The Lady Risks All (21 page)

“What time is it?”

As if some cosmic authority had heard her, the clocks throughout the house started to chime; as the distant bongs faded, she widened her eyes at him. “Midnight?”

He nodded. He should go. She was in her bed, comfortable enough. He should turn and walk from the room.

Her gaze had drifted down over his clothes. “You haven’t changed.” Her gaze rising, her eyes found his. She tilted her head; curiosity, an honest interest, colored her expression. “Why were you still awake?”

Because after last night, after the fraught events of the day, some errant part of me didn’t want to sleep alone in my bed, away from you.

Sinking his hands in his pockets, he shrugged. “I was . . . restless. After the day we’ve had, that was only to be expected.” He half turned to the door.

“Don’t go.” When he looked back at her, she held out one hand. “Please. Stay.”

Inwardly vacillating, he remained rooted to the spot.

She came up on one elbow yet still kept one hand extended toward him. “I feel it, too, but I didn’t know if . . . but now you’re here and I’m awake, and . . .” Eyes on his, she turned her extended hand palm up. “Why not stay?”

Why not, indeed? She lay there clad only in her filmy chemise, the moonlight silvering her lush curves, and sirenlike asked her question. A question to which he had no good answer, because in that moment, more than anything, he wanted to spend the night, the rest of it, with her.

“Are you sure?”

She fell back on the pillows and sent him a weary mock frown. “How many times am I going to have to remind you that I’m twenty-nine years old and not given to impulsive actions. To reckless starts.”

He arched a brow. “And this”—he gestured between them—“isn’t impulsive? Isn’t reckless?”

She held his gaze for an instant, then shook her head. “No. This, I assure you, is entirely deliberate.”

All resistance vanished. Vanquished, vaporized by the look in her eyes, by his own heated response.

He’d taken the fatal steps back to the bed before he’d made any conscious decision—rendering further argument a waste of time.

He shrugged off his coat. She curled her knees beneath her and sinuously rose to kneel on the bed before him. He opened his waistcoat, shrugged that off, too, as she set busy fingers to his cravat. When, after removing the diamond pin, he took over unraveling the complex folds, she shifted her attention to the buttons of his shirt.

She pushed the halves wide as he tossed the cravat away; hands clutching fistfuls of material, she rose on her knees and found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Lured him into kissing her back, into accepting the bounty she offered and plunging into the honeyed delights of her mouth, into savoring the lush curves of her tempting lips.

She pushed his shirt over his shoulders. Swiftly undoing the cuffs, he let her strip the linen from between them, then, with them both immersed in the increasingly ravenous kiss, he swung around, sat on the edge of the bed, and blindly reached for his boots.

Fluidly shifting with him, high on her knees, she framed his face and kissed him with open ardor, then her hands glided down, tracing the column of his throat, then she spread her hands and by touch devoured his chest.

If he’d expected her to wait and follow his lead . . . but he hadn’t. Some part of him was fascinated by her commitment to their engagement, even though as before, during the heat of the previous night, he doubted either of them had any real plan, any script, any clear agenda. What each of them patently did have was wishes and wants, desires and nascent passions that centered on the other, and while he was accustomed to setting the pace, despite her inexperience she—perhaps, as she kept reminding him, because she was twenty-nine—transparently saw no reason not to press her own case.

Her blatant wish to see, to test, to explore. To learn and know.

Miranda was fascinated anew. What it was in him, his mouth, his lips and tongue, his hands and his body, that so called to her she had no idea, only that the tug, the need, was visceral and powerful beyond compulsion.

And after the previous night, she felt even more emboldened. Now she’d been there once and knew their destination, she felt confident in the eventual outcome and thus free to explore the different ways, the other paths to that ultimate goal.

So when she heard his second boot thump on the floor, she saw no reason not to push his shoulders, to use her weight to persuade him to lie back on the bed, his thighs supported but his feet still on the floor.

The instant he complied, she swung one leg over him. Her chemise rode up her thighs, capturing his awareness and distracting him as she settled on her knees, straddling him, and looked down at his chest. Her prize.

She smiled and gave into the urge to stroke, caress, then taste. He sucked in a tight breath when she drew her tongue over one of his nipples; through the inner faces of her thighs, clamped to his sides, she felt the telltale tension infusing his muscles—so evocative and provocative—ratchet higher.

