Bertrice Small

by Unconquered

  On the long, mahogany sideboard were the desserts, footed silver plates of almond cheesecakes, tortes, fruit tarts, great bowls of custard, fruitcakes; pears covered in meringue, baked apples, and layer cakes filled with mocha cream. Tiered silver cake trays held petits fours covered with pink, green, and white sugar icing.

  Miranda ate just a slice of rare beef, some salad, and two miniature potato soufflés, but Darius’s plate was piled high with beef, suckling pig, a quail, marrow pudding, Brussels sprouts, apricot fritters, and a small lobster. She watched, amazed, as he ate it all, and then sampled three of the desserts to her one. He also drank a great deal of champagne, but here she kept pace with him, for her anger had not abated one whit. The champagne went to her head, and she giggled tipsily as the duke flirted with her. Desire began to inflame him. If he could not have her to wife, what an exquisite mistress she would make!

  “Let us walk in the conservatory, my dear,” he murmured to her. “I hear your brother-in-law’s rose trees are without peer.”

  “So I am told,” she said, rising unsteadily. “Ohh, I’m afraid, sir that I am somewhat tipsy from the champagne.”

  He bent to kiss her bare shoulder. “Only a little, my angel. Come now, a walk will do you good.”

  They moved from the dining salon through the grand salon and into the glassed-in conservatory. Miranda’s legs were leaden, her head whirling. The warm, humid atmosphere of the conservatory weakened her, but she liked the feel of his arm around her. It had been so long since Jared had left her. Here it was her first wedding anniversary and she had no one!

  Darius Edmund led Miranda deep into the miniature jungle, seating her on a delicate white wrought-iron bench. The still air was heavy with the scent of roses, gardenias, and lilies, and she was beginning to feel quite faint.

  “I am totally enchanted by you,” Darius Edmund said in a deep, intense voice. “You are exquisite, lovelier than any woman I have ever known. I will be frank with you, Miranda, for I understand that Americans prefer directness. I want you to be my mistress.” Even before she comprehended, the Duke of Whitley was kissing her. Drawing her lavender silk gown down over her shoulders, his lips eagerly sought her young breasts. “Ah, my darling, I adore you!”

  “How unfortunate for you, my lord, since the lady is my wife.”

  Darius Edmund leaped to his feet. The tall, elegant Lord Dunham faced him imperturbably.

  “You will wish satisfaction, of course,” said the duke stiffly.

  Miranda, half conscious, lolled against the iron bench, her eyes closed. The duke had been holding her, kissing her, and then Jon had spoiled it all. She was sleepy now, and barely aware of the two men.

  “I have no wish to involve my good name, nor that of Lord Swynford, in a scandal, Your Grace. Since no one else saw this incident, we will consider the matter closed. However, I would advise you to keep away from my wife in future.”

  Darius Edmund clicked his heels and, nodding curtly to the American, turned and left the conservatory. Jonathan Dunham looked down on Miranda, aching with need for her. He drew her gown back up, covering her lovely bosom, smelling the champagne on her breath. Shaking his head, he grinned ruefully at the thought of the headache she was going to have in the morning. She protested only slightly when he gently picked her up and carried her swiftly from the conservatory, through the house, and upstairs to their bedroom. Because the guests were involved in dancing and gaming, he encountered no one.

  “Gawd, m’lord! Is she all right?” Perkins leaped to her feet as he came through the door.

  “I’m afraid your mistress has had an excess of champagne, Perky, and she’s not used to it. She’ll have quite a head in the morning. Come on, I’ll help you get her undressed.”

  Together they managed to get Miranda undressed, and while Perkins hurried to get Miranda’s nightgown, Jonathan sat next to the unconscious woman who was on the bed. He had never seen her nude. In fact, he had never seen any woman totally nude. Charity had always insisted on their making love in total darkness, and she had always clothed herself in the privacy of her dressing room.

  His gray-green eyes caressed Miranda. Then his hand reached out to touch her, and he shivered at the contact with her warm silken skin. Night after night in the same bed with her, and he was supposed to remain cool! What was he, a saint?

