The Fairy Tale Bride (15 page)

For a moment, until she quickly bobbed her
head and curtsied to him, Simon thought he saw a tremor of shock
cross her features. But that could not be true. Mrs. Hoskins had
never displayed anything but respectful acknowledgment of his
orders. In fact, he thought, as he surveyed the line of servants,
none of them had. As his eyes swept the row of servants, they
bobbed, hiding their faces from his scrutiny.

"Your Grace, might I inquire — " Dome, the
butler, tried to accost him.

"Tomorrow, Dome." Simon had no time for
household matters at this moment, his intent went no further than
to carry Miranda upstairs, shut the door to his bedroom, and make
love to his willing wife. She was his wife for only the shortest of
times and he wanted her all to himself now.

Half way up the flight of stairs leading to
the second floor, a familiar, and unwelcome voice stopped him cold.
"Simon. Where are you going in such haste?" He turned slowly and
faced his mother.

She nodded in greeting, her eyes on the
cloaked figure in his arms. "The evening is early yet. Have you no
time to spare for a greeting to your mother?"

He did not answer, but stood there, unable to
move. Just as if they had never fallen out, she beckoned.

"Come, I would like to meet my new
daughter-in-law."

He could feel the tension in Miranda's body,
and a quick glance told him that her cheeks were flushed and her
eyes were focused self-consciously on her new mother-in-law.

"Let me down," she whispered.

He held her more tightly.

His mother's eyes narrowed as she took in the
sight.

She turned her gaze upon Miranda. "Some men
are so impatient, my dear. What we women must put up , with!" And
then she said shortly to Simon, "Can't you put the girl down,
Simon? How long have you been wed? Hours at most."

"Miranda is exhausted, Mother. I am helping
her upstairs. "

"After you help her up the stairs, Simon,
will you tell her? Have you told her yet?"

He shook his head. "That is none of your
business, Mother."

"I beg to differ, Simon." She focused once
again on Miranda, and Simon panicked, afraid she would tell his new
bride everything.

"Wait in the study for me, Mother," he
commanded curtly. He quickly turned and proceeded up the
stairs.

Miranda looked at him questioningly. "I
should go down. Why didn't you warn me that your mother would be
here? I can't imagine what she thinks of me!"

"What can she think of you, but that you are
a charmingly exhausted bride," he soothed her, though inside he was
raging. How dare his mother be here? How dare she! His letter had
been very clear. She was not to set foot in this home for the next
six months.

He should have known that she would not heed
him.

He should have given clearer orders to
Dome.

Damn his promise to the old duke. He could
not bar her from the house. The servants would talk.

"Simon, I don't want to begin badly with your
mother."

"There's no need to worry, my dear. No one
could be on a worse footing with my mother than I am, nor she with
me."

Miranda said nothing as he set her on her
feet in her own bedroom. He noticed that in accordance with his
orders, the room had been well polished, dusted and swept. There
was no sign that this room had been unoccupied since his own birth,
when his mother moved into a different wing and lived separately
from his father.

"Simon, you should not speak disrespectfully
of your mother. It is not seemly."

"Am I to take it that you are the arbiter of
what is seemly, Miranda?" He smiled at the thought as she stood
before him with her traveling dress in tatters around her.

He was glad to see that she smiled at his
teasing, and did not take it amiss. They were comfortable together,
and it pleased him. Though soon he intended to show her there could
be more than comfortable companionship between a man and a woman.
"Why don't you prepare for bed as soon as the maid comes up with
your things. I will be back shortly."

"Don't be ridiculous. I intend to come down
as soon as I am presentable."

That was the last thing he needed. "There is
no need. My mother was told that she is not welcome here. She
requires no greeting, and I hope she will be gone by morning."

"I am sorry there is a rift between you and
your mother, but I cannot allow it to continue. After all, if you —
" She could not quite bring herself to say it, which was a relief
to him. Lies upon lies.

