Miracle (37 page)

He reached across the seat and took her hand and gave it a squeeze, laced his fingers through hers, and raised it to his mouth, pressed his lips gently to the pale, sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist.

Warming, Miracle leaned into him again and stroked his cheek with her nose. She whispered in his ear, "Sir, you haven't graced me with a kiss in ages."

"No?" He allowed his lips to linger along hers, lightly touching but not kissing. It seemed he gave the idea great thought before gently but firmly pushing her away. Then he regarded her with an odd, half-rueful expression.

"Lesson one," he said. "This isn't the isle or Cavisbrooke. As the future wife of the duke of Salterdon, you must adhere to a certain decorum. The freedom to come and go and do as you please, with whomever you please, is against the rules of polite society. While you're in London, be aware that you're under constant scrutiny. One mistake could cost you much."

"Polite society
can go to blazes," she said angrily. "I'm not marrying society, sir, I'm marrying you."

"You're marrying the duke of Salterdon—same as,
Meri
Mine."

A discomfiting thought. Had she been so naive, in love, and crushed by John's truths that she had failed to consider such an inevitability? Had she been so naive as to think that life as the duke's partner would be carried on in the same manner as her life at Cavisbrooke?

A dark shadow seemed to pass over her, cold and bleak and frightening. Miracle stared out the window. She could feel him watching her—those eyes that were as changeable as the sky—clear and sparkling one moment, cold and gray as fog the next. She could not make out his mood. Indeed, since they had traveled from the isle the day before, Salterdon had been standoffish
and . . .
brooding. Oh, yes, his brother wasn't the only one who could brood.

Therefore, she did her best to concentrate on the activity outside the coach, to get her mind off the percolating fear and uncertainty of her future, and to ignore the infuriating and nagging questions that continued to loom in her mind:

Have I made a mistake? Have I left the only home I have ever known because I truly love this man, or because I wished to simply run away from the memories and pain associated with my past?

Had John not confessed to the truth of her mother's death and her father's deceptions, would she still have ultimately agreed to marry Salterdon, though she loved him desperately?

The coach emerged from Borough High Street and came upon the river. Beyond it lay a city with a straight, uniform skyline, its parapets crowned with a halo of stone belfries, almost as many, it seemed to Miracle, as there were masts on the river. Above them, the cliffs of an immense cathedral carried the eye upward to a remote golden cross and ball. The dome on which these symbols rode belonged to a different world from the houses below, which, shrouded by the smoke of the chimneys, were clustered so close to the temple's base that they seemed to be crowding into its portals.

In truth, she could not see the sky, only gray, as far as the eye could travel. Where were the clouds? The birds? The sun? How did these people survive without the occasional sun-kissed breeze blowing in their hair and faces?

The river lay below, lined with wharves, warehouses, timber yards and manufactories. Spanning it was a bridge, its dark camelback arching over steep slopes crowded with carts and pedestrians, and bowers in whose recesses old women sat selling apples and sweetmeats. Below the bridge, the river was dark with masts and almost hidden by the throng of barges and
wherries
.

So many people: their skin pale and their faces aged not by weather but by the strife of existing in this
mélange
of humanity.

The coach lumbered up the cobbled, odoriferous incline of Fish Street and burst upon the heart of the city, where it ground to a snail's pace amid the crush of people and traffic. Miracle drew back. The noise bombarded her. For an instant, she could not breathe.

"So many people," she said aloud, and did her best to laugh convincingly. "I would not have thought that this many people lived in the entirety of England. How do they survive?"

"Any way they can," came the unemotional reply.

Leaning into the window, Miracle searched beyond the sea of faces, to the unpretentious, uniform three- and four- story houses of brown and gray brick, their skylines of parapet, tile, and chimney stacks broken only by the white stone of Wren's belfries.

Before them ran the roadways of flagstone pavements guarded from the traffic by posts and wrought-iron railings before the houses. Every house had the same sober, unadorned face of freestone-bordered sash, the same neat white pillars on either side of the
pedimented
doors, the same stone steps over the area crowned by a lamppost. Only the beautifully molded doors and brightly polished knockers, with their lion masks, wreaths and urns, did the people's instinct for individuality bear through the all- pervading, almost monotonous framework.

Yet, it was not those facades that riveted her most, but the narrow, winding lanes and courts behind them, which she glimpsed through the archways. From there came the whiffs of
laystall
and stable, ragged children swarmed there in the darkness, and cobblers sat at hutches with low open doors.

How awake and bustling was the city! Hardly the quiet, sleepy atmosphere of Niton, whose main traffic was little more than donkey carts and the occasional coaches of curious tourists. Would she ever grow accustomed to these odd, discomfiting surroundings? Would she grow as indifferent to this lifestyle as those fighting to survive in it?

Deeper into the city, the throng grew. She watched postmen in scarlet coats with bells and bags going from door to door; porterhouse boys were scurrying down the walks with pewter mugs, bakers in white aprons shouted "Hot loaves!" and small chimney sweeps—lads of no greater stature than Miracle—hefted their brushes and pails from house to house.

