by Heather Boyd
Miranda hurried for her door. She pushed it closed with more force than intended, and the sound was accompanied by his laughter. She leaned against the door for support, scowling. The fiend meant to dog her steps. She would make him look a fool for the assumption that he’d neatly trapped her. Her room had a daring exit she wasn’t afraid to use if necessary to meet with Martin. It might be too late in the day now to make such an arrangement, but tomorrow was another matter.
Taverham would never know she’d gone until it was far too late.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kit tapped firmly on his wife’s door at Mivart’s Hotel and waited, listening to the low murmur of female voices within but unable to understand any of the conversation. He glanced along the hall as a door opened farther down toward the stairs. An elderly gentleman escorted a young woman, no more than a slip of a girl really, quickly toward an exit. He smirked. Why that dirty old fellow, bedding a woman not even a quarter of his age.
Kit wished he had half the old rascal’s luck when it came to his own wife.
Waiting had never been his forte, much preferring swift and decisive action to get what he wanted and quickly, so he tapped on Miranda’s door again. Waiting for Miranda seemed his lot in life though, as she kept him standing at the door some few more minutes. When the door finally did open to admit him, an elfin-faced maid blinked, then squeezed past with a muttered excuse me as she fled down the hall.
He ignored the maid and focused on his wife, who was dressed in a gown of deepest blue, black gloves in place and not a hint of tempting flesh visible below her collarbones. Her eyes flashed with barely concealed hostility toward him. Definitely no chance that she’d softened toward him.
And yet he again found himself pulled toward her against his will. With a sudden burst of clarity, he remembered feeling exactly the same way when they had first met. At the time he’d been so certain that Miranda was meant to be his wife.
Despite the difficulties, he wasn’t a fool to ignore how much he wanted her, and not just in his bed. He wanted to know why her eyes flashed with such fire when he spoke of the past and of their future together. He desperately wanted to learn where she’d been keeping herself these past years and why she wouldn’t tell him of it. “Miranda. You look lovely.”
“Taverham. You look the same.”
He prowled toward her. “Irresistible?”
Her eyes swiftly flickered over his appearance and a smirk curled her lips. “Hardly. I’d describe you as being as pretty as the peacocks strutting the grounds of your estate if that wouldn’t malign the peacocks.”
He blinked at her words, taken aback by the notion his physical appearance offended her. “Pretty?”
“Well, yes. I daresay you spent more time before the looking glass than I have tonight, but then I’ve learned from experience that the surface only reveals part of a man’s true character and cannot be swayed by elegance.”
He swallowed back the retort begging to be spoken. He would not fight with her and allow her to ruin their time together. If she found fault with his manner of dressing and his character now, she would have to learn to bear it. At nine and twenty, he wasn’t planning to change much about his life anytime soon. He would not alter everything about him to suit her fickle moods when she barely gave him the time of day. It would take something extraordinary for that to happen. He held out his arm. “Supper is waiting.”
Miranda glanced at his outstretched arm and ignored it. She stepped around him and stopped only when she’d gained the hall, key in hand. Kit gritted his teeth and followed. He closed the door, held out his hand for her key with which to lock the door. Miranda bit her lip briefly then passed it over. Would every decision be a battle of wills?
When he was done, he slipped it into his pocket beside his own key as she did not carry a reticule with her. “The dining room is this way.”
“I know the way. I was a guest at Mivart’s Hotel long before you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A few days this time.”
He absorbed that, including the idea she’d been here before. “When were you in London last?”
“Last year when I learned of my grandfather’s death. I was too late for the burial but not too late to lay wildflowers on his grave.”
Thomas Birkenstock’s passing had been sudden and a sad event. Kit had never won his approval, certainly not when Miranda had fled their marriage and disappeared so completely that she couldn’t be found. He’d felt sorry for Agatha the most and hadn’t even considered how Miranda might feel about his death.
Had Miranda missed her family, or had they kept in touch secretly all these years? He really had to know how big a fool he’d been. “Did you see your cousin, Agatha, when your grandfather died?”
Miranda slowly shook her head. “There was no need to bring further complications to her life by making myself known to her again. By all accounts she was content in Viscount Carrington’s care, and I knew Lady Carrington would comfort her in her grief. Estella was always kind to her, and I understand they’ve become like mother and daughter since the marriage. My cousin did not need me then.”
Kit peeked at Miranda. For a woman not moving about in society, she was remarkably aware of the most important events in their circle and her family. Was Louth her only source of intelligence or were there more than him involved in keeping her location a secret?
He paused inside the dining room and glanced about the quaint hotel room set aside for private dining. The table was set with the finest the establishment had to offer, silverware and glassware gleaming beneath two candelabras set at equal distance along the oval table. Four footmen in hotel livery stood at the ready to serve them whatever their hearts desired. A large mass of crimson roses was the centerpiece he’d chosen to brighten the room and soften his wife’s heart. The setting and the menu planned was as close a match to their wedding breakfast feast as it was possible to recreate at such short notice. Miranda did love roses so.