But he didn't care. He wanted her and now he
had her. She was his wife, and his mother was leaving. There was
nothing more to be said about the matter — except to make the
situation clear to his mother. He left Miranda to make herself
ready for the night and went to beard the lioness in what was no
longer her den.

She nodded her head in his direction as he
entered the room. "Your bride — what little I saw of her, seems
charming, Simon."

"Mother, I gave you specific instructions not
to come here."

"Yes, Simon, I know. But it is fortunate that
I am here."

"And how is that?" he asked coldly, willing
his anger to subside. He did not want to go up to Miranda with this
rage inside him. He needed to treat his new bride gently.

"If you plan to go ahead with this foolish
idea of disappearing from the face of the earth, you cannot afford
to create a child. You cannot make love to your wife."

Simon was shocked by her blatant statement
almost as much as he was dismayed by it. He refused to discuss with
her his knowledge of the measures to ensure there would be no child
from his brief marriage. "That is not your concern, Mother."

"It is not my concern?" Her voice rose. Simon
realized that it had been years since he had seen a break in the
icy composure she cultivated. His marriage must be more disturbing
to her than he had realized it would be. Good. It would serve her
right to see what she had denied him a lifetime of: family.

There was a discernible tremor in her voice
as she continued. "Simon, nothing would delight me more than for
you to get a child upon your wife. For then your foolish plans
would die stillborn."

He opened his mouth to deny her words but she
gave him no chance. "Could you deny a child of your own his
birthright? Could that girl upstairs? And what would you tell
her?"

"There are ways to prevent a child, Mother."
He had not meant to say it aloud. Not to her. For a moment, though,
he had felt like a child caught in an act of folly.

"Yes," she said with a depth of bitterness
that he had not expected, "And I can tell you, you would not be
here if they were infallible."

He looked at her in shock. Though he had
hated her for a long time, he found he hated her even more now. And
he hated himself. For her words revealed him to himself — as a
fool. Who knew the number of lovers she had had over the years? And
she had never borne a child from her liaisons. Except for Simon
himself.

If he used every trick he had learned to
prevent conception he could not be absolutely certain there would
be no child. And that was only if he used the tricks. He shuddered
as he remembered the carriage ride home. He had not thought once of
the French letter in his pocket. He doubted, if they had been
granted the time to complete their lovemaking, that he would have
withdrawn in time.

He saw his mother's triumphant smile. She
knew him too well, all those years when he had not known of her
treachery and he had exposed his soul to her and thought that she
nurtured it. She knew him too well.

He fought her with the only weapon he had,
keeping his expression as unreadable as possible. "You have cast
your final stone, Mother. It is time for you to go home. Or do you
forget this is no longer your home?"

She did not even blink, although her lip
curled up in disdain. "I have no intention of going home, Simon.
What have you told the girl? Have you prepared her at all?"

He did not want to answer, but something in
her expression dragged the words from him. "I have told her that I
am dying."

"Dying!" In the lamplight, her skin seemed to
lose all color. "It is not true?"

"No. It is a lie." He shrugged. "It was
simpler in the end."

"And she married you anyway?" His mother's
head tilted to the side, her eyes took on a thoughtful look.
"Probably hoping to get an heir from you before you die. She could
then run through the estate during his minority."

Stung, Simon retorted before he could stop
himself, "Miranda married me because she was convinced she could
find a cure for my 'illness,' mother. She is not like you."

"Indeed." As if he hadn't just grossly
insulted her, the dowager duchess said quietly, "I would like to
meet her, Simon. Very much I would like to meet the woman who was
willing to marry you, knowing that you were dying, hoping to bring
you a cure. Poor thing."

Simon looked at her in confusion. "What?"

She shook her head. "And for a woman with
that kind of loyalty, Simon, you would abandon her with child?"

"I have taken your point, Mother. You can be
assured that there will be no future dukes coming from my bastard
line."

