The Fairy Tale Bride
by
Kelly McClymer
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SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Dedication
This book is lovingly dedicated to Jim, Kristen, A.J. and Brendan, who put up with my distractibility, preoccupation, highs, lows and a few burned dinners while I created it. All thanks belong to the amazing group of women who helped me polish this manuscript to a shine: Yvonne, Kathy, Trudy, Lynn and Jackie. Last, thanks to Marsha Canham for the amazing proofread.
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PROLOGUE
London, 1832
His damned boots were too tight.
Simon Watterly tried, discreetly, to move his tightly-bound toes. Nothing. Tomorrow the boots would have to go back to the boot maker. One more delay he didn't want, didn't need. But a soldier required a well-fitted pair of boots, and as of today, despite the Duke of Kerstone's vehement objections, Simon was an officer in His Majesty's service, bound for India. Too bad there was no good war on presently. He could only hope to find one soon.
He glanced around the crowded ballroom, his teeth clenched with the effort it took to project a bored yet pleasant facade. He had been raised to know his duty to the family name, the family blood, and would not dishonor it by making a scene. He had promised the duke. And Simon Watterly had been bred to make certain he always kept his promises and did his duty. Wouldn't want to tarnish the hallowed blood of the former Dukes and Duchesses of Kerstone. The true blood he did not share.
What a farce. It was truly bitter solace to realize that tonight was the last time he need pretend to be what these people thought him...what he had thought himself, until last night, when he had overheard his mother's words to his dying father—no, to the Duke of Kerstone, no relation to himself—and his life had shattered in an instant.
If the dying man had not extracted a promise from him not to destroy the family reputation ... but that was irre1evant. The duke had been frail and pitiful as he begged, pale blue eyes flowing with tears, his fingers a faint yet bony pressure on Simon's wrist. Simon could not withhold his promise to the man he had called father — but he would find a way to get around it — if a blood-soaked battlefield didn't see to it for him, as it had for the older brother Simon had never known. His legitimate older brother, blown up by a cannon blast in France while Simon was still a babe-in-arms.
An overly friendly blow to his arm made him spit out the bitter truth, "Bastard." He turned to glare at the offender.
"Take it easy there, Cousin, I merely wanted your attention." Giles Grimthorpe discreetly cocked his head in the direction of the crush of dancing figures. "I wondered if you would care to engage in a small wager to add piquancy to this dull evening?"
"What kind of wager?"
"A matter of a successful seduction, Cousin."
Simon grimaced at his cousin's expectant grin. No doubt the cad waited for a lecture. But today he would be surprised. An hour before, Simon had adjusted his cravat in the curved looking-glass in the foyer of his parents' town house and promised himself that he would do everything in his power to destroy the image of fairness and propriety that had given those who knew him cause to call him Saint Simon. And a good start to accomplish this aim would be to wager with his cousin. For Grimthorpe was a worse gossip than any of the bored dowagers seated about the room.
He lifted his shoulders as if mildly intrigued with the idea. "My ring if you succeed."
Grimthorpe's eyes narrowed in shock; then he eyed the large ruby and silver ring on Simon's left little finger. "Good thing you're to be the next Duke of Kerstone — and wealthy, as well, if you are to suddenly take up gambling on that scale."
Nettled, Simon lifted his hand so that the ruby glinted in the lights. He knew how much it irritated Grimthorpe that his branch of the family had fallen in society as Simon's had risen. For a moment he considered confiding the truth, but dismissed the idea. His cousin wouldn't appreciate the irony, but he would indeed cause a scandal. "Perhaps I don't expect to lose it."
A confident sneer appeared on Grimthorpe's foxish face. "The girl is odd — and plain besides. I have been showering her with attention these past weeks and now that she is ripe, I intend for her to fall into my arms."
"Indeed? And who is the lucky young woman, or are you keeping that secret to yourself?" He truly did not care. Any female who let Grimthorpe within two feet of her deserved any trouble that she might receive.
"The young miss who cannot seem to stop spouting fairytales, of course. Miss Miranda Fenster."
For a moment, Simon thought he would not manage to master the rage and pain that twisted inside him. His cousin had no reason to know how his words struck at Simon's heart. In supreme irony, Grimthorpe had chosen to seduce the very woman Simon had planned to offer for – if he had not learned the truth of his birth. Rather than an engagement present, he had purchased a commission.
Seeing Grimthorpe waiting, Simon fought not to bring up his fists to erase the man's leer. If he were to be a devil, he must learn not to care. "I believe she has too much sense for that. But if not, no doubt her brother Valentine will protect her."
Grimthorpe merely smiled, a repellently salacious glint in his pale blue eyes. "Puppy's wet behind the ears. Why his own twin sister has more sense than he, and you know she has proven herself capable of finding a fairytale to illuminate every facet of Christendom."
"Valentine may be young, but as you say, she is his twin and there is a strong bond between them." Simon himself had noted the way the girl and her twin seemed to finish each other's sentences, read each other's thoughts, and mimic each other's gestures. He had found it disconcerting at first, and then somehow charming.
For a moment he allowed himself to wonder if she would have accepted his proposal because he was destined to be Duke of Kerstone or because she liked him. He did not doubt her acceptance. If anything about this sorry mess could be considered fortunate, it was that he had found out about his bastardy before he had become betrothed. She, of all people in this ballroom, deserved a happy ending.
Grimthorpe wagged his brows. "I'll not attempt anything she doesn't permit."
