And Then Comes Marriage (33 page)

Decadent mischief?

That her brief exploration into freedom could be seen in such a revolting and dissolute light made her feel ill. All her life had been an ongoing attempt to live down her family’s past. She’d always been so careful, so watchful. Until little more than a month ago, she had guarded her own behavior like a warden guards a dangerous prisoner—

For she’d known, hadn’t she? Just as Constance had sensed, Miranda had always known that there lived a mutinous rebel within her.

It was only then that the most sinister line of the entire vicious letter rose to her attention.

Therefore, I am forced to abandon my retirement and return forthwith to the home of my family to defend its honor, if I must, with my last breath!
Constance was coming home.

*   *   *

Poll left Worthington House behind him, taking long strides through the thick summer air. It wasn’t a nice day at all.

There was a nasty damp coming off the river Thames, seeping into every corner and crevice, leaching unwelcome through Poll’s clothing. It was midday and everyone had their coals burning, throwing more soot into the air, which came down and stuck to the damp.

Being out in putrid weather was still better than being inside Worthington House. The trenchant disapproval within made Poll feel like he was wading through a foot of sticky mud. He deserved that blame, for everything had been fine until he interfered with Miranda!

Miranda.
He closed his eyes against the sudden aching surge of guilt that welled up in his chest. It was unbearable, spiky and twisting inside him, making him feel foul and decayed—

No. He sent his thoughts sideways, away from the memories of her, away from the imaginings of what she must think of him now.

He pulled his collar tight against the damp. The coldest summer in years, that’s what people had been saying, but until today, Poll hadn’t noticed.

A hot lance of shame went through him. Both he and Cas, laughing it up, two jolly lads, making sure everyone was having a good time, especially them.

Anything to avoid thinking about the serious state of their family. The family had been skating on the edge of destruction for years. This past year had been both better and worse—better because there had been enough to eat. Worse because without Callie’s sane and practical presence, the clashing personalities had begun a downward spiral that led nowhere good.

Meanwhile, he and Cas played dirty tricks on innocent women.

He hadn’t yet finished the jewelry case. He supposed he might as well. He’d worked so hard on the ivy, inlaying the leaves with ebony and mother-of-pearl, as shadow and light. It was some of his most beautiful work ever.

Cas had been hard at work on something as well, but Poll refused to give in to curiosity and give Cas the satisfaction of knowing that Poll gave a rat’s rump about what he was up to.

He missed his twin.

Poll walked along the Serpentine. The swans were huddled on the bank, their heads tucked under their wings. Poll hated them, hated their legendary monogamy most of all. Orion had once informed the family—he’d been about thirteen at the time—that he didn’t believe in marriage, that if man was meant to be monogamous, then he would be unable to be anything else, just like the swan.

Cas had promptly agreed. Poll had frowned and shaken his head. Even at the age of nine, he’d known he wanted it all. The girl, the marriage, the home and family.

Attie had been a fussy infant then and Callie a girl of sixteen, tending the baby as if it were her own. Ellie had been about six and had mimicked Zander and Cas and Poll when they’d taken exception to Orion’s new and serious bent.

The ridicule had been a bit fierce, now that he thought about it. Rion had become more and more grave in response, until they’d driven the fun right out of him and he’d become the cool man of thought he was now.

Poll wished he were more of a man of thought. He wouldn’t be in this pickle now, aching inside as he walked through the coldest summer in decades.

Poor Miranda.

He’d loved bringing her out of her shell, loved watching her learn to believe in herself, to speak her mind, to gleam like mother-of-pearl, to allow herself shades of light and dark, to be true to her own desires and rebel against anyone who thought she ought to blend herself back into invisibility.

He and Cas had done that for her—and then he and Cas had ruined it all. Miranda likely would never believe in anything, now that her trust had been so betrayed.

Widows were fair game; everyone knew that. Except, Miranda wasn’t like the other widows Poll had known. She didn’t know anything of the world. He’d seen it immediately, that she didn’t know how to protect her heart, yet he pursued her anyway, drawing Cas in as well.

Why hadn’t he taken one look at her wary, naïve eyes and politely bid her good day?

*   *   *

Cas shut the damned book he’d been holding up before his eyes for an hour. It didn’t matter if it were open or not. The words were blurs, the sentences meaningless jumbles of words. He’d been gazing blindly at it, instead seeing Miranda’s wide, shocked eyes.

Castor Worthington, beloved son of Iris and Archimedes Worthington, beloved sibling to Dade, Callie, Rion, Zander, Ellie, Attie—and formerly Pollux—was hiding in the library because he was completely and most thoroughly in the bog house.

Even Attie was off limits to him. Every time he entered the room, Elektra would stand and sweep majestically out of it, sweeping Attie protectively into her wake. While it was nice to see those two becoming close at last—and nice to see Attie’s hair brushed, even if those odd braids weren’t strictly à la mode—he felt like a pile of horse apples every time.

He was still being fed and no one had locked him entirely out of the house yet, but neither had a single member of his family spoken a word to him or Poll for nearly a week.

He missed them. He even missed Poll, though he would not admit that even under torture!

As for Miranda, the ache was quite physical, radiating out from somewhere in his chest until his entire body hurt with longing for her. Miranda, rolling naked in bed, turning toward him with a soft smile, reaching for him, kissing him as he kissed her back with a driving, hot rise from sweetness to wildness.

He loved to bring her lust on hard, to push her focus down into her body, to make her feel everything he did to her, to make her burn as he did—

Had burned. Past tense.

His thoughts skittered away from Miranda. He could not think of her without recalling the way she had frozen, staring at him, her face growing paler and paler, her lips parted as if to ask, or beg for someone to tell her it wasn’t true.

