A Prince of My Own: Forever Yours Series

by Reid, Stacy

  Simon grinned, blotting the journal and lowering his quill. "Only this morning." He stood and bounded around the large desk to meet his brother in the center of the room. They hugged fiercely, and Simon was surprised to feel a lump forming in his throat.

  “I missed you,” he said gruffly. “Why didn’t you send word that you were coming?”

  “I missed you too,” his brother replied, slapping him on his back.

  They pulled apart, and William dragged his fingers through his short-cropped hair. "I fancied I would arrive before my letter. But surely you expected me after your last letter informing me that Mamma is slipping into an ever-deeper state of melancholia."

  Simon strolled over to the side table, lifted a decanter filled with whisky and poured two glasses. He handed one to his brother who took it with an expression of rich pleasure.

  “Mother has been in Bath these last four months. She has bought a house in Camden Place and there is a sly rumor about town that she has the peculiar interest of a viscount ten years her junior. Her letters are filled with more cheer and good humor of late, but I daresay she will be thrilled to have you home.”

  William nodded and sipped his drink. “I received a letter from Edward some six months ago, that he is getting married, to an American, and he means to bring her home for the family to meet her.”

  “I received one too. Mother will be well pleased to have all of us once again under her roof.”

  William ambled over to the sofa by the fireplace and lowered himself into its plush depth. “And little Lucy?”

  “Not so little anymore, and not of a mind to forgive you for missing her wedding. You have a lot to make up for with your absence.”

  “That I do,” he murmured.

  Simon took in the changes in his brother. He seemed tougher, the dark swarthiness of his skin a testimony he spent most of his hours under the sun. Nor was he dressed in clothes befitting a duke with considerable estates and wealth, but in a manner of casual disregard of his station. He was dressed in dark trousers and an open-neck white linen shirt.

  “It is very good to have you home, William. Though I do not believe Mamma’s melancholia is the only reason you’ve returned home.”

  William took a healthy swallow of his drink. “I mean to marry. Fulfill my duties and obligations to the title.”

  Simon stilled. “Are you certain?”

  William had loved a girl once, and she had fallen ill. He hadn’t been the same amusing, carefree brother after, and it hadn’t been long before he had run all the way from England.

  A dark shadow shifted in his brother’s eyes before he buried the raw flare of emotions. “Sophia is gone, I’ve accepted that. I…I long for another voice to listen to and perhaps share my cares.”

  “I am sorry I wasn’t able to save her,” Simon said softly, his heart pounding a fierce beat. “I’ve waited almost six years to tell you that. I did not want to say it in a damn letter.”

  William flinched, and an emotion akin to despair flashed in the depths of his eyes. "Did you believe I could ever blame you? Cholera ravaged her village, and there was nothing you could have done about it. Nothing! If anyone was at fault, it is me for not marrying her sooner and taking her away from there. I allowed anxiety in my heart because of the differences in our circumstances and the duty I had to my station.

  His brother tugged at his non-existent cravat, and Simon sensed the walls which numerous times he had stated close on him unexpectedly, once again made their presence known.

  “Let’s take a walk on the estate grounds and catch up on everything.”

  William stood, and downed the contents of his glass in a long swallow. Simon followed suit, and then they made their way outside, despite the slow drizzle of rain. He was glad his brother was home, yet there was a disquieting sensation filling his gut, which was as inexplicable as it was strange. Pushing it aside, he strolled with his brother as they caught up on the last six years.

  Chapter 8

  Miranda sat in the smaller parlor, painting the scenery she’d seen from her chamber—a picturesque lake, surrounded by large oak and willow trees, swans gliding above the water, and birds flitting and twittering about—folding it perfectly with the view she’d had earlier.

  “Miranda! Miranda! Come quickly, girl! Where are you?” the countess called, her tone throbbing with excitement.

  Caught up in her work, she attempted to brush aside her mother’s stringent calls, much as she had done the luncheon gong earlier.

  “Miranda!”

