Sebastian opened his eyes and smiled. Miranda was still in his bed.
The morning sunlight fell dimly muted into the room from behind the pulled drapes but brightly enough for him to enjoy the sight of her naked body beside him, her back to him as she slept on her side with her strawberry-blond hair covering the pillow like silk. The poor thing was exhausted, and he was responsible, because halfway through the night he’d aroused her again to repeat the special trick he’d taught her. This time, thank God, there had been no tears, only cries of passion. He didn’t think he could have endured seeing her sob in his arms a second time.
He smiled against her temple. Last night had been one surprise after another, from the moment he’d walked into the room and found her waiting for him to the quiet way she’d admitted that she loved him.
She loved him…Good God. He still couldn’t believe it. Not only had she dared to utter the words, but he could taste it in her kisses and feel it in the way she’d made herself so vulnerable to him. No woman had ever told him that before or made love to him like that, with so much affection behind the passion.
But then, no other woman was Miranda.
He had no idea what he was going to do about her or about his own growing feelings for her. Selfishly, he didn’t want to think about the future. At that moment as she lay sleeping next to him, all warm and deliciously bed-rumpled, smelling intoxicatingly of roses and the sweet musk of sex, he was at peace. He was happy, happier than he’d ever been in his life. And he didn’t want to acknowledge the world beyond his bedroom door.
She stirred in her sleep and shifted closer until her bottom rested snugly against his hips. Slipping his arms around her, he smiled against her hair as she awoke with a long, soft sigh.
“Sebastian,” she whispered, rolling onto her back, her body still warm and pliant with sleep.
“Good morning, Rose,” he murmured. Then he shifted over on top of her and was rewarded with the sight of her breasts displayed deliciously in the morning light. He lowered his head to place a kiss on her pink nipple.
“Yes,” she breathed, “good morning.” With her eyes still closed, awake but drifting on the edge of dreamlike sleep, she breathed out another deep sigh and arched her back toward him. “Oh…a very good morning…”
He chuckled softly. Unable to deny himself from taking even this small pleasure that she so freely offered, he took her nipple between his lips and suckled gently at her. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy this quiet moment when she still belonged completely to him.
Her body wakened further until she was fully aroused and panting softly. If the way her nipple hardened against his tongue was any indication, she was already craving him inside her again. Good. Because he planned on making love to her once more before he let her out of his bed.
Reluctantly releasing her from his lips, he raised his head and whispered her name. Her eyes fluttered open, and the happiness he saw in their green depths took his breath away.
Oh yes, she loved him. And if he wasn’t careful, she’d have him loving her right back.
She reached up to trace her fingertips over his cheek. “Do you often wake up like this in the morning?”
“No.” He touched his lips to hers and grinned against her mouth. “But with you, it’s my favorite way.”
“But you’ve never woken up with me before.”
He teasingly repeated her words from the opera, “That’s why it’s my favorite.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her, then she bit her lip with a hint of shy seduction that sent his heart skittering. “Mine, too.”
Slipping her hand behind his neck to run her fingers through the hair at his nape, she turned her head to glance at the window.
“It’s after dawn,” she whispered. The happiness on her face faded, and he felt its absence like a blow to his gut. “I should have left hours ago.”
He nibbled at her throat to distract her and immediately felt her pulse race beneath his lips. Sweet Lucifer, the woman was insatiable, but so was he when he was with her. “I’ll take you home later.” Although his mind was already whirling to come up with a way to keep her right there in his bed for the rest of the day.
She arched a dubious brow. “And what excuse will we give for why I’m not at Audley House when your mother goes looking for me?”
He lowered his head to once more kiss at her breasts. “We’ll tell her that her eldest son is a debauched philanderer”—he took her nipple into his mouth and worried it between his teeth until a scrumptious shiver of arousal raked through her—“who kept you chained naked to his bed all night and ravished you insatiably until you begged for mercy.”
