He came into the room, closing the door behind him, but did not approach. Keeping his distance from the baby as always. “I heard of today’s events.”
“Oh.” Her excitement deflated. “It was kind of you to come by, but as you can see, I am unharmed.”
“Are you?” He meandered around the room, then stopped by an old wooden rocking horse and touched a finger to its head. The paint had begun to fade on the toy, but his gesture conveyed a reverence that surprised her. “This was mine. I named him Zeus. He and I had many a wild ride together when I was a lad.”
“I did not know.” Her heart melted a little at his wistful tone, her defenses weakening. “It was here when we got here.”
“I imagine someone thought young James would enjoy it.”
“If it was not supposed to be brought here—”
“No, it is fine.” He held up a hand and smiled at her, but pain flickered in his eyes. “Had my own son lived, he would have enjoyed Zeus as much as I did in my youth. James is a Matherton. He should have all the benefits of being a member of the family.”
“About that…” A downward glance revealed that James had finally fallen asleep. She got to her feet and moved toward his cradle. “Annie told me what you did for her. How you took her from that awful place.” Carefully, she placed the baby in his bed, tucking his blankets around him.
“A lady should not hear such tales.”
She straightened and met his gaze. “Wyldehaven, you and I both know I was not born a lady, though I do consider myself respectable.”
“Nevertheless, your demeanor indicates you were raised as one.”
“That is neither here nor there.” The warm admiration in his dark eyes only resurrected the memories of scandalous pleasure in the breakfast room. She struggled to focus on the conversation. “You know very well I have seen things no lady should see. Let us say I am a woman of character who will do her best to live a respectable life.”
“Very well.” He gave a nod. “I also consider you a woman of good sense.”
“Thank you.” She clasped her hands in front of her, more pleased than she should be at such a compliment.
“Which is why I cannot understand why you did not come to me with this.” He withdrew a crumpled paper from his pocket and unfolded it. She recognized it at once.
“Annie.” She pressed her lips into a line. “I specifically asked her not to trouble you with this.”
“Trouble me?” Despite his quiet tone, his eyes blazed. “Young woman, someone has been threatening your life. Did you not once consider asking for help?”
“Anonymous notes come from cowards.” She shrugged. “I thought perhaps they would stop if I did not heed them.”
“Apparently your brilliant plan did not work, since you were accosted today in the middle of a busy street!”
“I know.” She wanted to glance away from the accusation in his eyes, but to do so would allow him to see her vulnerability. Instead she stiffened her spine. “But as you see, I am unharmed.”
“By pure luck and the tenacity of your servants. I absolutely demand you stop performing as the contessa. It is unnecessary now, and it is putting you in danger.”
“I will not.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said no, I will not.” She put her hands on her hips, resolved to hold her ground. “We have discussed this before, Your Grace. You are not responsible for me. I came here because I believed you to be James’s father. But I no longer believe that.”
“Oh, really?” He shoved the note back into his pocket. “Now that I think back, I believe I did have a drunken bout after my wife died, and I recall taking advantage of the services of an accommodating little actress—”
“Balderdash! You and I both know that you are too honorable a man to dally with a woman so soon after your wife and child were laid in the grave. And if you did take up with Lettie, you would never have abandoned her if she was with child.”
He said nothing for a long moment. “This is quite the change of heart for you, my dear. Just days ago you were determined to send me to Hades on the end of a pitchfork with your own two hands.”
“I know you better now.” He was watching her with a fondness that only fed the simmering desire deep inside her. “Ever since we met, I could never equate the honorable man I was seeing with the tales of the blackguard that I had heard from Lettie. But then Annie told me how she met the imposter herself. She swears he looks just like you, and suddenly your wild tales of someone impersonating you became fact rather than fiction.”
“I shall have to thank Annie, as unfortunately my own word was not proof enough.” A shutter had come over his face. “So you have decided that I am not James’s father. Now what happens?”
“I will complete the performances that I have scheduled at this moment, and then James and I will leave London.”
“What if I will not let you take him?” He shrugged when she gaped at him. “The child is definitely a Matherton. Why would you not leave James in my care? I am head of the family, after all.”
“Because…”
“Because you want to raise him yourself?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “A child needs love, not nannies and boarding schools. You can barely be in the same room with him, let alone hold him or comfort him.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense at all. Even now you linger on the other side of the room rather than come near the cradle. James has lost his mother and been abandoned by his father. I will not see him raised in the cold sterility of a boarding school.”
“The boy deserves an education befitting a Matherton. It is what his mother wanted.”
“True. But there are some seven years at least before he is ready for that, Your Grace. Who will care for him until then? A nurse? A governess? That is not the upbringing a mother would want for her child.”
“Not so, Miranda.” He came toward her, despite the proximity of the cradle. “Lettie wanted her son to have his birthright. That means living in a duke’s house. Being raised by governesses and tutors. Being educated at Eton as all the Mathertons have been for generations.” He laid his palm against her cheek. “It is you, my little soft heart, who wants more for him than that.”
