The Lady Risks All (25 page)

In becoming Roscoe, he’d cut himself off from ever marrying any lady of his own class, from ever having a family of his own. He’d known what he was sacrificing at the time and had never regretted the choice he’d made. He might not be able to have a family, but Millicent, Cassie, and Edwina could; Henry could. And Caroline and Lucasta could live out their lives as they deserved, with their children and grandchildren around them.

So he sat in the shade, largely silent, and listened to the ongoing discussion, one that left him feeling content. One that, in many ways, was the outcome of his own achievement. Hearing the very real enthusiasm in Edwina’s voice as she described her plans for taking the concept of philanthropic projects out into the unexplored wilds with Frobisher—did the man have any idea what he was marrying into?—he felt deeply pleased.

Closing his eyes, he let Miranda’s focused intensity as she asked how charities were customarily established wash over and through him, and felt pleasure spark somewhere inside.

Even with his eyes closed, she effortlessly riveted, not just his senses but his mind, and something even deeper, as well. Relaxed in the chair, in the shade, he warily circled that something deeper; he had a strong suspicion he knew what it was, but he wasn’t about to look too closely, much less give it a name.

W
ith respect to him, she was a master musician, one who expertly played on his strings. On his emotions.

That conclusion resonated in his brain as, on the evening of the following day, he walked beside Miranda in the rose garden. He’d spent the day riding the estate with Henry, while she’d spent her time with his sisters; they’d already shared a comfortable exchange of the highlights of their respective days while walking through the mild night to the sunken garden.

The fact that such a simple, normal, ordinary exchange between him and a lady could occur, could be, remained with him, a lingering pleasure, a novel aspect of their unexpected interaction as they walked side by side down the central path and he turned his mind and his senses to savoring the silence that now claimed them. Not the silence of awkwardness, or of disinterest or disregard, but the silence of a companionship that had deepened to the point where words, the constant exchange of them, was no longer necessary.

He was at ease with her and she with him. At ease in the peace and quiet of the garden. Only their footfalls and the soft shushing of her skirts broke the stillness.

Pacing alongside her, feeling his emotions—those strings she tugged so effortlessly—stir, he felt forced to remind himself that this wasn’t permanent, that there was no way he, not even he, London’s powerful gambling king, could hold this precious, nebulous connection forever.

Much as he might wish to.

How much he might wish to he refused to consider. There was no point; their interaction would cease when they returned to London. This, their time at Ridgware, was an unexpected, unlooked-for moment in a world outside the one in which they lived. Things could happen, could exist here that never would exist, could not exist, in their normal world.

He glanced at her, at her shadowed face, at the moonlight gilding her hair. Regardless of the bittersweet realization that what was now between them would perforce be so fleeting, he was unwilling—even sensing the danger—to draw back from it, from her, from this unforeseen interlude.

As if feeling his gaze, she glanced at him, met his gaze. Her lips curved lightly. Facing forward, she said, “I have to admit to feeling as if I’ve suddenly stumbled on some secret, on some path for which I’ve been searching without even realizing I was.” She glanced his way. “Your mother, your sisters, your sister-in-law are all admirable ladies. They’re wealthy enough to live a life of ease without lifting a finger to help anyone else, but they don’t. They have a different view of themselves, of their roles, of what their lives should be—they accept some significant degree of responsibility for all those around them. That makes them a part of the greater whole, rather than distant observers.”

She drew breath. “And being a distant observer, being in large part isolated from the wider world, is a lonely and unrewarding existence. I know because I’ve been living that way for most of my life, kept apart, held back by what I believed were . . . restrictions. Limitations. But I’m no longer sure they—my perceived limitations—are real.”

“If by perceived limitations you mean that the source of your family’s fortune renders you ineligible in certain spheres, then as someone who has lived on both sides of the social divide, I can assure you that any such perception is, indeed, wide of the mark.” Deciding she deserved even plainer speaking, he went on, “If you were a mill owner’s daughter, raised outside society, matters would be different, but you aren’t. Your lineage might not be as pure as that of my sisters, but your mother’s family has been gentry for generations, and you were raised within society’s pale. By anyone’s gauge, you and Roderick bear no stigma.”

