The Fairy Tale Bride (32 page)

Unconscious of her nudity, she bent toward
him. Her face was taut with grief for his betrayal. "Then why did
you marry me?"

"Because I wanted you." It was the wrong
answer and yet he could give no other. It was time for the truth.
She had heard the worst and not flinched from him. Surely she could
understand how important it was to him that the Watterly name not
be soiled by a bastard duke. "I wanted just a taste of what could
have been mine if I were not a bastard. I wanted you as my
wife."

Incomprehension narrowed her eyes as she
struggled to understand his motives. "But you refuse to make love
to me."

"I cannot leave an heir behind." He realized
how foolish his words sounded to his own ears, they must be doubly
so to hers. She had argued against the marriage; he had been the
one to insist. He had thought he could control events, control his
own desires. But today had proved that near Miranda he had not
nearly enough strength to deny himself.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and
rocked back and forth, caught in her own misery. She whispered,
almost to herself, as if no answer he might give would satisfy,
"How can you do this? I can't bear the thought of being without
you. And to know that it isn't death, but you yourself who have
separated us? How can you ask this of me?"

He reached out to touch her hair, but did
not. "I have no other choice, Miranda, I will not breed a child to
one day make false claim upon the dukedom."

She looked up at him, reached out her own
hand to grasp his, still hovering near. "We can prevent that from
happening. We did not consummate our marriage for months, Simon. We
shall simply never do ... that ..." Her nose wrinkled and he had
the absurd urge to laugh — or to cry. He didn't suppose this was
the time to confess that even now his body was urgently requesting
that he do ... that ... again.

"It is better if I go alone." He had never
thought she would agree to go; that was why he had only dreamed it
in his darkest nights, never spoken the thought aloud. But he could
not consider it. It was too dangerous. And she had not counted the
cost to herself.

"Of course it is not better that you go
alone."

"Miranda, you do not understand what would be
required. I have another identity in Charleston. I am not the duke
there. I will have no contact with anyone here ever again."

"I love you, Simon. I want to be with
you."

The blood roared in his ears at her
confession. But he did not deserve her love and he could not accept
it. "Can you imagine living your life without hearing another word,
exchanging even a letter, never mind visits, with your sisters?
With Valentine? I have seen the bond between you."

She did not answer, which was in itself an
answer to his questions. Stung by the truth, however, she attacked.
"Do you want to be alone your whole life? Haven't these last five
years been enough for you?"

Yes, they had been. Perhaps that had been why
he was so vulnerable when the woman full of fairytales whirled back
into his life. "I grew used to it. I will grow used to it again."
He stood and began to dress. Presently, she did the same.

He noticed that she had not referenced one
single fairytale and knew in his heart that he would bear that
symbol of her despair as a sadness deep in his heart for a very
long time to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There was a carriage in the drive when they
arrived home, both sunk in silent misery. Trunks sat upon the
steps, and for a moment Miranda thought that Valentine had sensed
her distress and come to support her. The thought of facing him, of
explaining the nightmare her life had become, filled her with
dread. He had given up on happy endings for himself; could he help
her accept her own unhappy tale?

To her horror her brother was not the one
waiting in the hallway. Instead, the American, with three young
girls of various ages surrounding him, stood speaking in hurried
low tones to Simon's mother.

The dowager turned toward them, and Miranda
wanted to sink into the cool marble floor and disappear, as the
keen eyes missed nothing of her disarrangement.

Their eyes locked a moment before the
question came. "Were you reconciled?" Evidently her unlocked secret
had not softened the bluntness of her tongue. Indeed, she almost
seemed more distant then she had been when Miranda met her.

"No." She could say no more. Her throat was
swollen with the need to cry, to scream, to deny what she had
learned.

The dowager's brief nod, without comment,
surprised her — until she noticed that the older woman was
unnaturally pale, and trembling ever so slightly as she addressed
her son.