“Oh,” she replied, deadpan. “So the truth, then.”
He laughed, nuzzling his cheek against her breast and enjoying the scratch of his morning beard against her soft skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much while in bed with a woman, if ever. She was one surprise after—
The door flung open. Quinton bounded into the room.
“Thought I’d head to Tattersall’s today and—” He halted and stared. “Dear God, apologies! Thought you’d be alone by now. I’ll just…” He whirled for the door, then stopped. And glanced back. Bewilderment darkened his face. “Miranda?”
She gave a soft shriek of mortification and pulled the coverlet over her head.
“Get out,” Sebastian ordered, cold fury speeding through him.
“But—but—” Quinn stammered, staring in stunned disbelief. “Miranda?”
“Get the hell out!”
The door shut with a bang, and Sebastian dragged in a deep breath for control. With concern for Miranda pulsing through him, he slowly pulled down the coverlet, only to find her hands firmly pressed over her face. All of her shook violently.
“It will be all right,” he told her as gently and reassuringly as possible. “It’s only Quinn. I’ll take care of him.”
“What will you do?” Her voice was a pained whisper from between her fingers, one that tore into his heart. In her humiliation, she was unable to open her eyes and look at him.
“I’ll explain everything and swear him to secrecy.” And when that didn’t work, he’d toss his brother’s murdered body into the Thames. “It’s Quinn. He would never do anything to hurt you.”
“It’s Quinn!” she choked out in exasperation from knowing his brother as well as he did. “When has he ever been able to keep a secret?”
“Starting now,” he said with conviction. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped out of bed and yanked on his trousers. When he looked back at her as he headed out the door, she’d once again pulled the coverlet over her head. Seeing her like that ripped into his chest, feeling the pain of her humiliation right along with her. And that only fueled his fury as he charged after his brother.
“Quinton!” he bellowed and raced down the steps.
He found his youngest brother in the entrance foyer, within steps of slipping out the front door and escaping. Grabbing his arm, he shoved him back against the wall. Anger seethed in every inch of him…anger at Quinton for barging into his room and finding them together, and anger at himself for being so caught up in Miranda that he’d recklessly left the door unlocked.
“You didn’t see anything,” Sebastian threatened through gritted teeth, his hand clenching at Quinn’s cravat.
“But Seb…Miranda?” Quinn stared at him incredulously, blinking with visible confusion and surprise. “How long— I mean, when—” In his shock, he stumbled over his thoughts. “For God’s sake! We all grew up together. She played in our nursery until she was twelve.”
“She isn’t twelve anymore,” he bit out. Christ! Didn’t any of his siblings realize she was a grown woman?
Quinn lifted a brow. “Obviously.”
He tightened his hold on Quinn’s collar. “It is none of your business, and she doesn’t deserve to be ruined. If you say one word about this—if Mother or Josie finds out—so help me, Quinton, I will string you up between two trees in Hyde Park and—”
“I won’t tell them,” he promised, and Sebastian released his hold. “Good Lord, Seb, I would never say anything that could harm her. Or you. You know that.” Quinn shook out his shoulders and pulled at his cravat, heaving out a long breath of irritation that Sebastian would think so little of him. “I like Miranda.”
He blew out a hard breath, his shoulders sagging as the emotions he felt for her crashed over him. “So do I.”
Quinton grinned. “Obviously.”
With a growl, Sebastian shoved him back against the wall again. “She was never here, and you didn’t see anything,” he slowly forced out, each word a cold warning. “Understand?”
“She wasn’t here,” Quinn repeated solemnly, knowing not to bait Sebastian again if he valued his life. “And I didn’t see anything.”
He stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady himself and to figure out what to say to Miranda before he returned upstairs. Dear God, she must have been completely mortified. And now terrified that her reputation would be ruined. To be discovered like that—
Robert stepped out of the breakfast room and elbowed Quinn in the ribs. “What didn’t you see?”
