Even without looking, he’d known Miranda was there; as she approached the table, Roscoe rose and drew out the chair between him and Henry.
Sitting, she murmured a thank-you. His eyes briefly met hers, then he looked back at his sisters. Resuming his seat, he said, “I warn you I won’t be around to entertain you. Henry and I have a lot of ground to cover, and my staff from London will arrive shortly, and then I’ll be thoroughly absorbed.”
The announcement did not noticeably dim Millicent’s or Cassie’s enthusiasm. “We quite understand,” Millicent assured him. “But you’ll be present at dinner, so we’ll see you then, and at some breakfasts, and possibly some luncheons as well.”
He eyed the pair, then heaved a massive sigh and raised his knife and fork. “I don’t like the idea of you disrupting your households—and your marriages—merely to spend a few more hours in my company.”
“Yes, dear Julian,” Millicent replied, “but it’s our choice to make, and we clearly place a higher value on spending time with you than you do.”
He merely humphed; in truth, what could he say to that?
Miranda noted that, further along the table, Lucasta, Caroline, and Edwina had been listening to the exchange with affectionate smiles. She glanced at Henry and saw he was grinning, too.
“Besides,” Cassie said, smiling as, across the table, she caught Miranda’s eye, “a few extra days will allow us to get to know Miranda better.”
Roscoe glanced sharply at his sisters, but they were exchanging comments on the bright morning with Miranda. No more than he could order them home could he keep them away from her. Looking down at his plate, hiding his equivocation behind his usual impassivity, he continued eating.
By early afternoon, Miranda was forced to accept that Roderick’s continuing recovery did not require her constant attendance in the sickroom. Nurse was better able than she to keep him supplied with barley water and to bring up his meals—and make sure he ate them—and in the matter of keeping him amused, Sarah was significantly better qualified.
As Sarah appeared perfectly amenable to spending hours sitting by his bedside reading or chatting, and as he remained brighter and more engaged in her company, Miranda found herself largely redundant.
Finally accepting that, she rose from the chair by the bed. Roderick and Sarah broke off their discussion and looked up. She smiled. “I’m going to take a turn in the gardens.”
Both smiled easily back. “If you haven’t yet seen it,” Sarah said, “there’s a very pretty fountain court at the end of the west wing.”
“Thank you—I’ll look for it.” Miranda turned to the door.
A light rap fell upon it, then it opened and Roscoe walked in.
His gaze found her, then moved on to Roderick. “How are you feeling?”
Although still pale, and with lingering pain etched in his face, Roderick grinned. “Nurse insists on feeding me up, and Sarah and Miranda are working diligently to keep me entertained.”
“It appears you’re in excellent hands.” Roscoe glanced at Miranda. “I came to ask if you’d like to go for a walk.”
“I was just setting out, as it happens. Sarah suggested the fountain court was worth a visit.”
He nodded, then looked at Roderick. “I don’t expect to hear from London or even Birmingham today, but I’ll let you know when I do.”
“Thank you.”
Roscoe saluted, then followed Miranda from the room. Shutting the door, he caught her gaze. “The fountain court should provide a pleasant stroll if you truly would like to see it.”
“I would.” As they strolled down the corridor, she glanced at his face. “But I thought you were going to be busy with Henry.”
“Too busy to entertain my sisters. You”—he met her gaze—“fall into a different category.”
Which category? The question burned her tongue, but she smothered it. Now they were lovers—were, she supposed, having an affair—did he mean he saw spending time with her outside the bedroom as part of that? Not having previously indulged in an affair, she had no idea. Regardless, she was perfectly happy spending her afternoon strolling by his side.
They left the house through the doors to the rear terrace and paced along in the weak sunshine, in the mild warmth reflected by the house’s walls. The terrace stretched along the west wing and around its end. There, shallow steps led down into an Italianate garden court, with, at its center, a white marble fountain with a cupid pouring water into a wide basin.
