The Fairy Tale Bride (35 page)

The older man — his father, Simon
acknowledged painfully as he looked into eyes the same color as his
own — met his gaze steadily.

"I don't believe you have considered all the
ramifications of my becoming duke, Simon."

"Of course I have. A matter of a few
formalities. I have just sent the papers on this minute. No doubt
we must wait a few weeks, but Parliament will not refuse to
recognize you. You are Peter Watterly, Duke of Kerstone."

"I am. I am also the father of three
daughters. No sons." There was a flicker of shame in Peter's eyes
for a moment. Simon was sure he saw it, even as the chill of his
mother's long-kept secret coursed through him. "You, as my brother
will be my heir."

Simon was prepared. "Then you must marry and
father a son."

"I cannot."

He looked at Peter in surprise. "You are
still a young man. You can marry and father enough sons to fill
this house."

A sad smile lit Peter's face. "Indeed. But I
will never marry again." He seemed to regret it, but there was no
doubt he felt he would never change his mind.

Simon refused to accept that. "My mother has
explained to you that I am a bastard. I thought you understood." He
shook his head. "If you can't bring yourself to remarry, then I
suggest you keep Arthur nearby."

"Simon — "

Simon interrupted. "I will leave you to the
business of Kerstone, Your Grace. He tapped the envelope that had
weighed down his life for so long. "I believe this deserves your
attention." He continued, with his hand on the doorknob, "It has
been waiting five years to be opened by the true heir to Sinclair
Watterly and the new Duke of Kerstone."

As he fled the room, and the sad misery of
the man who had fathered him, he said quietly, "I will see you
tonight, at the celebration of your rebirth."

Katherine offered the only advice she could,
little that it might be. "You must take care of yourself, rest, eat
well, and take the air frequently. At your age such things are
dangerous."

The dowager sighed. "I shall have to leave,
of course. I never should have stayed."

Of course not, Miranda agreed in silent yet
sympathetic mockery. You should have turned your back on the only
man you ever loved simply because his father had the bad judgment
to marry you. "Where will you go?"

"Italy, I think. At least for ... a
time."

Seven months. Miranda understood all too
well, although the thought of a forty-four-year-old woman with a
grown son becoming a mother again was somewhat shocking. And thanks
to the laws of consanguinity, this child, too, would be a bastard.
It just wasn't fair that she and Simon should be so happy while
Peter and Cassandra should be pulled apart.

But the dowager had made it very clear that
this confidence was to go no further then the three women in this
room. Even Peter had not been told. Miranda understood why, but she
could not believe it for the best. "There must be some way — "

Katherine raised her eyebrows in unvoiced
warning.

"She must remain calm and careful in order to
deliver herself safely of a healthy child. Italy will provide her a
sunny confinement."

"But to be separated from Peter is not — "
There was not a way to describe the distress of such
heartbreak.

"A happy ending?" The dowager smiled. She had
been pale and wan, tired and listless for weeks. Now they all knew
why. "I will have Peter's child and a second chance to be a good
mother. That is enough for me."

"You will not isolate yourself from your
family," Miranda protested. "You must come to America with us. We
can say that you are a widow. We do not have to say for how
long."

The dowager raised one eyebrow and smiled. "I
do not believe my son would think that wise."

"Simon will not be angry. You know how much
he loves children."

The dowager glanced toward the door, ready to
answer, and her skin drained of blood. "Simon."

Miranda watched, her heart in her throat as
he came into the room. He glanced at her and smiled. She could see
no anger in him, although he was wary. "What is it about the
children I love that will not make me angry."

Miranda answered nervously, "Oh nothing. I
was speaking hypothetically about children in our American
home."

His eyes locked on hers with concern. "Are
you pregnant?"

"No!" The denial came too quickly. Miranda
realized that she would have been better to say she was not
sure.

He glanced quickly at Katherine, who sat next
to the dowager, holding her wrist in one hand. "You?"

Miranda was shocked. "Of course she is not,
Simon." She chided him. "She is a vicar's widow."

