Her hand faltered against his cheek. Still, she pressed on. “What do you suppose?” She dropped her voice to a sultry whisper. “I’m caressing you.”
He wrapped his wrist around her hand and pushed it into the mattress. His fingers bit into her—not ungentle, but so changed from the way he’d touched her before that she looked up at him in confusion.
“We agreed I wasn’t paying you for that.” His voice had gone hard.
For a second, Miranda almost doubted her judgment. He’d never said he cared for her. He’d never claimed to be kind. In fact, he’d insisted on almost the opposite. She’d presumed to know better, on the basis of evidence that was beginning to seem a bit thin in the face of his fierceness. He’d as much as said it was an act of commerce. Maybe…
But no. She was sure of this. She was sure of him, him and his lemon cakes and the cats that he’d fed in the alleyway. “We agreed that you couldn’t buy my affection. But that’s only because…” She choked. He’d offered her so much; she’d wanted to hold something back. Something valuable and precious, so she’d have something… She looked up at him. “I wanted to give it to you. As a gift.”
He didn’t release her hand. His chest heaved above her. She was beginning to feel trapped underneath him. Then he disengaged himself from her and pushed off.
“I told you.” His voice was as cold as steel in winter. “I’m not looking for affection. Damn it.” He started to sort through the pile of their clothing.
“I don’t believe you. Everyone wants—”
“I don’t.” Fabric rustled. “I told you already, and I meant it. That is the last thing I wanted from you.”
A slap on the face would have hurt less. She suddenly felt young and painfully inexperienced. He was older. How many women had he had? How foolish she was, to think that just because they’d shared that, it had meant something.
She should have known better. She sat up and brought her knees to her chest. He pulled on his trousers and then his shirt.
“That,” he continued haughtily, “was not what I wanted from you at all.”
She had agreed to an entire month of this. Those days seemed to stretch in front of her like an endless burden. She leaned her forehead against her knees and listened to him dress. She’d thought he would spend the night. She’d thought she was getting a lover, not a…not a procurer.
“Next time, then, I’ll make sure to conform to your expectations, Your Worship.”
He sighed, and wood scraped against the floor. The bed felt suddenly cold, no matter the softness of the coverlet that she pulled around her. It no longer seemed a soft, sensual place, this bed, a place to be wooed and won. It seemed a prison of linen and wool. And she’d agreed to it.
She was aware of all her muscles—the deep, strange soreness, pulsing inside of her. Her body seemed to stretch out in satisfied lassitude.
She’d had intercourse with him, and now she couldn’t even remember why it had seemed so beautiful. She’d made a mistake, a dreadful mistake.
She bit her lip, but a tear escaped anyway. She turned away so he wouldn’t see it trace down her cheek. She willed herself not to sniff. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Fabric rustled again, and his steps neared her. His hand fell on her shoulder. “Miranda…”
She lifted her head haughtily. “I don’t believe I’m paying you for affection, either.” She was proud that her voice didn’t waver once.
His hand fell away. “Very well, then.” He turned and left.
The click of his shoes against the floor made a cruel sound. He shut the door behind him. She could hear him descending the stairs.
He’d been quite clear as to his expectations. She’d made up the rest herself—told herself a fairy tale of affection, based on evidence that now seemed utterly scanty. Attila the Hun probably liked cats. Attila the Hun could probably laugh at a woman’s jokes, up until he’d had his turn at her.
And Turner wanted that from her again—forty-something more times. Forty more times, she’d have to welcome him inside her, pretend that nothing was wrong. She didn’t even want to look at him right now. She wanted to screw her eyes shut and avoid everything.
She’d wanted him, and he’d only wanted to slake his lust. But she couldn’t call him a liar. She had lied to herself. She’d been so eager to give herself to him that she’d invented affection out of what was merely physical passion. She’d been rapturously silly about everything about him. He just wanted her body.
She curled into a little ball on the bed. The sheets still smelled like him. And even if she rang the bell and demanded that her housekeeper change the linen, it wouldn’t alter the dreadful truth.
He’d purchased everything in this house. Including her.
“Remember this,” she said aloud into the night. The tears began to come then—not just for him, nor for her misplaced affection, but for the lonely month ahead of her.
She’d thought this would mean something. And it did: it meant a thousand pounds and cold sheets.
Chapter Twelve
“MIRANDA.”
She opened her eyes. It was not yet morning. Little crystals of salt clung to her eyelashes, the remnants of last night’s emotional outburst. She looked around her blearily, the world fuzzy and black in her first blinking awakening.
“Miranda.” The voice came again. Turner was sitting next to her on the bed. His form was a dark, warm silhouette. He must have seen her turn her head, because he took something from his pocket and set it on the bedside table next to her.
A watch.
It was early morning, and the memory of the last evening swept over her like a breath of cold air.
He’d had her. He’d hurt her. And now he wanted to do it again. Miranda clutched her rumpled chemise to her. If there could be anything less romantic than awakening to this, she didn’t know. When he’d talked in the churchyard about having her forty times, it had seemed utterly thrilling. Right now, doing it even once more would chafe.
