And Then Comes Marriage (21 page)

Miranda was no more. Her mind was lost in the wild storm of sensation and emotion pouring into her body from Cas, from his hands, from his scarred and lonely heart, from his body, from the slick hardness of his cock inside her.

Her eyes were open, but she did not see the night city stretching out before her. She had no thought of the park or the square, or of passing strangers that might have business there in the middle of the night.

There was no one in the world but Cas. Cas within her, behind her, around her.

His need overwhelmed her, carrying her own off in the pounding tide of his yearning, his lost, dark craving for her.

Beautiful, pitiless, furious Cas. Lost, aching, wounded Cas.

She knew nothing about the cause of the gaping tear she felt in his heart. She only knew the sensation of being the recipient of that wicked, storm-tossed desire—and knew it for the desperate grasp of a drowning man that it was.

Cas drove Miranda onward, but she continued to absorb his worst, to receive each deep plunge of his cock as if it were a caress.

So lost in the aching sweetness of her hot, willing body, he ignored the fear, turned his back on the terror that, perhaps, just perhaps, he was not fooling her one little bit.

She had three orgasms while he kept her there, taking her on and on, harder and harder, until the power of his thrust vibrated into the glass itself.
See, world? Mine!

She took his wicked torment until he couldn’t bear it. Though he longed to make it last, his orgasm ripped through him, tearing a roar of satisfaction from his throat all unwilling as he thought of her waiting in the window, looking across the park—

At him.

He exploded into her with a pagan shout of ecstasy. Then her knees gave and she slid down the glass in a quivering puddle of hoarse and perspiring female. When he lifted her into his arms he could feel how the window had chilled the front of her body. Her breasts were tight and cold and her belly and hands too.

He placed her in her bed, alone.
I am not the man who stays.

Yet she clung to him when he left her, holding his wrist, calling him by name.

Cas.

His name reminded him, chilled him, and strengthened his resolve. He pulled away from her, even fled her, striding naked from her bedchamber with his clothes in his hands.

He’d almost stayed in those sweet, willing arms. He’d almost forgotten the game, almost betrayed himself unforgivably.

He’d almost not cared.

*   *   *

Two men. One light, one dark. One rough, one smooth. To be surrounded by such wealth of possibilities, after all my years of airless, loveless despair.

A dangerous choice lies before me.

Yet I have already chosen, have I not?

Chapter Eighteen

Poll had raided the larder early in the morning for a hurried breakfast. He had not slept well at all. He had gone to bed last night trying to think of some new and fascinating way to end his courtship of Miranda.

The old method, the one that never failed—breaking the lady’s heart with some act of intentional betrayal that would lead the lovely thing to order him out of her sight forever—wouldn’t do this time.

This was no Society jade he dealt with, not a woman who would secretly enjoy the drama and spectacle of a torrid end to a tepid affair. Sweet, ethical Miranda had done nothing to deserve such treatment and the thought of upsetting her actually made Poll’s stomach hurt.

So he wouldn’t say a word, or give any sign that he didn’t want her after all. At least, not until he figured out how to let her down so easily that she scarcely noticed it.

With one hand on a pie plate containing Philpott’s very good berry pie—although not as good as Callie’s!—a small dish of clotted cream caught Poll’s eye.

She’d so enjoyed that day they’d sneaked onto the palace grounds.

Ah. The very thing. A silly gesture, a carpet picnic designed to entertain Miranda, to make her laugh, to distract her from the fact that he didn’t actually want her. He grimaced at the memory of the kiss.

After arriving at Miranda’s, he wondered if Cas had given up as well. Casual questioning of the butler, Twigg, had left him certain that his twin had not visited Miranda in days.

“This is my apology for barging in on you last night!” he declared when Tildy, delighted by the romantic notion, let him into the missus’s bedchamber with his basket of God-I’m-sorry-but-I’m-done.

First he spread the same horse blanket he’d used on the palace lawn before the fire; then he unpacked his array of tasty morsels.

Poll completed his preparations with a smile, then turned to her with a theatrical bow and an outstretched hand. “If it please my lady?”

Miranda gazed down at the playful breakfast picnic in dismay, her cheeks flaming with shame. Oh, how was she to tell him?

She was not sorry for the astounding experience of the night before. Every moment had been a revelation. Of Cas, of herself, of a world of sensuality and passion that she’d only vaguely imagined.

Even the way he’d left—in full naked flight!—told her more than he’d dared to say.

No, she had no regrets about such a wondrous night. Instead, she was deeply ashamed of her fickleness that had led such a fine and good man as Poll to believe in her affections, when all the time she’d been harboring strong, undeniable feelings for his brother.

She’d simply been too afraid, or perhaps naïve, or constrained by what she thought she ought to want, to understand that wasn’t how the heart worked.

She raised her damp, pained eyes to meet Poll’s.

“I fear that I have chosen, sir.”

Poll knew at once. Miranda looked to be in agony. He decided to spare her any further pain. “You’ve chosen Cas,” he said bluntly.

She nodded miserably. “He came to me last night, after you’d gone. It was … he was.…”

Poll sighed. It never failed. Bloody Cas. “Irresistible?”

Miranda nodded, her attention fixed back on the carpet.

Poll shook his head with a small, rueful laugh. He stepped closer and reached for her hand. He caught her smaller fist in his and smoothed her fingers open. “Miranda.” He dropped a kiss on her downcast brow. “I cannot say that it doesn’t sting, dear one, but in truth I knew last night at your window that you and I were not meant to be.”

She lifted her gaze to his, relief in her eyes. “That awkward kiss?”

He snorted. “That awful, unfulfilling, cringe-worthy kiss. And the one after that was even worse.”

