The Lady Risks All (26 page)

She smiled and nodded at the tattered reader. “Is it too hard?”

The boy regarded her gravely, then whispered back, “Not so much hard as . . . it’s just this word here, miss.” He pointed.

She looked. “
Easy.
The word is
easy
.”

The boy frowned distractedly. “I would’ve thought
easy
would have a
z
in it.”

“It doesn’t. Just
s
and
y
.” Miranda straightened and saw a girl two places down, waving.

“Miss, can you help me with this one?”

Miranda slowly circled the class, helping with this word, then that, smiling, sometimes at the children’s comments, but mostly simply smiling to herself.

Despite paying attention to McAllister’s and Miss Trimble’s reports, Roscoe found a part of his awareness tracking Miranda, taking in her interaction with the children, their responses to her and hers to them.

When it came to bridging the social divide, she was, it seemed, a natural. Possibly because she had never developed the overwhelming arrogance of the nobility, the aristocracy, those of the upper ten thousand families known as the ton. Even committed as they were, all his family, and even he, had to work to set people at ease, but she achieved that effortlessly.

He wondered if she had any idea how truly useful such a talent was.

If he’d needed any proof of the genuineness of her commitment to learning more about charitable projects, her patience with the children left the matter beyond doubt. She’d decided that the path suited her and was intent on learning all she could . . . before setting out to establish and manage her own project?

That
was something he could assist her with—something that would give him an excuse to continue to see her after they returned to London.

A connection that could easily last for years.

He couldn’t remember when philanthropy had become an intrinsic part of his life, but he knew himself well enough to admit that it fulfilled a certain need he’d always had, a facet of the same drive that had compelled him to become Roscoe in the first place. Once he’d discovered what a drug helping others was to him, he’d grown addicted, but it was an addiction neither he nor anyone else saw any reason he should fight.

Watching Miranda as she straightened from helping another little girl, he suspected that she and he shared the same driving need. He wasn’t at all surprised by her rapidly developing focus on charitable works. In his case, his family needed him still, but Roderick’s need of her was over; she needed something to fill the void, the hole in her life. That need was something he understood not just with his mind but with his heart, with his soul.

As she stepped away from the benches and drifted back up the room, he stirred and strolled to join her.

Miranda saw the children’s attention rise from their readers and fix on Roscoe; until he’d come forward he’d been hidden from them by the partition. Now boys and girls alike stared. Gawped. Visually devoured with the intensity only the young could get away with.

Amused, she glanced at him, and in that moment saw him as they must. As a god, tall, physically powerful, superbly proportioned, his every movement invested with predatory grace, his features bearing the stamp of a warrior-prince, his arrogant assurance a cloak he’d never lose.

He was all and everything they would aspire to, the boys to emulate, the girls to possess.

That was no bad thing. Having high aspirations never hurt.

Reaching her, he halted. “Have you seen all you need?”

All, and a bit more. She smiled. “Yes.”

He offered his arm and she took it, and let him lead her to where Caroline waited with Mr. McAllister and Miss Trimble.

Taking their leave of the teachers, both of whom were delighted and encouraged by the visit, they walked out into weak sunshine.

Miranda allowed Roscoe to hand her into the gig. Henry helped Caroline to the seat beside her.

Taking the reins, Caroline asked, “Well, what did you think?”

She waited while Caroline turned the horse and set it pacing back up the lane. Roscoe and Henry, mounted on heavy hunters, fell in behind. “I think,” Miranda said, “that you have every cause to feel proud of your achievement. I take it Henry is involved with the school, too?”

“I’ve insisted that he learn enough to, once he comes of age, sit on the board.” Caroline negotiated a turn, then said, “I want the school to grow and continue after I’m too old to oversee it. I want Henry to be there to take over and, bless him, he seems very amenable to accommodating me.”

The men riding behind couldn’t hear them, not over the rattle of the gig’s wheels. “From what I’ve seen, Henry’s had an excellent male mentor in that regard.”

“Indeed.” Caroline dipped her head in acknowledgment, a smile of a sort Miranda couldn’t quite place softening her face. “Twelve years ago when my husband died, I never would have dreamed I’d ever say such a thing, but Julian’s been a rock. Literally a rock. He’s as immovable and as unflappable as granite, and while there are times none of us appreciate that, he was the one to hold us all together and get us through . . . what we had to weather.”

Miranda held her tongue and hoped for more about what they’d had to weather, about what Julian—now Roscoe—had done to hold them together through what she inferred had been a turbulent time.

