Into the mind-shattering pleasure of completion.
Then they fell.
Satiation caught them, buoyed them, carried them away on its golden tide.
Eventually it receded, and left them, hearts barely slowing, pulses still pounding, wracked and tangled in each other’s arms, on that blissful, peaceful shore.
How long it was before he found his wits again he had no clue. When he could think again, could sort the impulses from his senses into coherent form again, he still lingered—in her embrace, clinging to the moment for just an instant more . . .
Which, he supposed, answered his question.
Did he want this—more of this? Yes.
Would he hold on to it if he could?
Yes.
For how long, if he had the choice?
Forever.
The word resonated in his brain, powerful and sure. Certain.
Easing their slick bodies apart, lifting from her, he reached down to snag the covers and flick them over them both, then he settled alongside her and drew her into his arms.
She made a soft, richly sated sound, one that sank to his marrow and soothed. As his arms closed around her and he let himself sink into the waiting sea, he acknowledged the revelation he’d gained.
That much he’d learned. That much he knew.
What he might do with the knowledge was another matter.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Miranda stepped out of Roderick’s room and found Roscoe lounging in the corridor.
As she closed the door, he pushed away from the wall. “I wondered . . . do you ride? Edwina, Henry, and I are heading out for an hour or two.” Eyes on her face, he cocked his head. “Would you like to join us?”
She beamed. “I’d love to—and my maid remembered to pack my riding habit.” A trunk of her clothes and another of Roderick’s had arrived the day before.
He stepped aside, then followed as she headed for her room next door. “I’ll help.”
He undid her laces, then watched her don the lacey blouse that went beneath her brown velvet jacket. The skirt was of more serviceable twill, but the rich color suited her.
Finally straightening from rummaging in the trunk for her riding gloves, she turned to join him by the door and saw his gaze riveted on her hips. She waited until he raised his eyes, slowly, to her face, then arched a brow.
He held her gaze for a moment, then stepped back, holding the door. As she passed him, he murmured, “Later.”
She smiled and led the way down the corridor.
Edwina and Henry were waiting, already mounted, in the stable yard. A strong black gelding she’d seen Roscoe riding snorted and stamped, while a neat chestnut mare sidled alongside. She walked confidently up to the mare, stroked her nose, smiled at the lad holding her reins. “What’s her name?”
“Pippin, ma’am. ’Cause she loves ’em.”
“Thank you.” Meeting the horse’s dark eye, Miranda stroked her long nose one last time. “Well, Pippin, we’d better get on, or that nasty brute alongside will be in an even worse temper.”
She turned to find Roscoe waiting to lift her to her saddle. She’d always used a mounting block, had never been lifted by a man before. Another new experience courtesy of him; she stepped closer, felt his hands grip her waist, then he hoisted her up . . . and set her gently down atop the mare.
Stifling a giddy impulse to gasp, she managed a breathless “Thank you,” then busied herself slipping her boots into the stirrups, rearranging her skirt, then, senses subsiding, picked up the reins.
By then Roscoe had swung up to the restless black’s back. His gaze swept her, assessing her posture, her seat, her hands on the reins, then, apparently satisfied, he tipped his head to the stable arch and led the way out.
The ride was an hour of simple pleasures, of unfettered freedom thundering over the fields, galloping down rides and paths, over hill and dale, with no agenda other than enjoyment. They reined in a few times to take stock, to admire their surroundings, exchange grins and comments.
At one such pause atop a small hill, Henry, beside Roscoe, pointed to a farm nestled in the valley below. “Croft has asked if he can extend his fields under plough to include the wild meadow there.”
Roscoe looked. “There aren’t any other farms in that valley, so”—he glanced at Henry—“why not?”
Henry nodded. “That’s what I thought. Croft’s young, and he and his wife have just had their first child. And he’s been an excellent tenant so far—he took over the place from his uncle just before the old man died.”