His hands, at her waist, gripped, but he made no move to stop her, to curtail her play, her exploration.

Heat rose to her touch; she could feel it radiating through his skin. She felt powerful, a goddess commanding such a being, evoking his passion, stoking his desire.

She set herself to the task with escalating delight and renewed enthusiasm.

His grip eased; his palms shaped, then slid lower, over the swells of her hips to slip beneath the hem of her chemise and caress the bare curves of her derriere . . .

The heat spread from him to her. The wash of need, of surging passion, rolled through her, spreading beneath her skin, stealing her breath. Her wits had flown long ago.

She bent her head and kissed him—took his mouth as he had hers, then invited him to reciprocate. He did, and his hunger curled her toes.

His hands swept slowly, masterfully, up her body, taking the fine chemise with them. He broke the kiss and, panting, senses expanding, she sat up, raised her arms and let him draw the filmy garment off, away.

She’d intended to lean forward and caress his chest with her breasts, but his hands came between them and he filled his palms with her flesh. His hands closed. Lids falling, she dropped her head back and shuddered.

He held her there, for long moments returning the pleasure, each and every caress she had lavished on him. Until passion was a flame threatening to consume them.

An elemental power that demanded and coerced.

He hauled in a breath, chest swelling, and ground out, “Unbutton my trousers.”

She obeyed without thought; thought was far beyond her. Shuffling back until her knees bracketed his hips, she fell on the buttons at his waist, slid them free. Releasing his erection, thick and heavy, fully engorged.

Heaven
. She closed her hand around the rigid shaft, stroked, and heard him gasp. Before she could repeat the caress, he caught her wrist, hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly drew his member free of the tight circle of her fingers.

Capturing both her wrists, he held one in each hand and urged her forward.

She went eagerly, letting him show her . . .

He pressed into her, then released her wrists, gripped her hips and guided her down, down . . . until she’d taken all of him, until, on a primal shudder, she engulfed him in the molten slickness of her body and could feel him high and hard within her.

Then his hips flexed beneath her, thrusting upward. Gripping her hips, he raised her, showed her.

He only had to demonstrate once.

She embraced the new dance with unalloyed delight, with a passionate ardor she could barely contain. Hands braced on his chest, she rode him, experimented and tested and tried. . . .

The climax, when it came, when it roared through her in a geyser of sensation erupting from where they joined, was so shockingly intense that she lost touch with the world.

Knew only the blessed tension, the cataclysmic release, the sheer power of him between her thighs as she came apart in brilliant splendor.

He’d never seen anything like it, had never been treated to such an open display of feminine passion and desire. He was utterly captivated, utterly lost. And he didn’t care.

Teeth gritted, he clung to sanity and rode out the torrent of her release, refused to let the powerful contractions of her sheath about his cock pull him under, not yet, not this time.

When, unraveled, she would have slumped, he shifted, rolled, and, rising over her, wedged his hips between her widespread thighs and thrust deeply home once more.

He waited several minutes, thrusting lazily, languidly, until she caught her breath. Until she opened eyes lustrous with passion and looked up at him. Then she smiled like a well-fed cat, reached a hand to his nape, drew his head down, and fitted her mouth to his.

And flagrantly urged him on.

He waited for no further invitation. He ravaged her mouth and took his fill of her body. Filled her and himself with the pounding pleasure. He held nothing back, with her saw no reason for reticence or restraint.

As she had given, he gave, too.

As she had taken, he seized and claimed.

Pulses thundering, breaths sawing, they clung and raced up passion’s peak.

Senses reeling, desire spiraling, they reached for that glorious moment of togetherness. Found it, grasped it, clutched it.

And held tight as the world shattered anew.

As reality splintered and sensation fell away and they flew.

Until ecstasy fractured them, broke them, wracked them, then flung them into the void.

And they fell.

Into the vastness of passionate oblivion, into the glory of aftermath’s sea.

Chapter Ten

T
he next morning, Miranda awoke in a dreadfully rumpled bed with the echo of pleasure still thrumming in her veins.

Spontaneously she smiled, but her smile slowly faded as memory strengthened along with the daylight. Throwing back the covers, she wrapped herself in a robe and rang for warm water. When it arrived, she rushed through her ablutions, dressed, pinned up her hair, then went to check on Roderick.

