The Lady Risks All (46 page)

She fought to keep her smile from wavering, fought back the tears that leapt to her eyes at the utter vulnerability that rang in those simple words. She managed a decisive, almost belligerent nod. “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m here—I love you, and I
know
nothing in heaven or earth is strong enough to change that.” She looked into his eyes, felt more confident than she’d expected as she continued, “And I know you love me, that you return my sentiment on all levels, to every degree. You tried to let me go, to set me at a distance, and you couldn’t do it. Powerful as you are, disciplined as you are, still you couldn’t do it. This afternoon you put yourself between a pistol and me, which, as dramatic demonstrations go, was rather emphatic, not only in terms of your feelings but also in terms of clarifying mine. After today, being apart is never going to work, is never going to satisfy either of us, so I’m here to find a way for us to be together—a way for me to be your lover, your helpmate, for as long as our love lasts, which in my estimation will be forever.”

His expression was a medley of emotions—disbelief, confusion, stunned shock, and rising hope. “But what about respectability? If you live with me, you’ll have none.”

Her eyes on his, she paused, then said, “I could simply say that I don’t care about respectability anymore, and that would be the truth, but I suspect you won’t readily accept that, so I’ll explain. All my life I was taught that respectability was the ultimate virtue, to be courted and worshipped above all else. I’m not sure that I ever truly, in my heart, believed that, but I did, indeed, hold rigidly to that code, yet it never brought me happiness. Then through our adventures of recent weeks, I saw and learned, and had demonstrated unequivocally that social respectability is at best a minor virtue. It doesn’t hold a candle to the greater virtues, like love, and honor, and devotion. Like loyalty and integrity, and the respect gained through one’s actions. Like truly caring about others, and actively protecting those weaker than oneself. Against those virtues, respectability is insubstantial, an ephemeral construct held to by those lacking greater strength.

“So no—I no longer value respectability as I once did. To me, now, it’s largely immaterial. What matters to me—what now anchors my world—is love. And you. Because it’s you I love.”

She’d come there prepared and determined to risk all; that was one thing Wraxby had taught her. Wraxby, and Lucasta. If she wanted to claim love, she couldn’t hold back and wait for it to be offered. She had to be willing to risk all to gain it—to risk her heart, to offer her heart to him if she wanted his in return.

He drew in a breath, and it shook. “I . . . don’t know what to say—you’ve blindsided me.”

“I would apologize, only once I saw clearly what I wanted, I knew it would be pointless to wait for you to make an offer. Indeed, to wait for you to even come knocking at my door.” She arched a brow. “You wouldn’t have, would you?”

He held her gaze, eventually said, “I was determined not to.”

Her lips curved at the unvoiced admission that he might not have been able to hold to his so-determined line. “On the one hand I would have liked to have seen you falter, but . . .” She drew in a breath and bluntly stated, “I understand that you feel prohibited from offering for my hand, but—”

He laid a finger across her lips and silenced her. He held her gaze for two heartbeats, then lowered his head and leaned his forehead against hers. “I can’t.” His voice was anguished and low, then it strengthened, “I won’t. It would be asking you to make too much of a sacrifice, and that’s something I cannot, will not, do.” Raising his head, he looked into her eyes, his expression starkly bleak. “I can’t ask you to set aside the life of a lady and accept what I can offer you.”

She let her lips curve again, raised a hand to frame his cheek. “No, I know. I know you can’t ask me. Won’t ask me. Which is why I’m here, to ask you.”

He blinked.

Before he could speak, she went on, “Did it ever occur to you that you constantly make sacrifices for others, that you are always the one giving, and you never allow others a chance to return the favor? Believe me, your family, and doubtless others, too, feel the imbalance most strongly, but you are very
very
good at keeping the scales tipped in the direction you think right—with you doing the giving and all others the accepting.” She paused, tilted her head, kept her eyes locked with his. “In me, however, you’ve met your match. Because for me, the challenge before me, the challenge I have to meet to get what I most want in life, is to convince you to change your stance—to convince you, just this once, to allow me to be the one to give, to allow me to be the one to make the sacrifice, and for you to accept it, to be the one sacrificed for.”

She paused, her eyes on his, then tipped up her chin. “So my question for you, Neville Roscoe, for the man who goes by that name, is whether you are strong enough to, whether you want me as your wife enough to, accept my proposal.”

He was silent for a full minute, then said, “Why don’t you propose, then we’ll find out?”

Her lips kicked up; she wasn’t sure he’d realized, but his hands had risen and slid about her waist; he was now holding her gently against him.

“My proposal, my proposition, my offer to you, my lord, is simply this—marry me. Marry me, love me, hold me, and never let me go. Let me fill the place by your side, manage this house and make it into a home, and if God is willing, create a family with you.”

He looked into her eyes, and there was no mistaking the terrible yearning, the concomitant exultant joy he yet held back. “Life as my wife won’t be the sort of life a lady would expect.”