“Always a good idea to encourage good tenants.” Roscoe gathered his reins. “Why don’t you take it up—make the decision, see it through the process, the amendment to the tenant agreement, and so on?”
“Can I?”
“If I say you can, you can—I’ll have a word to old Draper. Now you’ve finished school, you should start picking up the estate reins. Legally you still have to operate under my aegis, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start cutting your teeth.”
Henry looked nothing short of thrilled.
As they cantered on, Miranda, riding with Edwina a little way behind the two males, had time to dwell on the responsibility Roscoe shouldered with respect to his nephew’s estate. All who lived on it, who were dependent on it, were dependent on him—on his making the right, proper, and fair decisions.
While he’d been establishing himself as London’s gambling king, he’d simultaneously carried that burden, and from all she’d seen, all she’d gleaned, he’d been effective and successful. Quietly, without fuss.
The same way he worked as Roscoe, the same way he worked through the Philanthropy Guild. That was his hallmark, it seemed—that quiet, self-effacing giving.
Encouraged by Roscoe’s suggestion, throughout the rest of the ride Henry kept his gelding alongside Roscoe’s and raised several other estate matters he’d clearly been mulling over. Roscoe was surprised only in that he hadn’t realized how absorbed with the estate Henry already was. That was, in fact, a relief; from his questions, it was clear Henry was eager to engage and, even at a minor level, start to manage his birthright.
George, Roscoe reflected, had never been that anchored.
While part of him felt a swelling satisfaction over Henry’s direction, another part noted that, with respect to Ridgware, this heralded the beginning of the end for himself. Over the next ten years, he would increasingly surrender the reins into Henry’s hands, until, at twenty-five, Henry would take on full responsibility. Roscoe might remain in the background, but he wouldn’t be the one making the decisions; the responsibility would no longer rest on his shoulders.
But he was no longer the hedonistic Lord Julian Delbraith; the man he now was would need something to take Ridgware’s place.
Some other responsibility to fill his private life.
As they cantered into the stable yard, he glanced at Miranda—at the light in her eyes, the color in her cheeks, the wisps of hair the wind had teased loose. And sensed, yet again, that his life was changing, shifting.
The grooms came running to take the horses. Cribbs, the oldest, caught the black’s reins. “Yer men from Lunnon are here, m’lord. Asked us to tell you.”
“Thank you.” He swung down from the saddle and walked to where the chestnut mare stood waiting; reaching up, he lifted Miranda down. Keeping his hands about her waist, he looked into her wide eyes. “With luck, they might have news of Kirkwell.”
Miranda halted in the front hall and looked down at her skirts. “I need to change.”
Roscoe nodded. “We’ll be in the library—join us when you have.”
Rushing up the stairs, she debated telling Roderick, but he hadn’t yet attempted the stairs, and Entwhistle had advised against it for at least another day . . . she raced into her room. “We can tell him later.”
Shutting the door, she struggled out of her habit.
Five minutes later, in a day gown of fine, amber
-colored wool with embroidered ribbon about the neckline and hem, her hair neat again, she walked into the library.
The four men present, not about the desk but seated on the twin sofas before the fireplace, all rose. Going forward, she recognized Jordan Draper, Mudd, and Rawlins; she inclined her head and the three politely bowed.
Roscoe waved her to the sofa beside him. “We’ve been discussing other matters, but now you’re here . . .” She sat and the men resumed their seats. Roscoe looked at Mudd and Rawlins. “What have we learned about Kempsey, Dole, and Kirkwell?”
Rawlins looked grimly disgusted. “Kirkwell’s proving to be a mystery man. We asked all around the Hood and Gable again—the tavern where he hired Kempsey and Dole. We thought perhaps we’d catch him visiting, waiting for word, but no. And no one there or anywhere around could tell us any more about him.”
“Fact is,” Mudd put in, “that other than when he was there hiring Kempsey and Dole, no one in the neighborhood has seen or heard of him, not even heard his name—he’s not a local nor a regular in the area.”
