Miracle (56 page)

She sat up in bed, hugging the sheet to her breasts. "You're drunk."

"No, I'm not."

Her wide dark eyes regarded him fixedly, then, slowly, she left the bed, reluctantly releasing the sheet.

She had exquisite breasts, full and heavy. And while her waist was slightly thick, (she blamed it on childbearing, but he suspected it was too much French cuisine) her hips were nicely rounded, and her thighs long and firm.

"You're beautiful," he told her gently.

"But . . ."

He glanced at the glasses on the floor, wishing he had another drink.

"There's someone else, isn't there, Clayton? Don't give me that look. You could never lie. It's not in you. You carry a wealth of emotions in those eyes, whether you realize it or not." She reached for the sheet and wrapped it around her. "I suspected it the moment I saw you this afternoon. You looked right through me. I was certain of it at the park. You're in love with Miracle Cavendish."

A smile crossed her lips, then she moved to her clothes and began to dress. "I arrived in London over a week ago. I heard the talk: His Grace was to be married. A lass he'd met on the isle some months back. He'd been so smitten he'd returned to the isle to court her. There was only one hitch in the story. Trey's current mistress is one of my dearest friends, and she confided in me that His Grace was with her those weeks."

Blanche tied the ribbons on her chemise. "I've told you all along that if you didn't cease trying to keep your brother out of trouble and under control, you would eventually become as bogged up as he. Now you've finally found the young woman of your dreams, and you've succeeded in winning her for another man—your brother. How like you."

She stepped into her gown, walked to Clayton, and offered him her back.

"You're taking this very well," he said as he fussed with the tiny pearl buttons.

"Have I any choice?"

"You could pitch a fit. Most scorned mistresses do."

"I like you too much for that."

Finished, he dropped his hands.

Blanche faced him, her smile a little sad. "What will you do now?"

"Leave London as soon as possible."

"For Basingstoke?"

"I'm not certain."

"You can't avoid them forever, you know. Eventually, you'll have to see her again."

Saying nothing, Clayton turned away and left the room. Hurrying after him, Blanche stopped at the door, her voice shaky as she called, "Perhaps I'll drop by Basingstoke to see you occasionally, if that's all right."

"You're always welcome," he replied.

Fog had set in just after dusk. It settled over everything like a gray, wet blanket. There were few hackneys on the streets and even fewer pedestrians. The lights shining through house windows were like dim candle flames in the dreary darkness.

Clayton stood on the pavement outside Park House. Benjamin hovered at his side.

"It'll be good to get home to Basingstoke," the servitor said, and unstopped his flask of brandy. "Agreed, my lord?"

"Yes," Clayton replied, staring up at the dark house. His brother's coach waited at the curb, and had been since earlier that day, when Trey had escorted a belligerent Miracle away from Hyde Park.

"What the blazes is he doing in there?" he said. "It's midnight, for God's sake . . ."

Ben
turned the flask up to his mouth. "Perhaps they've kissed and made up, my lord."

Clayton glowered, causing Ben to raise his bushy gray eyebrows and drink again, then he corked the flask and slid it into his pocket. "Pardon me for saying, sir, but you had every opportunity—"

"I know that,
dammit
."

Ben snapped shut his mouth.

"That day she went to see Cavendish, I'd had every intention of telling her. I came to Park House with flowers. But after the meeting with her father, with Cavendish, she was in too much pain. She'd just learned the man wasn't who or what she'd always believed him to be. How was I supposed to reveal the fact that neither was I? She's been lied to all of her life, Ben. I simply couldn't do it to her again—not then."

"Now?"

"No. Not now. Not ever. She'll make one hell of a duchess, Ben. I knew the minute I saw her standing in that racer, the people at her feet cheering. They weren't cheering for the victory, but for her. She's won them, my friend. Maybe now the lot of blue-blooded sheep will at least have an acceptable icon to emulate. Before you know it, women will be reading, racing, and raising the roof off legislature, you can count on that. Places like Saint Luke's and
Bethlem
hospitals for the insane won't know what hit them. She's exactly what England so desperately needs. A heroine."

"And what about your needs, sir? And hers?"

"Trey will come to love her in time, despite himself. How could he not? Perhaps then he'll be capable of fulfilling her emotionally."

"But yourself, my lord. How will you manage?"

"I . . . don't know." At last, Clayton looked around, into- the concerned features of his servant and friend. "I don't know," he repeated, then moved toward the hired hackney he'd left parked in the dark at the end of the street. "Let's get the devil out of here, Ben."