He must have sensed that something was wrong, because he leaned over and took her hand. She sat up, groggily. Before she quite understood what was happening, he wrapped her fingers around something, holding it in place until she was awake enough to understand that it was a clay mug, warm, and filled three-quarters with a hot liquid.
She took a sip. It was warm, spiced milk. The gesture confused her. If he didn’t want her affection, why bother with such trivialities?
“Turner?” She managed to keep the quaver from the word.
“Last night ended badly.” His voice was quiet and sharp. “I didn’t say what I should have. You took me quite by surprise.”
She took another sip. It heated her.
“I told you when we entered this arrangement that I didn’t want your affection, but I don’t believe I told you what I wanted you for.”
Her eyes shut. “No need to belabor the point. You’ve made your intentions perfectly clear.”
“No. If you’d understood, you’d not have cried yourself to sleep.” He paused, cleared his throat, and she felt a stab of embarrassment that he’d understood that. It was monstrously unfair that she’d given him everything, and he’d stolen her vulnerability, too.
“Let me tell you what I want you for, so that we are not laboring under any misapprehensions.”
“Intercourse,” she said.
He set his hand over her lips. “Let me finish, before you start scrapping at me. You don’t let me frighten you. You’re not afraid to disagree with me. From the first, you made me feel warm in a world where I often feel alone. I’ve reposed confidences in you that I’ve scarcely told another soul. And if you must know why I want you near, it’s because I don’t like to think of you too far away.”
She let out a gasp. There was nothing to say to that. She simply sat up and clutched the mug to her chest, trying to make out his expression in the predawn light.
“I like you,” he said. “I like you very well. I don’t think I’ve e
ver been as desperate for a woman—for all of a woman, not just her body—as I am for you. And that, I suppose, is what I should have told you.”
She simply stared at him, wondering if this was a dream. If she’d invented this to comfort herself in the middle of the night. But when she pinched herself, she didn’t wake.
“My God,” she said into that silence. “You are direct.”
“I did not want there to be any chance of your misunderstanding me. And after last night, I very much feared you had.”
She contemplated his silhouette. “No,” she said. “I do not think I misunderstood what happened last night. I offered you a little affection, and you stormed off into the night. You can’t come back and ply me with hot milk and compliments and expect me to understand. Your explanation does not make sense.”
“Indeed,” he said. “There is one other thing. It is a little thing that perhaps I should have mentioned before now.” He sat back and folded his arms.
She waited. She waited a very long time, before she realized he was not cold, but uneasy.
“Don’t touch my face,” he said.
She waited even longer. She could hear his watch ticking steadily away, until finally he spoke again.
“You recall my mother locked me in the cellar,” he said. “And it flooded. When the waters were at their worst, she came back. I was huddled on the ladder. The waters had stolen all the warmth from me, and my eyes had seen nothing but darkness for days. I was almost blinded when she opened the cellar door.”
Miranda set her mug on the bedside table.
“She reached for me. I thought she’d come to her senses. She said, ‘Oh, my poor, beautiful boy.’ And she smoothed my hair back.”
His breathing had become harsher.
“I had almost no strength in my grip, but I took her arm. She leaned down and stroked my face with her other hand. I wasn’t holding on to anything except her; I was scarcely keeping myself upright on the ladder. And then…” He took a deep breath. “And then,” he said, his voice getting harder, “she pushed me into the water. It came up over my head, and for a second I didn’t think I’d have the strength to kick my way to the surface. When I did, she was gone.
“She hadn’t come to save me. She’d come to say farewell. Since then, I can’t bear to have my face touched. Everything else, I can manage. When you touched my face, it brought me back to that moment. Vividly. Never mind that it was decades in the past.”
Oh, she was dreaming this. This kind of thing didn’t happen to brothers of dukes.
“Don’t.” He set his hand over hers. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Just accept my apology. And…don’t touch my face.”
It was awful. She wanted to touch his face now, to hold him against her and let him know that he was safe. What a horrible mess.
Instead, she simply let out her breath. “You should have told me that before we started. It would have saved us both a bit of grief.”
“So noted.” Another pause. “Although I believe that if I had simply forbidden it, like Bluebeard, you’d have given it a try. Besides, you fed me that line about not giving me affection. I thought I was quite safe.”
Safe, because he’d thought nobody cared for him? She felt a lump in her throat. She didn’t think he would appreciate the observation, though.
She let out a breath. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”
He sighed. “I’m sure there is. I’ve been by myself for so long, I forget these little things until they crop up. I’ve been told I’m not the easiest individual to care for.”
“And who told you that? A former mistress?”
“My brother. Mark.” He twined his hand with hers. “There is no former mistress, Miranda Darling. There have been affairs, mind, but they never lasted long. Usually, she decides I’m stoic and cold only because I have been unlucky in love. She thinks she’ll be the one to melt through my defenses. She thinks that she can fix everything that is wrong with me by simply weeping over me. It lasts until she realizes I won’t spend the night, she can’t touch my face, and I despise women who weep for no reason. I have no tolerance for maudlin affection, and less for women who want to fix me.”
