The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  All the color had flown from her face. "Gee," she gasped.

  "Pardon?"

  "The notes, they were all signed G. I thought they were from, well, G for Geoffrey. Oxnard. I never thought— You were always so cool, seemingly indifferent except toward the, well, the end. I never suspected…."

  Her eyes widened. "Oxnard even said he had given them to me. He tricked me right from the start! I thought he was being romantic and tender, but he was using your wooing for his own nasty purposes. G for George. I should have known. Oh God, what a fool I've been, about everything." She shivered, and began to weep silently.

  He stroked her on the shoulder, hating her tears. "Oh, darling, I’m the one who's such a fool. I didn’t want to put pressure on you to reciprocate my feelings. I told you I wanted nothing commercial between us. They were just gifts because I admire you so. They don’t matter now. Give them all away and we can start over again, with this—" He lifted the necklace box out of his pocket once more.

  "No, not that either!" she said vehemently, shoving it away from her so hard that it nearly tumbled to the floor.

  "Darling, what on earth is wrong? Please, tell me, love. Nothing you can say will upset me, I swear."

  "It’s my stupid fault," she wept. "All of it. My jealousy, my naivete. And his fiendishness. Philip told me to trust you, but I saw you and Viola and I jumped to the wrong conclusion with both feet. And look at the hell I landed in as a result."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  George looked from the discarded necklace box on the floor back to Miranda several times in complete confusion. Whatever it was that had upset her so, it had to be important. He just had to get control of his impatience and try to listen with his heart, not his head.

  "Saw us? Me and Viola? When? Conclusion? About what?" George asked in an even tone, trying not to betray his alarm.

  She sighed raggedly. "It was the day you asked me to come home and have lunch with you, remember? I arrived early and peeped into the drawing room. I, well, I saw you and Viola together admiring the necklace. You were holding it up around her neck. At first I thought it was Alistair. Then I realised it was you, George. You looked like, well... You looked like lovers. She was in your arms, kissing you."

  "No, Miranda, I swear, it wasn't like that," he protested in a low tone. "We've only ever been friends, so I asked her for advice. She approved, and she was merely offering me congratulations. Nothing more, I swear."

  She pressed on as if she had never heard him. "I was so jealous and upset I went to the theatre. It was the first time I’d been in there on my own, and, um, Oxnard came upon me there. Told me that he had been trying to get into my bed, but he knew it was wrong. That he adored me and wanted to make a fair offer of marriage. That he would die for love of me, die without me.

  "After watching you to two of you for so many months and then seeing the two of you together like that in the drawing room that day, I well, I thought you loved Viola, would always love her, so I said yes to Oxnard and let him take me away. Run away from what I saw, my disappointment that you were in love with someone else and I would never have your heart."

  "Oh darling, I’m so sorry," George said, shaking his head. "But Philip was right. You should have trusted me. You have always and will always have my whole heart, my darling girl." He kissed her hand. "Viola is a friend, the sister of my best friend, nothing more. Not in the past, nor in the future. Not ever. I swear. She's Alistair's wife now too, and he's a good man. The worst thing we have ever been guilty of is a kiss on the cheek or a hug in all the years we've known each other. Yes she lived with me at The Three Bells, but we never once crossed the line of propriety. Not the way I did every time I was alone with you."

  He took her other hand carefully, and gazed directly into her eyes. "From the moment I saw you, Miranda, I wanted you in the most desperate way possible. There has never been any other woman for me in that way, the passionate sense. I’ve tried, but they all ended up being wrong for me.

  "With you, I’ve not only longed for you physically, I’ve seen your heart. It’s beautiful, radiant. It may be a little battered and bruised at the moment, but it will heal in time. So long as you know that there has never been, and can never be, anyone I will love as much as I do you."

  Miranda looked doubtful, but George kissed her left hand gently on her ring finger, and persisted. "You are the first thing I think of when I rise in the morning, Miranda, and the last thing I think of before I fall asleep at night. Even when I’m asleep I do nothing but dream of you. Remember you the way we were that first night when we did "Antony and Cleopatra" together.

  "I should have just been honest then that I was falling I love with you. Instead I tiddled you and was cruel. Nearly devoured your silk knickers and you, but pretended I was testing your virtue. The truth of the matter is that I nearly took you up against the wall, and then told you we could never ever be together. I’ve done nothing but lie to you. So I don’t blame you in the least for not trusting me. I don’t trust myself. You’re so young and kind and innocent."

  She sighed. "I was all those things. Now I’m not so sure."

  "What was done to you was not your fault. And if you live in fear all the time, well, the bastard will have won. Do you understand? None of what happened was your fault. It was all his. I swear to you, I shall always try to tell you the truth, be a good husband. Whenever you wish to marry, we shall. I would do it this second if I thought I could make you happy, if that’s what you wanted."

