by Unconquered
“Jared! Oh, Jared! Love me!” she sobbed, and then she guided him through the gates of passion, and he thrust home. Miranda felt unutterable joy filling her. She clung hungrily to him, wrapping her legs tightly around his body, her pelvis pushing up to meet his fierce thrusts. “Oh, my darling!” she wept. “Oh, how I love you, my dearest, dearest husband!”
He could easily have released his desire into her at that very moment, for her passionate declaration excited him beyond everything else. But he wanted to prolong their pleasure, their reunion. This was not the girl he remembered. This was a woman, a woman he had helped only a little in shaping.
It was so sweet. Miranda closed her eyes and allowed herself to float. It had never been like this, even with her beloved friend, Mirza Khan, for though he possessed her with tenderness and caring, though he had loved her, her heart had always been with Jared. And Jared loved her. Jared’s body had been the first to love hers, and he had claimed her heart from the very beginning. With a flash of understanding she realized why Mirza Khan had not tried to keep her with him. Lovemaking could be perfect only if lovers loved each other wholly. Friends could pleasure one another, but that was all.
Her nails scored his back, and he laughed softly. “Still have your claws, eh, wildcat?” Relentlessly he drove her up peak after peak after peak so that her luscious body shuddered again and again and again until, sure that she was satiated with his love, he pushed her to new splendors and quickly followed her.
She awoke in the deep of night to find him sprawled on his stomach, one arm cradling her possessively. A happy little smile played at the corners of her mouth. He still loved her! Mirza Khan had told her that if Jared were any kind of man he would not hold her responsible for what had happened, and he didn’t. She almost felt remorseful over the charming prince who had been her lover. Almost. She smiled again, remembering what she had said to Mirza Khan: “There are certain things in this world that a wife must keep to herself.”
Chapter 17
MIRANDA WAS FEELING EXHILARATED. THIS WAS TO BE HER FIRST large social function since her return to England. It almost seemed that she’d never been away. The coming-out ball of Lady Georgeanne Hampton, eldest daughter and heiress to the Duke of Northampton, was the first truly important affair of this season. It was to be held at the duke’s magnificent mansion, which was within shouting distance of the Prince Regent’s London residence.
Miranda welcomed this change, for she felt strong and whole once more. She had lived quietly at Swynford Hall for several months, basking in Jared’s love and the love of her family, and learning all about the small son of whose early life she had been so cruelly cheated. Whatever doubts Jared might have entertained about her suitability as a mother were obliterated forever on the day he saw them together in a chair, Tom showing Miranda a grubby treasure that he prized. Miranda, her whole face alight with her love, was wholly entranced.
How he wanted another child! But she wished to wait until she knew Tom better. Forcing little Tom to share her when she had barely returned seemed so unfair. Besides, she wanted time with her husband, too. Their third wedding anniversary was the first one they had actually celebrated together, and in general they had spent more of their marriage apart than together.
After Christmas had come the welcome news that on December 24, 1814, in the city of Ghent, Belgium, a treaty had been signed between England and America, ending the war. Come spring, they would be free to travel home.
“I want our next child born on Wyndsong,” Miranda declared, and Jared agreed.
The Treaty of Ghent had been a great disappointment to Jared Dunham, and only reaffirmed his belief that politics was a fool’s game. Never again, he vowed to himself, never again would he involve himself in that which he could not personally control.
Their lives had been almost destroyed by the war, and for what? None of the problems that had led to the war had been solved. The treaty merely provided the return of all captured territory to the power that had been in possession before the war.
Jared was very proud of his wife. Easily the most beautiful woman at the duke’s ball, she greeted old friends warmly with the dignity of an empress. Her ball gown with its bell-shaped skirt was a deep shade of green known as “Midnight in the Glen.” The neckline was low enough to have evoked a protest from him when he first saw it. It dipped down to barely cover the tops of her nipples, and in the back it was just below her shoulder blades. Laughingly she had instructed her dressmaker to add a bit of trim—a dyed-to-match swansdown—as a concession to husbandly outrage. His satisfaction had evaporated this evening when she put the dress on and he realized, to her mirth, that the swansdown only tempted the spectator to blow it aside to see what lay beneath.