Halting at the top of the steps, she surveyed the court, bounded to right and left by twin double rows of narrow cypresses that led the eye to the rural vista that lay beyond the end of the court. The space between the cypresses hosted white gravel paths and geometrically arranged beds outlined by low hedges. Elsewhere, encroaching winter had started to strip the leaves from the trees, yet this garden remained a palette of deep greens accentuated by the white of the gravel and the marble fountain; she could imagine the area under snow, when white would dominate over the dark green. “Sarah was right.” She started down the steps. “This is the perfect place to stroll.”
Roscoe descended the steps beside her. “It was created by the fourth duke for his wife so she would have a place to walk year-around. Apparently she was rigid in adhering to her constitutional regardless of the season or inclement weather.”
“You must get nearly as much snow here as we get at Oakgrove.”
“So I would think.” A smile curved his lips. “In younger days, I sledded a lot.” He pointed to where the ground beyond the court sloped down, away from the house. “That was the perfect spot—the best for miles around. It was a favorite pastime for all of us in winter.” He glanced at her. “As children, did you and Roderick sled?”
Eyes forward, she shook her head. “No, although I assure you we would have liked to.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She hesitated, then, her gaze on the view ahead, said, “My aunts considered it an activity beneath our station.”
He let a moment pass, then reached out, caught her hand, twined his fingers with hers briefly, then, stepping nearer, wound her arm with his. “Tell me about your aunts. The eldest died, and the younger is the one living with you and Roderick—is that correct?”
“Yes.” She found herself being quizzed, but gently, about her and Roderick’s earlier life. At first, she wondered if he was asking simply to fill the moments, or because it might shed light on Roderick’s character given her brother was now a member of the Philanthropy Guild, but gradually she came to accept that it was she he was interested in learning about.
She hadn’t imagined a man involved in a liaison would be interested in the lady’s childhood, but the longer they walked and talked—almost inconsequentially, yet guided by an underlying quest to learn more—given he made no effort to disguise his true interest, it became increasingly clear that that true interest was her.
Deciding that two could play that game, she took his questions and turned them on him. An hour and more passed, filled with exchanges, yet as they walked back toward the house, she still felt she’d barely scratched his surface. His childhood, however, seemed to have been filled with the customary hedonistic pursuits considered typical of a noble youth.
They were nearing the house when footsteps crunching on gravel drew their gazes to the opening of a path cutting across the court in line with the fountain, embracing it before continuing on, linking the lawns on one side of the court with the woodland on the other side.
His sisters, all three of them, emerged into the courtyard. Seeing Roscoe and her, they smiled and waved.
Roscoe raised a hand in reply. Miranda did, too. She expected him to halt, but he drew her on, his stride steady. She glanced at his face, then looked at his sisters. The three had their heads together; they continued along the cross-path showing no signs of wishing to join their brother and her.
She refocused on his face. “I thought they would pounce.”
He met her g
aze briefly, then looked ahead, a subtle curve edging his lips. “I daresay they recognized that attempting to claim my attention at this time would be against their best interests.”
The following afternoon, Roscoe found himself seated in a garden chair under the nearly bare branches of one of the old oaks bordering the south lawn, having afternoon tea with the ladies of his family, Henry, and Miranda.
By a consensus of opinion, Roderick and Sarah had remained indoors. Roderick had moved as far as the armchair by the bed, but given Entwhistle’s warning that trying to walk too early would prolong his healing, everyone had agreed, even Roderick, that moving any further would be tempting fate.
So the gathering beneath the trees was a predominantly female affair, with only Henry and him representing their gender.
Setting her cup on its saucer, Miranda, seated in the chair next to his, selected a tiny cucumber sandwich from the plate Caroline was passing around. Having never understood why ladies deemed wafer-thin sandwiches to be so superior to those of more substantial construction, he shook his head when Caroline offered the plate to him.
