Truly a Wife

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  “Mind his side!” Miranda warned, releasing her hold on Daniel in order to hurry around the rear of the coach to the door on the opposite side. Hiking up her skirts, Miranda climbed into the coach. “You push and I’ll pull,” she ordered, as she and Ned worked to get Daniel onto the bench.

  Daniel groaned, unable to fully appreciate the sight of Miranda baring her lace-trimmed chemise and drawers as she scrambled over his legs and released the curtain covering the window before propping him up against it, angling his body so he could extend his legs. “You might try helping a bit,” she suggested as she climbed back over him in order to lift his legs onto the opposite seat.

  Daniel closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side against the velvet-covered squabs. “Can’t,” he said. “I’m all done in.”

  Miranda lifted his legs onto the opposite seat, then settled on the bench beside him and gestured for Ned to close the door.

  “Where to, my lady?” the footman asked, ready to relay her directions to Rupert, the driver.

  Miranda glanced at Daniel. “Daniel?”

  He grunted in reply.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Away from here,” he muttered. “Someplace far away from prying eyes.”

  “Haversham House?” Miranda asked, suggesting Daniel’s country house in Northamptonshire.

  He rolled his head from side to side once again. “Too far,” he breathed. “Can’t leave town.”

  Miranda shook her head at the irony. They were sitting in a coach on the street beside Sussex House—his house—trying to decide where he could go to rest and recover in private. “I think we should simply drive around back and carry you up to your apartments.”

  “No.”

  Miranda frowned, then pursed her lips and tapped them with the pad of her index finger. “Well,” she drawled, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. “I could take you home to Mother, but that would mean announcing our nuptials in all the papers on the morrow and …”

  His eyelids weighed a ton, but Daniel managed to open them long enough to look at her.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said softly.

  “It’s not you,” he whispered. “It’s me. Any man would …”

  Miranda held up her hand to stop his words. She knew what he was going to say before he said it. Any man would be honored to marry her … Any man would be glad to share his name with her in exchange for a share in her fortune … Any man would be pleased to have such a big, healthy woman bear his children …

  Any man except the ninth Duke of Sussex.

  But knowing he wasn’t in the market for a duchess didn’t make his rejection any easier to bear. She understood his reluctance to relinquish his freedom, understood that he was quite satisfied with the status quo. She knew his rejection wasn’t personal. Her head knew his rejection wasn’t personal. Her tender heart felt differently. Miranda wasn’t surprised to learn that Daniel hadn’t changed his mind about marriage. What surprised her was how much the knowledge pained her and how much she’d wanted to hear otherwise. She sighed. How long would she continue to wear her heart on her sleeve for him? And how long would he continue to pretend he couldn’t see it? “Yes, Your Grace, I know,” she said wearily. “I’m perfect and you’re a perfect ass.”

  Miranda’s footman gasped at her audacity in calling the duke an ass.

  “Don’t worry, Ned,” she assured her employee. “I’m not spilling state secrets, and His Grace doesn’t take offense at the truth. His Grace knows he’s a perfect ass. He works quite hard to retain the title.”

  Daniel couldn’t muster the energy to reply. The best he could manage was the faint curving of his lips.

  The heavy mist that had hung in the air for the past quarter hour had dissolved into a steady rain. Miranda bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering as the cool damp of the night air penetrated the silk of her gown. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms to warm them, then leaned close to Daniel—close enough to notice that it took a great deal of effort for him to respond and that despite the chill in the air, beads of perspiration continued to dot his brow and his upper lip. “So, we stay in town. What’s it to be, Your Grace? Shall I drop you off at Griff and Alyssa’s? Or at Colin and Gillian’s?” She named the most logical choices, for she knew Griffin Abernathy, the first Duke of Avon, and Colin McElreath, Viscount Grantham, were attending the Duchess’s party with their wives—or, she knew Griff and Alyssa were attending, and Miranda assumed Lord and Lady Grantham were there as well—for the couples had become close friends, and the Duchess of Sussex’s gala was the most coveted invitation of the season. It seemed unlikely that anyone who received an invitation would choose not to attend, except Jarrod, Marquess of Shepherdston, of course. And he was known for refusing coveted invitations, preferring to keep a healthy distance between himself and society mothers hoping to snare a wealthy marquess.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “You have to go somewhere, Daniel. You can’t hide in my coach all night.”

  Daniel knew Miranda was right. He should go to one of his fellow Free Fellows’ houses. But he was reluctant to do so. Despite the fact that he despised boats, Daniel thrilled in anticipation at the thought of another mission, and Jarrod had made no secret of the fact that he hated sending Daniel out on them. Sitting dukes were rather scarce, and the Crown and the ton took note of the Duke of Sussex’s comings and goings. They would be sure to notice his absence from town at the height of the season—especially if he failed to appear at the major events. Which was the primary reason he’d nearly killed himself racing back to town in time for his mother’s gala. If Jarrod discovered he’d been seriously injured, Daniel’s participation in the smuggling runs would be curtailed and he’d be reduced to arranging and financing the missions from the safety of his Sussex House study instead. And all the time he’d spent sailing and rowing in order to learn to control the violent heaving of his stomach he suffered whenever he set foot on a boat would be for naught. Of course, he’d never have to set foot in a boat again. But to be relegated to the role of onlooker once again would be intolerable.

