Truly a Wife

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  Miranda took a deep breath and told him the truth. “Would you believe that you were so foxed you insisted upon calling at St. Michael’s Palace and summoning the bishop from his bed in order to preserve my reputation and to prevent my mother from having to prevail upon you to do so?”

  Daniel blanched. Miranda watched as the small amount of color he’d had in his face leeched out. “No, I wouldn’t believe it.” He couldn’t believe he’d go so far as to suggest marriage to Miranda or anyone else, no matter how foxed he was.

  “You should,” Miranda said softly.

  The aching in Daniel’s head told him she was right. “I proposed?”

  Miranda nodded.

  Daniel gave a little laugh. “You mean to tell me that if I had secured a special license, we’d be married by now?”

  “I suppose that depends,” Miranda told him.

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not I’d accept.” She stared into Daniel’s bloodshot eyes. He didn’t remember.

  “Then I needn’t worry.” He rubbed his temple in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain building there, then raked his fingers through his hair. “You would never accept a proposal under those conditions.” He met her unflinching gaze. “Would you?”

  He didn’t remember. He honestly didn’t remember.

  It shouldn’t come as a shock. Miranda had known Daniel was extremely intoxicated. She’d warned him that he was acting rashly and that she was afraid he wouldn’t remember his actions in the morning. Or worse, remember and regret. The fact that her prediction had come to pass, the fact that he didn’t recall summoning Bishop Manwaring or participating in the ceremony, shouldn’t shock or hurt her. But it did.

  A few short hours earlier, Daniel had promised to love, honor, and cherish her. Keeping his vows was written into the ceremony. Remembering them was not.

  “Miranda?” Daniel made no effort to hide the concern in his voice. “You wouldn’t accept a proposal under those circumstances, would you?”

  “And bind myself to you on a whim?” She pretended an outrage she didn’t feel. “For better or worse as long as we both shall live?” She looked him in the eye and said what he wanted to hear, said what he expected her to say. “You must be joking.”

  Daniel exhaled. “Then it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d secured a special license?”

  The look on his face spoke volumes. Miranda wondered how she was going to bear the pain of knowing he found the idea of marrying her so repugnant. “You did secure one.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I purchased a special license and took you to St. Michael’s Square?”

  Miranda took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry as she met Daniel’s gaze. “That’s right, Your Grace,” she answered softly.

  “I don’t remember any of it.”

  Miranda looked him in the eye, read the expression on his face, and determined to salvage what she could of her pride by setting his mind to rest. “It happened, Your Grace, but you fell asleep in the carriage before you could repeat your vows, thereby narrowly escaping a leg-shackling to me.”

  Daniel’s body sagged with relief. “That explains why I’ve no memory of a wedding ceremony, how I came to be here, or how we came to be sharing a bed.”

  The amount of whisky he’d consumed explained why he had no memory of repeating marriage vows or of being carried to this room, but Miranda refrained from pointing it out. He wouldn’t believe it anyway. Because he didn’t want to believe it.

  “How did I get here?”

  “Ned and I brought you …”

  “Ned?”

  “My footman,” she reminded him. “You were bleeding quite badly, and I didn’t know where else to take you.” Miranda reached for the brocade robe lying at the foot of the bed, slipped it on over her sheet, then rolled gracefully off the mattress and onto the floor. She had to get away before she made a complete fool of herself.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nature calls, Your Grace.” Miranda smiled brightly. Too brightly. And ruthlessly held back the tears threatening to overtake her, but her voice barely wavered. “For me and no doubt for you as well.” Walking around to the foot of the bed, Miranda bent over and pulled the chamber pot from beneath the bed, then handed it to Daniel.

  Daniel blinked in surprise. “I may require assistance,” he told her. “Will you send a footman in to help me?”

  “Would that I could, Your Grace, but I’m afraid you’ll have to make do without one—or wait until I return to help you.”

  “What?” He was truly astonished.

  “There’s no one here but us, Your Grace.”

  “Ned?” Daniel glanced down at the pink sheet. He was as naked beneath it as she had been.

  Surely, Miranda hadn’t …

  “Ned carried you up here, put you on the bed, and helped me remove your coat and boots before I sent him home.” She answered his unspoken query. “Under the circumstances, I thought the fewer people who knew the nature and the gravity of your wound, the better.”

  Daniel turned his attention to the fresh bandage covering the wound in his side, then back to Miranda. The bleeding had stopped, and although the wound ached like the devil and his head felt as if it would explode, he didn’t feel feverish. “Who tended it?”

  “I did.” Miranda shrugged her shoulders. “My needlework isn’t as neat as your Mistress Beekins’s, but I managed to stop the bleeding and disinfect the wound.”

  “You sewed me up again?”

  “Yes. But I’ve never stitched a person before, so you’ll most likely carry a scar to remind you of your narrow escape from—” She looked at him. “You told me you’d been shot, but you didn’t tell me how it came about.”

  “It came about when the man on the other end of the pistol pulled the trigger.”

  Miranda felt her heart skip a beat. “Would that man happen to be a certain Mistress Beekins’s husband?”