Henry, seated on his other side, took three thin sandwiches and pressed them together to take a bite, grinning at his mother’s resigned expression.
Finished daintily consuming her sandwich, Miranda glanced at the other ladies. “I know Caroline is involved in supporting a local school, and that Cassie is on the board of an orphanage. Do you all involve yourselves in such work?”
All the heads around the circle nodded.
“It seems the least we should do,” Lucasta said, “and as, thanks to Julian, we are in a position to assist, we do, but, speaking for myself, once I became involved I found the charity work I engage in to be richly satisfying.” Lucasta’s lips quirked. “There are many within the ton who would be thoroughly unsurprised to hear that I find organizing old soldiers’ lives to my liking. It gives one a sense of achievement, I find.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Millicent nodded. “It might have been noblesse oblige that nudged us in that direction initially, but, again speaking for myself, it’s very much the sense of accomplishing something worthwhile that draws one in and keeps one engaged.”
Roscoe sat back and listened as Miranda questioned, and the others, Henry included, described their experiences and the benefits they saw in their involvement with a spectrum of charitable works. His family’s views he already knew, although it had taken some years before he’d realized exactly what drove them, each and every one, to immerse themselves in charitable works to a degree significantly greater than the norm for those of their station. Most of the aristocracy who engaged in such works did so at a distance, usually providing money and the rather nebulous cachet of their patronage, and nothing else.
His mother, his sisters, his sister-in-law, and nephew gave money, lent their name and all intangible support, but in addition each had become actively involved in at least one charity to an extent greater than even he practiced with his projects via the Philanthropy Guild.
They’d done it—had seized on that route—as a way to pay him back. Prevented from thanking him in any other way, they’d seen his interest in such projects and had determined to use their time and energy to achieve more and more widely, quietly, without fanfare, yet in their minds it was all in his name.
Not that they’d ever told him they’d done it to thank him, but as they invariably told him of their successes whenever they saw him or wrote to him, eventually the penny had dropped. He’d asked Lucasta in an oblique way; her response had been to wonder that it had taken him so long to realize.
Yet over the years, he’d come to see that, regardless of their initial reasons, for each of them their charities gave them a focus, a purpose, and, as Lucasta had said, a sense of achievement they wouldn’t otherwise have had.
So while he listened to them explaining their charities to Miranda, listened to the tenor of her questions, he could see what it was in the activity that appealed to her.
From his research into Roderick’s family, he knew she was well dowered. As she hadn’t married and was twenty-nine years old, that money was presumably in her hands. Protecting and caring for Roderick had been the principal motivation in her life to date, but that was at an end. And, he suspected, even more than the females of his family, she was the sort of woman who needed a purpose. A reason for living, a goal to work toward.
He sat, sipped, and listened, deftly rerouting the occasional queries directed his way back to one of the others, keeping Miranda’s attention on them; he had no wish to engage more directly with her, not in this company. He was frankly unsettled by how quickly his mother, his sisters, and even Caroline had detected his interest in Miranda. Almost as if they saw it more clearly than he did, as if they had a greater understanding of his fascination with her than he. Which was disconcerting, to say the least.
Especially given the limitation on how far said fascination could evolve. They knew as well as he did, as well as, he assumed, she did, that there never could be any question of anything more than a short-lived liaison between them.
Even though his family could not have his insights into her underlying, driven, devotion to respectability, they all knew in their minds, if not their hearts, that he could never marry. Not now. Not since he’d made the decision to become Roscoe.
No eligible, even halfway respectable lady would ever stoop to marry him, nor, to his mind, should they. Aside from all else he would never ask it of any gently-bred woman, would never make an offer that, no matter the lady’s standing, no matter his real identity, could only lead to social ignominy.
In becoming Roscoe, he’d cut himself off from ever marrying any lady of his own class, from ever having a family of his own. He’d known what he was sacrificing at the time and had never regretted the choice he’d made. He might not be able to have a family, but Millicent, Cassie, and Edwina could; Henry could. And Caroline and Lucasta could live out their lives as they deserved, with their children and grandchildren around them.