Simon found himself relaxing as he considered the Miranda Fenster he knew. Grimthorpe had chosen his victim poorly. "Then I suspect you will lose your wager." A sudden flash of doubt nearly caused him to shudder. Who was he to judge what a woman would or would not permit?
Last night came back to Simon so vividly that he could not breathe for a moment. His father weak, blue with the effort to breathe. His mother calm, beautiful, full of poisonous words.
Simon had entered his father's sickroom to give him the news that his only son would soon be settling down to beget an heir and was on the verge of offering for Miss Miranda Fenster, a woman of impoverished status but impeccable lineage and amusing imagination.
Instead, he had overheard his beloved mother speak the bitter words that made his life a lie. "I hope you are satisfied that my bastard son will soon be the Duke of Kerstone."
The words had held a sibilant hiss in the silence of his father's sickroom. Simon, reeling with shock, had stood in the doorway of the darkened room and vowed that he would never carry on a bastard line.
The remembered smell of his father's imminent death pressed upon him, and he pushed the memory of his mother's ashen face and his father's wheezed pleas aside.
"You would be surprised what a female will get up to, Saint Simon." Grimthorpe's jeering words cleared the last fog of memory from Simon's mind. "I expect a miss who believes in fairytales and happy endings will be good for more than a kiss with little protest."
Simon could not allow Grimthorpe's predatory remarks to pass unanswered, although he tempered his rage until his words sounded almost amused, "She seems well able to speak her mind."
"Indeed." Grimthorpe winced with exaggerated motion. "I have a plan that shall keep her quiet." The music ceased and he moved toward the crowd.
Simon watched Grimthorpe's determined pace and fought his chivalrous impulses. Hadn't he just embarked upon his new career as an unrepentant soldier? He searched the crowd until he found her. Plain, his cousin had called her. He saw why, though he did not agree. She stood out like a peahen among the colorful peacocks. Her gown was modest and soberly-colored, her hair unadorned — not even a feather.
He knew from experience that her jewels were her lively eyes and quick smile. He watched, torn between the old and the new Simon, as she smiled politely at the man intent on seducing her. For a moment he thought she might refuse a dance, but then she lifted her hand to Grimthorpe.
He well remembered the first time he had seen her, walking through the ballroom without the coy shyness of a girl new to the marriage mart. When they had been introduced, she had looked directly at him and surprised him by asking if he had read Mary Wallstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Women. She had seemed more amused than chagrined that he had not, offering him the opportunity to borrow her own copy.
He had, although he had not yet read it. And now he would not. He made a mental note to have Travers return the book to her on the morrow, even as he decided to protect her from Grimthorpe. She was much too fine to be tarnished by his libertine cousin. Some other man would see the potential for a fine wife in her. It was obvious to anyone who cared to take the time to look.
As he watched her smile into his cousin's eyes with painful innocence, he made his way toward them, remembering how he had been struck that first time much more by her attitude than her looks — though her chestnut hair gleamed with copper highlights in the light of the ballroom, and her eyes had the warmth of fine brandy.
What had caught his interest about her was the way she didn't melt away from him like the other young women. She had presence. He had been surprised to speechlessness the first time he had heard her offer an opinion. She spoke as if she thought her words were worth being heard. He had decided his duchess should behave so, although some of the things she said were foolish – women managing their own properties? Absurd. Almost as absurd as the realization that the next ruler of England was likely to be Princess Victoria.
As Grimthorpe led her into a waltz, Simon battled his rising anger. He could not break into the dance without causing embarrassment to them all. Watching her gracefully navigate the crowded ballroom with her partner, he was struck by the singular notion that she would not be one to shun him if he stood now and publicly announced his bastardy, renouncing all titles and lands to be given him at his father's – at the Duke's death.
The sense of loss was acute. But despite his vow to become the devil himself and obliterate his saintly image, he could not abandon her. Exasperated with himself, he determined to warn Valentine of the threat to his sister's reputation. Puppy or not, it was a brother's duty to protect his sister.
Unfortunately, the lad was nowhere about. And worse, when he scanned the dancers, he saw that his cousin and Miss Fenster were no longer among them.
As he entered a fortunately empty hallway, wondering if they had passed this way, he heard the shriek and the blow from behind one of the closed doors ahead. With a sigh, he hurried toward the sound, reaching the doorway just in time to prevent scandal from erupting around the woman he might have married.
Miranda Fenster flung herself through the doorway, her hair a-tumble, her mouth swollen from a crude kiss. The lace of her bodice trailed in the air. But her eyes burned with pride and anger – and sudden shame as she ran into Simon himself.
"My lord, please excuse me," she said distractedly as she attempted to push past him. But Simon stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. The shocking warmth of her flesh under his gloves almost made him remove his hand, but the sure knowledge of the scandal that would be caused were he to let her escape made him hold firm. He steered her back into the room and closed the door.
She raised her chin a notch. "I don't believe this is any of your business, sir."
He wasted no time on her feelings, though. Instead he caught his cousin's gaze. "I think we both see Miss Fenster is no willing miss. Matters would best be served if you left and spoke of this to no one. Do you argue?"
His dashed cousin merely cast him an unrepentant grin. "And if I do?"
"Then you will wed her."
Simon heard a gasp behind him, followed quickly by a sharp protest, but he ignored her. He could not very well reassure her that Grimthorpe would sooner wed a cabbage than a meagerly dowered young miss.