Caroline glanced at her, then her lips curved wryly and she looked ahead. “There was a time when I despised Julian to the heels of his well-shod feet. In that, I was mistaken, but it took a disaster for me to see him clearly. For him to show himself to me clearly.”

The wheels rattled on, a repetitive, soothing sound.

Caroline said nothing more, but she didn’t have to; Miranda could see the parallels well enough. Through disaster Julian had been revealed to Caroline as the white knight he truly was. Now, through Roderick’s kidnap and rescue, she, too, had been given a chance to see past the shield Roscoe—like the Julian he’d previously been—hid his shining light behind.

He was a white knight to his soul, but like the best of that breed he saw no reason to flaunt what many would term his goodness. He wasn’t a philanthropist on a grand scale in order to garner public accolades or social recognition. He was as he was because that was the sort of man he was—under the glamour of the idle hedonist Lord Julian Delbraith had been, and now behind the more dangerous persona of Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king.

As Caroline turned the gig between the massive twin pillars that guarded the entrance to Ridgware’s drive, Miranda felt like giving thanks to the deity, to fate, to whatever it was that had arranged for her to fall in with such a deeply fascinating man.

Chapter Twelve

A
fter luncheon, Roscoe and Henry left the dining parlor to pursue estate business. Having visited Roderick and been assured by him and Nurse that all was under control and her presence unnecessary, Miranda left Sarah reading the latest news sheets to Roderick and joined Lucasta and Caroline in the family sitting room. Edwina had retreated elsewhere to write letters.

A pleasant room on the ground floor, the sitting room looked out over rolling lawns and woodland to the rise of the hills beyond. Both other ladies had settled with embroidery hoops in their laps. Sinking onto the end of the sofa on which Lucasta sat, Miranda offered to untangle the silks Lucasta was attempting to tease apart.

“Thank you, dear.” Lucasta handed over the mess with alacrity. “My eyes, sadly, are not what they were.”

Miranda smiled and set to work.

Heads bent over their tasks, they sat in quiet companionship. She was very conscious of the inclusive, soothing atmosphere; it wasn’t something she’d previously experienced. Her aunts had always been too tense, too reserved, too much on guard, watching like hawks for any potential social gaffe, no matter how tiny.

Here, all was calm, serene, and no one was overcritical. Here . . . she suspected the difference lay in this being a true home, inhabited by a real family, not, as her and Roderick’s “home” had been, a household forced together by circumstance, with less affection than might have been.

That prevailing sense of acceptance gave her the courage to voice a concern that had gradually grown. Passing the untangled silks back to Lucasta, Miranda sat back and regarded the other women, who were still focused on the works in their respective hands. “We, Roderick and I, have been here for five days.” When both ladies glanced up, Miranda caught Caroline’s gaze. “We’ll need to remain for another five. You’ve all been very kind—you’ve included me in your gatherings as if I was family, and Sarah has been so helpful with Roderick. I’m more grateful than I can say, but I fear we’re becoming a very real imposition on your household and your time—and I hope you would tell me if that were the case. I wouldn’t wish to repay your many kindnesses with obtuseness as to your true needs.”

Caroline regarded her for a moment, then gently smiled. “I could retreat to being the haughty duchess and remind you that this is a ducal household, and as such more than up to the task of catering for a mere two unexpected guests, which is nothing more than the truth. However, if we are speaking of truth, then, to deal first with Sarah, I’m very pleased to see her so engaged in being useful—more, in happily putting herself out to entertain someone else, rather than, as she previously has, expecting the world to revolve around her. I cannot stress how much good having your brother here, injured and in need, is doing her, so enough said on that score.

“As to us putting ourselves out to entertain you, dear Miranda, quite aside from you being the most easily entertained guest I’ve ever had, you must accept that we”—with a wave Caroline included Lucasta—“will do all in our power to make staying at Ridgware pleasant for the guest whose presence ensures Julian remains as well.”

Lucasta nodded. “We simply don’t see enough of him otherwise, so naturally we’re beyond grateful to anyone or anything that results in us having his company. Having him arrive with you and Roderick was a gift to us all. But you not only brought him here without there having to be some estate disaster to claim his complete attention, you, my dear, have kept him here. Kept him here because he wants to be here, which for us, for Henry and Edwina especially, is a special treat.” Looking up, Lucasta met her eyes. “And so, my dear Miranda, we can sincerely assure you that to us, having you and your brother to stay, even for ten or more days, is no imposition at all.”