  She shook her head. "No. We need to wait. To see if there is going to be a baby. And if, well, if I’m diseased," she admitted.

  "I understand," he said softly, though his stomach gave a huge lurch. "So long as you understand that I love you and there’s nothing we can’t face if we remain together."

  She nodded. "I’ll try to believe that. But I’ll understand if you change your mind one day. If I can never--"

  "Never. I will never change my mind. You’ve always been my goddess. There’s no one else for me."

  At her dubious expression, he laughed. "I know virtually every single woman on the south side of the river. Don’t you think if there were any other woman in the world for me I would have met her and fallen in love with her by now?"

  She gave a little smile. "Perhaps."

  He stroked a stray curl back from her cheek lovingly. "I’m far too old for the merely physical. If I wanted that, I could have anyone. Not that I don’t long for you. You know, you’ve seen it. Felt it.

  "But I love your person, your mind. I’m not saying it will be easy. But if all you can ever bring yourself to share with me is a marriage of convenience, I’ll understand that too," he offered bravely.

  She shook her head and sighed. "It wouldn’t be fair. You deserve a whole woman, one who can be a wife and mother."

  He pressed her hand to his heart. "A wife does far more than warm her husband’s bed. And a woman can be a mother without intercourse. There are thousands of orphans looking for a good home. I’m told the Earl of Hazelmere adopted eight children, and he and his wife legitimised them all.

  "Nothing has to be decided now. We will take one day and one night at a time. Things change like the seasons. The only thing that remains constant, darling, is my love for you. I can’t hear music without comparing it to your voice, can’t smell or see roses without thinking of your exquisite body. Can’t meet anyone without comparing your kindness and spirit with theirs. There isn’t a single character trait I would change, nothing that would ever give me cause for unease in taking you as a wife. Many men have delicate spouses. Sickness and health, the vows say."

  "I don’t want to be a burden to you. Delicate."

  He kissed her hand tenderly. "You’ve been the making of The New Rose. And of me as a man. You could never be a burden, my dearest love."

  "Oh, George." She began to weep, but held her arms open for him. He immediately cupped her body to and pulled her close, their hips only an inch apart.

  "Take what
you want. What you need, my love. I’m here for you. I will always love and want you, no matter what."

  "But you have needs too," she sniffed.

  "I’m here for you no matter what. There’s nothing you could ever do or say to upset me except leave me."

  "I’ll never leave. Never leave again. Come here," she said, holding him tightly.

  She hugged him as though about to pull him right through her. Eventually her weeping subsided, but she did not let go of him.

  George struggled with his desire for her, but a single thought regarding the brutality she had faced was enough to caution him that she would take a long time to heal, even after the last of the bruises faded.

  It would require all of his might, but he was going to be the love she needed him to be, even if he had to take freezing baths every day and pack his drawers with ice.

  Fortunately, Miranda had a few strategies of her own to solve part of the problem, and leading him upstairs to the bedroom, told him to get into the four poster and lie on his side.

  As soon as he had settled, she got in behind him, spooned her body along the length of his huge back, and sighed. He took her hand, put it firmly against his chest, and at long last he allowed himself to sleep deeply, certain for once that she was not going to vanish into thin air again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  George was delighted to wake up, albeit fully clothed, in Miranda’s bed the following morning, with her in his arms. She smiled up at him. "I thought you’d never rise."

  "If you weren’t so innocent, love, I’d show you just how much I’ve risen."

  She blushed prettily and shook her head. "You know I wish you could, but, well, it’s still—"

  He shook his head. "I know. Forget I ever said anything so crass."

  "Not crass if it’s sincere. And we need to be truthful with one another, always. So I need to ask you something. Promise you won’t be angry?"

  "No, not at all. You can tell me anything," he reassured her, with a warm kiss on the lips which she leaned into for a moment.

  She stroked the cheek nearest to his shoulder against him, and gazed up at him. "I want to go back to The New Rose again. There’s still the rest of the run of Twelfth Night. Can we do it? Reprise our roles as Duke Orsino and Viola/Cesario?"

  He recalled Antony Herriot's words about letting her act on stage once more. Then he recalled Castlereagh’s threats about staying in line and not performing on stage again. He took a deep breath. "If you really want to, yes, we can."

  "Only—"

  "Only what?"

  "Only I want you to put up the spikes."

  He nodded. "I will. And never, ever let you out of my sight, not for a minute."

  "When shall we start?"

  "As soon as you feel you're ready. Just let me know, and we'll reprise the role. I'll have Daniel set out play bills and I am sure the theatre will be packed."

  "I don't care about their adulation," she said, stroking her cheek. "I only care about yours."

  "You have it, my fancy's queen," he said, quoting from the play, before he kissed her brow.