His cousin's eyes widened, but he quickly conceded. "As you see fit, Cousin." With a sour glance toward the ring he had lost, he bowed and left the room.
Turning to the shocked-silent Miss Fenster, Simon said curtly, "Wait here. I will fetch your mother." Within scant minutes Simon found Valentine and sent him to collect his mother from the ballroom with a minimum of fuss. Returning to Miranda, he saw that she had made herself as presentable as possible without the help of a lady's maid. She was much calmer than she should have been as she bowed her head to him and said, "Thank you, my lord. I am grateful for your assistance, although I little doubt I could have handled the matter on my own."
"Indeed?" Her lack of gratitude stung him somewhat. "Have you any idea what disarray you are in, Miss Fenster? Have you any idea of the scandal your appearance would have created?"
She blushed and put up a hand to tuck back a stray curl. "I would have retired to the lady's dressing room, naturally."
"And no one there would have remarked upon your state, I suppose?"
There was a dawning horror in her dark eyes, but still a defiant set to her shoulders as she opened her mouth to reply. He was never to know her answer, however, because her mother arrived at that moment. With the bustle of a desperate woman, Miranda's mother threw her own lace shawl over her daughter's exposed bosom, clucking softly in dismay.
When her eyes found him, he could see the fear in them. She thought her daughter ruined. Without having consciously made a decision, he stepped in front of Miranda's scandalized mother, halting her flight from the room. The older woman looked up at him, her face nearly the same lavender as her gown. He heard Miranda's swift intake of breath as he said calmly, "I certainly hope that Miss Fenster's headache is gone on the morrow. May I see you to your carriage, ladies?"
He watched as realization dawned that he had no intention of noising the scandal about, and the frantic mother's face regained its normal color and expression. With dignity, she released her tight grasp on her daughter's cloaked shoulders and nodded. "Thank you for your kindness, my lord."
"It is nothing." They drew no comment from the few people they met on their way, and Simon relinquished the ladies into Valentine's care once they reached the hastily called carriage.
Waiting for his own conveyance, he could not help giving one rueful laugh. He still had a long way to go to get this devil thing down.
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CHAPTER ONE
Kent, 1837
Miranda slipped deeper into her hiding place as the duke appeared over a small rise with the setting sun at his shoulder. The hooves of his chestnut stallion flashed through the few remaining wildflowers. The last rays of the sun gleamed onto his fair head, giving him a halo that Miranda had always thought he well deserved – until yesterday.
Was she a fool to hope she could persuade him to help her brother? After all, army life changed men. It had made Valentine laugh less and shout more. It had destroyed the equality between them when even her father's pompous speeches about woman's inferiority and his harsh punishments for her childhood transgressions had not.
What battle scars might the duke possess if he could quash her brother's elopement with heartless efficiency? A warning unease curled in the pit of her stomach, but Miranda forced it away with a memory of Valentine as she had left him — sitting forlorn and broken in the darkness of Anderlin's drape-drawn study.
She shifted to ease the stiffness of her knees and the prickling of the yew branches that concealed her, as she watched the duke dismount near the hunter's cottage, tether his horse, and disappear inside. She refused to surrender to the doubt that made her limbs heavy and gave her heart a wild beat as she left her shelter and headed for the cottage.
The roughly-hewn wooden door swung open easily at her touch, revealing the familiar room and its occupant. His back was turned away from her as he sat at the rackety old table that served the cottage for furnishing. As she entered, Miranda did the best she could to soften the forwardness of her own behavior. She smiled demurely, dropped a perfect curtsy and said, "Good evening, Your Grace." To her surprise, her throat went dry just as she began to speak. Her voice came out in a broken croak just as the door swung closed behind her on noiseless rope hinges. The room fell into darkness save for the single candle the duke had lit.
She realized her error when his shadowy figure rose abruptly and whipped around to face her. His voice rang out harshly, "What the devil?" Miranda had only the briefest glimpse of a worn leather pouch before it was hidden within his jacket. Aware of the precarious balance of the table, Miranda warned, "Do be careful. That table ... " The table rocked sideways, and the candle fell. They were plunged into darkness.
"Who the devil are you? What do you want?" His voice was no better than a snarl.
"I apologize for startling you." Miranda eased her way across the floor toward the spot she had last seen the candle. "Don't move, and I will soon have your candle lit."
His breath hissed inward, as though he were outraged by her suggestion, and he was silent for a moment before answering abruptly, "I assure you that I do not wish my candle lit."
Miranda halted in confusion for the barest second and then continued her search. "Here, I have it. The candle has come loose, I'm afraid. Let me just find — " Her foot touched the loose candle. "I do so hate the dark, don't you?"
She rose from the dusty floor, intending to light the candle now reset in the holder. Her skirts brushed against something unyielding and she could feel him, only inches from her. Startled, she froze, trying to gauge how far away he stood. Only a rustle in the darkness forewarned her before the candlestick was abruptly pulled from her hand.
"I have no quarrel with the dark, only with young women who consider me easy prey." She felt the heat that radiated from his body, so close they almost touched. Belatedly, she realized that his anger was greater than she had first thought.
Seeking to soothe him as she might an ill child when the child was in the throes of a temper, Miranda stroked his upper arm gently. "I am sorry, Your Grace. I truly did not mean to startle you."
The muscles of his arm tensed under her fingers as he spoke, sending a flush of warmth through her as she realized that he was no child and she had no business touching him so intimately. "You would be wise to consider yourself fortunate that I have not seen your face, young woman, or you and your mother both would feel the sharp side of my wrath."
