“Daniel!” Her blush was hotter this time. “She’s your mother,” Miranda reminded him. “She should know you’re injured.”
“No, she should not.” He ground out the words. “No one can know.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the top of Miranda’s head. “No one except you.”
“Why me?”
“Because I trust you,” he told her. “And …”
Miranda’s heart swelled with pride at his admission. “And?”
“You’re the only woman tall enough and strong enough to manage.”
Miranda’s romantic dreams dissolved in a burst of white-hot flame that tasted of ashes. “Thank you for informing me of that, Your Grace.” Miranda’s reply was sharper than she intended, but she was struggling to keep her hurt and the tears that stung her eyes from showing. “No doubt I needed to be reminded that I’m always the biggest, clumsiest, most awkward girl anywhere,” she muttered.
His words had come out all wrong. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. All he’d meant to do was answer her question. Daniel frowned. He’d learned years ago that he was able to consume a great deal more liquor than most men of his acquaintance. He could drink to excess and keep his feet, even dance if necessary. He could gamble and retain his card sense. He could sit a horse without falling off, and drive his phaeton if necessary. He had the ability to drink heavily and still go about his normal routine generally none the worse for having done so and with no one the wiser.
Among his friends, his ability to hold his drink was legendary.
Daniel wished he possessed the same ability to hold his tongue and subdue his more amorous instincts while under the influence. But that wasn’t the case. He could make love and perform admirably, if not exceptionally, while drunk, and he had a tendency to reveal and caress as much of his partner’s naked flesh as possible without regard to rules of society or propriety, and to talk the entire time—traits most disconcerting to a man who prided himself on his judgment and restraint.
The alcohol that had dulled the pain in his side tonight had also dulled his inhibitions and his good manners. And unfortunately there didn’t seem to be a thing he could do about it except try to say as little as possible and keep his hands to himself until he sobered up. Daniel exhaled. “Miranda …”
“No,” she answered, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
His apology sounded so genuine and heartfelt that Miranda looked at him, but her expression was doubtful.
“My words came out all wrong.”
“That’s odd,” she said. “Because I heard them quite clearly.”
“You heard what I said, not what I meant.”
“Then suppose you explain yourself.”
“Waltz me out of here and I will,” he pleaded.
She hesitated.
Daniel pressed his advantage. “Please, Miranda, I can’t walk out of here on my own, and I bloody well can’t quadrille out. Waltzing is the only way I can get to the terrace …”
The terrace. Waltzing beneath the stars with Daniel on the terrace … There was nothing romantic about the way he presented it, but suggesting that she waltz him outside was so out of character and so daring that Miranda was willing to do it. Despite the consequences. Because if she was seen waltzing outside and onto the terrace with Daniel, she might as well bid her good name and her reputation goodbye.
The Sussex House gardens lay beyond that terrace, and its vast landscape of formal gardens surrounded by hedges and decorated with a myriad of statuary provided numerous opportunities for stealing kisses or a quick rendezvous despite the fact that the duchess had ordered it illuminated with torches and gaslights. “You’re an ass, Your Grace …”
“I know,” he answered as the orchestra began the waltz. “But if you hold on to me and I hold on to you, I know we can make it …”
“Because I’m the ‘only woman tall enough and strong enough to manage,’ ” she reminded him, as he took her in his arms and guided her into the first steps of the dance. “You’re lucky I don’t leave you bleeding all over your mother’s marble floors.”
“I know.” His ability to force his body to do his bidding was ebbing at an alarming rate. Daniel inhaled deeply, gathering his remaining strength. “You are the only woman tall enough and strong enough to manage me,” he replied softly. “But I’ve never found you awkward or clumsy. I’ve always found you to be the personification of grace and elegance.”
Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s because you’re so tall and graceful. You should see me with other partners.”