  “Mistress Beekins’s …” Daniel frowned.

  “You talk in your sleep, Your Grace.”

  Apparently not enough, if Miranda thought … The woman was old enough to be his mother and married to boot … “I don’t dally with other men’s wives, Lady Miranda.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” she retorted. “But you were shot, Your Grace.”

  Daniel made a face at her.

  “Please, tell me you weren’t dueling over a point of honor.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  She blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Over some other woman then?”

  The corners of Daniel’s mouth turned up in a small smile. “Fishing?”

  “How does one manage to get shot while fishing?”

  “I didn’t,” he replied.

  “You said …” Miranda began.

  Daniel cut her off. “I said you were fishing. For answers.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?” She asked the question, but Miranda already knew the answer.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied.

  “Do you think that’s fair?” she demanded, knowing she sounded like a petulant child but unable to keep from asking. “After everything I did for you last night?”

  He slowly turned his head from side to side. “No. But fairness has nothing to do with it. We have a history together. I cherish our friendship, Miranda, and I appreciate the help you’ve given me.” He paused to take a breath. “Indeed, I don’t know what I would have done without your help, but accepting your help doesn’t obligate me to share every facet of my life with you. Or mean I want you to share every facet of your life with me.” He glanced down at the sheet covering him and offered her his most charming smile to take the sting out of his words. “I’ve few secrets left. And a man’s entitled to keep a bit of an air of mystery about him.”

  Miranda fought to keep from doubling over at the pain he inflicted so thoughtlessly, fought to keep from retaliating in kind, but failed. “I’ll rememb
er that the next time your body’s wracked with chills or you’re burning up with fever. I’ll remind myself that I’m under no obligation to share my body heat or anything else with you.”

  “Share your body heat …” He’d experienced his share of childhood bumps and bruises and endured the aftereffects of too much drink on more occasions than he cared to remember, but Daniel had never been ill. He hadn’t suffered more than the occasional head cold since he was a child. He found the idea that he’d endured fever and chills without knowing it remarkable. “I’ve never suffered from fever or chills.”

  “You did last evening.” She ran a hand over her hair in an effort to smooth the tangles and blushed. “Off and on throughout the night. I dosed you with willow bark and did everything I knew to do to ease your discomfort, but …”

  He lifted his eyebrow in query. “Willow bark doesn’t agree with me.” As a treatment for a hangover or anything else.

  “Would that I had known that before you spewed it all over me,” Miranda answered wryly, recalling the damage he’d inflicted on her green silk dress.

  Daniel softened his voice. “You must be exhausted.”

  She shrugged her shoulders once again and focused her attention on the pink rug to keep from seeing the look in his eyes. “Yes, well … I slept a bit.”

  “With me?”

  “One does what one must to help a friend,” she replied awkwardly.

  “I suppose so,” he agreed, “but sharing your body heat …” He wrinkled his brow in thought. “You’ve gone above and beyond the bounds of friendship, Miranda.”

  “Like you said before, Your Grace, I only did what any other wi … friend … would do.”

  Daniel thought about his friends. Would Jarrod or Colin or Griff or Jonathan or Alex have crawled beneath the covers while he was suffering chills and shared their body heat with him? It was possible. But only if his life or theirs had been in danger… A man would lay down his life for his friends, but … “A female friend, perhaps,” Daniel replied. “I’m not so sure about the male ones.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then flashed Miranda a wicked smile. “At any rate, waking up to find a female friend sharing her body heat is a pleasure. Waking up to find a male friend doing the same doesn’t bear contemplating …” He shuddered at the possibility. “At any rate, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “There’s no need to thank me, Your Grace. As you pointed out so eloquently, our friendship doesn’t obligate you to me in any way.” Miranda turned and hurried out the door before she made a bigger fool of herself by bursting into tears.

  Daniel realized he’d hurt her the moment the words left her mouth. “Miranda …” he began, trying to stop her, trying to make amends.

  But it was too late.

  The room was empty.

  He was alone. Talking to himself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “It was a dream of perfect bliss,

  Too beautiful to last.”

  —Thomas Haynes Bayly, 1797–1839

  Her eyes were red and swollen when she returned to the bedchamber. And although she’d splashed cool water on her face in the kitchen, where she’d retreated to make her ablutions, there was no disguising the fact that she’d spent the better part of half an hour sobbing.

  She didn’t know why she always allowed him to get beneath her skin. But she did, and it had taken less than a day for marriage to Daniel to turn her into a veritable watering pot.

  In all fairness, Miranda knew that she wouldn’t have shed a single tear had Daniel remembered taking the vows that had made her his duchess—or if he’d seemed the least bit happy by the prospect. But nothing was further from the truth.

  Daniel was horrified by the very idea.

  What should be the happiest day of her life was turning into a nightmare. Ned hadn’t returned, and neither had Rupert. She was tired and hungry and disappointed, and she hadn’t anything to wear. She had married a man who didn’t want a wife. And compounded her mistake by lying to him, telling Daniel what he wanted to hear, telling him that he’d fallen asleep before the bishop could marry them instead of telling him the truth.