The problem was, it was true. It was all true.

Miranda.
God, hadn’t she looked beautiful? She’d seemed like a magical being, a goddess in the form of an exquisite blue-green lance, so elegant and slender, her breasts pressed high and proud, her marvelous hair piled luxuriously on her head and twined with shimmering beads.

He remembered the beads. Strange how little details became so clear. When she’d dragged him home with Poll, he lost his balance for the millionth time in the front hall of Worthington House. Tiny beads had spilled there in the hall, gritting under Cas’s boots like sand on the stone.

Orion and Zander had carried him into the small parlor. Iris had called for tea and whiskey. He didn’t recall much after that, although there were three stitches in his scalp that implied he was lucky to remember anything at all.

Lucky to remember that it was over. Miranda—that glaze of shock in her eyes, that submerged betrayal in her sea green eyes, the way she’d flinched, her body half twisting away, her hands pressed to her belly as if she felt ill.

Why hadn’t he run from a woman ready to love—aching to love? Why hadn’t he dashed away in the opposite direction? Because, despite his heartless exterior, he wasn’t heartless at all. Because he ached for that love as well.

And for a brief, wonderful while, he’d had that love, he’d basked in the full force of Miranda’s open, shining heart—and then he’d shattered it.

He could not let that be the last moment they had together. He could not let it live on in time, etched in forever.

Chapter Thirty

I dreamed of him last night, after crying myself to sleep yet again. He reached for me in my sleep, pulling me into the warmth of him. I was so cold and so alone. He felt like sunlight after an ice storm.

*   *   *

His fingertips ran over her damp cheek. “Why are you crying?” he asked her.

She couldn’t remember. All she knew was the permanent ache in her chest was fading now that he was there. She stroked her open palm down his hard, naked chest, savoring the rigid muscle and the skin that felt so different from hers. Her fingertips caught at the curly hair sprinkling the plates of muscle and he twitched, laughing softly at her.

“I am real. I am here.”

Somewhere in her mind she knew she was dreaming, that he was not real, that he was not there. She shut that knowledge off, forgetting to remember, and wrapped her arms about his neck so she could press her body to his all the way down to her toes.

His heat enveloped her, melting away the last chill and she relaxed sensually into his hard body. He stroked his large, warm hands down her back to cup her buttocks and pull her tight to him. His thick erection pressed into her soft belly, lying between them, ready to connect them.

Mouth on mouth, chest on breast, belly to belly they lay. His big hand dived into her hair to hold her for his deep, demanding kiss.

He flexed his hips to stroke his cock against her belly slowly, dragging the hot, satin-iron length of it up and down. “Are you ready for me?”

He took one hand from her breast and ran it down her side and over her hip to stroke between her thighs, touching, circling, spreading her wetness to her clitoris, making her moan in response. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes,” she sighed.

He took her then, entering her slowly, carefully, as she arched, quivering, impaled upon him, held safe in his arms, his hot hands on her skin, his hot mouth on her mouth, kissing, being kissed, being impaled by him, by her beautiful, wicked man.

“I love you,” she gasped to him. “Oh, how I love you!”

*   *   *

I awoke gasping in a powerful orgasm, shuddering, aching and throbbing, my heart pounding. As I caught my breath and recalled my situation, I realized that it was still true. Despite the betrayal, I am still in love with Castor Worthington.

I would do anything not to be.

*   *   *

Miranda ought to have known that Constance would never easily give up the house on Breton Square. However, she had not suspected that Mr. Seymour was Constance’s spy all along.

When she came out of her hidey-hole—er, her office, to find the front hallway filled with Constance’s bags and trunks and self, with Mr. Seymour in tow, Miranda blinked, then immediately turned to her dismayed butler.

“My deepest apologies, Twigg. Your service has been impeccable and your loyalty complete. I should not have suspected you.”

Then she took a deep breath and walked slowly forward to confront her “guests.”

A few moments later, after Constance had abused most of Miranda’s new staff into instant hatred while her things were moved into her old bedchamber, Constance, Mr. Seymour, and Miranda sat in an uneasy silence in the parlor.

Miranda had a feeling that Twigg was going to take a very long time with the tea today.

Constance brushed aside Miranda’s attempt at politeness. “Don’t you play hostess in my house, Miranda!”

Miranda felt her nails bite into her palms, though she knew she showed no other sign of her annoyance. “Constance, you will always be welcome here, but as Gideon’s widow, this property belongs to me.” To be truthful, it was a bit unfair that Constance had been excluded, but the will had been Gideon’s to write, not Miranda’s.

Constance had an alarmingly sure gleam in her eyes. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

Mr. Seymour turned his head to regard Miranda as well. She realized that Mr. Seymour was now more than merely Constance’s informant. The two of them had banded together in their envy and greed. Miranda’s belly chilled as she gazed back at them.

She was outnumbered.

And with the weapons that she herself had handed them in her imprudent search for love, she was most certainly outgunned.

“Dear Mr. Seymour has been such a help to me. He’s such a fine young man, don’t you think? Of course, he’s entirely respectable and above reproach—that sort of man isn’t really your cup of tea, is it, Miranda?”

Miranda lifted her chin. “You are quite correct there, Constance. Mr. Seymour is most assuredly not my cup of tea.”

Seymour’s expression soured, but Constance never lost her smug glint. “I asked Mr. Seymour to keep an eye on proceedings in this house,” she explained with a saintly demeanor. “I knew it would only be a matter of time before you fell back into your old ways.”

Miranda frowned in puzzlement. “I have no old ways. I wed Gideon when I was but nineteen years.”