Roscoe’s lips thinned. “More and more I suspect that Kirkwell won’t be his real name.”
The other men nodded.
Mudd stirred. “As for Kempsey and Dole, they haven’t reappeared in London, so we called in at Birmingham as we came past and got the latest, but they haven’t been sighted there, not since they left with Mr. Clifford. Some of their male relatives did come puffing back—that would’ve been after you’d rescued Mr. Clifford. Lots of grumbling and growling, but seems they’ve left Kempsey and Dole to sort things out for themselves.”
“So unless Kempsey and Dole summon help, they’ll be on their own?” Roscoe asked.
“Seems like they generally operate on their own,” Rawlins said. “The rest of the family will hide them or warn them, but otherwise don’t get involved in their schemes—at least not this sort.”
“Good.” After a moment of thought, Roscoe refocused on Mudd and Rawlins. “Anything else I need to hear about?”
Rawlins reported, “Mrs. Selwidge sent word that they hadn’t seen Lord Treloar, so everyone there’s relieved, and there’s nothing else that’s come up since you left town.”
“In the matter of Lord Treloar,” Jordan said, “I checked at the other clubs. He tried to gain entry, to slide in with a group of his cronies, at two other clubs in Mayfair, but after being turned away—just him, not his friends—he hasn’t darkened any of your doors.”
“We can hope he’s learned his lesson.” Roscoe looked at Mudd and Rawlins. “While we’re here, you can assist Mr. Clifford should he need any assistance getting about, but otherwise I want you on guard, keeping watch. You know the people here, you know the place. You know its weaknesses.”
Mudd and Rawlins nodded, to Miranda’s eyes rather eagerly.
Roscoe waved a dismissal. “Wander around, talk to Cater and the staff, re-familiarize yourselves with the house and grounds, and the position of Clifford’s room. I’ll speak with you later.”
Mudd and Rawlins got to their feet.
Given Kempsey and Dole were very likely scouring the countryside for Roderick, Miranda was relieved to know that Mudd and Rawlins, both large and capable, would be rambling around. She rose. “I’ll show you my brother’s room.” She met Roscoe’s eyes as he and Jordan politely stood. “I’ll tell Roderick the latest, and that he can ask Mudd and Rawlins for assistance—especially if he wants to come downstairs tomorrow.”
Roscoe nodded. “Do.”
She noticed him exchange a glance—one carrying some indefinable meaning—with Mudd and Rawlins as she turned away, but the two large men dutifully fell in at her heels as she led the way from the room.
“Do you really think Kempsey and Dole will track Roderick—and you and me—here?”
Finishing unlacing Miranda’s evening gown, Roscoe turned aside. “I have no real notion what they might do.” Withdrawing the pin from his cravat, he laid it on the dresser. “But as they haven’t yet returned to their London haunts, then either they’re out there trying to hunt Roderick down, or they’ve slunk away to avoid Kirkwell’s displeasure. Which option they’ve chosen depends on Kirkwell and the details of the deal they struck with him.”
Given Kempsey and Dole’s reputation, he knew which option he was wagering on, which was why Mudd and Rawlins were presently patrolling the woods around the house.
“Hmm.” Miranda shook out the gown and reached for a hanger. “After a week of calm, the kidnapping is starting to feel like a distant dream—fading like a nightmare.”
Having already dispensed with his coat and waistcoat, he looked down to unbutton his cuffs. Dinner was long over, and the house had settled into the comfortable quiet of a usual night; it was too large a house to ever be completely silent, and owls and foxes hunted in the woods, occasionally hooting or barking, but even though, these days, he spent only a handful of nights there each year, the place had changed little since it had been his home—he recognized every creak, every sound.
It was soothing to be there, and, strangely, in some way he didn’t understand, it was even more soothing to be there with her, undressing and getting ready for bed.
He’d never indulged in this degree of domesticity with any previous lover. As it was . . . he found the moments a subtle pleasure. The interlude wasn’t dispassionate, but rather passion was held in abeyance, the promise of it inherent in the situation, yet with it held back, restrained . . . but only temporarily. Only until they consented to let it off the leash.