“He deserves more.” She pulled away from his touch, silently damning her quickening pulse.
“What if I can give him more? What would be your argument then?”
“I would have none, obviously.” Trapped, she met his gaze head on. “Go on, then. Pick him up, if you will. I would see if you can.”
“A challenge, is it?” He glanced at the sleeping babe. “I should not wish to wake him.”
“Perhaps you will not.”
“Nonetheless—”
“You cannot do it, can you?” She gave him a sad smile, her heart torn by the conflict she could see in his face.
“I am certain I can, but it seems a shame to wake the lad.” He took a step closer to the cradle, then stopped. He stared at the babe from a yard away, his fingers curling.
“It really is all right.” She came to him, laid a hand on his arm. “This is why I believe he should stay with me. He is not your child, and Matherton or not, I do not believe a cold and austere home would be the best thing for him.”
“You would have a Matherton raised as a country boy racing through the meadow?”
“Yes. He will be happy. Loved. Can you promise him the same?”
“Damn you.” He turned away from the cradle to pull her into his arms. “You leave me nothing, do you? This child who reminds me of the one denied me. And you—a beautiful woman who makes me feel alive again.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Stay with me. Share my bed, Miranda. You know we are good together.”
“I cannot.” Her whisper came out harsh and tortured. “We must leave London, James and I, especially with this lunatic who is sending me threats.”
“I can protect you.”
“You have your ow
n enemies, Wyldehaven.”
“Do you doubt me?” He turned her face to his with a hand on her chin. She wanted to purr like a kitten at the sensation of his fingers against her throat even as her heart slowly cracked in two at the decision she must make.
“I am a skillful lover, Miranda,” he said. “And I want you badly. No other woman has stirred me like this, not even my wife. I would make you happy, and you and the baby would be safe.”
He stroked his other hand down her back, and she could not resist leaning into him, just for a moment. “And where would we live?”
“What is wrong with here?” He bent his head, inhaled her scent.
“And when you return to your estate? What then?”
“There is a cottage on the grounds, just the right size for you and James.” He nuzzled his mouth against her throat. “We would see each other frequently.”
“Tempting, Your Grace.” She eased away from him, her flesh tingling but her heart aching. “But no. I will be mistress of my own fate, not a nobleman’s bed.”
His expression darkened. “I care for you, Miranda. This is not just a duke’s whim.”
“You are asking me to give up the only control I have over my own life,” she said quietly. “I do appreciate that you care for me, Wylde. But if I cross that boundary, I can never get back what I was.”
“What you are? Miranda, you are a woman with no family, no dowry. I am offering you a life of comfort and ease, a safe environment in which to raise James.”
She managed not to flinch at his blunt summation of her background. “In exchange for sharing your bed. And when you tire of me? What then? When I age and lose my looks? Will you take James from me and send me on my way?”
“How could you think I would do such a thing?” Anger roughened his voice. “Blast it, woman, I honor my promises, and I promise you that you will have a good life under my protection for as long as you wish.”
“Again, I appreciate your offer.” She laid a hand on his chest and offered a small smile. “But we will never be equals, Wylde. I will always be just another sort of servant, subject to your desires and changing tastes. At least on my own I can make decisions and not worry about being beholden to another.”
“I do not understand you.” He turned away from her, strode to the window overlooking the tiny courtyard of the town house. “Do you not realize that most women would give anything for the opportunity you are refusing?”
“I do. But as you said, Your Grace, I am not most women.”
He did not turn around. “At least allow me to help you with this enemy you seem to have acquired. I cannot fathom how, but it might be tied to my own difficulties.”
“Take the note,” she said. “And I will be happy to give you a full description of the man who attacked me this afternoon. But I will not stop performing, Wylde. Tonight I am supposed to appear at the Oakley affair. I have three other performances beyond that, and then I am going to leave the city.”
He bent his head, ostensibly studying the windowsill. “Oakley, eh? One of his famous musicales, I suppose.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And when is it you plan to leave? I would like to know so I can take care of matters with the house.”
She studied his back, wishing he would look at her. “My last scheduled performance is on Friday.”
“Five days from now.”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” Finally he turned to face her, but she could not read his expression. “I will contact you after I have spoken to my man of business.” He started for the door.
“Wyldehaven.” She stopped him at the doorway with a hand on his arm. “I want you to know this was not an easy decision for me. You are a very attractive, generous man.”
“I understand your reasons, Miranda. I just wonder if you do.” With that, he opened the door and exited the nursery, leaving her to contemplate his meaning.
Chapter 14
The Oakley musicales had become something of a tradition over the years, and not because of the musical talents of the four Oakley sisters. More because Mr. Oakley, a gentleman by birth but a wealthy man by skill, tended to share investment advice with select guests during the intermission. For most men, tolerating the sisters’ caterwauling was more than enough sacrifice for the chance to add to the family coffers. And for Mr. Oakley, imparting a bit of his vast knowledge was more than enough payment to have won a husband for three of his four daughters. Only the youngest, with the unfortunate name of Ophelia Oakley, still remained unwed.