“Hasn’t stirred,” Nurse said in answer to her query. “But then we shouldn’t expect him to, not until this afternoon, and his fever’s all but gone.”

Resting her hand on Roderick’s forehead, then testing the side of his neck, she confirmed the observation. “That’s a huge relief.” Straightening, she studied her brother. “Should we change his nightshirt, do you think?”

“Once the doctor has seen him. After that, we’ll see how he feels.”

“Yes, of course.” Roderick would wake, and they’d be able to talk and . . . she would feel so much better. She glanced around; the chair she’d been using had been moved back to the wall. She’d taken one step toward it when a tap fell on the door; it opened to reveal a young lady, blond and blue-eyed, sweet-faced and smiling.

“Good morning, Miss Sarah.” Nurse looked at Miranda. “This is Miss Sarah—she’s the duchess’s cousin.”

Sarah turned her smile on Miranda. “Hello.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I’m Sarah Morwell—as Nurse says, I’m Caroline’s cousin. I’m sorry I missed your arrival yesterday—I was visiting with friends in Derby.”

Miranda smiled and inclined her head.

Closing the door, Sarah walked to the foot of the bed. “Caroline mentioned your brother had been injured, and as I’ve already broken my fast, I offered to watch over him while you and Nurse go down to breakfast.”

“Oh.” Miranda glanced at the bed. “I’d thought to have a tray up here.”

“The dowager thought you might suggest that.” Sarah met her gaze. “She said to say she considers it far preferable for you to join her and the others in the breakfast parlor.”

Miranda heard the command. She looked back at the bed, at Roderick’s still figure.

“He’s nowhere near stirring, let alone waking,” Nurse said. “And although you might not think it to look at her, Miss Sarah has younger brothers and is sensible enough when she wants to be. She’ll watch over him and”—Nurse fixed a commanding look on the younger woman—“she’ll ring for us the instant he stirs.”

Sarah grinned. “Indeed, Nurse, and thank you for the recommendation.”

Nurse humphed and waved Miranda to the door. “Come along, now. It won’t do to keep the dowager waiting.”

With no viable way to avoid the summons, Miranda acquiesced and allowed Nurse to conduct her to a sunny breakfast parlor on the south side of the huge house. But while the dowager certainly looked pleased to see Miranda when she walked into the room, and waved her to a chair opposite, next to the duchess, and while it was clear from the dowager’s first comments that she had, indeed, sent Sarah to relieve Miranda, Miranda quickly realized that it was Roscoe who had put the notion of making sure she ate a proper breakfast into the dowager’s head.

He, however, wasn’t present.

Correctly interpreting the glance Miranda sent around the table, the duchess volunteered, “Julian and Henry broke their fast early and have gone out riding.” She met Miranda’s gaze. “Julian is Henry’s co-guardian, so we’re always pleased when they’re both here and Henry gets a chance to spend time with him.”

Roscoe’s three sisters walked in at that moment and, amid a chorus of good mornings, took seats at the table. The butler and footmen swiftly replenished racks of toast and pots of tea, then the ladies settled to eat and chat.

Miranda had expected a renewed round of questions about Roscoe-Julian, but instead the ladies’ queries centered on her and Roderick, on their family and household. She answered such questions as her aunts had trained her, skirting the fact that the family’s fortune came directly from trade; she’d been taught from age six never to mention her grandfather Clifford and his mills. Nevertheless, as the minutes rolled past in pleasant conversation, the reality that she—her grandfather’s granddaughter—was sitting at the breakfast table in a ducal household being treated very much as an honored guest grew increasingly difficult to reconcile, to fit into her view of the polite world.

Yet the ladies’ interest in her and Roderick was patently genuine, and when Miranda attempted once more to thank them for their support, both the duchess and the dowager again assured her that the pleasure was entirely theirs.

Bemused, Miranda shook her head. “I have to confess I’m at sea. Roderick and I have appeared out of nowhere, and regardless of anything our presence is a very real imposition on your household.”

