as by Lady Fairborough and Lady Lydingham.”

“My, my.” She swept past him on her way to the door. “It seems that again your reputation has preceded you.”

“My reputation is greatly exaggerated!”

She snorted in disbelief.

He stalked after her, well aware that once again he had no idea of what had just happened. Once again he had the distinct feeling that he had lost some unknown game and once again he wasn’t sure if she was mad or he was.

Even worse, he didn’t know the answer to her question.

And worst of all, he was afraid to find out.

Win leaned back in the chair behind the desk in the Millworth library and stared at nothing in particular. But then, he had found himself doing a lot of that lately. Miranda and her sister had left for London this morning. Already he missed her, even if the woman seemed determined to drive him mad.

Was he in love with her? What kind of question was that to ask after a kiss? One, single kiss. Extraordinary or not, that was not the thing to ask after one kiss, particularly not a first kiss. Why, there was a time in his life when a kiss meant nothing at all. It certainly wasn’t a commitment for the rest of his days.

The truth of the matter was, he didn’t know how he felt about her. And, as he had never told a woman he loved her before, that did seem a rather significant declaration to make without serious thought.

He had certainly grown accustomed to her presence. To talking with her, teasing, debating about nothing of significance as well as about matters of importance.

It was as if they had agreed to an unspoken truce on those trips to and from Fairborough. Neither brought up a topic guaranteed to infuriate the other. Not that they didn’t frequently disagree. There were books she liked that he didn’t. Artists he enjoyed that she considered dabblers. And their disagreement was as stimulating as when they stumbled onto common ground and found they both shared an appreciation of something unexpected.

Evenings with his family were enjoyable as well. They proved to be quite a convivial group. And if his mother had originally intended to nudge Miranda in his general direction she had either thought better of it or someone had urged discretion.

Two months ago he hadn’t even met the woman. Now, he suspected he knew Miranda Garret better than he had ever known any woman, indeed any person male or female except possibly Gray. Now, he could scarcely bear a day without seeing her. And now, he wasn’t at all sure what he would do without her. As much as it would be convenient to have the rebuilding completed by the Midsummer Ball, he was beginning to wish it would never be finished. Silly of him, of course.

There had as well been a few additional
moments
when their gazes had met unexpectedly and the very air between them was charged with desire so palpable he could almost touch it. Time itself stopped and the world vanished save for the two of them. That’s when he had found a sheer strength of will he hadn’t known he had and wasn’t especially delighted to discover as it was the only thing that had kept him from grabbing her and pulling her into his arms and never letting go. Until last night, that is.

Of course he had thought of seducing her. On the route from Fairborough, in the newly framed ballroom, at the folly, in the gardens, under the stars, in the library and, yes, on the bloody terrace. With each day that passed he thought about seducing her. Why he hadn’t so much as kissed her until today was as much a question to him as whether or not he loved her. Or perhaps one question answered the other.

He wanted the woman; that was obvious. But did he love her? How was he expected to know?

He certainly did not want to make another mistake. Nor did he want to fall in love with a woman who might well still be in love with her first husband. A first husband she had thought was perfect because she didn’t know of his manipulations of the debt to Mr. Tempest. Whoever he was. Which brought to mind an entirely different problem.

Aside from all the other reasons for caution, she was still hiding something important from him. No matter how well he thought he had grown to know her, there was still something she refused to share. What that might be, he had no idea. But he would not fall in love with a woman he could not completely trust. Unfortunately, having never been in love before, he had no idea how to prevent it.

But he knew with every day and every minute in her presence, he came perilously close to falling over the edge of a precipice from which there would be no escape. At least, no escape that left him unscathed.

If, indeed, it wasn’t already too late.

A knock sounded at the library door.

“Yes?”

The door opened and Gray sauntered in, Prescott a step behind him. “Mr. Chapman is here to see you, my lord.”

Win glanced at his cousin. “How very interesting.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Gray settled in one of the two chairs positioned in front of the desk. “Which is why I’ve decided to join you.”