  It would be so much simpler if he could tell Miranda about the League …

  But he was sworn to secrecy—even from her. He didn’t believe for a second that Miranda would ever betray him, especially since she was risking almost as much as he was by putting her reputation in jeopardy in order to help him. But one slip of the tongue—one word about his clandestine activities to the wrong person—and the work of the League would be in grave danger.

  But keeping her in ignorance was going to be a problem …

  Miranda had known him too long and too well to be put off by trifling excuses. He trusted Miranda more than he’d ever trusted any woman, and he knew she cared about him. She’d never made any secret of the fact that she’d been terribly hurt when he’d abruptly ended his courtship of her.

  If only there were a way to ensure that he and Miranda would remain on the best of terms … A way to protect her as well as himself … If only there were something he could do … Some way to ensure that Miranda’s guilty knowledge of his injury wouldn’t do either one of them any harm …

  If only …

  Daniel suddenly recalled the look on Miranda’s face when she’d told him, “that would mean announcing our nuptials in all the papers on the morrow.” Recalled the way she’d looked when she’d read the expression on his face and confirmed it. “I didn’t think so.”

  There was a way. A way that offered them the protection they would need if anyone learned his secret.

  No matter that it wasn’t his first choice—it was the best one. For Miranda deserved all the protection he could give her.

  His friends and the work of the league deserved all the protection he could give them.

  “Bloody hell!” His whisky-soaked brain latched onto the idea and refused to let go. He could give Miranda what she wanted and protect himself at the same time.

&
nbsp; “Daniel, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” he said. “But it’s going to be all right.” He gave Miranda a drunken smile. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  She did her best to return his smile and almost succeeded. “Are you certain?”

  Daniel didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded his head instead.

  “Have you decided where you want to go?”

  “Number Four St. Michael’s Square.”

  “Number Four?” Miranda frowned. “That’s …”

  Daniel nodded. “St. Michael’s Palace.” He had been christened at St. Michael’s Church, which stood beside the palace. It was the church to which he belonged and the church to which the dukes of Sussex had been patrons for as long as anyone could remember.

  Miranda reached out and placed her hand on his forehead. “You’re feverish. You need a doctor. I think I should take you to hospital.”

  Daniel opened his eyes. “No hospital. No doctor. Just the Bishop Manwaring and you.”

  Miranda’s mouth formed a perfect “O” of surprise. “You’re foxed, Daniel. Very foxed. You don’t know what you’re saying or what you’re doing.”

  “I am foxed,” Daniel agreed. “Very foxed. But I know what I’m saying and I know what I’m doing.”

  Miranda shivered involuntarily, and her voice quavered when she whispered, “Please, Daniel, don’t.” She bit her bottom lip and looked down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. “Don’t make things worse than they already are.”

  “Worse?” He winced. “How can making things right make anything worse?”

  “I became an object of pity and the ton’s perpetual bridesmaid when you ended our last courtship so abruptly. If word of this got out, it would be far worse. And it isn’t something you can take back, so please, don’t say it unless you mean it.”

  “Marry me,” he said. “Now.”

  Miranda shook her head. “You won’t remember this in the sober light of morning,” she warned.

  “I’ll remember.”

  “If you do,” she predicted, “it will be with regret.”

  Daniel looked her in the eye. “I promise I’ll have no regrets unless I read about it in tomorrow’s papers,” he told her. “I want you to marry me.”

  “Tonight?”

  He nodded. “And it must remain a secret for a while.”

  “How long?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  Miranda was afraid to hope. Afraid to dream. Afraid to believe he might really mean it. “Why?”

  “Why?” he echoed.

  She nodded. “Why do you want to marry me?”

  Daniel hesitated, debating whether to tell her the truth or the fairy tale. The truth was that he’d always felt badly about ending their first courtship and reducing her to an object of pity in the circle in which they moved. The truth was that as a gentleman, he was expected to sacrifice himself upon the matrimonial altar in order to preserve her good name and reputation since he’d been the man who’d recklessly jeopardized them. Not just tonight, but once before.

  The truth was that marrying her immediately offered privacy and protection for both of them. A wife could not be compelled to bear witness against her husband if the nature of his injury or the reason for it became known. But the truth was calculating and not the least bit romantic, so Daniel opted for the fairy tale. “I thought all young ladies dreamed of eloping with a duke.”

  “And I thought you’d learned better when Alyssa Carrollton chose Griffin Abernathy over you.”

  “Alyssa was the exception,” he admitted. “She didn’t want to be a duchess.”

  The irony, of course, was that Alyssa had chosen a viscount over a duke, only to have her viscount elevated to the rank of duke when he returned from war a national hero. “She’s perfectly happy as Griff’s duchess,” Miranda reminded him. “She didn’t want to be yours.”

  “What about you, Miranda?” he whispered suggestively. “Can you honestly say the same?”