The dowager regarded her for a moment, then smiled her gracious smile. “Yes, there’s an imposition of sorts, but it’s really very minor compared to what we gain. I realize you find it difficult to comprehend the depth of our gratitude toward you and your brother for being the agents, as it were, that brought Julian home at this point in time, when we’re all here to enjoy his company, something we too rarely experience, but, as I mentioned yesterday, through the chance to help you you’ve also given us an opportunity to, in some small way, balance the scales with my usually stubborn and intractable son.”

Her old eyes brimming with patent sincerity, the dowager went on, “And to cap it all, there’s really no question that in this season, with so little to divert us, yours and your brother’s company is and will be a godsend.”

“Hear, hear,” came from Millicent, Cassie, and Edwina.

“So, my dear Miranda,” the dowager concluded, “you will, I fear, simply have to accept that what you see as an imposition is to us a boon.”

After that it was impossible to press her thanks any further, but the feeling that the social ground wasn’t quite as she’d expected it to be—and that she didn’t really understand how she and Roderick actually fitted in—persisted. In the end, Miranda concluded that she would simply have to deal with any social awkwardness if and when it arose. Clearly any assumption based on her uncertain reading of things would be equally uncertain.

Edwina volunteered to guide her back to Roderick’s room. Roscoe’s youngest sister was outwardly the sweetest of the three, but in common with her sisters, and her brother, she was quick-witted and assertive; smiling at Edwina’s chatter about her wedding, and her current thoughts of an appropriate wedding trip, Miranda recalled Roscoe’s somewhat acerbic assessment and had to wonder if Mr. Frobisher, the adventurer, adequately understood the caliber of his future wife.

Reaching Roderick’s room, Miranda opened the door and led the way in.

Across the room, Roderick’s light hazel eyes, dazed and drowsy, met hers. He’d just taken a sip of water from a glass Sarah was holding. He blinked. “Sis?”

“Thank God!” She swept to the bed and bent to gently—very gently—hug him. “I was down having breakfast. Have you been awake long?”

“No.” He patted her arm awkwardly. “Only just opened my eyes.”

“I was going to ring,” Sarah said, “but he asked for water.”

Straightening, Miranda smiled at Sarah. “Yes, of course.” She beamed down at Roderick. “I’m just so glad to see you awake.”

He grimaced, tried to move his left arm, the one tightly strapped in a sling, and winced. “That may be so, but I’m not at all certain that I want to be awake.” He looked down the bed and his face set. “I remember now. They broke my foot, too.”

“The doctor said both collarbone and foot will heal as good as new.” Drawing the straight-backed chair to the bed’s side, Miranda sat. “He’ll be here later today to examine you and confirm.”

Roderick looked around. “Speaking of which . . . where am I?”

Edwina had drifted to the window. “Julian and Henry are riding into the stables.” Turning, she beamed at Roderick. “I know Julian will want to know you’ve woken up.” She looked at Miranda. “I’ll go and tell him, shall I?”

Still smiling, Miranda nodded. “Yes, please do.”

Roderick’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Julian?” As Edwina whisked out of the door, Roderick looked at Miranda. “I don’t know any Julian.” Studying her face, he added, “Do I?”

She took his hand. “It’s a trifle complicated.”

She’d only just managed to impress on Roderick that Julian—the man who went by that name in that house—was the man they knew in London as Roscoe when the gentleman himself arrived.

Striding into the room, Roscoe’s gaze fastened first on her, then shifted to Roderick. Taking in Roderick’s sleepy but steady regard, he smiled. “I’m glad to see you awake and compos mentis.”

Roderick arched a brow. “I’m awake, but I’m not sure about the rest.”

Coming to stand beside her, resting one hand on the back of her chair, Roscoe met Roderick’s eyes. “I don’t know how much your sister has told you, but what happened is this.” Swiftly and concisely he described what had happened, what they’d learned about when, how, and who had kidnapped Roderick, and where he’d been taken. He related the story as consecutive incidents, setting Roderick nodding as his memory came back.

On the other side of the bed, Sarah sat quietly in the armchair, her gaze on Roderick. Twice, she rose and offered him some water; on both occasions, he turned his head and gratefully sipped.

Miranda accepted that Nurse’s assessment of Sarah was correct; Sarah wasn’t the blond, blue-eyed, sweet young featherbrain her appearance led one to expect.

Reaching the present, with them having sought refuge at Ridgware, a house in which they were assured of being safe, Roscoe finally asked, “Do you have any idea, did you gain any hint at all, as to who hired Kempsey and Dole?”