She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “Pray, Poll, be not shy. Tell me your true opinion.”

He laughed and pulled her close in a warm, brotherly hug. “You are a genuine Original, Miranda Talbot.” His arms tightened about her as she leaned against him, limp with obvious relief. “I am glad it was I who rescued you on that street, for you are a treasure indeed. I will take you as sister with all happiness.”

At those words, she drew back slightly to raise her eyes to his. “Sister? I—he—I do not know if Cas shares my feelings. I’d thought…” She shook off that dream. “But is it best not to build cloud castles, don’t you think? He has made no sign of devotion, other than … well … his desire.” She shook her head once more.. “I thought I knew last night. I thought I felt so much more—”

Poll smiled. “Miranda, I know my twin better than anyone on this earth. I have never seen him like this. His heart is engaged, trust in that. Whether or not he knows what to do about that, or even if he wishes it, only time will tell.”

Hope had begun to bloom in her sea green eyes, but the light slowly faded in confusion. “He does not
wish
to love me?”

Poll struggled to find the words to explain something he had only the vaguest appreciation of. “A long time ago, something—or someone—happened to him. We were young men, barely past boyhood. I know there was a woman, but he was very secretive about her. It was the first secret he ever kept from me. She wounded him deeply. I don’t know much more, and ought not to tell it anyway, but I can attest that from that day forward, he was not the same Cas. She broke him, in some way that I thought would never heal, never change, until I saw the way he looked at you.”

“I love him,” Miranda stated firmly. She smiled. “There. I said it. Right out loud, to boot!” She pressed her hands to her throat in wonder. “I have made my decision. I cannot wait to tell him!”

“No!” Poll hadn’t meant to shout, but the protest came from a place of such surety that he could not help it.

She flinched and stepped back from him. “Poll, you claimed to be resolved to my choice!”

He shook his head hurriedly. “No, that isn’t the problem. Cas…” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, trying to decipher what had been sheer instinct. Then he had it. He weighed his words for a moment. “He will flee you.”

She frowned. “But you say he loves me. Why would he flee love?”

He tilted his head. “Why do you flee marriage?”

Folding her arms, she glanced away. “That is another matter entirely. For a woman to give up her independence thus—you have no idea how easy it is for a man to abuse such power!”

He held out his hands. “Do you think a woman does not have power over a man? Cas is turning himself inside out right now, trying to deny the very fact that you rule over his heart!”

Understanding dawned. She pressed her palms together at her midriff. “Oh. Oh …
bother
.”

She was far too civilized for her own good. Poll sighed at the twinge of affection that washed over him. She might not be the woman for him, but he hoped that someday, that faceless future woman might bear a rather astonishing resemblance to Mrs. Talbot.

Back to the question at hand. “I propose that we continue our ‘courtship’ for now. I fear that if I withdraw, Cas will use my defection as an excuse to end his own pursuit of you.”

An air of distraction had taken over her expression. “Poll?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think if Cas saw me looking particularly fine—say, at the Marquis of Wyndham’s Midsummer Ball—that he might find himself more inclined to want to love me?”

Poll frowned. “Well, it couldn’t hurt. Er, how fine?”

She smiled slightly. “I have made a particular friend of Lementeur.”

Poll whistled, impressed. “If you’ve somehow won that fellow over, I rather doubt the Prince Regent himself could resist you. In fact, never mind. Avoid Prinny. He always did have an eye for the ladies. But Wyndham’s ball is perfect timing. That might do it—to see you at the ball with all the inevitable admirers, it might push Cas to admit his heart. Here is the bargain. If you keep seeing me, and do not tell Cas the truth of your feelings, I shall make sure he attends and then I shall dance you right off your feet!”

Miranda frowned. “Bargain? I suppose … if you truly think it will work.”

“It will work.” He grinned. “As long as I stay in the wager, he will feel obligated to continue, despite his inner fears. He would
never
simply let me win!”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Wager?”

Oops.
“Ah … well … I suppose I left that part out, didn’t I?”

She tilted her head and regarded him rather like the way Attie regarded a poisonous insect—wondering whether to keep him alive or stick a pin in him and call it a day.

“Let me guess … the first one to become my lover? No, for then Cas would have already won, correct?”

Poll sighed. “Salt in the wound, Miranda?”

Her expression continued to be unsympathetic to his not-so-greatly disappointed heart. “So what great milestone must be reached in order to win?”

“Er … well, it seemed like a good idea at the time, you understand.…”

“Poll.”

With a sigh, he gave in. “The prize would go to the one who convinced you to accept a proposal of marriage.”

Frowning, she drew back. Poor Miranda, even the very word made her flinch!

“But I will never marry again!”

Poll nodded. “Well, yes,
I
knew that.” He shrugged. “It was merely a ploy to buy time. I’d hoped that Cas would lose interest and move on, the way he always has in the past.”

She gazed at him with her lips parted in mingled admiration and irritation. “You cheated!”

He quirked a proud smile. “But, of course!
You
were at stake.”

“Worthingtons!” She frowned at him but her scolding expression didn’t quite stick. “Mad, the lot of you!”

*   *   *

It was not until Poll had seated Miranda upon her horse blanket and plied her with what he now realized was an exceedingly odd breakfast—pickles—what had he been thinking?—that he truly relaxed and began to enjoy her company.

Miranda eyed her pickle with a wrinkled brow. “Is this a usual part of a Worthington House breakfast?”

Poll laughed and started in on a long, convoluted tale involving Attie, pickles, and Elektra’s pet monkey. “Although the monkey only lasted a week before Elektra decided she’d rather just keep three-year-old Attie as a pet. More dangerous, but slightly less likely to fling poo—”