Though not for long, if Mr. Oakley had aught to say about it.
Miranda arrived to find a small group—only twenty or so—gathered in the music room. While not the only performer, she was certainly the main attraction. The young debutantes who were in attendance would carry the balance of the evening with their various talents.
Mrs. Oakley greeted her warmly and with some enthusiasm, as did Mr. Oakley. Young Ophelia—barely seventeen—blushed and stammered and eventually retreated into the corner with the other girls her age. Miranda spotted Lord Arenson in attendance, but her brief concern about the elderly gentleman’s roving hands was quickly relieved when she saw that his wife was also present.
Mrs. Oakley stood before the pianoforte and clapped her hands together. “If everyone would please take your seats, we are ready to begin.”
The guests shuffled and murmured, and then finally all were seated in the chairs the Oakley servants had arranged. Miranda noticed a familiar looking blond girl seating herself with the Arensons, but before she could think much about it, the door to the music room opened.
“The Duke of Wyldehaven,” the liveried servant announced, then stepped aside so Wylde might enter the room.
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Oakley hurried over to the duke, who stood in the doorway, and her husband rose from his seat in the audience to follow her. “I am so pleased you could join us!” Mrs. Oakley gushed.
“The pleasure is mine, madam,” Wylde said with a brief bow. He turned to greet Mr. Oakley, then followed his host and hostess into the room and allowed himself to be led to a seat.
Right next to Ophelia Oakley, of course.
The young girl blushed and glanced away from him, but Wylde did not appear to notice. He spotted Miranda standing to the side of the room, awaiting her cue. Their gazes met for a long moment.
What in heavens was he doing here? Miranda wondered, fighting the urge to twist her fingers together, feeling as if frogs were leaping about in her innards. She thought they had settled things earlier. Come to terms with the end of their relationship.
Apparently not.
Mrs. Oakley took her place before the pianoforte again. “Welcome, Your Grace,” she said publicly to Wyldehaven, then looked out over the rest of her guests. “And now, I am pleased to introduce a talented performer who is fast becoming the rage of London. The Contessa della Pietra!”
Miranda stepped forward to gracious applause, but she was only conscious of one person, one set of eyes. A dark, heated gaze that seemed to look right into the deepest parts of her. With effort, she kept her composure as she seated herself before the pianoforte.
But as she lifted her hands to the keys, she knew that despite the others in the room, she played for one person tonight. One man. Emotion flooded her, begging for release, and she knew that this performance would be different than any other. For as she struck the first note, the power of her feelings took control, quivering in each chord, yearning with each measure.
Through music, she gave herself to Wyldehaven—completely, exquisitely, mournfully.
In the only way she ever could.
The performance shook him as if he were a wet rag, wrung out and left to dry by the fire in the hearth. Her voice caressed him; her hands on the keys might have been fingers on his flesh. She wrapped him in music, soothed the wounded places of his heart, stroked the battered remnants of his soul. When she finished, he dared not move, lest he tremble like a puppy caught in the rai
n, desperate to be near her warmth.
With her performance, Miranda had touched places deep inside him that only composing had ever exposed to the light of day. He felt naked. As if they were already lovers.
But during the intermission, as he lingered just outside the small conversational groups, he watched her. The way the sapphire silk moved with her graceful body, the way the candlelight danced on her hair. And every curve of her mouth, every sway of her hips—even the delicate bend of her elbow—reminded him forcefully that they were not lovers. That, in fact, she intended to leave him within the week.
How could he let her go?
“Wyldehaven, you blackguard, you have some cheek showing your face here.”
Wylde turned toward the harsh whisper, his coldest glare in place. “Good evening, Arenson.”
The old earl scowled at him, but it was clear he was trying to remain discreet. “Had I known you would be here, I would never have attended. Have you no honor, man? No shame?”
Wylde stiffened, old memories of his father rising to the fore at the disdain of the old man’s words. “I am at a loss, Arenson.”
“The devil you are.” Arenson took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing servant and gulped a swallow. “How did you know she would be here? Is it your wont to crow over your victory in the face of your victims?”
“I truly do not know what you are talking about.”
“The card game. The way you shamelessly bilked young Alonso out of the bulk of his inheritance!”
Wylde maintained his stoicism with effort. The imposter again. It had to be. “Refresh my memory.”
“Refresh—” The earl’s fingers tightened around his champagne flute. His kindly blue eyes hardened to glittering gemstones. “If Miranda were not here, you young cur, I would plant you a facer!”
“Miranda?” Wylde glanced toward Miranda, who was chatting with Mrs. Oakley.
“Look at me when I speak to you!” The earl’s voice remained low, but the growl of anger was unmistakable. “Do you see her there, sitting with my wife? She all but swooned when she saw you enter, and not because of your pretty face. Had we known you were invited to this musicale, we would never have attended.”
To Ruin the Duke Page 17