Reaching the reflecting pool at the end of the rose walk, they halted. She looked at him; the shifting shadows hid her expression as she searched his face, then she inclined her head. “Thank you.” Lowering her gaze to the pool, after a moment she continued, “I can’t tell you how much I value the insights I’ve gained through your family, through having a chance to talk with them. It’s almost as if, in doing what I knew was right and insisting on coming with you to rescue Roderick regardless of any social risk, some kind fate has given me this—my time here at Ridgware with your family—as my reward. They’ve opened doors for me that I never knew were there, and shown me a way forward with a problem I was only just realizing I had.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “So again, thank you for bringing me, us, here. I recognize the trust you’ve placed in us in allowing us to see this side of your life. Rest assured neither Roderick nor I will ever give you cause to regret it.”

He held her gaze and inclined his head, accepting her declaration, not that he’d needed to hear it; he trusted her implicitly. He now knew her well enough to be absolutely certain that he could, that his and his family’s secret was safe with her and Roderick.

Looking down at the pool at their feet, after a moment, he said, “When we were children, we called this our wishing pool. We’d come down here at night, stare into its black depths, think of what we most wanted in life, and make our wish.”

Unbidden, what the man he now was wished for most leapt into his mind; it wasn’t what he’d thought it would be. The reality shook him; he rushed to bury it, to smother the need before it could spread through his conscious mind and take hold. That way lay madness.

Drawing in a deep breath, blinking back to the rose garden and the woman by his side, he was grateful for the shadows that cloaked his face. “So . . . what would you wish for?”

She, too, had been staring down at the pool; for a moment she didn’t respond, then she raised her head and met his eyes. “Everyone knows you can’t tell someone what you wish for, not if you want your wish to come true.”

About them the night lay like a dark blanket; perhaps it was the lack of light that made what flared between them seem more real. More tangible.

More compulsively desirable.

“Let’s go back to the house.”
To your room, to your bed.
He left the words unsaid, yet they hung in the air between them.

Through the shadows, she held his gaze, then she reached out, took his hand, twined her fingers with his and turned toward the house, her smile as mysterious as the night. “Yes, let’s.”

T
he next morning Miranda told herself she was content with their relationship as it was. That her thought in the moonlight—the wish that had crowded into her mind—was simply that, a moonstruck thought. Nothing to take seriously.

It had been the atmosphere, the intimacy of the moment. The richly hued closeness.

About her, the breakfast parlor was abuzz with chatter as Millicent and Cassie prepared, finally, to depart. The warmth that existed between the members of Roscoe’s—Julian’s—family was so potent, so strong, that she sensed there had to be some reason, some event that had forged them into such a cohesive, devoted whole. Despite—or was it because of?—the mysterious conversion of Julian to Roscoe.

Watching him interact with his sisters as, fasts satisfactorily broken, the company all rose and went with Millicent and Cassie into the front hall to bestow last hugs and farewells, she wondered again at that transformation. Hanging back a little with Sarah, both of them grinning, touched by the rush of emotions as Millicent and Cassie hugged and kissed their way around the others, she watched and saw.

He’d told her he was Roscoe, and to her he was. She couldn’t think of him by any other name; he certainly wasn’t the idle hedonist depicted in the portrait of Lord Julian Delbraith.

And while society would be shocked and would deplore the change, seeing him now, knowing him now, she had to wonder if, regardless of what had caused it, the transformation hadn’t been the making of him. Hadn’t been the fire that had forged him into such a complex, fascinating, enthralling character.

Such a strong character, although, considering Lucasta, perhaps that inner strength had always been there, latent, hidden beneath the rake’s sophistication, waiting to be tempered in the forge of experience.

Regardless, the man he was now was, in her eyes, infinitely more attractive than the man he had almost certainly been. Understandable, therefore, that her wish in the night had been all about keeping him in her life. About a way to prolong their liaison, to convert the illicit to licit. A dream.