  Realizing suddenly that his hand was resting on her bare thigh, he snatched it away as if the surface of her skin were burning hot. Damnation, he thought. I cannot go on like this. God, what perfect little breasts she has. He wanted to bury his face in their warmth.

  Perky came back with one of Miranda’s gossamer nightgowns and they pulled Miranda up and put the silken garment on her. Jonathan picked her up as Perky drew back the covers. After he had her tucked into bed, he stood for a moment gazing down on her and then turned abruptly and left the room as quickly as he could.

  Back downstairs in the ballroom, he tried to lose himself in the festivities. He was surrounded by temptation, and the room seemed full of beautiful women with daring décolletage. He was assailed by bosoms. His nostrils were assailed by perfumes of every sort—fresh lavender and spicy gillyflower, exotic rose and tuberrose, elusive moss and fern, heavy musk. He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of dimpled arms, bouncing curls, sparking eyes, lush, ripe mouths.

  After an hour of torment, his eye caught a movement by the potted palms near the entry. It was Amanda and Adrian welded together in a torrid embrace. He watched as young Lord Swynford ran his hands down his wife’s back to cup her buttocks and draw her closer to him. Tearing his gaze away, Jon flung himself upstairs.

  There was no refuge there, however. Miranda lay curled in the very center of the bed, her silken nightgown about her waist, her adorable round bottom bared to him. He fled to the dressing room, disrobed, and lay down on the chaise to doze fitfully for a while. He heard the patter of rain against the leaded windowpanes and the slate roof, beginning softly at first and growing louder. There was a faint rumble of thunder in the distance. Thunder in winter is the Devil’s thunder, he thought, remembering an old saying his Grandmother Dunham liked to quote. The thunder boomed nearer now, and the lightning flashed.

  “Jared!”

  He heard her cry, a cry of stark terror.

  “Jared! Jared!” The voice was desperate now.

  He rose from the chaise, and went to her, shocked to see her sitting up, her arms outstretched, her eyes tightly closed, tears pouring down her pale cheeks. More thunder elicited another pitiful cry. “Jared! Where are you? Oh, please come to me!”

  Jonathan sat down on the bed and gathered her into his arms. “I’m here, wildcat. I’m here,” he soothed. “Don’t cry, my darling. Jared is here.”

  Wimpering, she pressed her face to his chest. Automatically his hand went to her silvery gold hair, smoothing it. He ached with wanting her. Her voice, softly urgent, said, “Love me, Jared! Oh, God, it’s been so long since you’ve loved me, my darling!” She nuzzled at his nipples, and he shuddered.

  “Miranda!” His voice was ragged. The flashing lightning gave the room an eerie gray-blue glow. He could see that her eyes were still closed. The thunder boomed closer this time, peal after peal of it, and she clung to him desperately.

  “Oh, Jared! I promise I’ll be the kind of wife you want! Don’t leave me again! Please love me, Jared. Please!”

  She fell back, drawing him with her, and Jonathan Dunham knew that he was going to make love to his brother’s wife. Everything fell away except his deep desire for this silvery-gilt-haired nymph. He could no longer fight the hunger within him. He no longer wanted to fight it.

  He found her eager mouth and drank from it, tasting the sweetness of her petal-soft lips. He kissed each part of her heart-shaped face, the adorable cleft in her chin, her small, straight nose, the shadowed eyelids, their dark lashes quivering against her pale cheeks like small, black butterflies.

  His hands roamed across her beautiful body and he heard her sigh conten
tedly as bare skin touched bare skin. He wanted time to explore this lovely new land, but she would give him no time. She moved frantically beneath him, and soon her slender fingers sought his sex, touching him with hot little hands that caressed and stroked until he thought he’d burst with passion. He jammed a knee between her soft thighs, parted them, and thrust deeply into her willing body.

  “Oh, Jared!” she cried softly. “Oh, my darling, yes!”