“That Seb’s sleeping with Miranda,” Quinn answered immediately.
Robert blinked in confusion. “Hodgkins?”
Sebastian’s furious gaze swung between his brothers, not knowing which one of the two to kill first. “Not one word, do you understand?” he threatened, his anger barely controlled as he clenched and released his fists. “Both of you! Not one word about any of this to anyone.”
“Hodgkins?” Robert repeated, stunned.
Sebastian rolled his eyes, at that moment wanting to be an only child more than he ever had in his life. “She is a good and kind woman who doesn’t deserve to be hurt because of me. The only mistake she made was trusting me when I have the two of you for brothers.” After all the times they’d covered for one another with women in the past, he prayed he could trust them to protect his privacy one last time. And hers. But just to be certain, he jabbed Quinn in the shoulder, and his brother wisely retreated back against the wall. “Not one word. To anyone. If she’s hurt because of you—”
“I thought you were hunting a wife,” Robert interrupted, still bewildered.
“I am.” A swift stab of pain sliced into his chest as he uttered the words, the unbidden flash of betrayal toward Miranda unexpectedly piercing. “That hasn’t changed.”
Robert frowned. “So you’re marrying Miranda?”
Quinn grinned. “Mother’s going to faint when she hears this!”
“She isn’t hearing a word of it, understand?” Sebastian scoured his hand over his face, as if he could physically fight down the churning emotions roiling inside him. Or the guilt that threatened to consume him. The weight of the dukedom came crashing back onto him, and his shoulders sagged beneath the crushing burden of it. Worse, because for a few precious hours last night, he’d tasted happiness, and now he knew how empty his life was going to be going forward without her.
Robert shook his head, concern for her visible on his face. “But Miranda—”
“I’m not marrying Miranda,” he ground out, anger pulsing through him as the guilt gave way to desolate wretchedness and overwhelming frustration. Why wouldn’t the two of them shut up about Miranda and marriage?
“Does Miranda know that?” Quinn pressed.
“It’s none of your business,” he growled, adding jealousy at Quinn’s concern to the already growing knot of emotion choking the air from his lungs. “And you’ll forget about this, both of you.” He snapped a murderous glance between Robert and Quinn. “I am marrying the daughter of a peer, just as I’ve always intended. Miranda has absolutely nothing to do with that decision. She never has, and she never will, no matter what happened between us.”
No matter that she made him happy. Or that she loved him, more deeply than any other woman ever had. Or that he knew he’d never have the same depth of peace and comfort again that he’d experienced in her arms.
She was the orphaned niece of one of his tenants. In truth, no better in social rank than a barmaid, shop girl, seamstress…His father would never have accepted her as duchess.
He said again for good measure, to convince himself more than his brothers, “Never.”
Quinn repeated annoyingly, “Does Miranda know that?”
Robert answered grimly with a nod toward the stairs. “She does now.”
Sebastian turned and gazed up to find Miranda standing on the top landing, wearing the same driver’s coat she’d worn to the house two nights ago, covering herself from neck to ankle. Only her hair, loose around her shoulders in a riot of strawberry-blond curls, gave any reminder of the way he’d found her when he’d awoken this morning, so sweet and loving. So happy.
His breath ripped from his chest at the raw pain that radiated from her. Even from two stories away, he could see her green eyes glistening with wounded tears as she stared down at them. The look of betrayal on her face devastated him.
“Miranda.” His voice was a hoarse rasp of regret. “I didn’t mean—”
She turned and fled down the hall.
His gut twisting with remorse, Sebastian rushed up the stairs after her and found her inside his sitting room, her hands shaking fiercely as she quickly pulled back her curls and tied them with the same green ribbon he’d removed from her hair last night. Tears fell down her cheeks even as she kept her face turned away from him in her anguish, and his heart shattered as he watched her collect herself so she could flee from the house. And from him.
