The Fairy Tale Bride (25 page)

"Thank you." Her words seemed less than
final, and she showed no signs of leaving.

"Was there anything else?"

Yes, her eyes told him. "No." But she did not
leave. And her nervousness heightened with every moment she spent
in the room with him. Standing before him in the simple
jonquil-yellow gown that he had chosen for her, she radiated
tension from the set of her shoulders to the tips of her clasped
fingers. And her gaze, for some reason, went frequently to the
settee.

He had the absurd impulse to lock the study
door and carry her to that same piece of furniture. But even a few
kisses would be dangerous. No one would dare interrupt him at his
business for anything less than a catastrophe. Knowing that, he
could not trust himself to stop at only kisses. He forced himself
to say a bland, "Good day, then."

She stood without moving, her eyes a dark,
drugging brandy and he read her expressive face with a sudden jolt
of dread. "Simon," she whispered. "I feel odd. As if I were like
Sleeping Beauty. As if one kiss might awaken me."

He said nothing. He could not speak.

"What should I do?" She wanted what he did.
But it was more than he could give. She wanted to find a way to
touch his heart in the way she had done in the past. The truth was
written in her parted lips, in the way her eyes seemed unfocused
and yet hypnotically drawn to him, in the way her breathing had
become shallow and rapid.

Striving to maintain his sanity, Simon hit
upon the perfect way to ensure that she maintained the distance
between them. He would make her angry. Perhaps even angrier than
she had ever been at him. She would most likely be hurt, as well,
but it could not be helped.

"So you do not want to wait, then?" He
laughed as if he were amused, not aroused, although the effort made
sweat break out on his brow.

The dark want in her eyes deepened and he
added quickly, lest she realize that he shared the fire of her
desire, "Women do have an affinity for jewels, I suppose."

The palpable need she radiated abated
somewhat, he noted with relief. "Let me get them now. That will
give you time to change your mind a dozen times or more before the
weekend."

He moved to the safe with heavy limbs, took
his time opening it, struggling to batter down the urge to do as
she suggested and wake the Sleeping Beauty within her. Even with
his back to her, he could feel the heat of her desire calling to
him.

He put the box in front of her, knowing what
she would say. Her eyes were on him as he flipped up the leather
box lid to reveal the jewels, nested in black velvet. The velvet
made him think of her skin and how it felt beneath his fingers.
Soft. So soft.

With one last glance at the settee, she
looked through the box distractedly. He wondered if she thought of
his skin when she touched velvet — and drove the thought away.
Impatience caught him as she looked through the box with little
interest. He had buried her necklace at the bottom, under all
else.

She did not find it before picking up a
strand of pearls. "These will do."

"Of course they won't do." He took them from
her hands and held them critically against her throat. Her pulse
beat under her fingers. "You need something more striking to
complement your gown. Something with more elaborate gold work."

"These will be fine." Her hands covered his
as he held the necklace, pressing his knuckles against the smooth
skin that stretched over her collarbone. He forgot for a moment why
he was holding the necklace as his heart matched the beat of the
pulse in her throat.

After the silence had drawn tight between
them and he could think of nothing but kissing her, he remembered
his resolve and broke free of her hold. He dropped the pearl
necklace into his pocket. "Look for something else, Miranda. You
are a duchess, now."

With a sigh that disturbed the tendrils of
hair that had managed to escape her pins and wisped at her cheek,
she went back to looking through the box.

He knew the moment she found the necklace
because she grew absolutely still. She did not even breathe.

"What is this?" Her voice was sharp, and yet
it trembled.

He hoped he had not just made the worst
mistake of his misbegotten life as she lifted her eyes, wide with
shock, to his.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"What is what?" he asked, pretending
innocence, though he was braced for the anger that he expected any
moment, once she realized what he had done. He hoped her anger
would burn cleanly through the fog of desire and passion that they
shared.

Her hand reached in and came up with the
necklace he had stolen from her. "This." She held it up between
them, looking at him. No anger yet, only puzzlement. But her
breathing had slowed and he could see the pulse at her neck beating
more normally. He strove to control his own response to her
nearness, her scent.

"That is something I picked up in London." He
was not lying. He had indeed picked it up in London. He just
happened to be dressed like a common thief and blessed with breath
that would kill a dead man.

"Where in London?" Her voice was urgent. He
could well imagine her hurrying there to find the thief and
chastise him for stealing from her. Fortunately, she would not have
to travel so far.

"On the street, actually."

She was still puzzled. He could see it, but
had no idea what would be best, merely to let her have the piece
and think he had bought it from a dishonest man, or to tell her the
truth of how he had acquired it.

Telling the truth would encourage her anger,
and keep her away from him, as he had been so successful in doing
these past few weeks. It would also serve, he hoped, to teach her
how dangerous it was for her to take matters into her own hands.
But she would trust him no longer.

"It is the most beautiful thing I have ever
seen," she whispered. The reverence in the tight planes of her face
as her fingers traced the lines of the swans made him glad that he
had chosen to return the necklace. Most probably, it was her last
tangible link with her mother.

If he'd realized how much the piece meant to
her, he could never have kept it from her for so long. He had
foolishly assumed that if she meant to sell it, she could not hold
it dear. But he had been thinking of it as a piece of jewelry, not
a connection to her mother. How he could have misjudged so badly he
could not imagine. He knew how much she was willing to sacrifice
for her family. They meant everything to her.

It was blind luck that made his delay suit
his purposes. Initially, he'd planned to give the necklace to
Valentine to dispose of as he would. But any lesson to Miranda
would have been muted, as she would not have known the disposition
of the piece.