Miranda studied Lucasta’s eyes, like her son’s so dark a blue they were never easy to read. “I know he—Julian—has many and constant claims on his time in London. I had thought he was staying because of estate business, because of Henry.”

Caroline shook her head. “He’s taking advantage of remaining here to spend time about the estate with Henry, but that’s because he’s too much the gentleman to monopolize your entire day.”

Lucasta snorted. “Not so much the gentleman as the shrewd tactician. If he spent every minute by your side, you’d find him too much, too irritating. He’s too wise for that.”

Miranda inwardly blinked. Lucasta and Caroline refocused on their embroideries, and a pleasant silence fell over the room. Miranda had to wonder whether they knew she and Roscoe were lovers . . . perhaps they did. Relaxing into her corner of the sofa, she sent her mind circling to her hostesses’ perspective, their view of why Julian—Roscoe—was remaining at Ridgware. To Lucasta’s assertion that he would spend every minute of the day by her side if such behavior were acceptable. Acceptable to her.

She found it hard to believe that desire for her and her company was sufficiently powerful to keep him, of all men, there, away from his London concerns. Then again, their liaison and her fascination with it and him was certainly sufficient to rivet her interest.

She’d assumed said fascination was a result of her being a novice in that sphere, and that therefore he, being beyond experienced, wouldn’t feel anything comparable, wouldn’t be subject to the same enthrallment.

If Lucasta and Caroline were right, then she was wrong.

But . . . what did that mean? What might it mean?

What might he decide it meant?

She wished she knew more about men, specifically about their views on liaisons. As it was, she had no idea what he might think or do, none at all.

Which left her with only one way forward.

L
ate in the afternoon, Roscoe tapped on Roderick’s door and heard Miranda’s voice, a trifle strained, bid him enter. Opening the door, he scanned the room. Stifling a curse, leaving the door swinging, he strode in and, dislodging Sarah, looped his arms about Roderick’s waist and hauled his weight off Miranda, staggering as she strove to support her teetering brother from his other side.

“Thank you,” Roderick gasped. “Entwhistle suggested I try a few short walks—he didn’t mention that my balance might be shot.”

“It’ll come back soon enough, but you’ll be staggering for the first little while.” Across Roderick, Roscoe looked at Miranda.

With Roderick’s good arm over her shoulders, still catching her breath, she nodded. “Thank you.”

He sent her an acerbic look. “You can thank me by letting me take that side.”

Her eyes widened a fraction, then she eased out from under Roderick’s arm. Holding Roderick up, he shifted to take her place. Roderick’s right foot had been broken, but it was his left collarbone that had cracked, his left arm that was immobilized in a sling strapped across his chest. He was wearing a thick dressing robe; a crude slipper fashioned from strips of leather and bandages covered his injured foot.

Roscoe was a few inches taller than Roderick. Once he’d settled Roderick’s arm around him and Roderick had caught his balance, Roscoe nodded toward the door. “The corridor’s a good place to practice—the gallery with its rail will be even better.”

Roderick nodded, and they moved slowly forward.

Roscoe saw Sarah hovering. “Find Mrs. Viner and ask for the crutches George used when he broke his leg. She’ll have them stored somewhere.”

Sarah nodded and slipped past. “I’ll get them.”

Having heard from Caroline the full story of why Sarah was presently at Ridgware and not with her parents in London, he was favorably impressed with the young woman’s continued willingness to help.

Guiding Roderick’s uncertain steps, Roscoe steered him out of the door. Once they were in the long corridor and making steady progress down the runner, Roderick gradually grew more assured.

“One thing to remember—you’ll have to walk back. The instant you feel your strength fading, turn back.”

Roderick nodded. “I can make it to the gallery. After that, we’ll see.”

With Miranda hovering, Roscoe supported Roderick into the gallery, then let Roderick grasp the wooden balustrade circling the stairwell. Roderick limped along, step by slow step.

Capturing Miranda’s hand, drawing her with him, Roscoe stepped back to the nearest window.

Halting beside him, her gaze on Roderick, Miranda blew out a breath and let herself collapse onto the window seat. Eyes on her brother, she felt Roscoe glance down at her. “I had no idea he was so heavy.” She’d had no real appreciation of the effort
he
must have exerted in carrying Roderick’s dead weight from the cottage and lifting him into the curricle; now she did.

He snorted. “He’s not exactly your
little
brother anymore.”

“True.” And in so many ways.

After a moment of studying Roderick, he stirred, then sat beside her. “Watch his lips. When the line becomes too grim, it’ll be time for him to head back.”