  With a sigh, she lowered the paintbrush, stood, and tugged off the apron. Hurrying toward the door, she wondered what had gotten her mother in such a state of excitable nerves. Only yesterday she had been morose and lamenting staying another day under the boring doctor's roof who associated with such undesirables. She glided down the curving staircase to see her mother exiting from the parlor. The countess glanced up, and a broad smile bloomed on her lips. Miranda was startled at the speed with which she hobbled on her still tender ankle. Not wanting her mamma to fall, she hurried down to meet her. "Mamma, what is happening?"

  "Come, girl, we must have tea and discuss the most exciting news," the countess said, taking her hand, and leading her down the hallway toward the parlor. Once there she imperiously rang the bell, and a maid quickly appeared and received their order for tea and cakes.

  "Upon my word, what is it, Mamma, you are all aflutter."

  They made their way to the chaise longue by the windows which overlooked the gardens. In the distance, she made out the distinct form of Simon walking with another man. Her heart jerked, and memories of his wonderful kisses and touch brought a flush of heat to her cheeks. She quickly looked away and toward her mother, whose eyes sparkled with excitement.

  "Not an hour ago, William James Astor, the twelfth Duke of Wycliffe arrived from India where he had been for the last six years! He will be under this very roof for the next few days, I'm told before he heads to Hampshire."

  “I see,” Miranda murmured, her heart sinking. “A duke is in residence.”

  "Yes," her mother crowed with delight. "And I heard him mention to Dr. Astor while they were ensconced in the library that he has returned to fulfill his duty, that he had been idle enough abroad."

  Miranda was aghast. “Mamma, how could you eavesdrop on Dr. Astor and his guest?”

  “The duke is Dr. Astor’s brother. And he plans to marry by next season! This is a most fortuitous opportunity, my dear. How lucky we are to have been put up in this very household!”

  A bubble of confusion rushed through Miranda. “His brother?” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Sim…Dr. Astor’s brother is here?”

  “Yes. I never knew the good doctor had such connections,” her mother said with a pleased smile.

  Dread lodged against Miranda’s stomach like a heavy stone at the glint of matrimonial fervor in her mother’s eyes.

  "I knew there must be a reason the good Lord allowed us to be stranded here. The duke returned inside a few minutes ago for a decanter of liquor and two glasses. Very odd at this time of the day but not overly improper," her mother said primly. "I contrived to run into him in the hallway and affect an introduction. How charming and unaffected he was with his manners and flattery. And terribly handsome as well. He is not current with his fashion, but that is to be expected being away for so long!"

  Her mother clapped her hands together, fairly bubbling with her happiness. "This is the perfect opportunity to present yourself to the duke. Oh, Miranda, all our dreams can come true."

  The raw, painful emotions tearing through her were wholly unexpected, and her silence could be suffered no longer. “To marry a duke is not my dream, Mamma,” she said softly. “That is yours. I've not met this man, and yet you are here conspiring for us to wed! I have no wish to marry a duke, a prince, or a titled peer unless I love him, and he loves me in return.”

  And I know I am hopelessly falling in love with Simon Astor.

  Miranda
feared despite his connections he would never be thought an eligible husband for the daughter of an earl. The third son would not do when an eligible duke was available. The fervor of matrimonial fever had been lit inside her mother, her eyes glinted with mischief and, to Miranda’s mind, villainous intent. Oh, she could not bear it if her mother were to try and force a connection between them. She might very well die of humiliation, rage, and heartache.

  Her mother, father, and brother would be most violently opposed to the idea of a union between her and Dr. Astor. Mamma would do all that lay within her power to prevent her daughter from marrying a man whom she unequivocally disapproved. Even if it meant locking her away. Her thought felt morbid and overly morose.

  The countess lowered the curtains and peered at her daughter. "Miranda, not this unreasonable obstinacy again. Affections will eventually come with the man you marry."

  She took a steadying breath. “I’ve formed an attachment with Dr. Astor. I admire him most ardently and—”

  “No!” her mother gasped in such a horrified tone, Miranda stopped speaking.

