Christian Allardyce snorted. “Remind him that the war’s long over, and people don’t like to be reminded of it, not in any way.”
“Good idea.” Wolverstone drained his glass, as did the other men, then all set the tumblers down and rose.
“I’ll do better than just the men, I’ll lend you a carriage.” Roscoe met Rafe’s gaze. “I think it’s wise to remove Clifford from my care—I wouldn’t want him to meet with an accident before he got to his court-martial.”
Rafe grunted. “You never know—he still might. I’m not fond of deserters myself, and as for those at the barracks . . . well, we’ll see.”
Turning to Wolverstone, Roscoe held out his hand. “Thank you.” They all shook hands.
Wolverstone turned to the door. “I have to say that, in aiding us to bring a deserter who deliberately left another man to bear the stigma to face his court-martial, it’s I and mine who should thank you.”
With a gracious dip of his head, Wolverstone led the other men out of the library.
“So it’s all arranged? All taken care of?” Seated on the drawing room sofa, with Sarah alongside her and Gladys in her usual chair, Miranda looked at Roderick as he stood before the fireplace; he’d just finished relating the details of the meeting at Roscoe’s house.
Roderick spread his hands. “It was amazingly straightforward. They all know each other, but it was more than that. They think in the same way. It’s as if they recognize they’re all similar, and that breeds trust, so it was merely a matter of us describing the issue with Lucius, and them seeing our point and agreeing it would be best to proceed as we wished.”
“So it’s done.” She steadfastly put Lucius from her mind; to her and their wider family, he had died at Waterloo, albeit by his own act. After a moment, she smiled up at Roderick. “No more adventures for you.”
“No, thank heaven.” Roderick looked down at his injured foot. “I’m still recovering from the last, but at least I no longer have to hobble with a crutch.”
“We must remember to return that to Ridgware.” Miranda glanced at Sarah. “Whoever next goes to visit should take it back.”
Sarah smiled, nodded, and looked at Roderick.
Gladys claimed Miranda’s attention, then Hughes came in to announce that dinner was served. They all rose and went in.
Dinner proved a lighthearted, rather joyous gathering. While Roderick and Sarah, with the resilience of youth, had already left the past behind and were looking forward to shaping their future, Miranda judged that for herself and Gladys, their principal emotion was more in the nature of euphoric relief, although in her case her euphoria welled from multiple sources.
The threat to Roderick, and to her, had all stemmed from Lucius, and Lucius was no more.
That left her with issues to face and matters to decide, but although she now saw her direction clearly, the dinner table was not the place to dwell on her next step. Instead, she focused on what was before her—Roderick and Sarah, and the acquaintance that had become friendship, and was now so much more.
A soft smile on her lips, she watched her brother discussing his project for the Philanthropy Guild, something he wished to actively pursue now he was free to move around again. After her time at Ridgware, Sarah understood the concept and was quick to lend her support, discussing the next steps Roderick thought he should take, and the best ways to achieve them. Gladys listened, not entirely sure what Roderick was about, but willing to listen, to learn, to accept.
There was no doubt in Miranda’s mind that Roderick would soon ask Sarah to marry him, and that Sarah would accept. No one who saw the two together could fail to see the glowing connection between them, the mutual awareness and regard that shone in their faces and warmed their eyes.
Love. It was there in front of her, demonstrated, given life in a thousand little things.
Now her eyes had been opened, she saw it clearly.
Dessert had come and gone; the others were disposed to linger.
Easing back her chair, she stood. When Roderick and Sarah broke off their animated discussion and looked at her, she waved them to remain seated. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve some . . . unfinished business to attend to.”
Sarah smiled sweetly, but Roderick studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated, then added, “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
She let her smile deepen. “If there is, I’ll let you know.”
Quitting the dining room, she turned to the stairs. On gaining her room, she shut the door, then walked to the window seat and sat. She looked down at the side lawn, silvered by the light of a nearly full moon, at the trees whose almost-bare branches nevertheless largely blocked her view of the side gate.
Raising her gaze, she looked to the left, to where, between the various intervening trees, she could glimpse glimmers of white.
He was there, and she was here. How best to bridge that gap?
She sat and pondered, let her mind sweep back over the last weeks, over the days since she’d first met him.
Thought of all she’d learned—of him, and even more of herself.
Thought of what had grown between them, of what she now knew it to be.
Thought of what she most truly wanted of life.
Thought of backbone and the exercising of it.
Her conclusion was there, solid and sure in the center of her soul; she knew what she wanted. The only question remaining was how much she was willing to risk, and possibly to sacrifice, to secure it.
She studied her goal, evaluated her options, then rose and crossed to the bellpull.
Lady Mickleham was right. For a lady, exercising backbone was what life was truly about.
Roscoe sat before the fire in his library. A book lay open on his lap—the same book he’d been reading more than a month ago when Miranda had arrived to ask him to help find Roderick. A glass of brandy sat on the table by his elbow, but both the printed page and the brandy remained ignored as he stared into the fire’s golden flames.