“No, but it will be the life I want—as your lover, your helpmate, your wife, and the mother of your children.”

For several seconds, time stood still. Then he drew in a huge breath and lowered his head so his temple rested alongside hers. His voice was low, hoarse, as he said, “I love you—beyond words, beyond adoration. And yes, I’ll marry you. You seem to see the challenge that it will be, and I’m more than willing to take the risk with you, as you are so bound and determined to attempt it. Above all else in life, I want you as my wife. You are a remarkable woman, and I don’t deserve you.”

He shifted his head, brushed his lips over hers.

Surrender
.

She smiled. Delight, joy, and sheer exuberance welling, overflowing, she pushed her hands over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck. Brushed her lips over his, left them hovering as she said, “I’m a remarkable lady, and you definitely do.”

Then she kissed him. His arms tightened about her and he drew her in, drew her fully against him.

Giddy, with passion, joy, boundless love, and endless devotion all vying for expression, they pledged their troth in an exchange infused with so much raw emotion it left them both breathless.

They didn’t need words.

When they finally drew back long enough to breathe again, long enough to hear, register, and think, the house was quiet again and they had only themselves to please.

Hand in hand they left the library, walked back to the front hall, and climbed the stairs.

He led her to his room, drew her inside. Drew her into his arms.

She’d been in his room before, but she hadn’t, then, felt the same sense of coming home, of having reached the end of her journey. Of belonging.

As they came together in joy and in love, in passion and blatantly acknowledged desire, she knew to the deepest depths of her soul that she’d been right.

She tipped her head back, fingers threading through the dark silk of his hair as he pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss to the spot where her pulse thundered. “We’ll make this work.” A whispered promise. “There’ll be hurdles, I know, but together we’ll overcome them.”

His hands closed about her breasts, evocatively kneaded. “Together we can triumph over anything fate sends us”—he raised his head, met her eyes—“just as long as you love me as I love you.”

From beneath her heavy lids, she held his gaze. “Forever and always.”

She drew his head down, raised her lips and kissed him—and let their love have its way.

Let it lead them like a beacon, shining and true, through the heated moments, through the passionate fire. Let the flames of desire claim them anew, let ecstasy rive them so the glory, love’s benediction, could pour in and forge them anew, into an irrevocable one.

When at last she lay in his arms, sated and blissfully exhausted in his bed, when he settled his head on his pillow and felt her cheek on his breast, her hair spread in silken glory over his chest, he could barely believe that, truly, he had this.

That, despite all, he was going to get a chance at a wife, a home, a family of his own. That he was going to get to roll the dice in a game he’d thought forever denied him.

Desire and hope welled in his chest, swelling so high he closed his eyes against the tide of sudden weakness, the unexpected, unprecedented, soul-shattering joy.

She was giving him her life, her future, in order to create his.

In doing so she brought him, figuratively and in every way that mattered, to his knees. He would worship her until the day he died.

Lifting one hand, he stroked her hair. “Thank you.”

He felt her lips curve against his skin. “I have every intention of making the rest of our lives my pleasure.”

Epilogue

September 1824

“J
ust a moment.” Miranda rose slowly from her chair at the side of Roscoe’s desk, waving at both Roscoe and Jordan to remain seated. “I have a report from the school that should clarify those costs. Just wait while I fetch it.”

Roscoe forced himself to remain in his chair as, one hand absentmindedly pressed to the small of her back, his very pregnant wife shuffled at her best pace through the door they’d opened up between his study and the room beyond. That room had become her office. Over the past eight months, she’d gradually filched the reins for the various schools and orphanages he funded from his hands; she now managed them and kept a much sharper eye on what went on there than he could ever hope to do.

Once the people involved got over the shock that a lady such as she was indeed his wife—it seemed that figured as an even bigger shock than he himself was—they inevitably ended confiding in her, revealing all sorts of things while answering questions that drew them out, yet also left them feeling engaged and appreciated.

She had a knack; he wasn’t sure she’d even been aware of it, not until she’d flung herself so unrestrainedly into his life.

He could hear her shuffling papers in the other room. He and Jordan traded glances; both smiled and waited patiently. At the other end of the room, facing each other on the sofas, Mudd and Rawlins were amusing themselves playing a game of cards.

All in all, he reflected, all was well in his world.

It was a very nice feeling. He couldn’t think of anything he would change.

The formalities of their marriage had been something of a hurdle. His solicitors, Roderick’s solicitors, and Jordan had spent days working out exactly how to manage the reality of who he was, who Miranda would be on her marriage to him, and how any children would be legally accounted for; in the end, he’d been forced to accept that Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith would have to reappear at least long enough to front the altar.

So Miranda was now formally Lady Delbraith; everyone in his household and businesses referred to her as “my lady” or “your lady,” neatly sidestepping the issue of which lady she actually was.

