Unraveled (20 page)

“Would you know,” he said, his tone a bit more businesslike, “this conversation has officially exceeded my daily quota for mawkish sentimentality. That’s it, then.”

“Quota?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“My sentimentality quota. There’s a limit as to how much sentiment I will tolerate in a day. I’ve just reached it.”

“It’s not—” she glanced at the watch in his hands “—not yet three in the morning. And this is…a special occasion.”

“Nevertheless, we’re done. As much as my pride loves to be puffed up, I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from further compliments. And definitely no protestations of love—that would put me off for a good long while.”

She might have argued. But then…a man who thought of drowning when a woman caressed his face might have reason to shy from sentiment.

This month no longer seemed dreadful. But it was not going to be simple, either. There was nothing easy about Turner. He’d fashioned himself into one hard edge. He was all blade and no handle. If she held him close, she’d risk being cut.

If she wanted proof that he cared for her, she knew how difficult he’d found this conversation. The surprise was not that he’d needed to end it; it was that he’d started to talk in the first place.

“I do have one question,” she said.

“I’m sure it’s more than one.”

“When you call me Miranda Darling, are you calling me Miranda Darling as my name, or are you saying Miranda, comma, darling?”

His hand slid down her hair. “I don’t believe I can answer that question without endangering the sentimentality quota beyond all hope of repair.”

Which was, in its own way, an answer. A good answer. Miranda smiled, feeling suddenly giddy. He didn’t have to say it for her to know it was true. He might not admit to being kind to cats, but if he fed them and petted them and smiled when they purred, she could trust in the strength of her own conclusions.

“Have it your way, then,” she said airily. “I’m profoundly grateful that your skills in bed are passable. I’ll enjoy spending your money, Smite.”

“You know I hate that name.”

“I do. I figured I’d best call you by it, to make sure we didn’t risk your quota. Otherwise I might have to invent a pet name for you, and we should be finished with each other before the day even started.”

He leaned into her. His mouth brushed hers in a kiss, startling in its sweetness.

“Ah. Miranda-no-comma-Darling,” he said, “I knew there was a reason I wanted you to fill my days with an absence of sentiment. Thank you.”

Chapter Thirteen

S
MITE SHOULD HAVE SENT
a gift instead.

The thought occurred to him only after he’d entered Miranda’s home. It was half past four, almost dark. Scarcely a day had passed since he’d installed her in this house, and already he found himself far out of his depths.

He’d left in a panic last night, scarcely able to suppress his reaction. But when he’d awoken later, it hadn’t been a nightmare that roused him, but a memory. He’d remembered that half-choke in her voice when he’d walked away. And he’d wanted to make it better.

The usual etiquette, when one offended one’s mistress, was that one sent over some glittering bauble. If he’d been accustomed to this sort of affair, he’d have arranged for that. Instead, he’d risked real intimacy.

The warm, polished entry of Miranda’s home smelled of some savory roast. The furniture in the parlor was soft and comfortable. It seemed a beguilement: a promise that he, too, might have these luxuries. Food. Warmth. Companionship.

The only companion he’d had over the last few years was his dog. Dogs didn’t feel pity. Dogs didn’t make plans to fix one, except by repeated application of tongue to face. No matter how much weakness one showed a dog, it still depended on you for food and exercise. As if to emphasize that, Ghost sat in the entry next to Smite, and looked up at him.

He’d let himself believe that he might share an easy affair with Miranda, one that didn’t engage his emotions. Perhaps he’d convinced himself that she’d be so grateful for the largesse he’d thrown her way that she wouldn’t ask any questions.

Any hope of that had gone up in smoke the instant she’d fed him the cake. There was nothing easy about any of this. One night, and she’d wormed her way beneath his skin.

Her tread sounded on the stairs overhead. He’d betrayed too much of himself to her already. She would—

For a second, he had a moment of melting panic. Then she came round the bend in the staircase and saw him standing there. He was
dithering,
and damn it, he hated dithering.

She broke into a smile at the sight of him.

Oh. Hell. He felt all tangled inside. She was wearing a blue-green satin. The sleeves of her gown scarcely skimmed her shoulders.

There’d been too many shared confidences between them. He scarcely knew how to greet a woman who knew so much of him.

“Turner,” she said. She descended the last few stairs to him, holding out her hands.

He turned abruptly from her. He took off his greatcoat and handed it to the maid who had materialized at his side. She disappeared, leaving them intimately—awkwardly—alone.

When he turned around, she set her hand on her hip. She gave him a rueful glance, and contemplated him with lips pressed together.

Smite looked away from her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to let Ghost loose.”

“Please.”

He leaned down and fumbled with the lead. The knot wasn’t difficult, but he lingered over it. From the corner of his vision he could see her hands, encased in delicate lace gloves. They clenched once and then relaxed. Once Ghost was freed, he walked about the entry, sniffed idly at Miranda, and then curled up on the floor where he could keep an eye on his master.

She watched him. “Would you care for supper,” she asked, “or…”

“Or would I prefer to slake another appetite?”

She colored at that.

“Are you sore?” he asked bluntly.

That pink flush grew until it encompassed the skin of her neck. “I…I could manage. If you wanted.”

“There’s no need to be so damned solicitous of me.” He reached up and loosened his cravat. “You sound as if you have to do everything I wish.”

“Isn’t—” She paused, shook her head. “I had rather assumed that’s what you were paying me to do.”

“Yes,” Smite said. “You’ve nailed it precisely. I wanted you for your docile nature.”

He remembered too late that she might not be used to his peculiar brand of sarcasm. But Miranda, thankfully, gave him a canny smile.

“I care about what you want,” he said awkwardly.

“Then come here and greet me properly.” She curled her index finger at him.