"My mother is dead." Miranda whispered, pulling her hand away, as the flash of familiar guilt spilled through her.
"Go out to your aunt, then, or your guardian, and tell her your plan failed. You are dealing with me, and I will not be caught like a baited hare."
"But ... I am alone — " Perhaps she should not have come. Perhaps he had become unbalanced as well as hardened? Nervously, Miranda reached for the candlestick and met the warmth of strong fingers. A shock passed through her, and she pulled the candlestick sharply from his grip.
He bent toward her in the dark, so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. As she backed away, only to find the table blocking her path, he said, "Has she left you here and driven away? Does she not know the danger in that? Do you not?"
She struggled to make out his face, but it was only a deeper shadow in the darkness of the room.
"I trust you, Your Grace. I know your reputation after all." She struck a feeble spark and the candlewick began to glow.
His voice was grim. "That reputation fits me no longer."
Miranda lifted the light of the flame until it banished the shadows that held the duke. His mouth hung open in astonishment; then his scowl turned to stern surprise.
"Dash it all. I would never have believed this of you, Miss Fenster."
The words Miranda had carefully rehearsed flew from her mind. She blushed and her heart hammered painfully at the disappointment that sped across his face and disappeared into a chilling indifference. With less confidence that she had possessed moments before, she drew a breath and made her plea. "I wish to speak to you on a matter of grave importance, Your Grace."
His brow lifted, and a smile curved the left side of his mouth. "I trust, then, this is your brother's idea of revenge?"
His amusement discomposed her. "Valentine knows nothing of this."
He smiled so widely that a dimple graced his left cheek, but his green eyes were wintry. "I'm afraid, Miss Fenster, that even for someone with your ... notoriety ... I am sadly unable to oblige you by being the prince in your fairytale."
Miranda was momentarily distracted by his smile, so that it took a moment for her to register the insult. Indignation seared her. How dare he? "You are certainly not acting like any fairy-tale prince."
He held up one hand. "Don't be offended. I have been stalked by the best and I rank your efforts highly. You simply should have chosen someone other than me."
"You are the only one who can help!"
The smile died on his face. "That is unfortunate, then. For I will certainly do nothing. Good day." He turned and left the cottage without further word.
The heartlessness of his action stunned her.
He had been so certain Valentine only wanted Emily's money. A moment's worth of listening to the pair would have shown him the truth of their love. Knowing that she could not give up until he had all the facts, Miranda followed him outside into the rapidly deepening twilight where he was untethering his stallion. As she approached, the stallion whinnied and shied away nervously.
His glance held a pity that chilled her, but she put her pride aside to beg his indulgence. "Please, you don't understand. Let me explain."
"Nothing you can say could change my mind, Miss Fenster. Have the courage to face the fact that you have failed."
Failed. All her life she had failed at the most crucial times. But not today. His words sent a spark of anger through her, so that instead of appealing to him once more, she slapped the skittish stallion sharply on the rump. Her only intent was to move the horse farther away and give herself some time to plead with the duke. The chestnut, however, tore the reins from the duke's hand and bolted. In dismay, Miranda watched the mount gallop off. Then relief flooded her — now she had his full attention.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean ... " Her apology cut off as she turned and saw his fingers lift to his mouth. Her advantage had been illusory. The stallion was trained to come at his whistle.
"No!" she whispered. One of the tricks she and Valentine had employed as children surfaced in her memory, and she launched herself at his waist like a maddened bull until he overbalanced, unable to whistle. Unfortunately, as he fell, she followed, landing atop him like an ungainly goose.
When she lifted her head from his chest to look him in the face, her stomach gave a lurch. His green eyes held no more amusement, no more pity — only fury. Certain that she was crushing him, she tried to rise, but he held her tightly. She could not tell if it was anger or fear that made her limbs tremble, but whatever it was lent heat to her words. "Do you not understand what it is to love?"
Something deep and painful flashed behind his eyes, and then disappeared. "I will not be compromised by anyone, Miss Fenster. I would have expected you, of all people, to understand." To his credit, he sounded calm as his hands held her hips still.
The combination of being crushed against him by his grip and the shock of his words brought a hot flush to Miranda's cheeks. "Compromise you?"
His eyes bored into her, and his brow lifted. Miranda realized the picture they would present to any casual passerby — she lying tumbled casually atop him. She struggled once again to rise, but he bent his legs and used them to pin her hips, as he brought his arms up to pull her closer, until she was pressed so tightly against him that she could feel the frantic beat of her own heart against his unyielding chest. This was not the man she remembered from five years ago. That man would have listened to her long enough not to jump to such ridiculous conclusions.
Defeated, Miranda dropped her face into the crook of his neck. The exotic scent of sandalwood took her breath away for a moment, and her heart ached for the loss of the one man during her foreshortened Season who had treated her as if what she thought actually mattered. "I should have known I would make a hash of this. I merely came to beg you to set right what you've ruined for Valentine," she mumbled against the warmth of his neck. "I have no intention of compromising you."
"Indeed?" His arms tightened around her briefly; then he sat up abruptly, putting her aside. "I'm afraid in that matter, as well, you waste your time with me. You would do better to speak to your brother."