Roderick nodded. “They mentioned his name a few times when they thought I was unconscious. Kirkwell. That’s all I heard that I can be sure of. It might have been John—John Kirkwell.” He paused, his gaze drifting to fix, unseeing, on the covers, then he added, speaking as if he was dredging information from a dim and foggy memory, “They—Kempsey and Dole—said they’d sent word to Kirkwell that they had me and were keeping me alive against the rest of the payment . . .”

After several moments of staring at nothing, Roderick swallowed and looked at Roscoe. “The payment from Kirkwell . . . he’d paid them to kill me.”

Expression impassive, Roscoe nodded. “We surmised as much.” After a second’s pause, he glanced at Miranda, then looked back at Roderick. “Do you know who Kirkwell is?”

Frowning, Roderick shook his head. He looked at Miranda. “You?”

“No.” She glanced up and met Roscoe’s dark blue eyes. “I’ve never heard the name before.”

Frowning more deeply, Roderick slumped against the pillows.

Roscoe exchanged a glance with her, then spoke to Roderick. “Don’t try too hard. It’s possible you have no previous connection with Kirkwell.” He straightened. “Just rest and I’ll see what I can learn. The name gives us a place to start.”

Roderick’s lips twitched in a wan smile. “Thank you.”

Roscoe saluted. He glanced at Miranda, nodded. “I’ll look in later.”

She watched him go. Turning back, she saw that Roderick’s lids had fallen.

Sarah rose, looked at Roderick, then arched a brow at Miranda.

She shook her head—they didn’t need to summon Nurse. Sarah subsided into the armchair.

Taking Roderick’s hand once more in hers, Miranda settled to watch over him, pleased enough to have Sarah’s company.

T
hey sat with Roderick undisturbed through the morning. He’d fallen into a deeper, more natural sleep; listening to his breathing, seeing normal color gradually return to his cheeks, she felt relief transform into more solid confidence.

Her brother was safe again, and would in time be whole again. She spent several minutes sending a prayer of gratitude winging heavenward, and otherwise simply watched him sleep.

Heralded by the fading echoes of the luncheon gong, Nurse arrived, refreshed and ready to take over the watch, and charged by the duchess and the dowager to ensure both Miranda and Sarah went down to the dining parlor.

Neither tried to argue. Nurse assured Miranda, “I’ll ring if he wakes and wants you, but otherwise I’ll let him sleep, at least until Doctor arrives.”

Luncheon was served in the room in which they’d dined the previous night. The ladies congregated about the foot of the table; neither Roscoe nor Henry was present.

“They’ve gone out to ride around the estate, visiting the tenant farmers.” Caroline smiled, fondly wry, and exchanged a glance with the dowager—Lucasta as she’d insisted Miranda call her. “Years ago, I would never have imagined I would be grateful to have Julian teaching Henry about estate management.” Caroline met Miranda’s eyes. “Which might seem odd, but years ago none of us would have imagined Julian possessed any ability whatever in managing anything.”

Miranda blinked. “From what I’ve seen over the last weeks, I find that . . . not just difficult but impossible to believe.” When the others looked at her questioningly, she explained, “He’s very business oriented, and he deals with so many people and so many different projects of such varying kinds.”

They’d stopped eating; all clearly would have liked to hear more, but that was the limit of what she felt comfortable revealing. She raised a shoulder. “Not that I know all that much of his business affairs, but I have seen that much.”

A moment of silent eating ensued, then Lucasta inquired, “Where in the country do you and your brother hail from?”

“Our family home is Oakgrove Manor, near the village of that name. It’s in Cheshire, in the Peak District.”

“Oakgrove.” Lucasta frowned. “I believe I recall . . . it’s not that far away, somewhere north of here.”

“It’s a little south of Macclesfield.”

“Ah, yes.” Lucasta’s expression cleared. “Very pretty country.”

More questions followed, circling the subject of her and Roderick’s home—the size of the estate, how many rooms, the stables and gardens. The questions weren’t impertinent or nosy; they were the sort of questions ladies habitually used to gain a better grasp of a person’s social standing. While Miranda could and did answer truthfully, she increasingly felt that by not disclosing the true reality of their situation she was knowingly leading the others astray.