“Wonderful,” he said as he smiled down on her.
Miranda sneezed and then stared ahead. “Yes, the hotel is very keen to please their guests in every respect. I see you’ve recreated the dining room from your home and the wedding breakfast.”
“Our home.” He’d insisted the hotel arrange the room to his liking and was well pleased with the results and that Miranda remembered too. It wasn’t a precise recreation, but then again the room was exactly one-third the size of his usual dining room. He wanted to give Miranda a reminder of how things would be when she came home to him.
When she went to sit, Kit waved away the footman who stepped forward eagerly to hold her chair and seated her himself. He touched her shoulder, a brief caress over the top of her gown to prove her real. He couldn’t seem to help such touches and stood back quickly lest she demand he stop.
Miranda murmured her thanks to her plate.
The fact that he could unsettle her with a simple touch pleased him. He wanted Miranda to remember that she’d once lapped up every caress between them. It had been almost impossible to keep his hands to himself when they’d been courting, and more difficult now that he should be able to do so at any time he pleased.
Kit took his place at the other end of the table and signaled for the meal to commence being served before he got too far ahead of his new plan. The four footmen were sufficient for the task, and he sat back and threw a pleased smile in Miranda’s direction. Almost immediately he perceived his error. As he looked along the table length, he discovered the center flower arrangement and candelabras concealed all but the tips of her elbows from his gaze. After a few frustrating minutes, Kit concluded he would have little choice but to lean to the side to speak with her. Had this happened on their wedding day? Perhaps that occasion hadn’t been so perfect after all. He peered around the roses. “How do you find the soup? I hope it’s to your liking.”
“As excellent as always.” Her gaze flickered to the footmen standing closest to her a
nd she smiled warmly. “Do pass my compliments along to the chef and staff for their hard work tonight. The marquess may be used to such preferential treatment as an everyday event, but this is wonderful. They have outdone themselves and should be very proud.”
The man stood taller, soaking up her praise. “Thank you, madam. I shall happily express your satisfaction belowstairs.”
Kit straightened in his chair, annoyed that Miranda gave compliments freely to servants and spoke meanly to him. It wasn’t fair. This dinner was his re-creation. Didn’t he deserve some praise too? He was trying to win her regard, not become an object for her to ignore. What did a husband have to do to win a genuine smile from his own wife?
When the soup course was cleared and the next served out, he realized his plan for getting closer to his wife needed adjustment. He’d moved into the hotel so as to spend more time together but had inadvertently placed further obstacles in his path when he’d organized this dinner. Dinner for two should be cozier than a normal setting allowed. There was room for two empty place settings between them. He needed to move if he wanted a chance to get to know Miranda again.
He stood and every servant froze before swiveling to stare at him. Miranda glanced at him at last, her face inscrutable in the candlelight. He gestured to his place setting and then stood back. “Move my setting to a place at my wife’s side and be quick about it.”
The four servants rushed to do his bidding, quick, efficient, and blessedly silent in the wake of his abrupt request. They would be talking about this strained affair for days at this rate, but what was one more rumor where his wife was concerned?
When he sat again at her side, Miranda addressed the servants behind him. “Thank you.”
Kit glanced behind him too, slightly abashed that he’d overlooked speaking to them. It was Miranda’s fault. Attempting to win her over unsettled him more than he’d known it would. “Yes, thank you.”
Miranda reached for her water glass and sipped daintily, then returned to her meal in silence. Kit ate too, more comfortable with a clear view of his wife. She picked at her pork and ignored her full wineglass in favor of water, sniffling occasionally. Puzzled by the sniff, he leaned forward to see her face better. A single tear slipped over her pale cheek. “Are you crying?”
She scowled at him. “I have not cried in years.”
Undeterred by her warning tone that he might be prying, Kit leaned closer yet. Her eyes were rimmed red and glassy bright; she twitched her nose as if it tickled. “Well, if you are not crying then what is the matter with you?”
Eventually, her gaze flickered along the table. “Roses do not agree with me. They never have.”
That stunned him. “But you loved them. I had an arrangement sent to your room every day before we married, and you said not a word about disliking them.”
She shrugged. “They were already present so why complain?”
Kit reared back as she succumbed to a sneeze. Why complain? Why not complain? A marchioness did not suffer discomfort when it could be avoided. That was one of the benefits of being a peer. He pointed to the table. “Remove all the flowers and wait outside until called.”
As the footmen filed past with the large arrangements bobbing before them, Miranda sneezed again and again, dabbing at her nose and eyes as they watered horribly. When she slowly calmed from the sneezing fit, he caught her hand. “What else did you not tell me?”
“I imagine many things. You were too busy planning everything without consulting me.” She jerked her hand from his grip as if he’d burned her. “There’s no need to concern yourself.”
He gestured to the plate and wineglass. “I take it by that you must also dislike pulled pork and wine too.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Those are recent dislikes I’ve not managed to conquer as yet.”