  About them the thunder crashed and rolled and the lightning crackled violently, illuminating and darkening the room in rapid succession. She was wildfire in his arms. She gave herself to him totally, but of course it was not Jonathan to whom she gave herself, it was Jared.

  Jonathan knew that. She had not opened her eyes once and he suddenly realized that she had never been conscious of him at all. Her desperate need for Jared, her fear of the storm, and too much champagne had been responsible. He had taken his brother’s wife in adultery, and Jonathan soon felt as low with remorse as he had been giddy with lust.

  He would have left the bed, but she curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder. He put an arm around her protectively and drew the quilts over them. Hollow-eyed, he lay and listened to the rain. The thunder had died and with it the lightning. The wind rose, and he knew morning would find the last of the leaves gone. She murmured against him, and his arm tightened around her. Dear heaven, Miranda, Jonathan thought, What have I done? He consoled himself with the thought that she probably wouldn’t remember this, as she had really been unconscious. The minutes crawled by making an hour, then two. His shoulder was growing stiff, and despite the quilts he was cold. The room began to grow gray with the advent of day, and soon the sparrows set up a mad chattering.

  “It was you, not Jared, wasn’t it?” Her soft voice cut through his soul.

  “Miranda …” He didn’t know whether he should lie or admit his crime.

  “Thank you, Jon!”

  He was astounded. This was hardly what he had expected. Tears, yes! Recriminations, yes! But thanks?

  “Yes, Jon, thank you.”

  “I d-don’t understand,” he stammered.

  “Thank you for making love to me.”

  “My God, Miranda, what kind of woman are you?!”

  “Not really as awful as you are now thinking,” she answered softly. “I don’t know if this will reassure you or not,” she continued, “but I did not know last night. When I awoke this morning in your arms, without my gown, I knew that that marvelous dream I had had was not a dream at all.”

  He shuddered. “Miranda … dear heaven! How can I ask your pardon? I took advantage of your terror and the fact that you had had too much champagne. I allowed my ungovernable lust to gain the upper hand!”

  “Yes, you certainly did,” she replied, and he thought there was a hint of laughter in her voice. “You don’t make love at all like your brother does, Jon,” she continued, to his acute embarrassment. “Jared is far more skilled and much more patient.”

  “Dammit, Miranda, this is hardly a thing for us to discuss!”

  “Fiddlesticks!” she shot back. “We had best discuss it if we are to continue this masquerade. We can hardly carry on normally if you cannot even look at me. Oh, Jon! Last night was partly my fault, too. I indulged myself in a terrible fit of self-pity, but dear God, I miss Jared so! I drank much too much and I’ve never had a strong head for champagne. I flirted with Darius Edmund because you were being overbearing with me. I was coiled up tighter than an overwound watch spring.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “You have everything.”

  “Not quite everything, Jon, my darling,” she laughed softly.

  “Miranda!” He was shocked.

  “Didn’t Charity ever get grumpy when you neglected her? Or perhaps you’re not a man to neglect his wife.”

  “Dammit, Miranda, such talk is unseemly in a woman!”

  “We were not married a year when your brother left me!” she snapped angrily. “I care very little for wars or politics or Bonaparte! I want my husband! I want to go home to Wyndsong!”

  “If you had not disobeyed Jared by sailing for England without him, he would not have come to England and been forced to take Palmerston’s mission.”

  “He could have said no! I need him, Jon, and last night I needed to be loved.”

  “What if I have gotten you with child?” he demanded.

  “You have not gotten me with child, Jon.”

  “You cannot be sure, Miranda!”

  “I most certainly can. I am already with child.”

  “What?!”

  “I believe it happened our last night together before he left for St. Petersburg,” she said. “My baby will be born in the spring. I only hope his father is at home to welcome him to this world. Bonaparte or no Bonaparte, the child will come.”

  “Dear Lord, this makes it worse,” he said hoarsely. “Not only have I forced myself on my brother’s wife, I have forced myself on my brother’s pregnant wife!”