The gown had no real waistline, the ankle-length skirt beginning beneath the bustline. There was a wide band of swansdown trimming the hem as well as the neckline. The little puffed sleeves were made of alternating stripes of velvet and silk gauze. Her dark green silk stockings had small gold stars embroidered upon them, as did her dark green kid slippers.
Miranda’s gown was deceptively plain. It actually served as a frame for her magnificent jewels. Her necklace was of round-cut emeralds, each stone surrounded by small diamonds and separated by gold links. It lay flat, glittering against the translucent skin of her chest. There were a matching bracelet and earrings. Her right hand bore a round diamond surrounded by emeralds, and her left an emerald surrounded by diamonds, as well as her wedding ring.
Miranda did not care for the curls and ringlets of current fashion. Neither did she care for the braided chignon which she felt was unhealthy for the hair. She wore her hair just as she had worn it two years before, parted in the middle and drawn lightly over her ears so as to leave bare the lobes and her earrings, and then gently affixed in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck. This was by far the most flattering hairstyle for her heavy, pale-gold hair.
Having greeted the duke, the duchess, and the blushing Georgeanne, Miranda and Jared moved into the ballroom to be scrutinized by many old friends. Lady Cowper came forward smiling, her hands outstretched to catch at Miranda’s. She kissed Lady Dunham warmly on both cheeks. “Miranda! Oh, my dear, it is miraculous to have you among us again. Welcome! Welcome back!”
“Thank you, Emily. I am quite happy to be here, especially so because this will be our last London season for some time.”
“Say it is not so!”
“Emily, we are Americans. Our home is in America, and we have been away for three years, far longer than we ever anticipated. We want to go home!”
“Jared, I appeal to you!” Emily Cowper turned her beautiful face up to Jared.
He laughed. “My dear, I confess to wanting to go home myself. Wyndsong is a magnificent little kingdom, and I had just been getting to know it when I came to England. I shall be glad to be back.”
Lady Cowper pouted. “It will be boring without you both.”
“Now, Emily, I am quite flattered,” said Miranda, “but the ton is never dull. Unpredictable, but never dull! What is this I hear about Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg?”
Emily Cowper lowered her voice confidentially. “Last summer little Charley had her heart set on Prince Augustus of Russia, but as there is no chance of that she has now decided on Leopold. My dear, the boy is so poor that last year he stayed in rooms over a greengrocer’s! What will actually happen one may only speculate upon.”
“She is wise to avoid the Russians,” Miranda said quietly. Hearing her name called, she turned to face the Duke of Whitley.
“My dear,” he said, his eyes mischievously dipping to her neckline, then returning quickly to meet hers, “how good to see you again.” He bowed low over her hand, his turquoise eyes openly admiring.
She colored becomingly, remembering their last meeting. Sneaking a peek at Jared, she instantly realized that Jonathan had told him of Whitley’s attempted seduction! Jared’s expression was quite icy.
�
��I thank you, Your Grace,” she replied prettily.
“May I present to you Lady Belinda de Winter,” said the duke.
Miranda’s sea-green eyes flicked to the petite brunette in the pale-yellow silk gown who was clinging to the duke’s arm. It was an appallingly awkward moment, and even Lady Cowper was somewhat taken aback by Darius Edmund’s lack of tact. Miranda smiled a very small smile. “How d’ye do, Lady de Winter,” she said.
Belinda de Winter looked boldly at her archrival. “Your husband was quite surprised by your survival, m’lady,” she said sweetly, deliberately implying a far greater intimacy between herself and Jared than actually existed.
Emily Cowper sucked in her breath. Dariya de Lieven had been right about the de Winter girl! What would Jared say? For dearest Miranda to suffer any further after all she had been through! Miranda, however, was quite capable of defending herself.