The wedding itself would have been a massive hurdle, but the arrangements had been taken, firmly, out of his hands. They’d ended being married in a private ceremony in the chapel at Ridgware, with his mother and Caroline weeping copiously, and even his three sisters all teary-eyed. At least his wife hadn’t been; she’d been radiant. But most surprising to him had been the number of onlookers who had traveled to the house on the day. The chapel had been packed to the rafters with people from the estate, from the various estate-associated businesses, and a large contingent of his London staff.

Aside from those he saw daily, he hadn’t thought they’d be interested and hadn’t invited them, but someone had. And they’d come. The wedding breakfast held in the great ballroom had been a gargantuan affair at which everyone had mingled—even Gladys, which had amazed even him.

In the wake of the wars, little by little society truly was changing.

They’d been married just before Christmas, and this coming Christmas, they would have even more to celebrate.

Miranda waddled back into the room, frowning at the sheet of paper she held in one hand. Her hair, thick and lustrous, had started to escape its chignon, strands tugged free due to the pencils she’d taken to carrying tucked behind her ears, a habit she’d copied from Jordan.

“This is it.” Miranda handed the paper to Jordan. “I think you’ll find those charges are due to the new drainage system the county introduced.”

“Ah, yes.” Jordan frowned. “We’ll need to make adjustments.”

Settling back into her chair, Miranda felt a small limb flex, then stretch; putting her hand on her hugely distended stomach, she waited, and sure enough the baby pressed his—or her—small foot firmly into her palm. She grinned, glanced at Roscoe, and saw him smiling back. They were both so eager to meet their child; just a few more weeks, and he—or she—would be there.

And then they would be a family.

She blinked rapidly.

Roscoe, bless him, noticed, and engaged Jordan with a question about the other costs they were considering incurring as part of their latest project. Her husband had allowed her free rein with such ventures, and he’d also allowed her to learn about his gambling businesses, his clubs, and the hells and dens. She only visited the clubs, and even then only with him and his bodyguards, but she’d quickly seen the possibility of improving the lot of the large number of women who worked in those houses. When she’d suggested a certain merging of interests—the clubs and some new philanthropy projects—Roscoe had blinked, but he’d thought, and then agreed.

Her life, truly, could not be more purposeful. More complete.

There were moments she was so happy she was reduced to tears. Silly, but there it was.

Regaining her composure, she settled the heavy weight of the baby more comfortably, then leaned forward and rejoined the discussion.

Rundle appeared with the tea tray, as he inevitably did at what he considered an appropriate hour. “Where would you like this, my lady?”

Frowning at another receipt, without looking up, she waved down the room. “Thank you, Rundle—just set it down there. Mudd, would you pour?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Roscoe bit his lip and avoided Jordan’s eye. Both Mudd and Rawlins had become Miranda’s devoted slaves; she only had to ask and they leapt to perform even the most unexpected tasks, like handing around the delicate teacups. But the pair watched over his wife as if she was porcelain, something she bore with from them, but which she frowned at if he tried. For that, he was infinitely grateful. Both Mudd and Rawlins were experienced fathers and had taken to giving him hints on how to manage, some of which had, he had to admit, proved useful. He might have rubbed her back, but he would never have thought to rub her feet, but she had indeed been very appreciative.

Jordan, too, approved of Miranda; he’d confided to him that she had a practical bent that in Jordan’s view they both lacked. Jordan considered her a valuable addition to their team and had taken to treating her much like an older sister, a level of connection she in turn relished—it gave her an opening to inquire into Jordan’s private life, and to make suggestions.

That interaction had afforded him countless hours of amused entertainment.

Mudd and Rawlins arrived with the teacups, and they all paused to sip.

He glanced around the faces, thought of the others not present—of the family he was now much more involved with on a daily basis.

Edwina’s wedding had gone off without a hitch, and Sarah and Roderick had got engaged in April and would marry next year. Henry was at Oxford, getting into all the expected larks, but with a surprising degree of moderation. Even more amazing, Caroline was bearing up well; one of Miranda’s suggestions, that whenever Henry felt the urge to gamble he should drop down to London and spend a few days in Chichester Street, playing against Roscoe, had greatly eased Caroline’s mind. As Henry inevitably lost, and heavily, the exercise tended to quash any budding dreams that he might ever be able to gamble and win.

Edwina was still overseas with Frobisher, but Millicent and Cassandra had taken to calling at Chichester Street. At their husbands’ insistence and his, they did so covertly, yet there’d been several impromptu dinner parties which their husbands had also attended.

At times, the distinction between Roscoe and Lord Julian blurred, but he never lost sight of who he really was—and neither, he knew, did his wife.

And that remained the greatest joy of their marriage—that she knew him, saw him as he really was, and in turn he knew her.

She was the lady who held his heart, who had risked all to claim it, and to thus give him all he’d ever wanted and never thought to have.

He had a wife, a home, and a family.

All the very best in life was his.