Lily Lang (13 page)

The days, the months, the years seemed to stretch endlessly before her, each one identical to the next, colorless and without meaning.

“Miranda.”

She lifted her head at the sound of her name, spoken in the tender accents so familiar to her from her girlhood. She could not stop the sudden, fierce joy that gripped her as Jason walked toward her in the twilight, his stride purposeful, his gaze intent. Ten years stood between them; he no longer loved her and would never love her again, but he was here, at Thornwood Hall, and if her heart must be ashes again in the morning, tonight she was
alive
.

“Jason.” She rose to her feet. His name on her lips was involuntary.

He had reached her. He stilled her with a touch, but nothing could still the sudden pounding of her heart.

In the next moment his lips were on hers, the perfect, precious familiarity of his mouth pressing upon hers, of his hands in her hair, moving down her jaw to skim her throat, and then once again along the side of her face. She could not breathe, but when she was with him, she didn’t need to breathe; she simply needed him, needed the touch of his fingers upon her skin, the sound of his voice shaping her name.

When he finally lifted his head, she stared up at him in a daze and whispered, “Jason?”

“I just spoke with your brother,” he said in a low, ragged tone. She had gone boneless, and he held her to him now, one big hand resting on her waist, the other supporting her spine.

She blinked up at him, warm and stupidly content in his arms, wondering if she had finally and truly lost her mind. “You spoke with William?” she echoed.

He gave her a little shake.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about what your father did, Miranda? Why did I have to hear it from your brother? Why have you kept us apart all these years?”

She felt her entire body go numb. “What did William tell you?” she asked through lips she could barely seem to move.

“What you should have told me years ago—you never sent me away, your father acted without your knowledge, he locked you away to keep you from going with me—did you not think I would come for you? Did you think any force of heaven or earth could have kept me away?”

She could no longer bear to look him in the face. Tearing her hands from his, she stepped away from him and sat back on the edge of the fountain.

“For so long I thought you were dead,” she said. “I had heard what happened to men in the hulks. Seven years ago I sent someone to find out what had happened to you, and no one could tell me. You vanished. I believed you were
dead
, Jason.” She closed her eyes. Even now, the memory of that time made her catch her breath on a throb of pain. “When your name began appearing in the papers as the owner of Blakewell’s, I finally learned you were alive. I wanted to find you, but I didn’t know if you would still want to see me. And then Father was thrown from his horse. I could not leave him.” She swallowed and looked down at her furled fingers. “He was a difficult man, and he could be unjust,” she said softly. “But he was my father.”

“But after he died—”

“Ten years had passed, Jason,” she said in a low voice. “We were so young then. It did not seem possible to me you might still love me.”

“What of when you came to the club to ask for my help? Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“William came first. I needed your promise to help him. And then, after we had—” She flushed. “After we had—I didn’t want you to marry me out of guilt. I didn’t know what good it would do to bring up the past again if you didn’t love me anymore.”

The touch of his hands on her shoulders was not gentle this time. “I kept myself alive on the hulks by thinking about you,” he whispered. “Even when I hated you, you were the only reason I went on living. But the real hell—Miranda, it wasn’t the hulks at all. It was living without you.”

She tried to smile through her tears. “Then it’s a good thing we’ll have the rest of our lives for me to make it up to you, then,” she whispered.

He stared down into her eyes. Then he made a low, hoarse sound in his throat, drawing her to him again so her head nestled against his shoulder, and she pressed her face against his throat.

“I love you,” he said. “I have always loved you.” His expression was utterly vulnerable, utterly defenseless as he gazed into her eyes. “Be my wife, Miranda,” he said. “Live with me. Bear my children. Grow old with me.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I love you,” she whispered between kisses. “I have always loved you.”

He wrapped her cloak around them both and gathered her into the warmth of his embrace. She held him to her, and they remained there thus, until the midnight snow began to fall, and blotted out the world.

Chapter Five

“It is absolutely out of the question,” said Miranda, glaring at Jason from across the supper table at Thornwood a week later.

He had just returned to Thornwood that morning after settling some of his affairs in London, and, more importantly, procuring a special license from the sodding Archbishop of Canterbury. This latter task he had only managed by agreeing to forgive several of the Duke of Norfolk’s more pressing debts, if His Grace would persuade the archbishop to produce the necessary documents. His Grace was willing, and the license Jason now carried in his pocket was ready for the small country wedding planned for the following morning.

The week he had spent in London without Miranda was, he felt, quite the longest week in the history of the world, but Miranda had wished to begin the task of restoring Thornwood immediately, and he had managed to suffer through it. But now he was back, and he had no intention of going anywhere again without her.

“Nonsense,” said Jason calmly. “It is the only sensible thing to do.”

He accepted a basket of rolls from William, who grinned at him.

Miranda looked rather as though she was considering throwing something at him.

“But you cannot—you
cannot
sell Blakewell’s,” she exclaimed. “It is monstrous to even think of it.”

“On the contrary, my dear,” he said. “I am, in point of fact, quite delighted whenever I think of the sum Crockford has agreed to give me for the damned place.”

“But Blakewell’s is your
home
,” said Miranda, now looking genuinely distressed.

“No, Miranda,” said Jason quietly. “My home is with you.”

Across the table, William shook his head at them, but Jason, wishing the little brat to perdition, kept his gaze fixed on Miranda.