With it here, there was no choice for her but
to acknowledge that it had found its way back in a quite unorthodox
fashion. He wondered if she would confess her part in the loss of
the necklace were he to press her. So he pressed her.

He closed the box, hiding away the rest of
the jewelry. "You seem to be partial to that trinket. Why don't you
wear it?"

"I will." She still could not take her eyes
from the swans.

When she said nothing more, he prodded
further. "You are quite enamored of the piece, I see."

He was rewarded by her singular admission.
"It was my mother's."

"What!" He pretended astonishment. "Then how
did it come to be on a London street."

He saw the war between expedience and innate
honesty within her; the slim column of her throat worked as he
stood watching her try to shape a response. "It was stolen from
me."

Of course she would tell the truth. He was
the one caught in a web of lies. "Stolen from you? How?" He
pretended to be outraged, which he found to his surprise was not
difficult. The desire to bed her was still strong in him and that
passion, along with a healthy dose of self-loathing for what he was
doing, rekindled his anger at the danger she had put herself in by
going to London alone.

She pursed her lips and exhaled softly. "I
went to London hoping to sell a few things, including that
necklace, and I was set upon by the rudest thief you might
imagine."

"Do you imagine that thieves are known for
their courtesy? You are lucky you escaped with only the loss of
your silver candlesticks and your necklace." He had not consciously
chosen to tell her then. But his slip of the tongue had hastened
her understanding.

Her eyebrows lifted as one and a cloud of
anger began to brew in her eyes. "What do you mean, my silver
candlesticks?"

"Didn't the thief also get a fine set of
candlesticks?"

He struggled with the smile that seemed to
want to break out on his face. He knew she would not appreciate it,
but he was rather proud of his effort to teach her not to pawn
goods in London again. The little fool, not knowing what might have
happened to her. He shuddered, as the possibilities rolled
graphically through his mind.

He could see the realization dawn upon her as
a thundercloud upon the horizon speeds to bring rain. She was so
quick-witted, his anger turned into admiration as her anger rose,
erasing the last traces of desire from her gaze. "I thought those
candlesticks on the mantel during our wedding reception looked
familiar. What do you know of my thief?"

"I put them back the morning of the wedding.
I didn't want them, and I didn't think you'd notice another pair of
candlesticks on your wedding day."

"How dare you." Her body grew rigid. The
skirts of the yellow gown gave not a whisper of movement. "You
hired someone to steal them from me and replaced them on the mantel
without telling me." Her brow knit in puzzlement. "But how could
you have known what I was about and hired someone so quickly?"

He could not resist. She was angry at him and
he could risk touching her. He bent, shambled the few steps toward
her, and pressed her back against the wall. "What's under your
skirts, lass?"

It was a mistake. He knew exactly what was
under her skirts and he could barely prevent himself from lifting
away the layers of silk and cotton to find the heat of her beneath
them. Fortunately for him, she was distracted by the revelation of
how he had tricked her. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You
didn't!"

He allowed one hand to rest on her hip,
feeling the warm curve beneath the cloth, as he answered her in a
way calculated to fan her anger to full flame. "I did. You needed a
lesson badly. For dressing like a fishwife and walking the London
streets alone."

She pulled his hand away. "But you were at
Anderlin ... "

He put it back, caressing the curve and
stroking downward, to the swell of her bottom. What perversity in
him made him cause himself such torment? He would be better served
to stand away from her and fan the flames of her anger.

But he did not. "I was there to make certain
Valentine was informed of our engagement, remember? I followed you
out, saw you board the coach, and followed. And I traveled faster
on horseback than you could in the coach."

Her eyes were fixed on his face, and he
realized that her anger was not as unaffected by his touch as he
had thought. It had dimmed dangerously in her eyes. "How could
you?" Her words were soft, the accusation faint.

"You needed a lesson. I provided it." He
pressed his palm against the rounded underside of her breast and
felt the rapid beat of her heart beneath his fingertips. He kissed
her. It was not wise, but he was beyond caring. When he realized
that she would not push him away, he brushed her forehead with one
last kiss and stepped back. "I must finish my correspondence. I
will have little time this weekend for business matters."

For a broken moment, it seemed she would not
heed him. She took a step toward him as if she might be the one to
kiss him. A kiss he knew without doubt he could not resist, could
not recover from.

But then she blinked, and held up her hand to
gaze at the necklace she still clutched in her fist. Anger
rekindled in her eyes. He told himself fiercely to be relieved.

He did not look at her as he resumed his seat
behind his desk and lifted his pen to paper, wondering why he had
chosen this particular torment for himself, as if it might expiate
his sin of bastardy.

It was long after the door had closed sharply
behind her that he noticed he had written several pages of
nonsense. He crushed the papers with undue savagery before throwing
them into the fireplace, and watched them catch flame and burn into
ash in an instant.

Her bedroom was too hot, even with the
curtains billowing in the breeze from the open window. So he
thought to teach her a lesson, did he? Well, perhaps it was time
for her to teach him one. He thought he knew best. But he didn't
always. And not making love to his wife was a mistake. It was time
for her to prove it to him.

He was abed, she knew. She had heard the
muffled sounds of undressing near midnight. She longed to put her
plan in action tonight, while she was still angry enough not to
worry so much over his health. But she did not want to wake him if
he slept. He needed his rest.

Unable to restrain herself, she crept to the
door and pressed her ear tight against the cool wood. There was no
sound. Thinking that perhaps he was not even in the room, she
turned to go downstairs and see if he might still be working in his
study, when she heard him call out. Without considering how he
might feel at her intrusion, she opened the door a crack and
slipped through. Simon was calling out a man's name as he tossed
and turned restlessly. His voice was harsh with horror, and she
realized he was reliving the man's death, yet again.