“I have seen you with other partners,” Daniel reminded her. “And I’ve never seen a more graceful woman.” He gave her a rueful smile as he labored to dance and converse. “But I’d advise you to reserve judgment about my own achievements in that area.”
Miranda felt the trembling in his arms and carried as much of his weight as she could. “Good heavens, Daniel, you weigh a ton.”
He grunted in reply and did his best not to lean so heavily on her. But he was fighting a losing battle, and they were both keenly aware of it.
Miranda could only guess at the effort it took for him to appear to waltz so effortlessly, and she did the only thing she could think to do to keep him upright and moving. “If you stumble and fall or step on my feet, I swear to God, I’ll leave you where you lie and let Her Grace deal with you.”
Squeezing his eyes shut against a wave of dizziness, he faltered.
Miranda felt the slight breeze from the open terrace doors and realized victory was within reach. She moved closer, taking on more of his weight as she whispered, “Hold me tighter.”
“Too … tight … already …” He fought back a wave of nausea as he ground out each word. “Your rep—”
“Hang my reputation! You’re bleeding through your waistcoat and onto my new ball gown. So don’t give up on me now, Daniel. Because when this is over and you’ve recovered, you’re going to accompany me to my dressmaker’s and buy me the most exquisite ball gown anyone has ever seen …”
Daniel barely spared a glance for her pale green dress. “Help me and I’ll buy you a ball gown fit for a queen,” he promised.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” she warned. “This ball gown was fit for a queen.” Miranda realized that Daniel’s face was grayish white, his upper lip dotted with perspiration. Fearing he might pitch face-forward onto the hard marble floor at any second, Miranda wedged her knee between his and nudged him through the terrace door. “The queen and I share a dressmaker.”
The night air helped cool his feverish brow, and Daniel murmured a brief prayer of thanks as he lowered his gaze and found himself staring at the cleavage Miranda had pressed against his chest. The view was spectacular, and he was relieved to discover that, despite the fog of pain surrounding him, he could still appreciate the sight of the truly magnificent bosom pressing into him. “I’ve no doubt your seamstress is thrilled to have your patronage, for I doubt that dressing the queen compares to dressing you.” Or undressing you, he silently added.
“Flattery isn’t going to get you out of this, Daniel,” Miranda advised. “You think I’ll take pity on you and allow you simply to pay the bill because you were foxed and injured when you made the bargain. But no matter what you say or do, when you’re recovered, you’re going to accompany me to my dressmaker’s and buy me the gown of my choosing.”
Daniel squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of Miranda’s cleavage as much as the burning pain in his side. “So long as you live up to your end of the bargain and help me out of here.” He would happily accompany her to the most expensive dressmaker on earth so long as she got him away from Sussex House before he fell flat on his face. Daniel opened his eyes and blinked several times before he managed to focus on her lovely face—both her lovely faces.
“Hold on,” she ordered, dropping her hand from his shoulder to his waist, and wrapping her arm around him.
Daniel t
ried to muffle his groan of pain but failed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she tightened her grip, feeling dampness at the back of his jacket as she half-pushed, half-carried him across the terrace.
He stumbled twice and nearly sent them tumbling down the steps that led from the terrace to the garden, but Miranda managed to keep them upright as they made their way along the gravel path through the garden to the street. For once, she was grateful for the fact that she towered over most of her acquaintances. But she was trembling from exhaustion and perspiring through her silk ball gown despite the heavy mist and the cool breeze that blew her skirts against her legs. “I take it back,” she complained. “I take it back, Daniel. You weigh a ton and a half.”
“It’s a good thing you’re no featherweight yourself,” he murmured.
“Insult me again and you’ll be buying me jewels to match my new gown.”
“I didn’t insult you,” he said.
“What do you call it when you tell a lady she’s bigger and heavier than average?” she demanded.
“A compliment.” Daniel sucked in a breath. “The fact that you’re no featherweight is one of the things I like best about you. You give the appearance of being solid and reliable and trustworthy.”