"I cannot speak to him. He has locked himself in the study and refuses to answer to anyone at all." As if she had not spoken, he rose to his feet and whistled sharply three times. She would not have been surprised had his stallion come galloping back. But it did not, even after another long string of whistles. Miranda watched his long, elegant fingers brush at the dust on the knees of his breeches as he waited in vain for the return of his horse. She remembered with a shiver the feel of those fingers as they held her tight against him a moment ago. She gasped as her gaze continued downward. "I've ruined your boots! I'm so sorry."
He ceased his brushing to stare at her for a long moment. "You are apologizing to me for ruining my boots, Miss Fenster?"
She recognized the absurdity. "I know how important it is to a military man to keep a good shine on his boots," she explained, as she rose from her undignified sprawl on the ground.
He gave her a level look. "Do you?"
She resolutely ignored the insult that was certainly buried in his question. "My brother was an officer in His Majesty's service, just as you were, Your Grace." She hastily added, ''Though he served in a much less distinguished way than you."
He said nothing, but a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.
"I've brought some refreshment for us, if you'd like," she said, remembering her mission. "I have a basket with cheese and apples, fresh-baked bread —" the last from the kitchen and who knew what Valentine would eat in the morning, if he ate at all — "and some very fine ale."
He looked her over pointedly from head to toe until she was uncomfortably warm. His gaze was deliberate and thorough. Blushing, Miranda indicated the copse. "The basket is hidden in there."
"Admirable," he said. "Your planning seems to be on a par with our great generals. It is unfortunate that you are of the fair sex and so England is denied your campaigning genius — except on the battlefield of love."
His sarcasm cut deeply. "Perhaps I would have made a good soldier, Your Grace — even if I am only a woman." Seeing his frown, she sighed. This was not the time for that battle. "You must admit it is much too far to the Camberley's estate for you to walk, as it will soon be dark." The clouds foretold rain, and soon, as well, but she decided it was wiser not to mention that fact.
"So you think you have won your battle?" His anger was daunting. "I told you I have no intention of being compromised."
Miranda flushed. He must hold the incident five years ago against her, despite his kindness then. "I only wish to convince you to intercede with the Earl of Connaught to win Emily back for Valentine. They are meant for each other."
"So you said. I can only wonder how far you are inclined to go to convince me." His gaze traveled her length again. Miranda recognized the look she had endured in her short sojourn on the marriage mart. But never once from Simon Watterly. A painful twist in her chest made her short of breath.
"I will do anything — " His expression darkened and she broke off in confusion.
He smiled his wonderful smile again, and Miranda did not hear his words for the rush of her heartbeat in her ears. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.
"I said," he repeated slowly, as if for a daft child, "though the idea of spending the night with the notorious Miss Fenster intrigues me, I must decline." Without a further word, he turned and started across the field.
"I would suggest that you stop following me, Miss Fenster, or you will find yourself in the awkward position of being forced to explain yourself to the Camberleys. I hardly think you'd like a scandal attached to your name after all this time."
A light rain had begun to fall, a gentle misting. Miranda scrambled to keep up with his long stride as she stared angrily at his broad-shouldered back. "I care very little what those shallow, hypocritical – " she broke off, surprised by the painful wave of hurt that engulfed her at the injustice that she could be ruined because some man had tried – unsuccessfully – to take advantage of her friendship. All because she was a woman – held to a higher standard, yet not believed competent to defend herself.
He turned toward her so abruptly that she nearly ran into him. In the half darkness, she could feel his fury radiating toward her. "I would not have expected this of you, Miss Fenster. I suppose it is to your credit that you are naively loyal to your brother. I believe I can find it in myself to forget this lapse if you take yourself home immediately."
Miranda found a tendril of comfort in his words. He had thought her actions honorable – perhaps even justified? No. He had labeled her naïve. She fought the urge to tumble him to the ground again and pin him there until she'd told him the full story and wiped the smugness from his expression. With difficulty, she held herself in check. As much as she longed for him to look at her and see that she was as competent – and as flawed – as any man, she knew that his respect for her was not her current battle.
It was Valentine's future she needed to fight for now. And here, with the light rain pattering onto her face, and the darkness soft around them, was her only chance.
Her tightly reined anger made her bold. She took his hands in her own and stepped close enough to look up into his eyes. "I told you I don't give a fig for my own reputation. But you have crushed Valentine – he and Emily were to marry and you have torn them apart. Do you realize what your actions mean to my brother? To my whole family?"
The frustrating man merely stared impassively down at her as she spoke.
Driven to desperation, Miranda blurted out, "Valentine and I are grown, but we have five sisters to bring out."
His voice was hard as he removed his hands from her grip and stepped back to bring distance between them. "Your brother knew the risk when he attempted to elope with the Earl of Connaught's daughter. If he wanted a dowry so badly, he should have offered for one of the merchant's daughters. They are always glad of a man with a title, even the title of baron."
Miranda did not want to admit that such had been Valentine's intent when he had first gone looking for a bride – to find one with a large, liquid dowry. "Emily is the only woman for him. He has known it since he first spied her on the dance floor – just as Prince Charming recognized Cinder Ella as his one true love."
"He'd best get over it. Her father has set his sights on a marquess or better for his son-in-law, and a false prince, charming or not, will not do." A smile played at his lips, which was quite infuriating. "And if your brother has five more like you to bring out, he'll need all the ready he can marry."