She looked as though she would like to burst into tears.

“Well, I have no objections to your running a club,” she said, blinking rather hard.

“I know,” said Jason. “I, however, find I have other interests, such as tending to the many estates I seem to have acquired in the past few years. Running a club is a devilish business, Miranda. It takes considerable time and energy. I no longer wish to devote myself to the task.”

Miranda bit her lip and looked down at her plate. “But what of your staff? All the people who work at Blakewell’s? What will become of them if you sell?”

Jason shrugged. “I have estates everywhere,” he said, waving a careless hand. “Besides Wycombe, there’s a townhouse in London, a castle in Scotland, and a rather appalling hunting lodge in Somerset. They can take their pick of where to work, if they want to stay with me. Monsieur Leblanc has already declared himself your most abject slave and has agreed to cook in an igloo if it would please you. And if anyone wishes to remain at Blakewell’s, Crockford will take them on. He’ll need experienced staff members anyway.”

“I see,” said Miranda. “And which of your estates would you choose for a permanent home?”

“I was thinking Buckinghamshire,” said Jason. “William could come stay with us when he is on holiday. It is also close enough for you to continue seeing to the management of Thornwood until William comes of age.”

“Wycombe Manor is very nice, Miri,” said William helpfully. “You will like it very much.”

“Naturally,” Jason added, “I can also see my townhouse in London is opened if you wish to be in town for part or all of the season.”

Miranda scrutinized his face for a long moment.

“You are sure of this, Jason?” she asked quietly. “You truly wish to sell the club?”

Jason thought of the long years he had spent searching for what he had now found: peace, and a home, and the woman he loved sitting across from him at his table.

“Yes,” he said, and held out his hand to her. She placed her palm in his own, and he closed his fingers tightly over hers. “I’m sure.”

About the Author

Lily Lang lives in New York City, where she studies history, eats a lot of cookies, and may or may not dance on bars when the moon is full. To her dismay, she possesses no English country estates. Visit her at
www.lilylangbooks.com

Look for these titles by Lily Lang

Now Available:

The Impostor

To save her true love, she must sacrifice her own heart.

The Impostor

© 2012 Lily Lang

Tessa Ryder's Gift, which allows her to take the form of anyone she touches, was invaluable to the British Army's secret Omega Group. The Peninsula War is over, the Omegas are disbanded, but she's learned of a plot to exterminate them—and free Napoleon.

Desperate to warn Sebastian Montague, one of the few remaining Omegas, Tessa takes on the guise of his ex-mistress. It's the only way she can face the man she loved. The man whose memory of her was telepathically wiped—at her request.

Sebastian knows a lie when he sees one, and it doesn't take long to strip the disguise of the unfamiliar woman he believes is his assassin. But before he can use his formidable Gift for illusion to wring the truth from her, bullets fly and they are both on the run.

Surrounded by traitors and spies, Tessa and Sebastian fight to thwart the scheme to plunge England back into the darkness of war. And, as their powerful attraction brings them closer and closer, Tessa fights to protect the man she still loves more than life—by keeping the secret of their shared history buried deep in her heart.

Warning: This book contains sexy war heroes, submarines, bedrooms on fire, an evil Frenchman, and a shape-shifting heroine who will stop at nothing to protect her true love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Impostor:

In the cool blue twilight, Tessa was sitting by his bedside, an unread book in her lap, when Sebastian finally woke.

At first, consumed by worry for her father, she did not notice, but gazed unseeingly out the windows at the great green park below. She had struck her father hard. She had intended to render him unconscious, but the sharp, sickening crack had still made the bottom drop out of her stomach.

She furled and unfurled her hands at the memory.

Sebastian’s utter stillness troubled her as well. The physician that Coleman, Sebastian’s butler, had sent for earlier in the day had tended to the numerous cuts and scrapes and bruises Sebastian had received in the secret chambers beneath Somerset House, but been unable to pronounce judgment on his state of unconsciousness.

Nor had Tessa expected him to produce a diagnosis. Her father’s particular brand of telepathic assault had killed men before. She did not know what he had done to Sebastian. She could only hope that, as he was still breathing, Sebastian would sustain no permanent damage.

It was only as she reached to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher at his bedside that she looked at him again. He was awake, his eyes intent as he watched her. His hair and olive skin were dark against the sharp contrast of the crisp white sheets.

She stilled, her hand dropping back into her lap and knocking the book to the floor with a crash.

Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse and nearly inaudible.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a coach and four ran me over,” he said.

Her lips curved slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It is hardly your fault that Sevigny is a madman and a murderer.”

She gave another half smile. “I suppose not,” she said. She hesitated, uncertain of how to frame her question. “But my father… What did he… What happened?”

“He gave me back all my worst memories.”

Even in the half darkness, she could sense the intensity of his gaze as he studied her. She pretended not to notice and instead reached again for the pitcher to pour him a glass of water. She held it out to him. He took it and set it aside, reaching out to grasp her wrist instead.

She could not meet his gaze.

“He gave me back something else, Tessa,” he said. “Something that I do not think he intended to give me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“While searching my mind for my worst memories,” said Sebastian, “he unlocked one that had been buried years ago—and not by me. Can you guess which memory, Tessa?”

Her head jerked, an involuntary gesture, and his eyes followed the movement.

“What do you remember?” she whispered.