  One month later, George and Miranda’s return to the stage at The New Rose was a triumph. The only people who didn’t sing their praises to the skies were Maggie and Hugo, whose noses were well and truly put out of joint as they watched the three-quarters empty theatre fill to overflowing as soon as word spread that the stellar actress and actor were back.

  If anyone ever noticed the last of her bruises, covered with heavy greasepaint, or the spikes, they said nothing. Standing ovations which lasted for almost half an hour and endless curtain calls were more than enough proof that they were appreciated by all.

  All except Castlereagh, who was stunned to discover Miranda had somehow evaded Oxnard’s clutches. Even more astonishing was the news his pet spy Edwards brought him one dark, rainy evening.

  "You asked me to find out what scandal the little minx was running from. The answer is none, really, apart from some question as to possible bastardy of herself and her sister. But her aunt has vouched for her, and her brother has too. She is vastly wealthy in her own right, a prize catch. Decently brought up in the country, not a whisper against her or her sister apart from her sister's somewhat precipitate marriage last year."

  Castlereagh looked daggers at him. "Well, are you going to tell me who her family is, or do I have to pry it out of you with this pen knife?"

  "Her brother is none other than Matthew Dane."

  "Bloody hell! Why did no one tell us who she was!" Castlereagh exploded, stabbing the blotter through with the knife.

  "Who on earth would have expected a Dane of all people to be dressed as an orange wench? Let alone tread the boards as an actress," Edwards protested.

  "Matthew Dane? Dane of all people? Then her aunt is Lady Pemberton! Her soirees are notorious hotbeds of political intrigue!"

  "And matchmaking, it has to be said."

  "Bloody hell. Another Rakehell connection!"

  "And her sister Juliet is married to Lawrence Howard."

  "Damnation! Even worse, if such a thing is possible!" Castlereagh exploded again. "How could this have happened!"

  He paced up and down furiously for a time in front of the French windows which looked out onto his exquisite pocket garden, overlooked on three sides by windows from the other townhouses adjacent.

  "And Lawrence Howard has befriended Philip Marshall and George."

  "Good God. It still gets worse! Where the hell have you been when all of this was going on?"

  "Taking care of that other little matter for you, as you well know," the ferret-faced man sneered.

  "Aye, and nearly got caught at Simpson’s that night!" Castlereagh sniped.

  "But I wasn’t."

  "But you could have been, and George knows now that you’re in the country again."

  "I can take care of myself," Edward said gruffly.

  Castlereagh started counting his fingers. "George, Lawrence Howard, Philip Marshall, Alistair Grant, Matthew Dane, his two sisters, their aunt. It has to be part of some sort of plot," Castlereagh insisted. "It can’t be a coincidence. We know George is nothing if not clever. We need to separate he and Miranda Dane right now before whatever they're planning goes any further. And I want the Earl of Hazelmere and Duke of Ellesmere watched around the clock."

  "But how on earth can you hope to get her away a second time? The more you say no to him, the more likely it is that he will just keep on after her. Her fall from grace hasn’t stopped him."

  "Damn. Get Oxnard from whatever hole he’s crawled into and tell him to go get her, claim her as his wife," Castlereagh ordered.

  "But the marriage was a sham! Everyone knows that now thanks to Sebastian Morrison. He can’t expect to remain alive if—"

  "He will do his best to bluff his way through if he knows what’s good for him. Not to mention the fact that she will come with a nice tidy sum."

  "Forgive me for pointing this out, sir, but he’s already—"

  "They need to find the lady in question, and that’s not going to happen. She’s in Bedlam, beyond all hope of a cure."

  "My, he burns through wives faster than I do shoes. She was number four, was she not?"

  "So she was, aye. But he has expensive habits and extravagant tastes. And debauched ones. No wonder the poor woman is mad."

  "So Oxnard will do it, then?"

  "Yes. Miranda will disappear to his country estate and have an accident. George will be heart-broken, of course, insofar as he has any heart left. But she knows too much now. Oxnard has been most indiscreet. God only knows what he said to her. And George can’t be allowed to consort with the Rakehells in Somerset."

  "What shall we do about Jason?"

  Castlereagh shrugged. "He thinks they’re both dead. Jason has no reason to suspect George is as close as he is. So long as he doesn’t try to claim the earldom and sit in the House of Lords we have little enough to fear from him. He has too many gaps in his head to be of mu
ch use. Still, I think a mission to Ireland or France at this point might not go amiss."

  Edwards nodded. "France at this time would be just the ticket. It’s just as well I killed—"

  "Please, such an unpleasant word," Castlereagh said with a shake of his head.

  "Well, you know what I mean. Two D’Ambois are bad enough. A third would have been our downfall."

  "This has been a thoroughly dreadful business from start to finish, but you’ve handled yourself well. I have to say, though, it’s high time you left. You’ve had your chance to make provision for your family to emigrate with you, so I suggest you pack up and go. I hear the Americas are a land of opportunity, despite being full of provincials."