Miranda stiffened in protest. "My sisters are nothing like me. And Valentine is no false prince." Blindly, she turned and walked away from him. Tears burned in her eyes and she let them fall. He was some distance away and it was dark. Another failure to add to her long list. It was her fault her sisters might never marry well, her fault that the investments she had made in Valentine's absence had nearly beggared them. Though she had hopes, they had not yet paid out enough to make Valentine a "catch" on the marriage market. Given her luck, they might never do so.
The tears obscured the rabbit hole until she was upon it and Miranda fell with a pained cry. Another failure. She pulled off her boot to examine her injury. Her insides twisted in utter humiliation at the sound of bootsteps approaching on the wet grass. He was beside her in moments, kneeling down, his fingers quick and sure as he examined her twisted ankle.
"You were heading in the wrong direction, Miss Fenster," he said. His gaze seemed focused on her as if able to penetrate the cover of darkness and rain. For a moment she feared he saw her tears.
Thankfully the rain came down harder at that moment. She wiped the drops on her face. "Don't allow your pride to force you to walk in this rain. Stay at the cottage, where it is warm and dry. I will trouble you no further."
What she would do about Valentine's broken heart was another matter altogether. Miranda rose, holding back a gasp at the pain in her ankle. It wasn't broken; it would get her back home. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I cannot offer you shelter at Anderlin… Valentine…"
He smiled grimly. "You will take a chill." He whipped his short cloak from his shoulders and slung it around hers before she could protest. Distracted by the long-ago memory of her mother draping her lace shawl in the same manner, Miranda fought back more tears, unable to speak. As he reached for her again, she realized that he meant to lift her into his arms.
She warded him away with her hands, stumbling only a little at the sharp pain in her ankle. "I am perfectly able, Your Grace."
"No doubt," he answered, sweeping her up so that her cheek was pressed against the damp linen of his shirt. She realized that she had been chilled before, only because she was now warmly nestled against his chest.
"You have no need to do this, Your Grace," she protested, a needle of humiliation plying through her. He ignored her words as if she had not spoken and began walking purposefully toward the cottage.
She settled back, surprised at how easy she found it to relax against him, wrapped in the cloak that smelled of sandalwood – of him. She was aware that he did not share her comfort. His every movement indicated a great deal of tension. Hope sprang anew that this twist of fate might allow her to reach the Simon Watterly of old and convince him to help Valentine. But first, she must lay his primary concern at rest. "I will not risk compromising you, I promise. Anderlin is not far. I have walked it in the rain before; I will again."
He did not answer.
The rain grew heavy and Miranda admired how little note he took of the water that gathered in his thick honey-colored eyebrows and run in rivulets down his lean cheeks. The rain had darkened his blond hair and curls had sprung out on the back of his neck. She twisted in his arms until she brought her head level with his and drew the cloak so that it would protect him from the worst of the rain.
Though she did not feel in the least penitent, she knew he would expect an apology. In her experience, men did not give apologies, they demanded them, deserved or not. Best to give it now, and wait until they were dry and warm again before she renewed the campaign to get Valentine and Emily wed. "I'm sorry that I did not accept your refusal at the first. I'm afraid one of my many faults is an inability to understand when a battle is lost I would not blame you if you chose to scold me."
He stopped, oblivious to the rain, and turned his head until their eyes met. His grip tightened. "Is that all you think I should do? Scold you?" His voice was soft and strained.
Miranda became abruptly aware that his fingers were touching the edge of her breast. She was grateful for the darkness that hid the scarlet of her blush, and shadowed the expression in his eyes as he stared down at her.
After he resumed walking once more, there was a long silence between them. Miranda silently contemplated what his words meant. She could not dredge up within herself any mistrust of this man. He had behaved too well in the past and his reputation was impeccable, though his years away had obviously hardened his heart against lovers. And he had secrets dark enough that he would ride to a ramshackle hunting cottage before he dared pull certain items from his leather pouch and examine them.
She would not chide him for the tightness of his grip. Really, how could he support her otherwise? And if she had mended her stays weeks ago, she would likely have been completely unaware that two of his fingers pressed against the far side of her breast.
"I suppose I should be grateful that no one shall ever know of this. My sisters do not need for me to create a scandal before they come out. And it certainly could not help Valentine's cause." She thought of Valentine, sitting listless and mute in their father's chair before the fire. She had had to climb through the study window to see him, for all the good it had done her.
Miranda closed her eyes as sadness swept over her.
"He said that you were right, and he should never have overreached himself with Emily in the first place."
"Perhaps he is not as foolish as I had thought. I will speak to him— "
His words dispelled Miranda's growing sense of hope. Knowing her impertinence, but anxious that he heed her, she put her hand to his cheek. The rasp of stubble against her fingers startled her. "He has been badly hurt. Do not humiliate him further by speaking to him as if he were an errant lad in need of guidance. "
He turned his head so that his lips brushed her fingers as he spoke. "I take your point, Miss Fenster."
Miranda let her hand drop away from his face.
But the intimacy of being in his arms and jolting comfortably against him at every step could not be prevented. "Valentine must never know that I tried to intercede on his behalf."
"It does not speak well of you that you would deceive him."
Stung by the censure in his words, she said, "Perhaps someday, when Emily joins our family, I shall tell them both."
"Then you believe your brother will not give up his hopes so easily?"
"Wouldn't you search for your Cinder Ella, Your Grace, if you had once met her at a ball and wanted no one else to be your wife?" He stumbled slightly, and her arms tightened around his neck in alarm.