“Jared has spent every moment since my return reassuring me of his devotion,” she said as sweetly as she could, which was very sweetly. “I can only hope, Lady de Winter, that when you finally find a husband of your own he will prove as loving and as considerate as my husband is.”
The Dunhams bowed to the assembled company, and strolled away. Lady Emily Cowper turned on Belinda angrily.
“I shall be watching you, miss,” she said sharply. “You can be barred from Almack’s if I decide it. Your behavior toward Lady Dunham was improper, to say nothing of deliberately cruel. I hope you realize that your expectations in Lord Dunham’s direction are simply not valid now.” Lady Cowper turned away and stalked across the room to find her friend, Princess de Lieven.
“The old cow!” Belinda sniffed.
“She must be twenty-seven if she is a day,” murmured the duke, amused, “but you would not be wise to make an enemy of Emily Cowper, Belinda. Surely you do not continue to harbor hopes in Lord D’s direction? He is quite devoted to his wife, and she to him.”
“He was ready to propose marriage to me,” Belinda said low. “If she were not here I would be his wife!”
“But she is here, my dear,” he said quietly, “and in a few short months they will return to America. They will no longer be part of your life.”
Belinda de Winter did not respond because she was busy sorting out her impressions of Miranda Dunham. She was forced to admit that the lady was an incredible beauty. She and Jared made an extraordinarily handsome couple, both tall and elegant, his dark good looks complimenting her delicate fair coloring.
For some time Belinda was overcome by bleak despair. She wanted to be Jared Dunham’s wife, to be the mistress of his American manor, free of her father and brother.
The dancing could not begin until the Prince Regent and his daughter, Princess Charlotte, arrived. Clinging to Whitley’s arm, Belinda made the rounds of the ballroom, and was pleased to see that none of this year’s debutantes were as beautiful as she was. It was most reassuring.
In the hall below there was a sudden flurry of activity indicating a noteworthy arrival. “Ladies and gentlemen, my lords and my ladies,” the majordomo announced in stentorian tones, “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, and Princess Charlotte.”
The band struck up the appropriate tune as George, one day to be the fourth of his line, and his pretty nineteen-year-old daughter entered the ballroom. The royal couple passed between the line of bowing couples, then suddenly stopped before Miranda Dunham. Gently the Prince Regent raised her to her feet, and smiled in his kindly way.
“My dear, we thank God that you have been restored to us.”
Miranda smiled at the rotund Prince Regent. “I thank his Royal Highness for his prayers. I am relieved that the hostilities between our countries are now over.”
He tipped her face up, and said, “So lovely! So very lovely!” Then, “Have you yet met my daughter, Lady Dunham?”
“No, Your Royal Highness, I have not yet had the honor,” said Miranda.
The Prince Regent beamed on his only child, with whom he had only recently been reconciled. “Charlotte, my dearest, this is Lady Miranda Dunham of whom we have spoken.”
Miranda curtseyed. The princess smiled. “You have had a most fortunate escape, I am told, Lady Dunham. We are pleased to finally meet you.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Miranda said.
The Prince Regent beamed at the two women, and then the royal couple moved on. The band struck up a waltz, and the Prince Regent led the blushing Lady Georgeanne Hampton onto the floor while the duke, her father, partnered Princess Charlotte. After a respectable interval the other guests joined in the dance, and the ball was officially begun. As the evening wore on, several latecomers arrived, and were duly announced.
Jared was a little annoyed to find that his wife’s dance card was quickly filled, leaving only one dance left for him. On the whole, however, he found the situation satisfactory. Between Lady Cowper and the Prince Regent, Miranda’s credibility was assured, and her reputation totally restored. He was not in the mood to dance with anyone else, and so he stood on the sidelines indulgently watching as she was whirled about the floor.
Suddenly Belinda de Winter was standing next to him, asking, “Are you truly happy, my lord?”
“Indeed I am, Lady de Winter.”
“Oh, Jared, I love you!” she whispered.
He never even turned to look at her. “You imagine it, Belinda.”