"Simon, I beg you for the last time to give
up this foolish notion. Arthur is not a suitable replacement."

"He is the true heir."

"Pish tosh. The true heir is the son your
father cherished and nurtured for the role. He made you as
consciously as he would have if he could have done so with his own
body. You are his son, much as I wish it were not so."

" Arthur . . ."

"And if Arthur dies? Certainly he has no more
fortitude than a rosebud in winter."

For a moment he wondered just how evil his
mother really was. He had never rid himself of the suspicion that
some malignant fate had played him for a fool, removing three of
the scarce Watterly direct descendants from the living before they
could be named as his heirs. The carefully researched document that
enumerated remaining heirs had seriously thinned of names.

Just as quickly as he had considered the
thought, he dismissed it. If his mother had had murder in her,
she'd have murdered the old duke years before he had died of old
age and overindulgence. And Arthur was here, and alive, if not the
most suitable candidate for a duke's responsibilities. But Simon
could change that, given a few months. He had to.

"Did I hear my name spoken?" The man upon
whom, in six months' time, the dukedom would devolve entered the
room hesitantly. "Did you require my assistance?

Simon noted the pale cheeks. "Have you been
ill?" he asked, intending to divert his mother.

"No," Arthur sniffled. "Nothing more than my
usual rails."

The dowager duchess smiled maliciously at her
son and he wished he could bring himself to toss her out bodily.
But he had promised the old duke. And Arthur's rails were quite
well-known. They kept him up at night, they kept blue circles under
his eyes. His valet often spent the night providing steaming pails
of water just so Arthur could breathe.

Simon refused to allow himself to consider
Arthur's worthiness — or unworthiness. His extensive search for an
heir, a true heir, had dug up Arthur and that was all there was to
it. If Simon himself had been dead, there would have been nothing
for it but for Arthur to take up the title.

He could not bear to think of the dukedom
lapsing after so many years of vigorous and healthy service. Just
as he could not bear the thought that a man without a drop of the
Watterly blood might insinuate himself into the proudly unbroken
lineage.

Unaware of the serious bent to his cousin's
thoughts, Arthur beamed and clapped Simon on the back. "I hear
you've brought a bride home, Simon. I hope that means that I'll
soon be an unnecessary appendage and you'll have a full
nursery."

Simon bit back a sharp retort. His cousin was
nothing if not sincere. There was no hint of disappointment — in
fact there seemed to be a touch more relief than boded well for the
future heir to a dukedom. "Your wishes show what quality of man you
are." He stared at his mother in challenge as he spoke. Arthur was
a good man, sterling in character. It was his force of will and his
health that were easily destroyed. And he was damnably
accident-prone.

His mother nodded. "Yes, you are a good man,
indeed, Cousin. And wouldn't it be grand to have a houseful of
children who looked just like Simon or perhaps like his bride."

She looked at Arthur as she spoke, but Simon
knew the words were meant to cut her son deeply. He wished that
they didn't. He thought of Miranda, waiting upstairs for him. He
thought of his heedless rush to make love with her in the carriage,
and realized with a thread of exasperation that he would now be
worrying that they had conceived a child with his bastard blood had
not the stay broken — or the carriage door flown open.

He could not think how he had made such a
mistake. He was married now. He could not set Miranda aside. He
would not. But he must find a solution. He bowed slightly, wanting
only to leave his mother's despicable company. "I must bid you both
good night."

"Ah, yes." His mother smiled at Arthur. "His
bride awaits upstairs."

"I have other matters to attend to, Mother.
Please excuse me if I do not see you off tomorrow. I regret that
you must leave so early in the morning, but it is for the best, is
it not?"

She nodded. "Who can say what is for the
best, Simon? One must do what one must do."

Fury gripped him as he realized that he was
trapped. He could not go up to Miranda; he could not trust himself
not to make love to her yet. And he must keep the fury from his
face, from his action. He must, in order to keep the truth from
Arthur.