Throughout the exchange, her biggest challenge lay in remembering to refer to him as your brother, your son, your brother-in-law, or your uncle, and not call him Roscoe. His family and the staff never referred to him as Roscoe, but as Julian, Lord Julian, or your lordship, and she had no idea how much they knew of his other life in London.
The other oddity that struck her was the family’s unfeigned, quite pointed and open interest in her, Roderick, their family, and their life in London; it was almost as if they lived isolated and hadn’t had an outside visitor in an age, but that wasn’t true. Enough comments were dropped about ton events, enough names mentioned, names even she recognized, to confirm that all the ladies, the elders as well as the younger set, were socially active.
Why, then, their avid interest in her and Roderick?
Because they were a part of Roscoe’s other life?
By the end of the meal, she found herself as fascinated by the others about the table as they patently were by her. And the largely silent man beside her was the fulcrum about which everyone’s interest revolved.
When they all rose, Henry turned to him. “Come and play a round of billiards.”
He sent her a subtly questioning look.
For once she found it easy to read. She smiled and waved him off. “I’m going to return to Roderick.”
He hesitated, his gaze going past her, then he inclined his head and followed Henry out.
She turned to thank the duchess, but instead that lady, coming up beside her, took her arm.
“Please call me Caroline.” The duchess smiled. “And no, you can’t slip upstairs before taking tea. That wouldn’t do at all. Come to the drawing room, and I’ll have them bring in the tray.”
Acquiescing, she walked beside Caroline out of the dining room.
“You’ll find your things in the room next to your brother’s,” Caroline said. “We assumed you would want to be close.”
“Thank you.” Miranda had no difficulty making the words heartfelt. “You’ve all been very kind.”
“Pshaw!” The dowager was walking immediately behind them. “We might be helping, but please don’t imagine you owe us anything, my dear. The truth is that you and your brother have given us an opportunity we’ve all been waiting for for years.”
Reaching the drawing room’s doorway, Miranda glanced at the dowager and let her puzzlement show.
The dowager beamed and patted her arm. “You’ve given us a chance to help Julian. Even if it’s oblique, through helping you and your brother, it’s the first chance we’ve ever had to even the scales.”
The duchess had paused to ask the butler to bring in the tea tray. The dowager’s smile softened, and she waved Miranda on. Walking with her to the twin sofas set facing each other before the fireplace in which a cheery blaze dispelled the gathering chill, the dowager continued, “From what was said earlier, I gather your brother’s London house is close by my son’s.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Miranda accepted the dowager’s waved invitation to sit on one sofa beside her. “It’s a few minutes’ walk away, around one corner.”
“I see. Have you ever been inside my son’s house?”
“Twice, but only in the reception rooms, of course.”
“Excellent.” The dowager’s smile turned delighted.
Roscoe’s sisters quickly gathered on the sofa opposite while the duchess came to sit elegantly in a wing chair nearby. The dowager glanced at them, then looked at Miranda. “We would all be greatly in your debt if you would describe his house to us—we’ve never seen it, you see.”
She looked at their faces—all eager, but with a deep-seated, underlying need to know. She didn’t understand what was going on, but there was something in their faces, in their need, she recognized. That she knew she would feel if she’d ever been separated from Roderick as they, apparently, had been separated from . . . their son, their brother, their brother-in-law.
They all loved him. Absolutely and without reservation. And so they yearned to know, and that yearning had nothing to do with simple curiosity.
Sitting back, Miranda drew breath, then nodded. “Very well.” And proceeded to tell them as much as she could of what they desired, and needed, to know.
They kept to their unvoiced bargain; the instant she finished her tea, the ladies released her to return to Roderick.
He hadn’t moved. He lay in the bed, quietly breathing, sunk in sleep.
“His fever’s fading.” Nurse rose from the armchair.
Miranda sighed. “That’s a relief. I did wonder if it would turn worse.”
“Never fear. It’s as the doctor said—your brother’s a fine, healthy young man. He might have lost a bit of weight through his ordeal, but what’s beneath is strong, hale, and robust. He’ll pull through and be as good as new.”
Miranda glanced at the older woman. Smiled. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing but the truth, miss. Now, if you’re going to sit with him for a short while, I’ll go down and have my supper.”
“Yes, please do.” She turned to the chair beside the bed.
Nurse nodded briskly. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
The door closed and the room fell silent. Sitting with Roderick’s limp hand cradled in hers, Miranda found her mind drifting back to the drawing room, back over the conversation about the dining table, reliving the exchanges, cataloging all she’d heard, all she’d learned. All she’d offered in return.
She’d been careful to walk a fine but definite line. She hadn’t felt comfortable revealing anything that Roscoe might deem private; defining that line had been difficult given she knew nothing of his reasons, his motives, didn’t know enough to even guess at why Lord Julian Delbraith, scion of the dukedom of Ridgware, had become Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king.
As Respectability’s handmaiden, she recognized the danger that transformation posed to his socially prominent family, but that interested her far less than the insight the dowager had let fall.
“It’s the first chance we’ve ever had to even the scales.”
Roscoe was helping her and Roderick; he’d come to their aid the instant he’d known they’d needed help, had aided them unstintingly, without reserve, and refused to even consider repayment.
He’d established and led the Philanthropy Guild, an organization devoted to helping those less fortunate—quietly, without any fanfare or desire for recognition.
But, it seemed, even before that, he’d helped his family—and that, too, had apparently been done with a complete and absolute eschewal of any degree of personal recompense.