"We must find room for an unexpected guest.
It seems your brother, Peter, has arrived. You are to be allowed to
live, after all." Her smile was half hearted . "At least, to live
without the burden of the dukedom. Although I expect you will find
your wife and her family a handful to manage."

Simon glared at her coldly. "I beg your
pardon, Mother? What lies are you telling now?"

Miranda, numb with despair, wondered how he
could dredge up such anger.

"How dare you speak so disrespectfully to
your mother." The American ... no, Peter ... said.

Simon's father. Simon's brother? Miranda
sighed in confusion as he continued.

"She speaks the truth. I am Peter Watterly,
the eldest son of Sinclair Watterly."

Simon snorted rudely. But Miranda, standing
next to him, saw the trembling in his fingers that he sought to
hide with clenched fists.

Peter's eyes flashed with sudden fire, and
Miranda was painfully reminded of Simon. Her doubts dropped away as
he finished. "Apparently you and I think alike. I did not want the
burden of the dukedom and chose to allow the false notice of my
death to go uncorrected. But I am back now, to relieve you of the
burden you no longer wish to shoulder."

He looked over at the dowager in silence, and
added quietly, "You have your mother to thank for that. She
persuaded me that there was no other course."

For a moment, the import of the words did not
come clear to Miranda. It was simply too much for her exhausted
mind. First the news that Simon had lied to her about dying, then
the crushing truth that he intended to disappear — and leave her
behind.

She stared in bemusement as the man she had
known as Mr. Watson stepped forward and held his hand out to her.
"I'm sorry to have caused you such trouble in your young marriage,
my dear." She stared at the long, calloused fingers
uncomprehendingly as he said, "I want to thank you for making
things clear to me, young lady."

"I beg your pardon?" Miranda forced her mind
to focus. Something important had happened. She knew it. She just
could not understand it yet.

Peter. Simon's father, Hadn't he said he
wanted no part of England? She had heard him with her own ears. But
then, she had not understood the full import of his words. He was
not an American. He was the rightful duke.

Simon stirred beside her, interrupting
whatever Peter had intended to say next. He met the older man's
challenge directly. "I understood my brother to be dead, sir. And I
had not heard that he was an American."

Peter shrugged his shoulders, his manner
still American, and still as rough. "But as you can see, I am
alive."

"And what is that to do with me?"

The older man looked torn. "Perhaps I
misunderstood your mother?" He flicked a glance at the dowager, but
she did not speak or move to indicate she heard. Her attention was
fixed on Simon.

Peter's eyes met Simon's again, direct and
intent. "If you want me here, if you don't want to be duke, I'll do
it. If you want me to go now and never come back, I'll do
that."

Simon flinched at the curt words, but said
nothing in return.

The dowager cut in with her usual acerbity.
"My dear, why must you persist denying the obvious? Peter has
returned from the dead to give you back your life. There was no
other answer once he arrived." The dowager glanced at Peter. "It
just took him a short time to recognize it. He is a Watterly, after
all and stubbornness is inherent in your line."

All that she had learned that day pressed in
on Miranda's heart. She wondered how Simon could bear it in silence
as he stood without speaking, his eyes traveling from his mother to
his father and back again.

They might have stood there in a mute tableau
for all time, if Betsy had not come running up to Simon at that
moment, with a note clutched in her fingers. She put the missive in
his limp hand and tugged at his arm impatiently. He looked down at
her as if he did not truly see her, until her words registered
clearly in the hallway. "The bad man said to give you this. I don't
like him. I'm glad he's going away."

At that very moment, while Miranda's heart
was still between beats, Valentine strode into the hall. She had no
time to be glad as their glances met and she knew he had felt her
distress and come despite his own heartache.

"You've arrived just in time." Simon spoke
brusquely as he looked at the note, looked at Miranda, looked at
Valentine. And she could not breathe. For he handed the note to a
puzzled Valentine and her brother turned white.