  She couldn’t. And Daniel knew it.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Cat got your sharp little tongue?”

  “When did you become so cruel?” Miranda asked.

  “I’m not being cruel.” He reached inside his jacket, fumbling to get his hand in one of the inner pockets. “I’m offering you your heart’s desire.”

  Miranda watched as Daniel produced his pewter flask, uncapped it, took a long swallow, then laid the flask aside. “I’m sure the bishop will sell us a special license. Think about it, Miranda. I’ve decided to take a duchess. Now. Tonight.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, cringing even as he spoke them. “Wouldn’t you like to be a bride? Or are you content to walk down the aisle at season’s end as someone else’s bridesmaid?”

  She looked over at Ned. “Take us to Number Four St. Michael’s Square.”

  Chapter Five

  “Where love is, no disguise can hide it for long;

  Where it is not, none can stimulate it.”

  —François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, 1613–1680

  Rupert pulled the coach to a halt in front of Number Four St. Michael’s Square a little past midnight. The bishop’s residence was called a palace, but it wasn’t appreciably larger than any of the other houses fronting the square. It was a stately red brick house that had housed the bishops of St. Michael’s for over a century. The other houses on the square were dark and quiet, and the streets around and behind it were empty of vehicles and pedestrians.

  It was, Miranda had to admit, the perfect setting for a secret wedding, even if it wasn’t the wedding of her dreams. She waited in the coach with Daniel as Ned hurried up the walk to ring the bell, rouse the bishop, and bring him to the coach.

  “Aren’t we going in?” Miranda asked.

  Daniel lifted the leather curtain and looked out the window of the vehicle. He gauged the distance between the street and the front door, counted the number of steps, and then slowly shook his head. “ ’Fraid not. I don’t think I can make it inside under my own power, and I refuse to be carried inside. I don’t intend to give Bishop Manwaring a reason to refuse us a license.”

  “What reason could he have?”

  “Coercion,” Daniel replied, slurring the word ever so slightly.

  “Of whom? You or me?”

  Daniel’s attempt at a smile turned into a grimace as he shifted his weight on the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I’m the only one sporting a wound.”

  “I can see it in the papers now,” Miranda said. “Mad Marchioness Wounds Dashing Duke in Desperate Bid to Force Him to Wed.”

  “Pray we don’t see it in the papers,” Daniel managed. “Since scandal is what we’re hoping to avoid.”

  Miranda smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her bloodstained silk dress. “That’s not all we’re trying to avoid. Is it, Daniel?”

  “I’m doing my damnedest to avoid the grim reaper …” He gave her a ghost of his usual charming smile, and Miranda suddenly realized just how weak he was. “And avoiding both our mothers is an equally challenging and worthy goal.”

  “I understand why you want to avoid your mother,” Miranda told him. “But I don’t know why you want to avoid mine. My mother is warm and welcoming and approves wholeheartedly of you.”

  “Most mothers approve of me, my dear marchioness,” he drawled. “I’m a duke.”

  “Cumberland’s a duke,” Miranda reminded him. “And Mother despises him.”

  “Your mother is a paragon of good judgment,” he conceded. “Unlike mine, whose taste in all things fashionable is unparalleled, but whose ability to judge character is questionable at best.”

  “Her Grace is an excellent judge of character,” Miranda disagreed. “That’s why she doesn’t like me.”

  Daniel pretended to be shocked. “Are you saying you’ve no character, Lady Miranda?”

  “I’m saying I’ve too much character and that your mother wishes
I had less.” Miranda sighed. “She only wants what’s best for you, and she believes that a beautiful, petite, malleable young bride is the best choice.”

  “Like I said, my mother’s ability to judge character is questionable at best, especially if she believes that that sort of girl is what I require in a duchess. It’s what she requires, not I.” He paused to press his arm against the wound in his side. “Fortunately, I have the final say.”

  “Yes, and think how delighted Her Grace is going to be when she learns of your choice.”

  “You’re more than equal to the task of managing my mother,” Daniel told her.

  “Let’s hope so,” Miranda breathed, peeking through the curtain in time to see Ned holding an umbrella above the head of a hastily dressed clergyman wearing a nightcap and carrying his prayer book, Bible, and what looked to be the parish register beneath his arm, down the walkway to the coach. “You’ve a moment left to change your mind,” she told him. “Are you certain this is what you want to do?”

  Daniel took a deep breath—as deep as was possible with his ribs tightly bound—then slowly exhaled. “It’s hardly the way I envisioned it, but after rousting the bishop from his warm bed, I dare not back out now.”

  It wasn’t the way she’d envisioned her wedding, either. She’d never expected to be married inside a coach instead of a chapel, during a spring downpour, or with a footman and a coachman as attendants. But it was a legal wedding with the groom of her choice, and Miranda seized the moment.

  The rain poured from the sky in torrents, pummeling the roof of the coach with such force that the bishop nearly had to shout to be heard when he opened the door of the coach, leaned inside, and greeted Daniel. “Is that you, Your Grace?” The clergyman peered into the interior of the coach.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Daniel answered.

  “Your footman says you have need of me.”