“Fix you?” Miranda said. “Why would anyone need to fix you? You’re not broken.”
“That’s precisely what I’ve always said.” He slid down to lie next to her. “Oddly, few people ever believe me.”
“I know what broken is,” Miranda said. “My father was broken, after my mother died. He just stopped working. He wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t even get out of bed. He just lay there and cried.”
“Good heavens. How long did it last?”
“Three years.”
“Three…three years.” He shifted to face her. “Three years.”
“I told you I know what broken is. That is broken—staring at the wall and weeping, while creditors hammer on the door and your troupe slowly slips away, stealing the best costumes in lieu of wages. When your friends leave you and you still cannot move, and nothing your daughter says can break you out of the spell. No man is broken because bad things happen to him. He’s broken because he doesn’t keep going after those things happen. When you told me about your mother, and how it made you resolve to be the person you are… What I thought was, ‘Yes, please, I’ll take him.’ Because you didn’t break.”
There was a pause. He propped himself up on one elbow and then picked up the watch he’d left on the bedside table.
“Would you know,” he said, his tone a bit more businesslike, “this conversation has officially exceeded my daily quota for mawkish sentimentality. That’s it, then.”
“Quota?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“My sentimentality quota. There’s a limit as to how much sentiment I will tolerate in a day. I’ve just reached it.”
“It’s not—” she glanced at the watch in his hands “—not yet three in the morning. And this is…a special occasion.”
“Nevertheless, we’re done. As much as my pride loves to be puffed up, I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from further compliments. And definitely no protestations of love—that would put me off for a good long while.”
She might have argued. But then…a man who thought of drowning when a woman caressed his face might have reason to shy from sentiment.
This month no longer seemed dreadful. But it was not going to be simple, either. There was nothing easy about Turner. He’d fashioned himself into one hard edge. He was all blade and no handle. If she held him close, she’d risk being cut.
If she wanted proof that he cared for her, she knew how difficult he’d found this conversation. The surprise was not that he’d needed to end it; it was that he’d started to talk in the first place.
“I do have one question,” she said.
“I’m sure it’s more than one.”
“When you call me Miranda Darling, are you calling me Miranda Darling as my name, or are you saying Miranda, comma, darling?”
His hand slid down her hair. “I don’t believe I can answer that question without endangering the sentimentality quota beyond all hope of repair.”
Which was, in its own way, an answer. A good answer. Miranda smiled, feeling suddenly giddy. He didn’t have to say it for her to know it was true. He might not admit to being kind to cats, but if he fed them and petted them and smiled when they purred, she could trust in the strength of her own conclusions.
“Have it your way, then,” she said airily. “I’m profoundly grateful that your skills in bed are passable. I’ll enjoy spending your money, Smite.”
“You know I hate that name.”
“I do. I figured I’d best call you by it, to make sure we didn’t risk your quota. Otherwise I might have to invent a pet name for you, and we should be finished with each other before the day even started.”
He leaned into her. His mouth brushed hers in a kiss, startling in its sweetness.
“Ah. Miranda-no-comma-Darling,” he said
, “I knew there was a reason I wanted you to fill my days with an absence of sentiment. Thank you.”
Chapter Thirteen
SMITE SHOULD HAVE SENT a gift instead.
The thought occurred to him only after he’d entered Miranda’s home. It was half past four, almost dark. Scarcely a day had passed since he’d installed her in this house, and already he found himself far out of his depths.
He’d left in a panic last night, scarcely able to suppress his reaction. But when he’d awoken later, it hadn’t been a nightmare that roused him, but a memory. He’d remembered that half-choke in her voice when he’d walked away. And he’d wanted to make it better.
The usual etiquette, when one offended one’s mistress, was that one sent over some glittering bauble. If he’d been accustomed to this sort of affair, he’d have arranged for that. Instead, he’d risked real intimacy.
The warm, polished entry of Miranda’s home smelled of some savory roast. The furniture in the parlor was soft and comfortable. It seemed a beguilement: a promise that he, too, might have these luxuries. Food. Warmth. Companionship.
The only companion he’d had over the last few years was his dog. Dogs didn’t feel pity. Dogs didn’t make plans to fix one, except by repeated application of tongue to face. No matter how much weakness one showed a dog, it still depended on you for food and exercise. As if to emphasize that, Ghost sat in the entry next to Smite, and looked up at him.
He’d let himself believe that he might share an easy affair with Miranda, one that didn’t engage his emotions. Perhaps he’d convinced himself that she’d be so grateful for the largesse he’d thrown her way that she wouldn’t ask any questions.
Any hope of that had gone up in smoke the instant she’d fed him the cake. There was nothing easy about any of this. One night, and she’d wormed her way beneath his skin.
Her tread sounded on the stairs overhead. He’d betrayed too much of himself to her already. She would—
For a second, he had a moment of melting panic. Then she came round the bend in the staircase and saw him standing there. He was dithering, and damn it, he hated dithering.
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