His lips curved in anticipation. That was one of the aspects that made the moment so oddly delectable—the sure and certain knowledge of what was to come.
“Edwina told me you usually only visit here for a few days each year. Don’t you find it difficult to manage the estate—all the decisions you have to make in Henry’s name—from London?”
He glanced at her—and his mouth went dry. His mind blanked. His tongue stilled, wouldn’t move, as he watched her draw her chemise off over her head, then, letting the delicate shimmering silk slip from her fingers to drape over the dressing stool, she glided, graceful and naked in the moonlight, to the bed. She lifted the covers and slid beneath.
Only as she settled and sent a shadowed, questioning glance his way was he able to draw breath and think again. What had she asked?
Peeling off his shirt, he dropped it on a chair. “I grew up here—as a boy I spent a lot of time out and about the estate.” Toeing off his shoes, he unbuttoned his trousers. “I wasn’t groomed to be duke, as George was, but in some ways my knowledge of the farms was more practical, more in-depth, than his.” Looking down, he stripped off his trousers and stockings. “And after George’s death, I was blessed with excellent help—Jordan’s father was and still is the estate’s man of business. He was and continues to be a godsend.”
Finally naked, he walked toward the bed.
She watched him approach, her gaze tracking down his body. Her lips curved as she asked, her tone increasingly distant, “Is that why you hired Jordan—in recognition of his father’s sterling service?”
“No. I hired Jordan because he’s even better than his father.” He raised the covers, paused to look down at her, studying her face, her bare shoulders and arms, the cascading bounty of her hair.
Miranda looked up at him, gloriously naked in the night, allowed her eyes to swiftly devour, then she let her smile speak for her and held up her arms, fingers boldly beckoning.
He got into bed, shifted gracefully into her arms, and covered her lips with his.
And in perfect accord they let passion loose, set it free to ravage them. Savage them. And gloried.
They came together without shields or screens, in an open communication they had, from their first night together, instinctively reached for and now compulsively sought, giving and taking without reservation.
Their delight was there in her smothered gasp as his hand closed over her breast, strong fingers kneading while his t
humb cruised her nipple. There in his harsher breaths as her hands splayed over his chest, then swept down to caress.
Mutual pleasure resonated in the shivery sound she exhaled, one filled with anticipation and delight, as he slid into her and made them whole.
They rode to completion, through the fire and the glory to where ecstasy shattered them, glory blinded them, and sensation ruled both body and mind, while freed, their souls soared.
Later, much later, drifting in the haze of aftermath, she recognized and acknowledged how happy and content she was in that moment. How the joy and the closeness of being in his arms, of joining with him and then savoring this glowing consequence, filled her to the exclusion of all else.
There, in that moment, nothing else mattered. Through the heated minutes, skin to damp skin, through the gasps, the soft cries, the groans—through the desperation, through the unbounded, unrestrained togetherness—she knew him and he knew her in ways far deeper and more all-encompassing than the mere biblical meaning.
She might not yet know how he’d come to be him—how and why Julian had transformed to Roscoe—but it was Roscoe in whose arms she lay, whose heart thudded solidly beneath her ear, and she trusted him implicitly. Trusted that if she needed to know, he would tell her.
This may be temporary—theirs only for a few weeks, perhaps only for a few more days—but for however long they had, she would embrace this, would embrace him.
And hold their reality to her heart.
Chapter Fourteen
The following evening, Roderick finally came downstairs to join the company for dinner. Lucasta and Caroline made much of him, and Edwina and Henry were curious, leaving Sarah, Roscoe, and Miranda to watch indulgently as Roderick strove to polish his manners and reply appropriately to a dowager, a duchess, a duke, and a duke’s daughter.
They were halfway through dinner before Roderick truly accepted that no one expected to stand on any ceremony; thereafter he relaxed and the conversation flowed more freely.
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