  Her mother took her hands between hers. “My dear, while Dr. Astor’s situation in life is respectable, he is not your equal in station and would make a marriage between you both quite ineligible by our family’s standard. I trust you are neither so foolish nor so undutiful as to conduct yourself in a way that might encourage him to make an offer.”

  “Mamma I love him, and he has suitable connections—”

  "Connections!" her mother snapped with icy disdain, releasing her hand. "You are not to marry a man who has connections, but a man who is of great rank and privilege, certain of his place and position in the haut monde. I shall hear no more of this nonsense with Dr. Astor!”

  “And if he loves and respects me? Should that not be just as important as wealth and consequences. Do you not love papa?”

  An expression of scandalized dismay settled on the countess’s countenance. “Are these the discussions you’ve been having with the doctor?”

  Miranda lifted her chin. “Our feelings are known to each other.”

  Her mother appeared faint. “I’ll not hear another word of this, young lady! I must summon Henry at once, perhaps he will be able to talk some much-needed good sense into you.”

  Miranda closed her eyes in frustration. “Mamma! If you will but for one moment consider my happiness in your plans,” she said in a voice thick with tears. “For a moment, Mamma, think of what I desire. I will not be forced—”

  A knock sounded, robbing her speech. Simon entered with his brother, and Miranda and her mother surged to their feet. Her eyes were for Simon, but a sharp inhalation of appreciation tugged her gaze to the man beside him.

  The resemblance between the brothers was uncanny, except there was an air of hardness and insouciance about the duke. She thought she saw sadness and sorrow woven in the depths of his blue eyes.

  Simon stepped forward. "Countess Langford, Lady Miranda, may I present my brother, William Astor, the Duke of Wycliffe. William, the countess, and her daughter have been my guests these last several days while the countess recovers from a bad sprain."

  The duke bowed, “I’m charmed,” he said, his eyes never leaving Miranda’s person.

  “And we are delighted,” her mother said, dipping into a most graceful curtsy.

  Miranda curtsied, and when she lifted her eyes, both brothers stared at her with similar, piercing regards. She realized she was quite fetching in a layered golden gown which clung to her slender frame, and her dark golden hair had been styled in a becoming chignon. Still, it was no cause for the duke who did not know her to stare so boldly.

  Oddly, she could not read the emotions in Simon's eyes, for usually she would only spy tender regard in his gaze.

  "I must take my leave, and unfortunately I will not be present at dinner this evening. Mrs. Chudleigh is in labor, and I must attend her in the village. Vicar Powell and his wife are my guests for dinner this evening. William, please convey my apologies as I must attend to my patient."

  The offer to accompany him hovered on her tongue, but she bit it back before she scandalized her mother and the duke. But how badly she wished to assist him, and it gladdened her heart that he would not be the type of husband who would want to curtail her to household duties and balls and parties hosting.

  "I shall take excellent care of your guests," the duke said with a warm, inviting smile, to which Miranda did not respond.

  His brow arched as if he was not accustomed to a lady resisting his charms. She almost rolled her eyes. Simon's lips twitched, and it was evident he fought back a smile.

  “I will bid you ladies good evening.” Then with a bow, he departed the parlor, responding to his call of duty.

  "Should I call for tea, Your Grace?" her mother asked with an affable charm.

  “I would like that.”

  “Lady Miranda’s skill at the pianoforte is unsurpassed. Might she play for us while we wait for the teapot to be refreshed.”

  "I would like that," the duke said, walking to sit on the sofa closest to the pianoforte. "I…I knew someone once, and she loved music. I've not heard anyone play since."

  And suddenly Miranda did not mind playing, for she sensed the duke loved and missed whoever he spoke of. She ambled over to the pianoforte and lifted the gleaming lid. Closing her eyes, she allowed her fingers to dance over the keys bringing rich, vibrant music alive. She started to sing, and she heard her mother’s sigh of pleasure, and she wished Simon had been present, for it was him she sang and played for.