After a silence so long that she realized he would not answer her, she said, "No. Valentine will not give up so easily." Remembering her brother's slumped figure, Miranda wondered if she spoke the truth. "I do understand that you only did what you thought was best for Emily. I will be happy to act as though this meeting between us never occurred."
They reached the cottage as she spoke. He stooped slightly to enter the doorway, and his arms tightened around Miranda. His breath against her damp neck made her shiver. "And what if I am not?"
***
CHAPTER TWO
Simon stirred the fire, his back to Miranda. It amazed him that he had not yet wrung her slender neck. So she thought he could dismiss this gross invasion of his privacy? If she had intruded any later, the damning papers in his pouch would have been laid out on the table. She could not know how he had changed if she thought he would not seek compensation for the way she had turned his life upside down this night.
He had believed his infatuation with her long dead, until today. Holding her in his arms, the feel of the rounded underside of her breast against his fingers, and hearing her innocently questioning whether he would play Prince Charming and pursue his Cinder Ella had done more than rekindle those feelings. He was ablaze with a desire so strong it was driving him mad. Why else would he be considering seducing her?
Suddenly, all he could think of was the fact that, in other circumstances, she would now be his wife. If that were so, he would not have to play with the fire and keep his eyes turned away from her or risk exposing the heat of his desire to hold her, to kiss her, to make love to her. For a moment, he regretted that he had never managed to turn himself into a devil, despite his efforts. For a devil would have no qualms in seducing Miss Fenster. But the old duke's training was too firmly branded into his heart, despite its falsity.
He sighed into the fire, bringing it further to life.
But he, Simon-the-no-longer-saintly, had more than qualms. He had good reason not to marry and he'd not risk getting Miranda with child and bringing a new bastard into the world. Somehow though, the good reasons didn't seem good enough tonight. Fate had literally dropped this woman into his arms. And he was damned tired of the cruel jokes Fate had been playing on him.
How many of his men had died in India, fighting the barbaric practices of suttee and the cruel murderous thugees who struck without warning? But not Simon. He had shrugged at danger, had thrown himself into the midst of any situation without a thought to watching his back. And still, he survived. But he intended to cheat Fate of any satisfaction for leaving the bastard duke alive. And he would do so without breaking the promise he had made his father — no, the old duke. The newest duke would soon be dead, replaced by a true-blooded heir. And Simon Watterly would exist no more. He would take another name, another life — and never would he take a wife.
Of a sudden the wind whipped up, wailing past the cottage. Simon shivered at the sound, remembering how he had stood motionless, surrounded by murderous thugees, daring Fate to take him then and there.
The thunder of gunfire and the screams of the dying men had sounded very much like the laughter of the gods, and he had not died.
And now he was here, in a one-room cottage with Miranda only a few feet away. She had been in his arms, had touched his cheek with her gentle hand. He wanted to believe that she was truthful when she assured him she was not trying to compromise him into marriage. He had thought her entirely honest five years ago.
But of course, that was before he had learned that Fate was not done playing with him. Since he had been home, acting as the Duke of Kerstone until he could install a true-blooded heir, at least a dozen or so young "innocents" had thrown themselves at his head in some most ingenious schemes, no doubt configured by their ambitious families. He had found them in his bed, in his carriage, half-dressed in the garden, and fully-nude in the library.
He had extracted himself from all the situations cleanly — even the miss in his bed. She had been the most innocent-looking of all of them, and he'd paid off her papa before she had even finished dressing.
Was Miranda like them? Unable to resist, he glanced over his shoulder. If he had any doubt at all that this innocent-seeming young woman was wearing no stays, the sight of her cheerfully slicing fruit and cheese in the lamplight in her damp dress answered definitively that she was not.
With a hope of dimming the smile on her face that drew the tension in his belly to a sharp point, he said, "Your brother would not approve your being alone with me."
Her answer was calm, but her smile actually widened. "Valentine does sometimes worry overmuch about my judgment, but I assure you it is sound enough to know that I am safe with you."
He checked his impulse to pivot and face her, instead turning his gaze back to the flames. "If you believe so, you are a fool."
There was a momentary silence, and he pictured her imagining herself seduced and abandoned, until she dispelled that notion, her voice ripe with amusement. "I felt certain that I could trust a man who risked his life to pull one of the men in his command away from a suttee fire in which he had been thrown — or who saved a wounded man from death at the hands of thugees, using his own body as a shield." Her voice softened, all traces of amusement gone. "Or one who dared scandal by helping a foolish young lady escape misfortune with her reputation intact. "
Simon was taken aback. How on earth had this sheltered miss heard such tales, true as they were? Valentine's judgment must be as sorely lacking as his sister's. "A man can be brave in battle and craven in —" he searched for a delicate way to state his meaning and then decided that Miss Fenster could do well with a little shock — "lust."
"Not you, Your Grace," she demurred, forcing him to turn away from the dancing flames to stare at her. Was the girl completely daft or supremely crafty?
Was it possible she didn't understand what could happen to her, even after Grimthorpe's assault? "Let me make it quite clear to you that, even if it were public knowledge about our ill-spent evening, I could walk away from you with only a blot that would quickly fade. Your reputation, however, would be ruined forever."
"You needn't tell me." Her hands stilled for a moment. The tight line of her lips softened suddenly as she smiled with a shyness that was absurd given their present situation. "I was never able to thank you for seconding Valentine in the duel."