“Miranda,” he pleaded quietly, crossing the room to her and reaching for her shoulders. The sight of her pain ripped at his heart. “Please listen—”
She yanked herself away and put half the distance of the room between them. Instinctively, he knew not to follow.
“You said I was special,” she whispered, unable to find a louder voice beneath her tears, although he knew he deserved to be cursed in screams. “I know it’s not love, but—” She choked on a sob, and the soft sound sliced through him. “I never imagined this was what you meant.”
He flinched at the recrimination in her voice. “I didn’t.”
She turned on him, her eyes flashing bright with furious tears as she accused, “The message or the delivery, Sebastian?”
His eyes met hers, guiltily returning the pain he saw in their stormy depths and hating himself for causing it. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair to keep from reaching for her again. “What do you want from me, Miranda?” His shoulders slumped in defeat beneath the unbearable weight of his life. And of her love. “Whatever it is, I can’t give it.”
Nothing had changed for him, no matter how much he enjoyed being with her. No matter how much peace he had found in her arms or happiness in one of her laughing smiles. He was still a duke, and he could never be free to marry whomever he wanted.
“I want you, Sebastian,” she breathed in a heartbreaking whisper.
Her soft words fell through him with a pleasure-pain so intense that it ripped his breath away. At that moment, he recognized all the love and happiness that fate held dangling in front of him, all wrapped up inside a spirited woman with unruly strawberry-blond hair and a freckled nose—only to have it snatched away. The wretchedness of it was unbearable.
“I can’t give it,” he repeated, his voice choking.
“Even now?” she whispered, the pain in her voice heartbreaking. “Even after last night and all we shared?”
Damning himself to hell, he admitted quietly, “Even now.”
She flinched as hard as if he’d hit her, ripping out what little was left of his heart. “But you’re not marrying Lady Jane,” she whispered, blinking rapidly to hold back her tears. “You told me last night that you…”
Her voice drifted away as the truth sank slowly through her, and he watched as the fight ebbed from her, stealing away the energy and vivacity that he loved so much. She transformed before his eyes, from the beautiful woman set on seizing life for all it was worth to a dull shadow of herself. He’d never hated the dukedom or himself as much as he did at that moment.
“So it wasn’t that you preferred Jane,” she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her, but his heart felt every torturous word stab into his chest. “You simply never wanted me.”
“That’s not it,” he bit out in his own pain and frustration, “and you know it.”
Damnation! He’d been placed into an impossible situation, didn’t she realize that? What did she want him to do—throw aside his obligation to his family by selfishly marrying the woman he wanted rather than one who would be best for the dukedom? Wasn’t it enough that he had to carry inside him the guilt he felt over not being at his father’s side when he died? Or did she want to haunt him, too, reminding him forever of the happiness and love he’d lost in her?
Once before, he’d chosen a woman over his family, and she had cost him the last opportunity to speak to his father. He would never put a woman before his family again. No matter how much he loved her.
“I would marry you if I could, Miranda.” The soft confession tore from him with an anguish so intense that he winced. “I would give you a home and a family, and I would spend the rest of my days spoiling you. But I’m not free to marry you, you know that. Even before we left Islingham, you knew that I needed to find not just a wife but a duchess.”
“But you need someone who makes you happy,” she whispered through the tears. “More than anything else I want—I just want to make you happy—” She choked, her words turning into a sob.
“My happiness is not your responsibility, Miranda. Neither is anyone else’s.” He kept his voice as gentle as possible, to compensate for the harshness of his words, but he had to make her understand how futile her feelings were for him, even with the best intentions behind them. “You want to help people, and that is selfless and wonderful. But you cannot save us all, just as you couldn’t save your parents. Some of us are beyond your help, and you have to let us go.” He paused, his gaze holding hers as the pain of the truth registered on her face. “You have to let me go.”