  Miranda had no one to blame for her tears but herself. She had known Daniel was in no condition to marry her or to remember it afterward. She had taken advantage of his moment of weakness. But how could she deny herself the thing she wanted most when it was within her grasp? How could she refuse his proposal? When Daniel had insisted on marrying her then and there?

  And now that it was done, how long could she pretend she’d never said “I do”?

  Taking a deep, calming breath, Miranda knocked once, then opened the bedroom door to find Daniel standing by the casement window overlooking Curzon Street with the coverlet from the bed wrapped around him and tucked beneath his arms.

  He turned to face her as she entered.

  “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Answering the call of nature was easier on my feet.”

  Miranda looked at the open window, then at Daniel, and back again. “You didn’t.”

  “Of course not,” he assured her. “I know better than to use a front window.”

  She relaxed.

  Daniel couldn’t resist. “I used the chamber pot and the side window.”

  Miranda glanced at the side window that overlooked the narrow lane between her house and the one beside it, and at the chamber pot sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, its porcelain lid firmly in place. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

  Until he gave her a wicked smile.

  “You’re in luck, milady, for this happens to be a very modern house. There’s a bath through that door.” He pointed toward a door that Miranda had supposed led to a sitting room. Ned had neglected to mention that the master bedchamber connected to a bath, and Miranda hadn’t thought to look. “With a Bramah toilet, sink, and bath, complete with hot and cold taps.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But the water coming out of both taps is cold.” He turned suddenly, leaned out the front window, and whistled to someone down below. “Up here.”

  “Daniel!” Miranda’s heart beat a rapid tattoo. “Someone might recognize you.”

  “Wearing a pink toga and morning whiskers?” he asked, rubbing his hand over the whiskers that had appeared on his face overnight. “Not likely.”

  “I recognize you,” Miranda shot back. “And there may be other residents of Curzon Street who will. Especially if you fall out of the window and onto the street below.” She frowned as he leaned a bit farther out the window. “What on earth are you doing?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Miranda as if the sight of a half-naked duke leaning out an upper story window was a common occurrence. “Ordering breakfast.”

  Miranda was clearly surprised. “Breakfast?”

  Daniel nodded. “I’m hungry. It seems like days since I’ve eaten.” He paused. “I missed the milkmaids and the bakers, but the pieman’s down below. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “No, I didn’t.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly half past seven. The St. Germaine town house sat in the middle of the block on Upper Brook Street, behind Park Lane, and the dairy maids generally reached the streets surrounding it at seven, followed by the bakers, piemen, and fruit vendors around eight o’clock in the morning. Miranda supposed it took them a bit longer to reach Curzon Street. Still, she hadn’t heard the noise outside the house because she’d been crying in the kitchen.

  “Well,” Daniel drawled, “would you like a pie?”

  Miranda nodded.

  Daniel held out four fingers. “Two apple and two cherry.” He turned back to Miranda. “Have we anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?” He shuddered. “Lemonade?”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “And at any rate, I don’t know how to brew coffee or tea or make lemonade.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Daniel made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I’m a duke,” he reminded her, “and I know how to brew tea and coffee. And you, a m
ere marchioness … I thought all women of lesser title knew how to brew tea and coffee.”

  “We know how to pour tea and coffee,” she corrected. “And how to ask suitors to fetch lemonade. We employ servants who brew it.”

  “Not at the moment.” Daniel turned to the window and ordered three coffees from the pieman—two strong and black and the other with cream and sugar. “And luckily, since we’re in London, we won’t have to wait for servants to come and do it. All we need are a few pennies …”

  Miranda took the hint. Collecting her reticule from the drawer of the night table, she reached inside for a shilling and handed it to Daniel.

  “Thanks.” Daniel took the shilling and flipped it out the window to the pieman. “He’s leaving the basket on the front steps. I’ll go down and collect it,” he said, as he turned to Miranda. “It is Thursday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d better hurry. I’ve an important meeting at eight.” Glancing around for his clothes, Daniel discovered his jacket, waistcoat, and trousers lying in a heap in a puddle on the bedroom rug along with what looked to be a gentleman’s nightshirt and a pair of mint green dancing slippers.

  Puzzled by the fact that Miranda’s green dancing slippers were beneath the pile of wet garments he identified as mostly belonging to him, Daniel bent at the waist to retrieve them. But the morning’s exertion caught up with him. His knees went weak as his legs refused to support his weight. He became lightheaded, and his face lost all color. Clutching the green ribbons in his fist, Daniel grabbed for the window ledge, missed, and fell to his knees.

  “Daniel!” Miranda caught him as he hit the floor.

  He offered her the ribbons and the ruined slippers attached to them. “These are yours, I believe.”

  Miranda tossed the slippers aside.

  “You may need those,” Daniel informed her in a weak voice. “To go downstairs and collect our breakfast from the front steps.” He looked up at her. “I’d be a gentleman and go, but my garments are all wet. And at any road, I don’t believe I could manage just yet.” He looked at her, amazement etched on his features. “Suddenly I’m as weak as a kitten.”