“Instead of beautiful and mysterious and romantic,” Miranda murmured.
“The world is full of beautiful, mysterious, and romantic women,” he said. “Solid, reliable, and trustworthy women are rare.”
“Take it from me, Your Grace,” she informed him. “That is not a compliment.”
“It should be,” he muttered, aware that Miranda was the only thing keeping him upright. “Thunderation, Miranda, don’t you know you’re beautiful? Have I been so remiss? Haven’t I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
Had she heard him correctly? Did he think she was beautiful? She stopped suddenly, and Daniel leaned on her to keep from falling. “No, Your Grace,” she answered. “You’ve never so much as hinted you think I’m beautiful. Suffice it to say, you’ve been extremely remiss.”
Miranda thought she’d already born the brunt of his weight, but until a few moments ago, Daniel had supported more than she’d realized. That no longer being the case, Miranda gave an unladylike grunt as Daniel’s strength abruptly deserted him and the pressure on her shoulders increased tenfold. “Allow me to rectify the error.” He tried to bow and nearly tipped them over. “Miranda, you are beautiful. From the top of your auburn head to the tip of your toes and everywhere in between.” Leaning forward, Daniel peered down the front of her dress and grinned appreciatively. “Not that I’ve seen everything in between … But I’m a man with ex-tit … exquistit … good … taste, and I can tell from looking at these lovelies that everything else is just as nice.”
Miranda blushed.
Daniel frowned. “Now,” he asked, “how much farther?”
“About ten feet,” she answered.
Daniel braced himself for another wave of pain and nausea. “I think I can make it.”
“That makes one of us,” Miranda replied bluntly. “Because I’m not certain I can.” Her knees were shaking and her heart raced from physical exertion and the effect of his words. “Especially across the lawn in full view of the late arrivals.” She pushed him down onto a stone bench and sat down beside him.
Daniel groaned once again. Damn, but he’d forgotten about late arrivals! “You must,” he ordered. “I can make it with your help. I can’t make it alone.”
Miranda took a deep breath—as deep as her half-corset would allow—and forced herself to her feet, then turned and faced him. “Then wait here,” she instructed, “while I go back inside for help.”
Daniel’s face must have mirrored his alarm, for Miranda gave an exasperated sigh. “I understand the need for discretion, Your Grace, but we need help, and Alyssa told me she and Griff were coming tonight. If I can’t find Alyssa and Griff, I’ll look for Lord Grantham or Shepherdston, or your cousin Barclay. They’re sure to be here.” She named the men with whom she knew Daniel associated, the men she knew he trusted, the men she knew the dowager duchess wouldn’t exclude from the guest list. “Rest a bit,” she urged. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Shaking his head slightly, Daniel reached inside his jacket and removed a pewter flask.
Miranda looked askance at the flask. The plain pewter vessel was at odds with Daniel’s otherwise elegant attire, as was the fact that he carried a flask at all. She’d never known him to carry one before—even on cold mornings in the country, where riding and tramping the moors for grouse and pheasant were the local pastimes. And if he carried a flask, Miranda somehow would have expected the Duke of Sussex to carry a silver one.
“What is it?” he demanded, uncapping the flask and taking a long drink from it.
Miranda spoke her thoughts. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you carry a flask.”
“In all the years you’ve known me, you’ve never seen me shot and bleeding like a stuck pig despite Mistress Beekins’s best efforts. Besides—” He drawled, frowning at the flask. “It’s almost empty.”
“Shot?” Miranda’s voice rose an octave. “You complained of tearing some stitches,” she accused. “You didn’t say anything about being shot.”
“If I hadn’t been shot, I wouldn’t have any stitches to tear.” He took another long swallow from the flask and returned it to his inner pocket, amazed that he had the dexterity to do so. He’d consumed an inordinate amount of whisky during the past twelve hours. He’d needed it in order to sleep through as much of the journey to London as possible, but Daniel had still been awakened by the pain during the trip inland and asked Micah to refill the flask several times. And now Daniel remembered Micah refilling it once more before leaving him at the side entrance to Sussex House, departing to deliver the leather pouches to the Marquess of Shepherdston’s London residence.