Win had told Gray everything he had learned from Chapman so far, and his cousin was now as curious as he was. “Show him in, if you please, Prescott.”

“Very good, sir.” Prescott left the room, closing the door behind him.

“I wonder what he has uncovered,” Win said.

“Hopefully enough to satisfy your curiosity.” Gray studied him closely. “But does it really matter at this point? Who the architect is, I mean. Given your friendship with Miranda, that is.”

“Probably not.” Still, Win did want to know.

A knock sounded again, the door opened and Prescott stepped aside to allow Chapman to enter. Then he closed the door, leaving the three men alone.

Chapman strode across the room and extended his hand to Win. “Good day, my lord.”

“Mr. Chapman.” Win shook the other man’s hand, then gestured for him to take a seat. Chapman shook Gray’s hand, then sat down.

“I am assuming you have some information for me,” Win said.

“Indeed I do.” Chapman started to pull out his notebook, paused, grinned at Win and thought better of it. “It appears there are either two separate and distinct Mr. Tempests or he does not exist at all.”

“Oh good, I do love complications,” Gray murmured.

“I shall try to explain.” Chapman thought for a moment. “There is indeed a Mr. Tempest, or someone using that name, who advanced money to John Garret for Garret and Tempest. I still have not been able to determine exactly who he is. However, he is definitely not the same Mr. Tempest being credited with the plans for your house.”

Win drew his brows together. “Mr. Chapman, your attempt to explain is falling short.”

“It is somewhat confusing.”

“That much is clear,” Gray said.

“No one at the offices has ever seen Mr. Tempest. No one speaks of him as if he is simply an absent member of the firm. Furthermore, before the rebuilding of Fairborough Hall, his name was not associated with designs produced by Garret and Tempest.”

Win shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I said it was confusing. As I suspect it was intended to be.”

Gray frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I am still trying to put all the pieces together. And while I have not learned anything about Tempest the architect . . .” Chapman leaned forward and met Win’s gaze directly. “There were rumors in certain circles, no more than idle speculation really and quickly dismissed as improbable.”

“Go on.”

“Even before the death of her husband, there was talk—most discreet, I might add, and given no credence—that the true designer at Garret and Tempest was not John but Miranda Garret.”

“Good God.” Gray stared.

Win narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“The truth is a remarkably elusive thing in this case so, no, I am not completely sure. But I am certain that the style of the designer has not changed since Lord Garret’s death.”

“Of course, it wouldn’t, would it?” Win said under his breath. Oddly enough, Chapman’s revelation was not nearly as startling as he would have expected. It had been obvious from the beginning that Miranda knew far more than she let on.

If indeed she was the architect, and he had very little doubt about that now, it made perfect sense that she would not want the world to know. After all, the design of buildings was not an accepted female activity. Nor was the running of a business although it was obvious she did that as well. And that business would vanish if word got out that the true architect at Garret and Tempest had never been Lord Garret but rather Lady Garret, no matter how skilled she was.

Certainly there would be some progressive sorts that would applaud her independent nature, mostly ladies of independent means, he suspected. Regardless, the fact of the matter was that, here and now, men ruled the world of business. No matter how excellent Miranda was at what she did, she would never be accepted.

He had never questioned that before. It was as it should be. He firmly believed in a woman’s proper place in the world. But now it struck him as, well, stupid to disallow talent and intelligence because of one’s gender.

Good Lord, the woman had
reformed
him or transformed him or something equally annoying. He’d never had any desire to change his way of thinking and yet—there was no getting around it—he had. She had changed him.

“What now, my lord?” Chapman asked.

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” Gray said cautiously.

“What do you wish me to do now?” Chapman said. “I can continue to attempt to prove that Lady Garret is the architect you have hired, although it seems to me the most straightforward way to do that is to ask her outright.” He shrugged. “And that, I think, would be best left to you.”

Win nodded. “Quite right.”

“Then will you do so?”