There were hawkers with bandboxes on poles; milkmaids, with the manure of cow sheds on their feet and pails suspended from yokes across their shoulders, were crying their wares, competing with the bells of dust carts, the horns of news vendors, and the roar of iron wheels on the flagstone streets.

"You'll grow accustomed to it," Salterdon said behind her.

Swallowing, Miracle shook her head and with a rousing sense of despair, replied, "I'm not so sure."

Clayton moved restlessly about the foyer of his brother's present paramour, the spouse of some barrister who took his arthritic self off to Madrid twice a year, leaving his wife to occupy her idle time with shopping and tumbling about the bed and floor with the duke of Salterdon, when Trey could fit her in among his other half-dozen mistresses.

Obviously,
Dierenda
What's-Her-Name was most convenient for Trey's current purpose, considering the house she occupied was an hour's drive out of London. The duke of Salterdon had burrowed up in this obviously lavish lair since he had purportedly left London for a holiday abroad—or so the duchess had been informed.

After a thirty-minute lag, at which time Clayton mentally rehearsed his telling his brother to go to the devil, then imagining his confession to Trey that he had compromised his future wife, not to mention falling in love with her, the duke came bounding down the stairs, hair disheveled, shirt open down his chest. A woman's drunken laughter and bawdy remark followed him.

Upon seeing Clayton, standing at the bottom of the staircase, his countenance obviously radiating his feelings at the moment, the duke paused and raised both dark eyebrows.

"You're back," he announced, and flashed his white- toothed smile full of devilment. "And so quickly."

"Yes," Clay snapped. "I'm back."

Salterdon took the last landing of steps two at a time, landing on the floor with a bounce and a hearty slap on Clayton's shoulder. "You look the devil, Clay. Don't tell me the venture was unsuccessful."

"It was successful."

"Excellent!" Glancing back up the stairs, where a winsome, buxom blond woman, draped in transparent silk, leaned across the balustrade, exposing most of her ample cleavage, he said, "We'll talk in the parlor.
Clive!"
he called.

A servant with an indifferent demeanor appeared.

"Bring his lordship a brandy. He looks as if he could use one."

"I don't care for a brandy," Clayton said.

"Very well then, a port—"

"Nor a port. God forbid."

"Then what the blazes do you want?"

"To get the hell out of here," Clayton snarled and walked past him into the parlor.

Trey followed and closed the door. He leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, and watched Clay pace the room. "So tell me," he finally said, "was she everything I made her out to be?"

"No. You made her out to be a mostly mindless bit of stuff who was desperate to marry the first man who showed the least bit of interest. But that is beside the point. After I was forced to sufficiently lie my way into her good graces, then succeeded in emotionally ripping her life apart, she eventually agreed to marry
me . . .
or rather you." Clayton planted himself by the cold hearth and propped one elbow on the marble mantel. He ran his fingers through his hair and refused to look at his brother.

"Where is she now?"

"Ensconced at your Mayfair apartment. I thought the close proximity to Hyde would alleviate some of her jumpiness. I suspect she wasn't fully prepared for London."

Trey grinned. "You look quite dapper in my clothes, you know. They suit you. You might try investing in a few well-cut threads yourself now and again. You might find yourself appealing to a better class of woman than tavern wenches and milkmaids. Then again, I suppose farmers can't be too choosy."

"You call that a better class of woman?" Clayton pointed toward the door, then he dragged off his brother's cutaway and flung it at him. "Get dressed, for God's sake. You're disgusting."

Trey laughed as he caught the coat, then he tossed it back to Clayton. "Keep it. You'll be needing it for a while."

"No." He shook his head. "I'm finished. I did what the devil you asked me to do—"

"Is she sufficiently in love with me?"

Clayton walked to the window and stared out at the garden enclosed by hedges of bramble and hawthorn. Here and there patches of old-fashioned flowers, like bright splotches of paint, broke the monotony of the verdant grass.

"I asked you a question," Trey said as he moved up behind him.

"Yes," he replied more calmly.

"And how did you accomplish such a feat? Come now, don't be shy. I have to know everything if I'm to capably step into your shoes."

"I simply . . ."

"You had a plan, of course, once you met her."

"No." He shook his head. "Not really. It all seemed to happen so . .."

"Naturally? Good lad. No doubt you convinced her that you actually admired her for her peculiarities and her rather unique appearance—"

"Beauty. And yes, she is very unique."

"How do you think grandmother will react?"

"I shudder to imagine."

Trey moved away. "I should see her as soon as possible, don't you think? Begin the arrangements for the ceremony—something quiet—find some village away from London so the entire affair is kept as low-key as possible. Grandmother will be agreeable, of course. She wouldn't want her friends to know too much about the chit—"

"Her name is Miracle." Clayton turned to look at his brother. They stared at each other across the room.