Daniel was foxed, but not so foxed that he couldn’t feel pain and know that the wound in his side wasn’t going to be the only part of him aching on the morrow. His head would feel the size of a melon and be accompanied by a full company of drummers.
He focused his gaze on Miranda. There were still two of her, but he was able to see both of them clearly. “What did you think happened?”
“I don’t know what I thought,” she admitted. “That you’d been in an accident of some sort. That you’d cracked a rib, or cut yourself climbing a trellis up to the mysterious Mistress Beekins’s bedroom …” She stared at him. “I never dreamed you’d been shot.”
“Cracked ribs don’t bleed, Miranda. And although a cut generally bleeds, I’ve never had to climb a trellis to gain entry to any woman’s bedchamber. And even if I had, I doubt a cut from a climb up a trellis would bleed like that.” Daniel nodded toward the blotch of crimson marring her bodice and trailing down onto her skirts.
“Good heavens!” Miranda stared down at her dress. The bloodstain on her ball gown had spread. It had grown from a stain the size of a coin and blossomed into a stain the size of a man’s hand. Staring down at her bodice, Miranda realized there were, in fact, two stains on her dress—the original one and a nearly perfect impression of Daniel’s bloodied handprint on the curve of her waist and hip. They had known he was bleeding through his waistcoat, but she was certain that neither she nor Daniel had realized he was bleeding so profusely.
“Surprised you, didn’t it?” He looked at his waistcoat. The blood wasn’t visible on the black brocade, but the garment was wet with it. “Surprised me, too.”
“You need help.” She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Someone experienced. Someone who knows what they’re doing …”
“You can’t go back in there to get it,” he said, glancing toward Sussex House. “Not looking like that. Not without attracting attention.”
“But, Daniel, you need …”
“The ball went through the back and out the front, and Mistress Beekins cleaned and stitched
the wound,” he said. “I’ll be fine with some rest.”
“Not if you bleed to death first.”
Daniel winced. “I won’t. Not as long as I rest. But rest is the one thing I won’t get if anyone in there suspects I’m injured. All I’ll get is questions I can’t answer and a stream of curious callers I’d rather avoid.” He reached out and took her hand. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and you spent an entire summer helping Alyssa Abernathy devise all sorts of healing concoctions. I know you learned something, and despite our past differences, Miranda, I trust you to keep this our secret.”
“Daniel, I can’t,” she faltered. “I can’t keep a secret that might endanger your life. I won’t use the front entrance. I’ll go around back to the service entrance and ask to speak with your mother … I’ll tell her it concerns you …”
“You’ll be wasting your breath.” Daniel sighed. “My mother won’t believe anything you have to say …”
“She can’t deny the blood on my dress,” Miranda argued.
“Of course she can.” Daniel attempted a lopsided smile. “Her son is a duke, and everyone knows that a duke’s blood is royal blue.”
“Daniel, this isn’t a joke.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “It’s a matter of life or death. My life or death, and believe me, my dear Lady St. Germaine, my life won’t be worth a penny if word of my injury gets around. And it will get around if you return to the house like that. Someone is bound to notice and ask questions I cannot afford to have asked, much less answer.”
Miranda knew he was right. She couldn’t return to the party with bloodstains on her gown, and she had nothing with which to cover them. She hadn’t worn a wrap, and her evening cloak was hanging in the cloakroom along with a hundred other evening cloaks deposited there by the footmen and maids collecting them at the door as the duchess’s guests arrived. Without her cloak, there was no way Miranda could hide the damage that had been done to her dress, and the only other option was to dispense with her gown and go back inside Sussex House in her undergarments.
Truly a Wife Page 3