He bowed slightly to Katherine. "I
apologize." He smiled coldly at his mother. "At least breeding is a
condition I cannot accuse you of, Mother."

The room grew silent as the dowager blushed
pinkly. "What an imagination you have," she managed at last, her
voice faint.

"No." Simon's voice was harsh as he sank to
the seat beside Miranda. She reached for his hand, but he pulled it
away. "I did not know such things were possible. "

The dowager rejoined, "Nor did I."

He smiled grimly at his wife. "I suppose you
mean to find her a happy ending? Well, I will not have it. Peter is
duke. My mother cannot legally marry her own stepson." He glanced
at his mother then. "I thought you hated scandal mother, and would
do anything to avoid it." His voice was scornful.

The color drained from her face. "I will have
this child without disgracing you, never fear."

"Simon, I must speak with you." Peter stepped
into the room and Miranda felt Simon tense like a caged lion beside
her.

"You are too late. I have already heard the
news."

Peter stared at him in puzzlement. "How could
you? I just found it out myself. I think it will change
everything."

"It changes nothing." The intensity and anger
in Simon's voice finally caught Peter's attention. He took a
careful look at the shocked faces in the room. "What is it? What
has happened?"

"How dare you and she bring another bastard
into this world."

Peter glanced at the dowager in confusion,
his gaze hardening as he realized the import of Simon's words. "Is
this true, Cassandra?"

"Yes, Peter. I'm afraid so." Cassandra.
Miranda marveled at the name of the austere dowager. It was a
beautiful name, full of magic and mischief. So unlike the Dowager
Duchess of Kerstone. But perhaps like the young woman who had
captured and held Peter's heart through a thirty-year absence.

''Another bastard?" The shock on Peter's face
flashed into anger. "You told him I was his father? Are you
mad?"

His words were harsh, but the dowager did not
flinch. "I did not know he was at the door of the room, Peter, or I
would not have spoken so freely to Sinclair. Some mistakes cannot
be erased." Miranda's heart squeezed with pain as she watched the
two tearing open the wounds of the past.

The dowager continued her explanation, her
voice husky with emotion. "You said you would not come back and
rescue him. I thought that knowing he was true-blooded might change
his mind." It was when Peter softened and put his arms around the
dowager's stiff frame, that Miranda thought of a tale of hope.

For all the two took notice of the others,
they could have been alone. Peter sighed softly against the
dowager's elegantly coiffed head resting full on his shoulder.
"What a fine mess we have made, haven't we?" Miranda thought of
Rapunzel, letting her hair down, and the prince taking hold, and
climbing up to free her from her prison.

She looked at Simon, watching his parents,
recognizing what she had already known. They loved each other as
much as she and Simon. And their love was breaking their hearts.
Gently, she tugged on his hand, pulling him from the room.

Miranda was gazing at him, her eyes full of
sorrow.

He knew some of her sorrow was for him when
she asked softly, "What shall you do if Peter is not willing to be
duke now?"

Her words struck fear in his heart. He could
not allow it. "He understands his obligations."

"His obligation to his father? The man who
embroiled him in this untenable situation."

"To his blood."

"And what about his obligation to your
mother? He cannot marry her unless he returns to America as Peter
Watson."

"He has none. I will take care of her and her
bastard. She is my mother."

"And what about her? Is she to have no
say?"

He did not want to consider his mother. Wed
to an older man, bedded by a young one. Falling in love with her
husband's son. "Nothing can be done now." He stayed her lips with a
gentle kiss. "Not even one of your fairytales can save them. In the
eyes of the law she is his mother — she married his father. They
cannot ever marry."

"In England, yes." Miranda closed her eyes.
"I wonder how she will bear it."

"She always manages."

"Simon — "

"No more fairytale endings, Miranda. They
cannot have a happy ending together. They cannot marry."

"I owe your mother, and I owe you, so I'll
stay."