Love
comforteth
like sunshine after rain.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Chapter Twenty-two

The duchess's townhouse was located near Saint James's Square, a stone's throw from Saint James's Palace, and a short walk from the House of Parliament. As Miracle was forced to sit quietly in a tiny room off the foyer, waiting to see the duchess, who had commanded her appearance in no uncertain terms, Ellie explained that the decision to build on that particular spot had not been because either the duke or duchess of Salterdon wished to be so close to their royal cousins, but because His Grace, the duchess's husband, had been so fond of strolling to Parliament every morning, rain or shine.

"He was a most distinguished and handsome man," Ellie explained, "and greatly loved by all who knew him. He believed in advanced education, and attended Oxford himself, as did his son and grandsons. He was a dedicated philanthropist."

Grown weary of the wait, Miracle paced.

"Do sit down, darling," Ellie pleaded. "There's nothing to be nervous over. I'm certain Her Grace has gotten over the shock of seeing you fly down Rotten Row in a racer. After all, it's been over a week since the race. Had she intended to dress you down, she would have already done it."

Coming to a painting of a horse on the wall, Miracle stopped. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Ellie moved up behind her. " '
Tis
a painting by
Virgilius
Erichsen
. The woman on the gray Arabian is Catherine the Great. Like his father, the duchess's son loved Arabians passionately and traveled to Egypt with his family in hopes of purchasing a number of their stallions, intending to bring them home to England and cross them to his blooded horses."

"But the ship went down," Miracle finished.

"Having lost her husband only a few months before, then her only son, the duchess grieved for years."

Miracle walked to the open door and regarded the strangely decorated interior of the house. Its walls were hung with mandarins and fluted yellow draperies that resembled Chinese tents, with peach-blossom ceilings and canopies of tassels and bells. Imperial, five-clawed dragons darted from every chandelier and
overmantel
. Along with this were scattered statuaries, carpets, pictures, china, and ormolu of Dutch masters.

"The Orient is Her Grace's passion," Ellie explained. "His Grace took her there soon after they were married. She says it was the happiest time of her life."

"Why are you telling me this?" Miracle asked.

"So you'll understand her reasons for being the way she is. She was young and in love once as well. She only wants what's best for her grandson."

A servant appeared and led them down a corridor to the duchess's receiving room. Her Grace sat in a high-backed throne of a chair; she wore a Chinese garment of wine red silk, emblazoned with tiny dragons of gold thread. Her silver-white hair was loose, and beautiful, and fell over her shoulders to her waist. She no longer looked like a woman of eighty years but much younger. The fires of youth and vitality burned in her eyes.

Her grandson, the duke, Miracle's
fiancé,
stood attentively at her side, as always, well-dressed, hair in place, that infuriating and obnoxious curl of disdain Miracle had come to loathe on his handsome lips.

Only it wasn't her
fiancé.
She no longer knew this man. She no longer wanted to.

The man she had fallen in love with would not have dragged her off that racer and proceeded to chastise her so heartlessly for hours. The man she had fallen in love with would not have ridiculed her so mercilessly until she had burst into a fit of tears, despite her attempts to withstand the verbal barrage. The man she had fallen in love with would not have frightened her, shamed her so, or forbade her to come within ten yards of a horse again for the rest of her life—or his.

She would rather die.

The doors closed behind her.

Standing slightly behind her, Ellie curtsied, and flashing Miracle a telling look, mouthed, "Show your respect."

Miracle curtsied.

"So," the duchess said, "you decided to ignore my first two invitations to see me. Why?"

"I had nothing to say, Your Grace."

"And your reasons for refusing to see my grandson?" The duchess flipped her hand at the duke. He pressed his lips and set his broad shoulders. His gray eyes were hard as stones as he regarded her, and Miracle shivered.

"I have nothing to say to him as well."

"Why?"

She lifted her chin and chewed her lip. Finally, "He was rude to me. Nay, not rude, mean. Terribly mean. He called me an imbecile. An idiot. A featherbrain, dim-witted female whose name should be Disaster instead of Miracle."

Her eyebrow drawing up, the duchess drummed her fingers on the chair arm. "Did he?" she asked.

"Among other things."

"Tell me why you attempted such a spectacle."

"Because I wanted to."

"And do you always do everything you want, my dear? Even if it means putting your life or the lives of others in danger?"