So he sat in the shade, largely silent, and listened to the ongoing discussion, one that left him feeling content. One that, in many ways, was the outcome of his own achievement. Hearing the very real enthusiasm in Edwina’s voice as she described her plans for taking the concept of philanthropic projects out into the unexplored wilds with Frobisher—did the man have any idea what he was marrying into?—he felt deeply pleased.
Closing his eyes, he let Miranda’s focused intensity as she asked how charities were customarily established wash over and through him, and felt pleasure spark somewhere inside.
Even with his eyes closed, she effortlessly riveted, not just his senses but his mind, and something even deeper, as well. Relaxed in the chair, in the shade, he warily circled that something deeper; he had a strong suspicion he knew what it was, but he wasn’t about to look too closely, much less give it a name.
With respect to him, she was a master musician, one who expertly played on his strings. On his emotions.
That conclusion resonated in his brain as, on the evening of the following day, he walked beside Miranda in the rose garden. He’d spent the day riding the estate with Henry, while she’d spent her time with his sisters; they’d already shared a comfortable exchange of the highlights of their respective days while walking through the mild night to the sunken garden.
The fact that such a simple, normal, ordinary exchange between him and a lady could occur, could be, remained with him, a lingering pleasure, a novel aspect of their unexpected interaction as they walked side by side down the central path and he turned his mind and his senses to savoring the silence that now claimed them. Not the silence of awkwardness, or of disinterest or disregard, but the silence of a companionship that had deepened to the point where words, the constant exchange of them, was no longer necessary.
He was at ease with her and she with him. At ease in the peace and quiet of the garden. Only their footfalls and the soft shushing of her skirts broke the stillnes
s.
Pacing alongside her, feeling his emotions—those strings she tugged so effortlessly—stir, he felt forced to remind himself that this wasn’t permanent, that there was no way he, not even he, London’s powerful gambling king, could hold this precious, nebulous connection forever.
Much as he might wish to.
How much he might wish to he refused to consider. There was no point; their interaction would cease when they returned to London. This, their time at Ridgware, was an unexpected, unlooked-for moment in a world outside the one in which they lived. Things could happen, could exist here that never would exist, could not exist, in their normal world.
He glanced at her, at her shadowed face, at the moonlight gilding her hair. Regardless of the bittersweet realization that what was now between them would perforce be so fleeting, he was unwilling—even sensing the danger—to draw back from it, from her, from this unforeseen interlude.
As if feeling his gaze, she glanced at him, met his gaze. Her lips curved lightly. Facing forward, she said, “I have to admit to feeling as if I’ve suddenly stumbled on some secret, on some path for which I’ve been searching without even realizing I was.” She glanced his way. “Your mother, your sisters, your sister-in-law are all admirable ladies. They’re wealthy enough to live a life of ease without lifting a finger to help anyone else, but they don’t. They have a different view of themselves, of their roles, of what their lives should be—they accept some significant degree of responsibility for all those around them. That makes them a part of the greater whole, rather than distant observers.”
She drew breath. “And being a distant observer, being in large part isolated from the wider world, is a lonely and unrewarding existence. I know because I’ve been living that way for most of my life, kept apart, held back by what I believed were . . . restrictions. Limitations. But I’m no longer sure they—my perceived limitations—are real.”
“If by perceived limitations you mean that the source of your family’s fortune renders you ineligible in certain spheres, then as someone who has lived on both sides of the social divide, I can assure you that any such perception is, indeed, wide of the mark.” Deciding she deserved even plainer speaking, he went on, “If you were a mill owner’s daughter, raised outside society, matters would be different, but you aren’t. Your lineage might not be as pure as that of my sisters, but your mother’s family has been gentry for generations, and you were raised within society’s pale. By anyone’s gauge, you and Roderick bear no stigma.”
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