  Later that night, a knock sounded on Miranda's door, she closed the book she'd been reading, and glanced up. It was frightfully late, after midnight at least. And still, Simon had not returned. He had sent word that Mrs. Chudleigh's labor might very well continue into tomorrow and he would spend the night at her residence. A pulse of worry slithered through Miranda when a more strident knock sounded, and she pushed from the bed, tugging her robe from the peg and slipping it on. She hurried to the door and opened it, to see Agnes standing with a lantern, a fierce and worried frown on her face.

  “Agnes, what is it, is it Mamma?”

  “It is, milady, we must go to her room right away.” She turned and moved with speed down the hallway.

  Her heart tripping in alarm, Miranda followed. She frowned when Agnes went past the countess’s door. “Is Mamma not in her room?”

  There was a slight hitch in Agnes’s step then she said, “Lady Langford most stringently complained of a draught in her room, and the housekeeper was obliged to move her, milady.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes in exasperation. Mamma had been such a tiring guest. She tried to feel some sympathy, for it could not be easy for a woman used to such activities as taking long walks and riding to be confined to her bed. Still, Mamma should handle the situation with more grace than she had done, and Miranda would tell her so. And they must repay Simon’s goodwill with a charity fundraiser ball for his hospital. She would insist on it.

  They came upon a door, and lamp light showed from behind the door. Mamma was clearly awake. Agnes knocked once, opened the door and held it wide for Miranda to enter. She proceeded inside and grounded to a halt to see the Duke of Wycliffe standing by the fire with a glass in his hand and dressed only in a banyan. He glanced up with a warm, welcoming smile, and Miranda's heart fluttered to her chest in sheer shock.

  The door slammed shut, and she spun around with such speed for a moment she felt lightheaded. She rushed toward the door, only to hear the decisive turning of a key in the lock.

  Chapter 9

  "Agnes!" Miranda cried, horror icing through her veins. "Open this door at once! Please do not let Mamma convince you to do this!"

  The sound of footsteps running away reached Miranda's ears, and she groaned her frustration and thumped the door. "Agnes!"

  “Ahem,” the duke said.

  She whirled around and narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you by chance have a key to this chambe
r, Your Grace?”

  A discomfited expression settled on his face and with a sigh, he stepped back. "I gather you did not send me a note mentioning you would slip into my room for a rendezvous?"

  Miranda gasped, “I most certainly did not! I am a lady of good sense, Your Grace, I am barely acquainted with you.”

  Silence throbbed in the room like a wound.

  The hint of seductive laughter had entirely vanished from his eyes. "I see." A calculating glint entered his eyes. "Either you are the greatest actress alive, or you are truly innocent in this farce."

  “And I truly do not care a fig about what you think or believe! Do you have a key?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Alas, I do not.”

  If she had to marry the duke…the thought was just too awful to contemplate. Frustrated tears burned behind her eyes. How could you, Mamma? Miranda hurried to the window and shoved it open, staring at the three-story fall. She glanced back at the four-poster bed, and the billowing curtains surrounding it. In the gothic novels she read, the heroine is always tying bedsheets and curtains together to escape some dastardly situation. Perhaps…

  “It will not work, and I would be the worst sort of bounder to watch you act foolishly and fall to your death.”

  She whirled around, ashamed to feel tears springing to her eyes. “I cannot spend the night in your room, Your Grace.”

  Resignation settled on his face, and he raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I’m afraid the deed is already done, even if you were to be rescued now, your reputation is compromised. And I do not feel as if rescue would come until the morning. Is that not what your mother planned?”

  Miranda winced, mortification crawling through her. “I cannot beg forgiveness for her actions, for I do not perceive I will be able to forgive her anytime soon. Mamma will expect for you to offer for me and—”

  "Upon my honor, I will marry you."

  She stared at him utterly aghast. “Your Grace, you cannot!” She didn't know whether to laugh or to weep. Finally, a duke willing to marry her, one who was quite handsome, wealthy, and respected. And she did not want him, instead she desired his brother with every emotion in her heart. She could no longer think of him as simply a diversion any longer or a passing flirtation. She had fallen in love with him. He was a man well worth wanting. Worth risking the wrath of her parents for. Worth denying a duke for. “I’ll not marry you.”