“You love me, Jared! I know you do! You were going to propose marriage. Everyone expected it! You came to tell me that your wife had returned so that I should not be embarrassed.”
“I was, of course, aware of your expectation, Belinda, and that is why I did you the courtesy of personally informing you of Miranda’s return.”
“I mean to have you, m’lord Yankee,” she said vehemently.
“Good God, Belinda, that is the sort of bad line uttered by the villain in a ha’penny street play!” He turned and looked down at her, not sure whether he was annoyed or amused. “I love my wife, my dear. If she had died, I would have married again only to give my boy a mother. I am sorry to be so brutally frank, but apparently I must be if I am to convince you.”
“You lie!” she persisted.
“Belinda, you are going to make a fool of yourself if you continue, and I prefer not to be involved in even a minor scandal. Good evening, m’lady.”
“Prince Alexei Cherkessky,” announced the majordomo.
Jared whirled, not sure that he had heard correctly. He scanned the dancers, looking for his wife. Catching sight of her, he wove his way through the swaying couples and rudely cut in, good manners forcing the elegant guardsman whose dance it was to withdraw.
“Jared, what on earth is the matter?” She was looking puzzled.
“The Russian who kidnaped you. What was his name?”
“Alexei Cherkessky. Why?”
“He is, it seems, a guest at this ball. They have just announced his arrival.”
She faltered, then laughed shakily. “I imagine I shall give him a very bad turn,” she said.
His arm tightened about her, and she read the admiration in his eyes. “We don’t have to stay, Miranda.”
“What? And have people saying that I forced you home because I saw you talking with Lady de Winter? Never!”
“Could I not be taking you home because I want to make passionate love to you?” he demanded.
“What gentleman of breeding makes love to his own wife, sir?” she teased him. “Oh, no, m’lord! We stay. What did the petite Mistress de Winter want of you?”
“Chitchat,” he lied, “and to wish us happy.”
“How nice,” murmured Miranda, not believing him for a minute.
Across the room Alexei Cherkessky was forcing himself not to stare. He had asked his hostess, disbelieving his eyes, and she had said, “Oh yes, Your Highness, a most beautiful woman, and a most fortunate one! She is Lady Miranda Dunham, an American. Her husband is Lord Jared Dunham, of Wyndsong Island Manor, an American holding. She was swept off
her yacht almost two years ago, and lost at sea. It was believed that she had drowned, but she turned up in Istanbul several months ago.
“She was, it seems, rescued by a passing ship bound for the Turkish capital. The shock of her accident wiped her memory away, and so the captain of the vessel who rescued her brought her to his home, and made a daughter of her.
“Then one day when she was out in the bazaars with the women of the family she saw an English friend, and it triggered the return of her memory. Believe me when I tell you that she arrived home in the nick of time. Her husband was about to offer for another lady. It is a miraculous story, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” the prince murmured. “How disappointing for the young woman who nearly married Lord Dunham.”
“Yes, it certainly was,” and then Sophia Hampton lowered her voice, and said in a confidential tone: “The poor girl is my own godchild, Lady Belinda de Winter. Oh well, she is a pretty child, and someone else will come along.”
The prince nodded, his face drawn into an expression of sympathy. “Of course, Your Grace.” He scanned the room. “I am looking forward to meeting your daughter,” he said. “The Tzar insisted that I come to England and enjoy myself, once I had come out of mourning.”
“How tragic to lose both your wife and child at the same time,” the duchess sighed. Tragic for you, but how marvelous for my Georgeanne, she thought. A handsome, wealthy Russian prince with huge estates in both the Crimea and the Baltic, who stood close to the Tzar. It would be the coup of the season, and it would be her coup! She was going to mark Alexei Cherkessky for her own Georgeanne tonight, and if any of the other old cows thought to snag him for their gawky daughters, they would quickly be disappointed.
“I am going to introduce you to my darling shortly, Your Highness, and I wonder if you would indulge me in just a small favor. It would be so thrilling for her if you took my little Georgeanne into supper.”