And remembered the warmth of different flames, the flames that leapt in Miranda’s eyes, that flared and flowed over him whenever they were close, when they touched, when they loved. The flames that had truly warmed him.
That had, for a short time, made his life complete, made him whole.
But it was over, their brief liaison at an end. And for a man as powerful as he, it was galling indeed to be forced to admit that there was nothing he could do to change that, no matter how much he might wish it.
He was who he was—Neville Roscoe—and he couldn’t turn back the clock. Couldn’t wipe the slate of the past twelve years clean, nor did he wish to. But because of that, there was no hope for them, no way . . .
She was who she was, too, and that meant there was no future for them.
He forced his gaze to the book, tried to focus on the words. Failed.
Tried again; he had to put her out of his mind and get on with his life, his earlier life which previously had seemed full to the brim with work and achievement, but somehow now felt like a hollow shell.
Leaving a man on guard watching the Claverton Street house wasn’t exactly letting go, but over the next weeks, he would probably get there. When the watchers grew bored and complained.
The front doorbell pealed, the sound faint, muted by distance and the thick walls of the library. Rundle would deal with whoever it was, yet he waited expectantly for several minutes before looking again at the book.
He tried to read but continued to hear sounds drifting from the front hall. Not a commotion, but there was something going on. He wondered if Rafe had encountered some difficulty and had brought Lucius Clifford back for safekeeping, but a glance at the clock confirmed it was past ten o’clock—too late for that, surely.
Besides, Rundle would have alerted him by now, or shown any visitor to him, but no one had appeared.
Gradually, the distant sounds faded, and silence returned.
He looked back at the
book, then, jaw firming, closed it and set it aside, alongside his barely touched drink. Restlessness, curiosity, and an unsettled, distracted feeling combined to push him to his feet.
Footsteps. Straightening, facing the door, he strained his ears and heard the steps increasingly clearly as whoever it was came down the long corridor toward the library doors.
A light swinging stride. A female stride.
One he recognized.
He froze.
He vaguely registered that Rundle’s heavier tread was not in evidence, then the footsteps reached the door, it opened, and Miranda walked in.
Miranda saw him, smiled, then turned and shut the door.
He’d looked stunned—as stunned as she’d ever seen him—but when she turned back, he had his impassive expression in place, the impenetrable mask he used to face the world. She didn’t allow that to dim her smile as she crossed the room to him.
“What are you doing here?”
The growled, slightly rough question suggested he wasn’t happy to see her. She wasn’t about to let that turn her from her path either; she knew what she knew. Halting before him, she tipped up her head and met his eyes. “I’m here because . . . well, I suppose you could say I’m taking up residence. Here, in your house.”
For a moment, he didn’t react, then he blinked. Slowly. “What?”
She waved over her shoulder, toward the rest of the house. “Rundle and the others are taking my trunks upstairs. We decided to put them in the room next to yours. It seemed the most appropriate place.”
He dragged in a breath; when he met her eyes again his impassive mask was gone. Completely gone. Raw emotion filled his face. “Miranda . . . no. You can’t do this.”
She arched her brows. “Can’t I?”
“You’re not thinking clearly.” His eyes searched hers, saw the determination and resolution she made no effort to hide. He raked a hand through his hair and swung away to face the fire. “I can’t let you do this.”
She closed the distance; from behind him, she slipped her arms around his chest, laid her temple against his collar. “Yes, you can. I want a family, I always have, and I want to create that family with you. I know you want a family of your own as much as I do—I’ve seen you with your family, and with the family you’ve built here, but it’s not the same, is it? I want a family and a home of my own, and you want one, too.” She tightened her arms, hugged him. “All you have to do is say yes.”
For a moment he stood within her hold, one hand rising to rest over hers, then he sighed and let his head fall forward. After a moment, he gently pried her hands loose and, holding one, turned to face her. He met her eyes. “I can’t stop being Roscoe.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m not asking you to.” Moving closer, she raised her free hand and laid it on his chest, held his gaze. “I love you as you are, for who you are, not for who you were, or who you might be.”
He stilled. His eyes almost desperately searched hers. A heartbeat ticked past. “You love me?”
She fought to keep her smile from wavering, fought back the tears that leapt to her eyes at the utter vulnerability that rang in those simple words. She managed a decisive, almost belligerent nod. “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m here—I love you, and I know nothing in heaven or earth is strong enough to change that.” She looked into his eyes, felt more confident than she’d expected as she continued, “And I know you love me, that you return my sentiment on all levels, to every degree. You tried to let me go, to set me at a distance, and you couldn’t do it. Powerful as you are, disciplined as you are, still you couldn’t do it. This afternoon you put yourself between a pistol and me, which, as dramatic demonstrations go, was rather emphatic, not only in terms of your feelings but also in terms of clarifying mine. After today, being apart is never going to work, is never going to satisfy either of us, so I’m here to find a way for us to be together—a way for me to be your lover, your helpmate, for as long as our love lasts, which in my estimation will be forever.”
His expression was a medley of emotions—disbelief, confusion, stunned shock, and rising hope. “But what about respectability? If you live with me, you’ll have none.”