  She laughed outright. “You are a strange man, Jon,” she teased him. “First you fear you’ve gotten me pregnant, and now you’re upset because you haven’t.” Understanding his genuine distress, she sobered. “Dearest Jonathan, listen to me. If I was a watch spring ready to snap last night, then so were you. Charity has been dead five months. If I needed to be loved, then so did you. I am not saying that what we did was right, and it will most certainly not happen again, but we needed each other, Jon.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Do you realize what this means, Jon? You have stopped mourning your wife. You are ready to live again.”

  “But Jared …” he said.

  “Jared will never know. Telling him might make us feel better, but would it be fair to Jared? What happened last night will never happen again, will it, Jon?”

  “No.”

  “Then there is no need for Jared to know that the two people he loves best in this world have proved themselves only too human.” She took his hand in hers. “You must take a mistress, Jon. No one will think badly of you for it. I shall announce my condition shortly. All gentlemen of fashion keep ladies of the Cyprian persuasion.”

  “Good Lord, Miranda, do you speak with my brother in such a forward fashion?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “but I have, of course, never advised him to take a mistress. Should I find he has, I shall cut his heart out.”

  “I cannot imagine he’ll ever find the need for outside entertainments.” Mischievously he ran a finger down her bare shoulder.

  “I think, Jon, you had best find yourself a companion soon. It is easier to maintain a casual attitude when you do not smolder at me so. No, do not glower at me. Women have their needs, also.”

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wish to get up and get my clothes.”

  “You have nothing I haven’t seen,” she said sweetly.

  “Miranda!” he growled.

  “Oh, very well,” she answered demurely, and he chuckled as he hurried to the dressing room.

  Suddenly he realized how much he liked her. For one so young she was amazingly sensible, and he understood how fortunate Jared was. He also felt acute relief over her feelings about last night. Reflecting on her uninhibited passion, he shook his head. It was definitely time that he found a mistress.

  Chapter 9

  MIRANDA DUNHAM’S SON WAS BORN AT SIX MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT on April 30, 1813. He was, according to both his mother’s and doctor’s calculations, two and a half weeks early. Nevertheless, he was a lusty, healthy infant. The London season was only two-thirds over, but the current high-waisted fashions had allowed Miranda to be social until her time. In fact it was the doctor’s disapproving opinion that Lady Dunham’s busy life had been responsible for the slightly premature birth.

  “Fiddlesticks!” snapped his patient. “Both the boy and I are in excellent condition.”

  The doctor had gone his way shaking his head. Young Lady Swynford, he
privately declared, was a much better patient than her sister. Although her child was not due until the end of June, she had wisely retired from society at the end of March, a full three months prior to the birth.

  Both sisters had giggled behind the good doctor’s back, and to the horror of the wet nurse they had undressed the baby in the middle of his mama’s bed, exclaiming over his perfection. His toes and fingers, the tiny nails, his thick black hair, his miniature genitals all elicited exclamations of delight.

  “What are you going to call him?” asked Amanda one day when her nephew was a week old.

  “Would you mind if I named him after Papa?” said Miranda.

  “Lord, no! Thomas is a Dunham name. Adrian and I have decided if our baby is a boy we shall call him Edward. If it’s a girl, Clarissa. What does Jared say?”

  “Jared! Oh! He agrees. The child will be Thomas. I intend asking Adrian to be the baby’s godfather, and Jared’s older brother, Jonathan, will also be godfather. Jared will have to stand in for his brother at the christening, as Jon cannot possibly come here from America. Will you be my Tom’s godmother?”

  “Gladly, dearest, and you will be godmama to my child?”

  “Of course I will, Mandy,” promised Miranda.

  Thomas Jonathan Adrian Dunham was christened in mid-May at the small country church in the village belonging to Swynford Hall. If Lord Palmerston had heard from Jared, he had not communicated any message to Miranda. In fact, he had gone out of his way to avoid her at the social gatherings they attended. Not knowing how much he had told his mistress, Lady Cowper, Miranda could not even beg Emily to intercede for her. The situation was becoming intolerable.