The look in her eyes was even more dangerous than that of a young woman determined to make herself his wife. He had seen such a gaze before, in the eyes of his youngest, most untried men. Dear God, the woman had a case of the hero-worships for him.
He half rose from his crouch at the fire to protest, but she lifted the paring knife from the cheese wedge she was slicing and waved him to silence. "Valentine told me all about it, you know, even though Mama strictly forbade him."
She lowered her eyes and sliced into the cheese.
"It was to be my punishment — to hear nothing more of London. As if I cared." She pressed her lips together, silencing herself as she took an apple and began slicing it, wielding the knife with a stroke that cleaved the fruit cleanly into halves, then quarters, then eighths.
He was shocked. "Surely you had another chance at a Season? Your reputation remained unmarked. Your parents must have known you'd grow sensible enough for a second try?"
"I don't know. They never said any such thing before they died." With a quick shake of her head she added, "Then, of course, there was no possibility of a Season. I had my sisters to see to, and Valentine was too far away to be of use."
"Surely you were not left to yourself to provide for the family? Had you no uncle to step in?" Once again, Simon wondered at Valentine's lack of responsibility, to leave a young woman in charge of a badly out-of-pocket household.
Her chin lifted and her gaze met his, although her face was flushed with color. "I am quite capable, Your Grace. Valentine never doubted my abilities to attend to things while he was away."
"I'm surprised you didn't set your cap for a wealthy spouse, as he did."
She shuddered. "Quite honestly, I was determined to never marry."
He nearly laughed aloud at the candor he remembered so well from five years ago, but the subdued panic on her face reminded him, suddenly, of the expressions of young soldiers who had not yet gone into battle as they listened to their more experienced comrades trade stories. "Indeed?"
"Husbands are as bad as fathers. They believe they have the right to decide how a woman will live her life — and to beat her if she will not comply."
There was scorn in her voice. For the first time, Simon was certain that she had not set out to compromise him. His curiosity rose. "Perhaps you should have conveyed that thought to Emily. She might not have consented to elope with your brother, then."
Her chin lifted. "Valentine is different. He is in love."
"With a well-dowered woman, conveniently."
"With Emily. And he would love her, dowry or no."
"Then he will need to adjust his expectations, and love her from afar, for he will never have her."
"Does that not break your heart? That anyone must love from afar when both parties wish the match? It seems so cruel." Her voice was low, and should not have squeezed the breath from his lungs as it did. Her gaze met his directly. "Can you not intercede? Convince your uncle of what a fine man Valentine is? He is, I promise you."
Simon admired her loyalty, though he wished she didn't have the tenacity of a dog with a meaty bone. And how had she turned their conversation from her own danger to the tricky matter of broken hearts and star-crossed lovers? "Once he makes up his mind, he never unmakes it."
She sighed. "Yes. That's what Emily said when she convinced Valentine to run for the border."
Simon laughed softly. "The little minx. And I always thought her so responsible — for a woman."
Her eyes flashed with momentary indignation, quickly controlled. "She wanted to help Valentine realize his dreams. They talked of what use they would have for her inheritance — Anderlin is in sore need of repair, and they wanted to invest in the West Indies trade ... "
"Well, if he wants such dreams to come true, I'd say it is clearly Valentine's duty to find an heiress whose parents are not so particular. As a beginning, he could bestir himself from his misery, and not rely on his sister to cure his troubles."
She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide. And then, to his surprise, she bent her head as if in defeat. Her voice was a mere whisper; "I have done it again, haven't I? I only wanted to make things right for him, and now I've convinced you that he is truly the heartless fortune hunter you thought him." She raised her gaze to his. "It isn't true, Your Grace. I came of my own accord. Valentine would have stopped me, if he'd known."
"I don't doubt that, Miss Fenster. Still, he shared a womb with you. I would expect him to know you well enough by now. If he can't handle you, he should find you a husband who will."
Her chin lifted. "Valentine is not fool enough to marry me to a man who seeks to control me. And I would not want him to marry but for love."
Hearts and hero-worship; he should have known.
"Then you are both fools, for love is a temporary aberration, and marriage requires a sharp business acumen — to ally oneself with an inferior partner will bring you nothing but disaster for your lifetime." He watched her eyes flash with fire and wondered how she might ever find a husband who was not inferior to her magnificence. The thought of her as another man's wife bred fury in him.
"Valentine is not an 'inferior' partner. He would have — he will make Emily a fine husband. And certainly you should not speak so cynically. You have had your choice of alliances and yet you have not married. Surely you are waiting for the one who touches your heart as well as adds to your pedigree? Perhaps someone from whom you would not need to hide the contents of that leather pouch of yours."
Her words were a blow to him, but he hid his pain with a quick smile. "I'll have you know, Miss Fenster, that I once, quite foolishly, nearly offered for a young woman based on the color of her eyes and the quickness of her smile. Only Fate intervened in time to save us both from an unhappy union." Fate, and the burden he carried next to his heart every waking moment.
He saw her curiosity pique, but she asked nothing of who, as many a woman might. "Nonsense. That is not love — liking a woman's eyes and smile. That is physical attraction. I am talking of a meeting of the souls and minds of two individuals who are meant for each other — like Cinder Ella and her prince, or Rapunzel and the man brave enough to climb far from solid ground to reach her tower."
As she stared at him, fully expecting him to agree with her romantic drivel, Simon suddenly had no doubt that hero-worship was an even more dangerous emotion than the avarice felt by the army of young women angling to marry him by fair method or foul.