In helping others, he gave with an all but ruthless selflessness, leaving those he helped with very little opportunity to, as the dowager had put it, balance the scales.
Neville Roscoe-Lord Julian Delbraith—whoever he was, he was an intriguing man.
Passing the long-case clock in the gallery on his way to Roderick’s room, Roscoe saw that it was nearly midnight. Too restless to settle, let alone sleep, he’d been in his room when a sleepy footman had brought a summons from Nurse.
He’d been thinking, pondering, warily curious as to why, after all his years of rigid caution, he’d so readily accepted allowing Miranda and Roderick to learn the secret powerful enough to destroy the family he’d spent the past twelve years, indeed most of his adult life, protecting. The real wonder, however, was that he would do it again, and not one iota of regret or fear of an adverse outcome troubled him.
Then again, he’d spent a lifetime gauging odds and knew beyond question that he’d weighed and judged Miranda and Roderick correctly.
Reaching Roderick’s room, he opened the door. Nurse came to her feet and beckoned him in. Leaving the door ajar, he approached the bed, his gaze following Nurse’s not to Roderick, still lying on his back apparently sound asleep, but to the figure slumped on the side of the bed.
Miranda.
Seated on a straight-backed chair pulled close to the bed, she lay wit
h her head on her outstretched arms, one hand lightly grasping one of Roderick’s. She’d let down her hair. The lustrous brown tresses lay like a living veil over her shoulders, screening her face.
“She’s been sound asleep for over an hour.” Nurse cast him a sharp glance. “Exhausted, I expect.”
She hadn’t been his nurse; he’d been twelve or so when she’d first come to Ridgware as nurse to Millicent, then the other two girls. Regardless, Nurse—she’d never been known as anything else—knew him well enough. From the disapproval she was radiating, he got the impression she’d expected him to arrive and deal with Miranda without her having to summon him.
“If she stays like that until morning, she’ll be sorry.” Nurse tipped her head to his right. “Her room’s next door. Bed’s made up and waiting.”
Her suggestion—her order—was clear.
Stifling a whisper of wary warning, he circled the bed. Gently brushing back Miranda’s hair, he confirmed she was dead to the world. Disengaging her fingers from Roderick’s, he bent and eased her into his arms. One arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, he lifted her so smoothly she didn’t stir.
He turned to the door. Nurse was already there. She held the door open, waited while he angled his burden through, then slipped past, down the corridor, and opened the door to the next bedchamber.
Carrying Miranda in, he walked to the bed; as Nurse had said, it was made up and ready for use, the coverlet already turned down. Walking to the side of the bed, he leaned across and gently laid Miranda down.
He heard the snick of the door latch. Glancing at the door, he confirmed that Nurse had left, presumably to return to Roderick.
Leaving him to deal with Roderick’s sister. Alone.
Inwardly shaking his head—he couldn’t understand how the two of them being lovers, lovers for just one night, was somehow so obvious—he set about unlacing her half boots. Her being exhausted was hardly a surprise; the previous night had been a long one, what with the visitation by the Kempseys and Doles, followed by the understandably but nevertheless unexpectedly heightened sexual engagement, followed by their early morning departure and the long day searching for the cottage and Roderick, capped by their difficult rescue, their escape from the howling hordes, and subsequent rattling race through the countryside. To Ridgware.
Arriving there had been yet another shock for her, but she’d weathered it with a clear-eyed calm for which he was truly grateful. She’d accepted what he’d told her, what he’d revealed and what he hadn’t, and had gone forward with that and had managed.
Setting her half boots aside, he hesitated, then stripped off her hose. She had delicately formed, nicely arched feet; his hands lingered, palms caressing her soles as he drew the silk stockings away. Laying both aside, he considered the tightly laced mourning gown, as uncomfortable a creation as he’d ever beheld. Surrendering to the compulsion that wasn’t going to let him turn around and walk away, he eased her over and started on the laces.
He’d undone the laces and the buttons of the bodice and was drawing the sleeves down her arms when she stirred. He froze, wondering if he ought to place a hand over her lips in case she screamed, but then her lids rose; she saw him, appeared to instantly recognize him, then she blinked and looked around.
“Oh.” She tried to struggle up to her elbows, but with his hands on her arms, he held her down. She frowned at him. “Roderick. I have—”
“He’s sound asleep. I would say dead to the world, but you might get the wrong impression.” Moonlight streamed in through the windows to either side of the bed; in the weak light he searched her face, saw the reality of her exhaustion. “Your brother’s doing the right thing and resting—you need to do the same.”
A mulish look he was coming to know well invested her features.
He responded by taking the tack he should have from the first—the one most likely to persuade her. “You won’t be any use to Roderick tomorrow, when he wakes and needs you there, if you’re weaving on your feet.”
Her lips had parted, presumably to protest, but his words gave her pause. Her frown deepened.
He moved to clinch his victory, minor though it was. “Nurse said she’d come and fetch you if Roderick wakes, and she’s experienced and reliable, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t rest. Aside from all else, you’ll need to spell her in the morning, so she can rest then.”
“Hmm.” Miranda’s frown started to lift. He renewed his tugging on her sleeves, and she huffed out a small breath, relaxed, and let him draw the sleeves off her hands and the gown down to her waist.
Lying back on the pillows, she sank both hands in the material bunched at her hips and pushed, wriggled, and helped him strip the gown off. But her gaze had shifted to his face; as he shook out the gown and tossed it over a nearby chair, he could feel her studying his features through the dimness.
“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.
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