In more realistic vein, she wondered how long their relationship—their affair, their liaison—might last. For weeks, or for very much longer?

Years?

It would, she thought, take years and years for her to learn all about him, to explore and absorb all the facets he possessed. How long she might have with him she didn’t know, but she was determined to make the most of every minute.

Millicent looked around, spotted her, and came bustling over. “Miranda.” Millicent took her hands and, smiling warmly, stretched up and touched cheeks. “My dear, when next you’re in Northamptonshire you must, positively
must,
stop by.”

“And”—Cassie nudged Millicent aside, taking her place to squeeze fingers and touch cheeks with Miranda—“the same applies to Hampshire. Regardless of what the future holds, we don’t want to lose touch.”

“We’ll always have things to talk about,” Millicent assured her. “We’ll be pleased to show you our local efforts. Whether it’s you and Roderick, or just you, if you want to spend a few weeks away from London, just write.”

“And we will write.” Cassie grinned. “You can be sure of that—we have your direction.”

“Girls!” Lucasta called. “Your carriages are waiting and the horses are literally champing at their bits—and you know coachmen never like that.”

“Yes, Mama!” Millicent and Cassie chorused.

With laughter and smiles, on another rush of potent emotion the pair swept out of the huge double doors.

Miranda stood with the others at the top of the front steps and waved the two coaches away.

Lucasta and Caroline heaved identical sighs; both turned with similiar smiles on their faces. As they started back into the house, Miranda went to step aside to allow the pair to pass, but Caroline reached out and slid an arm around her waist and, still smiling, drew her with them.

Miranda acquiesced and joined the duchess and the dowager, with Edwina and Sarah bringing up the rear. Roscoe and Henry had dallied on the steps; she heard them debating whether to walk to the stables or check on the hounds.

Beside her, Caroline spoke pensively. “It’s going to be quieter without those two here.”

“True.” Smiling fondly, Lucasta glanced at Edwina. “But now perhaps those less forthright might be able to get a word in edgewise about their own wedding.”

Edwina chuckled. “You know that in the end I’ll do precisely as I wish.”

“Yes, dear.” Lucasta led the way to the morning room. “
I
know, but at some point you really will need to let your elder sisters into that secret, too.”

T
wo hours later, Miranda, Roscoe, and Henry followed Caroline into the schoolhouse that stood at the edge of the tiny hamlet of Mill Green.

Pausing in the small foyer just inside the outer doors, Caroline peeked through the glass in the inner double doors, then whispered, “It was originally an old meeting hall.” She glanced at Miranda. “We—the board—took it over and refurbished it, and found Mr. McAllister and Miss Trimble to teach here. Both live nearby. Miss Trimble used to teach at a girls’ school in Bath, while Mr. McAllister was tutor to Lord Tewkesbury’s sons until they grew too old.”

Straightening, squaring her shoulders, Caroline pushed the door open and led the way in. Miranda followed, with Roscoe and Henry in her wake.

Mr. McAllister and Miss Trimble were delighted to receive them. Their classes, defined by age and separated by a movable partition erected across the hall, were sufficiently well behaved for the teachers to give their attention to their primary benefactor, diligently answering Caroline’s questions on their progress with the agreed syllabus, and reporting on the amenities and facilities of the building, discussing what was presently in place and what ideally should be budgeted for in the coming year.

Miranda listened but also looked. She was impressed by the numbers of children attending—fifteen in the older group, all busy with arithmetic, and twelve in the younger group, their noses buried in well-worn readers. Miss Trimble had been reading to the latter group but had instructed them to read by themselves while she spoke with the visitors.

One towheaded boy, about seven years old, sat at the end of one bench. Miranda noticed he was staring at a page, his finger on it, but not moving. His face was set in a scowl.

Leaving the others, she went to stand beside the boy’s bench, then bent so her face was level with his.

His eyes swung her way and he blinked, wary.