Her brother's eyes met hers and she could not
understand what could possibly be so awful about Grimthorpe having
left the house party early.

Until he said softly, "The cad has eloped
with Juliet."

Miranda raced upstairs to confirm that no one
had seen Juliet since she left for a walk in the gardens with
Grimthorpe several hours ago. Hero and the twins thoroughly
searched the gardens and found only several weekend guests calmly
enjoying themselves with no idea of their hosts' growing agitation.
The truth could not be denied any longer. Juliet had run off with
Grimthorpe. Plans were swiftly made to follow the eloping pair.

Miranda gave orders for a basket of food to
be packed, and the servants, ashen-faced, had it prepared and ready
before the two freshest, fastest horses had been saddled. Valentine
and Simon, changed into fresh clothes, followed on Miranda's heels
out into the drive. She turned to look at them in surprise at the
sight of only two saddled horses. "Did you not know that I would go
with you?"

Valentine, with a glance at Simon, walked to
his horse and mounted, so as to give them privacy. Miranda, hurt by
his blatant defection, turned her anger on Simon. "She is my
sister, Simon, and I am the fool who sent the invitation to that
malicious weasel and brought him into our home — "

He smiled and she broke off, astonished at
the joy that radiated from him as he came toward her and crushed
her into his arms. "My God, Miranda, he is malicious and he is a
weasel, but I shall make sure he suffers for what he has done to
us, just when we have been dealt the happy ending you believed in
so fervently."

She stared at him, trying to understand what
had caused this change in him. He looked as if years had been
dropped from him in a single stroke. "Happy ending?"

As if he understood at last her bemusement,
he kissed her. "I know fairytale happy endings are possible, now. "
His breath was warm as he moved his lips to whisper in her ear,
"Peter is back, Miranda. I am not the duke."

The distance that had been between them for
so long was there no longer. She wondered if she should tell him
what she had overheard in the garden? She doubted he would be so
joyful knowing what Peter had turned his back on when he agreed to
return to England and confess his identity.

There was no time, however, she decided as he
kissed her cheek. After Juliet was safely home would be time
enough. Then, perhaps, they could find a way for Peter to be happy,
too.

She kissed him back when he put his lips
gently on hers again, and felt the barriers drop away as he
responded with a passion that was held back only by this peril of
Juliet's. Shivering, she felt his whisper as he said against her
cheek, "I am free to be your husband."

She wanted to believe it, so she pushed aside
the images of the miserable pair of star-crossed lovers she had
witnessed in the garden.

He pulled away then and smiled at her, a
smile such as she had not seen on his face since her long ago
Season. "So you can understand why I will ensure this business with
Grimthorpe and your foolish sister is cleared away before the sun
sets tonight."

Reluctantly, but unable to argue with his
logic, Miranda nodded. "Be careful of him, Simon. He is a crafty
devil."

With one more fierce hug that made her
believe all would turn out right, Simon mounted and the two men she
loved most in the world rode off to face their common enemy and
rescue the foolish and very young Juliet.

Leaving Miranda to face the dowager and
Peter--back from the dead after nearly thirty years.

Before she could do more than step into the
hallway, though, Hero was upon her. "Why would she do such a
foolish thing?" Hero was pale, her hands wrung bloodless. "She
didn't even fancy him. She said she was simply giving him a taste
of what he did to you when she flirted with him."

"What?" Miranda stopped, all thoughts of the
dowager vanishing. "When did she say this?" She shook her head at
the foolishness of her sister. "He is much too dangerous for a
young girl to use as a toy."

"But she didn't like him." Hero protested
once again. "She didn't like him at all. She said he made her feel
as if there was a spider crawling down into her bosom. What could
she be thinking?"

Miranda remembered the determined look in
Simon's eye, and thought of Valentine tall upon his horse. "We
shall ask her directly when Simon and Valentine bring her safely
home."