“No,” Win said without thinking. “The quality of work is undeniable.”

Gray nodded his approval.

“As such, it really doesn’t matter whose work it is,” Win continued. “My intent has always been to have the house rebuilt. And she has that well in hand. Her reasons for keeping her activities quiet are obvious.” He met Chapman’s gaze firmly. “I assume this information will remain confidential.”

“Without question.” Indignation sounded in Chapman’s voice. “I never reveal what I have uncovered to anyone other than my client. Discretion is part and parcel of what I do. I would never have another job if I did not keep my findings confidential.”

“Quite right.” Gray nodded.

Win thought for a moment. “I know I said I didn’t care as to the identity of her investor, of this Mr. Tempest, but I find I have changed my mind. I do now want to know who he is.”

“Do you?” Gray studied his cousin.

Win shrugged. “It seems like a good idea.”

“And isn’t that interesting?” Gray said under his breath.

“I’ll do what I can, sir.” Chapman rose to his feet and Win stood as well. “But I cannot guarantee success. The man is both clever and elusive. However . . .” He cast Win a confident smile. “I do hate it when questions are too easily answered.”

“That’s where we differ, Chapman. I much prefer questions that are easily answered. And I am not at all fond of deception.”

“Few men are.” Chapman paused. “Might I ask why you do not intend to confront Lady Garret about this?”

“You may ask, but I’m not sure I have an answer.”

“I know I am surprised.” Gray smiled in an annoyingly knowing manner.

Win considered the question. “As I said, it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. Not really. As it is her secret, it seems it is not up to me to reveal it.”

“I see.” Chapman nodded. “But she deceived you.”

“Not just me.” He chuckled. “The entire world. Damnably clever of her, really.”

“If the truth was revealed, her business would fail.” Chapman shook his head. “No one would deliberately hire a female for work of this nature.”

“Not deliberately, no.” That too now struck Win as a pity.

“She is a woman concerned with the welfare of her employees. If her true position becomes known, they would be out of work.” Chapman nodded thoughtfully. “Which explains why she set up a fund to assist them. She must realize her deception cannot go on forever.”

“Especially now that she has taken a public role in the construction at Fairborough,” Gray added.

Win met his cousin’s gaze. “Exactly why she is holding me to my promise of a bonus. That is money above and beyond anything else that she could put directly into her employee fund. She must understand that time is no longer on her side.”

“I’m afraid I’m still confused as to why you don’t tell her you know,” Chapman said.

“Because I wish for her to tell me herself.” The moment Win said the words he knew they were true. “Lady Garret and I have forged a friendship of sorts and I would much prefer she trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

“I see.” Chapman chuckled. “That’s the way of it then.”

“The way of what?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Chapman,” Gray said abruptly and rose to his feet. “If that is all for today?”

“It is.” Chapman nodded and stood, then addressed Win. “I shall do whatever is necessary to learn the truth about Mr. Tempest.”

Win considered the other man thoughtfully. “I do hope this unanswered question isn’t the one that defeats you.”

“That, my lord,” Chapman said firmly, “is not a possibility.”

The men exchanged a few more words with Chapman promising to contact Win as soon as he learned anything new; then he took his leave.

“Interesting,” Gray said, retaking his seat. “But not especially surprising, I would say.”

“No, it’s not at all surprising.” Win shrugged and sat down. “I should have recognized the truth myself. There is a way she looks at the drawings and plans, a look in her eyes when she watches the progress at Fairborough that speaks of pride of ownership. And indeed she should be proud of her work.”

“Yes, she should.”

“She has done and is doing an excellent job.”

“Indeed, she is. And it seems to me your questions have now been answered.” Gray studied his cousin closely. “So explain to me why you have changed your mind. Why do you want to know about Tempest?”

“Because, whoever he is, he has a hold, if only financial, on Miranda’s company and therefore on her life.”

“And what will you do if you find out who he is?”

“I don’t know.” Win shook his head. “But it seems in Miranda’s best interest to find out the truth of it.”