“Thank you. I seem to be saying that a lot these days.”

He reached for her hand, twined his fingers with hers. “A situation with which I have no complaint.”

She managed not to blush as an all-too-vivid memory of her thanking him—effusively—in the dark watches of the previous night flared to life.

He’d come to her bed every night, and every night she’d welcomed him with open arms and a thrill shivering down her spine. And every night he’d lived up to her expectations, and more. He’d been assiduous in his attentions; he’d taught her so much over those dark hours, had revealed to her so much of herself, and allowed her to explore both her own responses and reactions, and his.

He was a generous lover, attentive, often frighteningly intuitive, and at times almost reverent, yet beneath his smooth sophistication ran a demand so strong, so raw . . . every time it rose to his surface, as it inevitably and invariably did, his every touch made her shiver with unadulterated delight, shudder with consuming need, and wantonly glory in their passion.

So she sat and watched Roderick take his first difficult steps toward renewed health, with her hand openly clasped in Roscoe’s, felt his thumb idly cruising the back of her hand, felt heat spread from the simple contact. Felt her skin come alive, awakened by his nearness, by the expectation of pleasure having him near evoked.

She watched Roderick halt, turn, then make his way slowly back along the gallery. Hearing a clatter on the stairs, she looked to their head and saw Sarah arrive, triumphantly bearing a pair of wooden crutches.

Roderick halted and smiled.

Beaming, Sarah carried the crutches to him.

Roscoe let out a small sigh, released Miranda’s hand and rose, then went to show Roderick how to properly use the supports.

With only a modicum of instruction, Roderick mastered the long pegs and managed to get himself back to his room without incident.

Miranda halted by the door, watched as Roscoe stood ready to catch Roderick if he fell, but with Sarah deftly removing the crutches as Roderick let them go, he managed to get himself back into his chair without drama. Settling, the smile he sent her reassured her as no words could have.

With an answering smile, she drew back from the doorway as, after a last word and a nod, Roscoe came striding out. Stepping through the door, shutting it behind him, his gaze locked with hers.

He read her eyes, then his lips curved. “You don’t need to say it.”

Instead, her own lips curving, she stepped close, stretched up and brushed her lips over his. Murmured against them, “So I’ll say it without words,” and kissed him.

Lightly—that was her intent, but his hands caught her waist and he drew her in, angled his head and drank her thanks from her lips, her mouth. Claimed his reward and set her senses whirling.

Purring.

Wanting.

Eventually, he raised his head and broke the kiss. The calculation burgeoning in her head was mirrored in his dark sapphire eyes, but then he laughed softly, wryly regretful. “The dinner gong will sound too soon.”

She sighed and stepped back; reluctantly, his hands slid from her waist. “In that case, you’ll have to wait to savor your reward.” She was inwardly amazed that the sultriness in her voice and expression came so easily. Turning, she held his gaze until the last second. “Until later.”

Roscoe watched her walk away, hips seductively swaying . . . then he smiled appreciatively, in anticipation, and, turning, forced himself to walk in the opposite direction.

T
he next morning Miranda seized the opportunity created by Caroline being closeted with Mrs. Viner, and Lucasta and Edwina becoming embroiled in a discussion of the family members to be invited to Edwina’s wedding, to stroll in the gardens and focus on something she rarely did—herself, her own life. What was important, what would remain so in the future—what her future should be like.

Her life was changing, on multiple planes. And on many of those planes she stood at a crossroads with more than one avenue, more than one path she might take. And decision time was nearing, but how could she make the correct choice without knowing the pertinent facts?

Strolling down the path that circled the south lawn, between the drifts of autumn leaves the gardeners had raked to either side of the gravel, she attempted to bring order to her thoughts. She had so many questions to which she’d yet to learn the answers, and every day, every night, only added to the list.

Last night, for instance . . . when Roscoe had joined her in her room, she’d insisted that the purpose of their engagement, the tenor of it, should be driven by her wish to thank him. She’d pressed her claim and, indulgent, he’d granted it—allowed her to explore and seek and learn what most pleasured him, and then to wantonly deliver that, to fulfill his every wish and press on him his every carnal desire, raining pleasure and delight upon him, and yet . . . and yet . . . at the shattering end, long after he’d taken over, seized their reins and taken command, she’d been left with the conviction, absolute, ringing true, that his greatest pleasure derived not from anything she could do to him, but in her surrender, in her allowing him to pleasure her.