His father had been drinking. His American
habits were more pronounced when he was foxed, Simon found. "Your
mother is a stubborn woman."

Simon felt only relief as he glanced at
Miranda and wondered if he should ask her to leave them alone. "I
believe I know that well."

Peter watched him from his position slumped
in a chair by the fire. "We've got a problem, Simon."

Simon tightened his arm around Miranda's
waist and drew her closer. She smiled at him, but her expression
was troubled. "I have none, Your Grace. You solved them all for
me."

"Wrong. " Simon found himself slightly
uncomfortable with this new, hardheaded Peter. "You're still my
little brother to the world. I don't plan to marry again, or
outlive you. Not by a long shot. So you've got some time to sort
yourself out and take your responsibilities like a man. I don't
like it. But like I said, I owe you. And I owe your mother."

"Take her as a lover, then. She has had her
share."

Miranda shot Simon a look filled with
disappointment, and he warmed with shame. Why he said it he could
not explain, even to himself.

Peter sat up, incensed. "Your bitterness is
out of place, Simon. Your mother was blameless. Sinclair, our
father, and I were the fools."

"Your father, not mine."

The older man met his gaze steadily. "I
wanted to explain to you why you are truly Sinclair's son, and not
my own, but I was distracted by the news I was going to be a daddy
again." He sighed. "But it's time for you to face the fact that you
are a true heir as no future son of mine could ever be."

"I do not need to accept a lie as fact."

Peter lurched over to the desk and shuffled
through the papers on the desk and tossed something to Simon. "Read
this."

It was the envelope, seal broken. The one
meant only for the eyes of the duke. "This is not for me to read.
He told me you did not understand the Kerstone motto. I presume
that is why he was so careful to drum it into my head."

"Honor and truth in all." Peter's lips
twisted with distaste. "It is as much a part of me as the Watterly
blood."

"It could not be."

"Read it. Until then, you do not know enough
to judge."

"Who are you to tell me this?"

"His son." Peter looked away, his hands
massaging wearily at his neck as he looked away out the windows and
onto the lawn where Kate, Betsy, and Jeanne, Peter's youngest
daughter, were playing blind man's bluff with the older girls. "His
other son."

"No son would have done what you did. I don't
want you to think I hold my mother blameless, but — "

Peter's eyes blazed with anger. "Your mother
was completely innocent in this. She was the victim of a
controlling old man and a young man with much too much
self-conceit."

"I cannot excuse her for what she did, and
you should not either."

Miranda intervened at last, with a gentle
pull on his arm. "Look out there, Simon." She pointed to the
window. "Look at those girls, laughing, playing games as children
should."

Simon looked, reluctantly, just in time to
see Juliet captured by a blindfolded Jeanne.

"Your mother was younger than Juliet when she
married."

Simon had known her age — fifteen — at her
marriage, but he had not stopped to imagine her as a girl, like
Juliet. It was impossible even to imagine. "I doubt she ever
stopped to play a game. She was never as young as those girls out
there."

Peter's hushed tone disputed that contention.
"Oh, yes, she was. So very young and so very serious about her new
role as duchess. She had no idea what my father wanted of her. I
doubt he knew, at that point, either. He had not thought beyond a
child to the years of marriage ahead."

"Why did he not have you marry her,
then?"

"Control, Simon. Control. I was entering a
dangerous profession, and he did not want to risk having to fight
my widow for control of the fate of any child of mine."

That certainly meshed with what Simon knew of
Sinclair Watterly. He disliked defiance and used every weapon
necessary to demolish it at the first sign.

Simon took the wrinkled, water-stained
envelope that had remained sealed since he received it. Now broken,
the Watterly seal sat above a strong bold hand declaring, Honor and
Truth in All.

Another fairytale, he thought bitterly. There
were three pages enclosed, in three separate hands: Sinclair's, the
Eighth Duke; Mortimer's, the Fifth Duke, and Geoffrey's, the Third
Duke. Three generations. He read, Miranda's body warm next to his,
lending him strength to face this last hurdle.