Her eyes on his, she paused, then said, “I could simply say that I don’t care about respectability anymore, and that would be the truth, but I suspect you won’t readily accept that, so I’ll explain. All my life I was taught that respectability was the ultimate virtue, to be courted and worshipped above all else. I’m not sure that I ever truly, in my heart, believed that, but I did, indeed, hold rigidly to that code, yet it never brought me happiness. Then through our adventures of recent weeks, I saw and learned, and had demonstrated unequivocally that social respectability is at best a minor virtue. It doesn’t hold a candle to the greater virtues, like love, and honor, and devotion. Like loyalty and integrity, and the respect gained through one’s actions. Like truly caring about others, and actively protecting those weaker than oneself. Against those virtues, respectability is insubstantial, an ephemeral construct held to by those lacking greater strength.
“So no—I no longer value respectability as I once did. To me, now, it’s largely immaterial. What matters to me—what now anchors my world—is love. And you. Because it’s you I love.”
She’d come there prepared and determined to risk all; that was one thing Wraxby had taught her. Wraxby, and Lucasta. If she wanted to claim love, she couldn’t hold back and wait for it to be offered. She had to be willing to risk all to gain it—to risk her heart, to offer her heart to him if she wanted his in return.
He drew in a breath, and it shook. “I . . . don’t know what to say—you’ve blindsided me.”
“I would apologize, only once I saw clearly what I wanted, I knew it would be pointless to wait for you to make an offer. Indeed, to wait for you to even come knocking at my door.” She arched a brow. “You wouldn’t have, would you?”
He held her gaze, eventually said, “I was determined not to.”
Her lips curved at the unvoiced admission that he might not have been able to hold to his so-determined line. “On the one hand I would have liked to have seen you falter, but . . .” She drew in a breath and bluntly stated, “I understand that you feel prohibited from offering for my hand, but—”
He laid a finger across her lips and silenced her. He held her gaze for two heartbeats, then lowered his head and leaned his forehead against hers. “I can’t.” His voice was anguished and low, then it strengthened, “I won’t. It would be asking you to make too much of a sacrifice, and that’s something I cannot, will not, do.” Raising his head, he looked into her eyes, his expression starkly bleak. “I can’t ask you to set aside the life of a lady and accept what I can offer you.”
She let her lips curve again, raised a hand to frame his cheek. “No, I know. I know you can’t ask me. Won’t ask me. Which is why I’m here, to ask you.”
He blinked.
Before he could speak, she went on, “Did it ever occur to you that you constantly make sacrifices for others, that you are always the one giving, and you never allow others a chance to return the favor? Believe me, your family, and doubtless others, too, feel the imbalance most strongly, but you are very very good at keeping the scales tipped in the direction you think right—with you doing the giving and all others the accepting.” She paused, tilted her head, kept her eyes locked with his. “In me, however, you’ve met your match. Because for me, the challenge before me, the challenge I have to meet to get what I most want in life, is to convince you to change your stance—to convince you, just this once, to allow me to be the one to give, to allow me to be the one to make the sacrifice, and for you to accept it, to be the one sacrificed for.”
She paused, her eyes on his, then tipped up her chin. “So my question for you, Neville Roscoe, for the man who goes by that name, is whether you are strong enough to, whether you want me as your wife enough to, accept my proposal.”
He was silent for a full minute, then said, “Why don’t you
propose, then we’ll find out?”
Her lips kicked up; she wasn’t sure he’d realized, but his hands had risen and slid about her waist; he was now holding her gently against him.
“My proposal, my proposition, my offer to you, my lord, is simply this—marry me. Marry me, love me, hold me, and never let me go. Let me fill the place by your side, manage this house and make it into a home, and if God is willing, create a family with you.”
He looked into her eyes, and there was no mistaking the terrible yearning, the concomitant exultant joy he yet held back. “Life as my wife won’t be the sort of life a lady would expect.”
“No, but it will be the life I want—as your lover, your helpmate, your wife, and the mother of your children.”
For several seconds, time stood still. Then he drew in a huge breath and lowered his head so his temple rested alongside hers. His voice was low, hoarse, as he said, “I love you—beyond words, beyond adoration. And yes, I’ll marry you. You seem to see the challenge that it will be, and I’m more than willing to take the risk with you, as you are so bound and determined to attempt it. Above all else in life, I want you as my wife. You are a remarkable woman, and I don’t deserve you.”
He shifted his head, brushed his lips over hers.
Surrender.
She smiled. Delight, joy, and sheer exuberance welling, overflowing, she pushed her hands over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck. Brushed her lips over his, left them hovering as she said, “I’m a remarkable lady, and you definitely do.”
Then she kissed him. His arms tightened about her and he drew her in, drew her fully against him.
Giddy, with passion, joy, boundless love, and endless devotion all vying for expression, they pledged their troth in an exchange infused with so much raw emotion it left them both breathless.
They didn’t need words.
When they finally drew back long enough to breathe again, long enough to hear, register, and think, the house was quiet again and they had only themselves to please.
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