He drifted over to stand before her. She watched him with a little smile on her face, and he found himself leaning into her, setting his palm against her face. She smelt of something subtly sweet and calming—mint, maybe, or chamomile. His tangled insides unclenched.

Oh, hell. This was bad—worse than lust, worse than intimacy. He’d missed her. He wasn’t used to missing anyone.

But he traced his fingertips down her cheekbone, followed the curve of her jaw until he touched her chin. He tipped up her face to his, and then he kissed her.

Her lips were soft and welcoming. Kissing was
different
with real intimacy present. He didn’t have to think about where she was putting her hands; he knew she’d not touch his face. He could lose himself completely in the taste of her, the scent of her. The feel of her body, melting into his.

It was the first time he’d kissed a woman without feeling wary.

And then her stomach growled. He pulled away.

“I’m starving,” she said apologetically. “There’s roast pheasant. I’ve been smelling it the entire afternoon. Did you know I’ve never had pheasant?”

“Good. We’ll eat, then.”

Her cheeks pinked. “I asked them to lay the covers in the bedchamber. It’s not the usual arrangement, but—”

“Usual arrangement.” He met her eyes. “I don’t have usual arrangements, Miranda. I just have you.”

If she heard what he’d betrayed there, she let no sign of it show. Instead, she took his arm and they walked slowly up the stairs.

A small table before the window had been set for an intimate meal. From this high, they had an extraordinary view of the city. Evening was coming, and Bristol was doused in the hard reds and dusky pinks of sunset. Streetlamps sprang to life like glowing jewels. At the base of the hill, the graceful arches of the Bristol Cathedral were scarcely visible. Beyond it, a forest of masts from the Floating Harbour disappeared into the oncoming gloom.

He seated Miranda, and then sank into the chair across from hers. Cucumber soup came first. She chattered away about her day, asked him questions about his. She knew what spoon to reach for.

After they’d exchanged a few sentences and the soup had been cleared, he set his hand atop hers. “You didn’t grow up in the bad part of Bristol,” he remarked.

She slanted a glance at him.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m not sure you were raised in the bad part of anywhere. The finishing-school accent is quite convincing. I would say you have a hint of Oxford in your tone. And your manners are flawless.”

“I should be convincing,” she said. “I’ve been practicing since I was a child.” She put a bite of pheasant into her mouth and closed her eyes.

“Good?”

She chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed. “It tastes like chicken. I feel disappointed.”

He tried again. “So you were raised in a family that spoke the King’s English and used proper etiquette. Just like me. How did you end up alone in Bristol?”

As he spoke, he took a small plate from the table and filled it with scraps of pheasant. She made no comment when he set this on the floor for Ghost.

“My parents were always terribly busy. During the day, they handed off care of me to the rest of the troupe. Everyone had a hand in my upbringing, but I was mostly raised by Jasper and Jonas. Jasper was from Yorkshire, and he was our lead actor. He was very handsome, very debonair and very good with accents. The ladies were constantly showering him with flowers. He taught me to read so that I could help him practice his lines.”

“I can’t believe a Yorkshire man taught you your accent.”

“No. That was Jonas. Jonas was… He wasn’t an actor, actually. He helped us put together our scenery, moved heavy boxes, that sort of thing.” She frowned, and chewed more pheasant. “He also argued with Papa about what the plays really meant.”

“Your porter taught you your accent?”

“Jonas wasn’t a porter.” Miranda had a dreamy little smile on her face. She looked up and away, as if recalling that happy time. “It happened before I was born, but Jonas used to be a fellow at Oxford before he ran off with my father’s troupe. I gather it was quite the scandal. His family disowned him. He used to study classics. In any event,
he
taught me how to speak this way.”

“You had an Oxford fellow moving your scenery?” Smite asked in disbelief. “Wait—you cannot mean
Jonas Standish?”

Her eyes widened. “You know him?”

“By reputation only. He was well before my time. Jonas Standish,” he repeated, feeling slightly dazed. “But he’s brilliant. I saw some of his work when I was there. No wonder you’ve heard of
Antigone
. I can’t believe he walked away from everything to join a traveling troupe. Your father must have been quite persuasive.”

“Not my father,” Miranda replied. “They quarreled over everything. My father only tolerated him because Jasper would have walked off, had he sent Jonas on his way. I followed Jasper and Jonas everywhere from the moment I could walk. They taught me half the accents I know how to do.”

“Did Jonas also teach you proper deportment?”

Miranda shook her head. “That was Mama. She said if anything ever happened to her, I’d need to take her place. She and my father had this act they would put on whenever there was a disagreement with anyone outside the troupe. He would bluster and shout about aesthetics; she would timidly explain that my father was a temperamental man of art, and couldn’t be made to see reason. So perhaps the theater owner would just consider a small, tiny alteration…?”

“Putting on an act—that worked well, did it?”

She must not have heard the hint of disapproval in his voice, because she grinned. “Like a charm. They would laugh and toast each other with cheap wine every time they succeeded.”

He might have criticized, but her eyes were alight, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “You had a happy childhood,” he remarked instead. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like.

“I’m sure someone could point out the many imperfections of my childhood, but I loved it. I loved it all.”

In fact, her eyes seemed suspiciously bright. He remembered what she’d told him last night about her father. “So when the troupe fell apart, you lost everyone. Not just your mother.”

“Yes,” she said softly. And then after a pause, “Well, no. Jasper and Jonas had already left a few years back. Father found a patron, and so we’d been in London for a good space of time, see.” She looked to the window, dark as it was. “They didn’t like staying in one place too long. People talked. The last I’d heard, they were in Bristol. It’s why I came here with Robbie—I’d been hoping to find the two of them. But they’d moved on, and I’ve never had the means to search them out.”