He caught her hand and pulled her to her feet angrily.
Miranda steadied herself against his chest. “Must you manhandle me so rudely?”
“Oh, I have not even started.” He dragged her toward the sideboard where the remainder of the meal had been placed, ready to be served. He uncovered each dish to show her. “Does anything else here displease you?”
Her glanced flickered over the silver and glass dishes and she smiled. “No. I’m fond of everything there.”
“Good.” Kit caught her chin in his fingers and tilted her face upward. Her eyes were still irritated as he stared into them.
All of a sudden, they softened from their usual coldness and Miranda stumbled back a step, far out of reach. “I’m fine now.”
Kit wasn’t so certain that was the truth, but he felt better for knowing the rest of the meal would be uneventful and acceptable to her. He ushered her to her chair, called the servants back to them, and watched his wife carefully all through the meal. He didn’t understand her in the least, but he knew three more facts about her. He would give her anything she wanted if only she spoke truthfully from her heart.
His parents had never hesitated to criticize each other’s decisions and tastes in all things little and great. Their blunt honesty had been the basis for his life. Yet his parents had spent a great deal of their later years apart, which did go a long way to explaining why he was an only child. He had never wanted that for his own family.
In the back of his mind he considered what else Miranda might have lied about before their marriage. Had she really believed herself set up so she could not refuse to marry him? At the time he’d believed them a fair match when it came to their likes and dislikes. Had they only been a match in bed and then only in his mind?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
No matter how loathe Miranda was to admit it, there was something compelling about being more or less alone with her husband. An indefinable air about him that drew her close while her mind shrieked at her to run away before he captured her heart and crushed it to dust. He was an enigma she couldn’t help but be intrigued by. Handsome, but proud. Cold, but possessed of a cheeky, warm smile.
Where she’d imagined him furious over her absence, he expressed only mild concern now. He hadn’t laid out any plans beyond sharing a meal with her, and he’d stopped delivering ultimatums.
Unless he’d decided it was a foregone conclusion where she’d spend the remains of the evening. She groaned softly under her breath.
Miranda thanked the footmen as she turned for the door to the dining room and avoided touching her husband at all costs. He seemed amused by that; the corners of his eyes creased, adding a touch of wickedness to his face.
Miranda lengthened her stride so she wouldn’t have to see any more of his good looks. The evidence that he’d gone out of his way to look his best tonight when she hadn’t irritated her unbearably.
“Miranda,” he called and she drew to a stop like a puppet on a string outside their chambers. She hated he could still do that. She hadn’t felt so under another’s control in quite some time.
Kit smiled down on her. “In the absence of a drawing room, I hoped you might join me in my room for tea.”
“Tea?” Surely that wasn’t what he intended.
“It’s already arranged. A servant will be here directly.” Without waiting for a response of any kind, Taverham unlocked his bedchamber door and stood aside to let her pass.
Ahead lay a room of similar proportions to her own: a bed, chaise lounge, washstand, and countless traveling trunks stacked neatly in one corner. There were a few other pieces of furniture, but likely nothing to the luxuries found at his London home. Her husband did not normally skimp on life’s little comforts, and she was surprised by how frugal he appeared today.
The only luxury appeared to be a chaise lounge without a back to rest against. Miranda didn’t have one of those in her room, but it was the kind one could escape from in a hurry from almost any direction if pressed.
Miranda crossed the room and took a position on the edge of the chaise, closest to the empty hearth, to await the promised tea being delivered. If Taverham so much as twitched in
her direction before or after that, attempting to get his heir, she’d bash what little brains he had with the fire poker.
She observed him discreetly as he closed the door, shutting them inside where he had control and privacy. He placed his key on the table beside the door, then laid hers beside it neatly. Miranda made note of the position of hers for later. He strolled toward her and Miranda’s heart pounded fiercely. Yet he passed her, stopping at the covered window and peeking outside. “We’ll have rain tomorrow.”
“Certainly.” Anyone with sense could tell the cloud-filled sky boded rain on the morrow. She fiddled with her glove, then scolded herself for showing nervousness around him. She wasn’t afraid to refuse him his husbandly rights. He wasn’t completely irresistible.
A knock on the door brought tea and a brief respite from the tension building inside her. When the servants were gone and he hadn’t moved, Miranda took it upon herself to pour as if she were the hostess and tonight’s meeting was an everyday event.
“Have you finished reading Tom Jones?”
Henry Fielding was one of her favorite authors. Christopher’s too. “Yes. Many times.”
“It’s still my favorite. Haven’t found anything to surpass it while you’ve been gone. Have you?”
“No.” Miranda shrugged. Enjoying the same book meant little. It wasn’t enough to base a marriage—a life—on when there was no hope for more.
He sighed and took a place beside her on the other side of the chaise, facing the blanketed window. Close but not so close as to invade her personal space. Her skin tingled as if he stared at her face. “You have more lines about your eyes now,” he said suddenly.