She stared at him, as if clearly seeing him for the first time, and he watched the last tendrils of hope seep out of her. Then her watery gaze lowered to the floor, unable to bear holding his a moment longer, and her hand swiped at the tears sliding down her cheeks. The pain inside him was unbearable. God’s mercy, how he hated seeing her cry! And with each tear, something tore deep inside him, until it shattered completely.
“You can’t spend your life attempting to make up for your parents’ deaths,” he told her softly.
“Neither can you,” she breathed out. Her soft words stabbed into his chest like a knife, wounding him more terribly than he’d ever imagined she could.
Then with a soft cry of frustrated anguish as she gave over to the torrent of tears, she snatched her spectacles from the fireplace mantel and shoved them into her pocket as she fled toward the door.
Unable to stop himself even now, he started after her. “Miranda, wait— Please!”
She glanced back at him, anger and wretchedness marring her beautiful face. The ferocious look froze him in his steps.
“I know why I came here, why I gave myself to you. I wanted to be with you, Sebastian. Because I like being with you, and no other reason. And somewhere between the kisses and the teasing, amid all your warnings…I fell in love with you,” she said quietly, her hands clenched at her sides. “You knew who I was. There was no masquerade mask this time. So you need to ask yourself—if I’m so wrong for you, why did you give yourself to me?”
Then she was gone.
He followed her into the hall, but the door to the back servants’ stairs was wide open. There was no point in chasing after her. She would be gone before he could get to the ground floor to stop her, by now down the stairs and out through the back garden, running back to Audley House as fast as she could. And what would he have said to her anyway that could have softened the pain he’d caused her?
Muttering a string of curses at himself, at his brothers, at her—at everything that led them into this impossible situation—he stormed back into his rooms. He let the anger come, let it fill up the empty hole gaping in his chest where his heart had been, because he knew how to manage anger. What he didn’t know how to handle was love.
He stopped and stared around him, struck by how different the room was now than it had been only minutes before, when they were still happy and she’d been safe in his arms. Her absence filled the space now, only reinforcing how silent and empty the house was without her in it. Worse, because nothing about the room showed she’d ever been here, that she’d ever admitted to loving him. Even her night rail was gone. The only remaining traces of her were the lingering scent of rosewater and her blasted book.
Snapping out a biting curse, he snatched up the book from the floor and tossed it onto the chair. It fell open, and a flattened piece of red paper slipped out from between the pages. His heart stopped as he recognized it. The papier-mâché rose he’d given her at Vauxhall.
He stared at it, unable to breathe beneath the icy pain that squeezed his chest like a fist and threatened to strangle away the tiny bit of life still buried deep inside him.
The aggravating, pestering, trouble-causing gel loved him and wanted to spend a lifetime making him happy, while he wanted nothing more than to let her.
And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
* * *
“Where’s Miranda?” Sebastian demanded as he stalked into the drawing room at Audley House that afternoon and found his sister, Josephine, standing at the window. There was nothing more to be said between Miranda and him, but he wanted to see her to make certain her reputation was still safe. At least that was the lie he told himself. The truth was that he missed her already and wanted to make certain she was all right, hating himself for the pain he’d caused her.
He placed a kiss on his sister’s cheek as she turned away from the window and greeted him.
“That seems to be the question of the day,” she mumbled, preoccupied.
“What do you mean?” His heart skipped with panic. It wasn’t possible that news of what happened between them could have gotten here before him. Unless Miranda herself…Good God. His mind filled with all kinds of terrible possibilities. “Where is she?” He glanced around the room. “And where is Mother?”
“Mama is with Thomas in the carriage.” She reached up to play nervously with the gold pendant hanging around her neck, soft worry creasing her brow. “They’ve gone after Miranda.”
And then his heart stopped completely. “Gone after?” he repeated, his blood turning to ice with worry. “Where?”
She shook her head, and as if sensing his unease, she placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “Miranda wasn’t in her room this morning when the maid went in to start the fire. Mama and I thought that perhaps she’d gotten up early and gone for a walk in the park.”
He kept his face carefully stoic despite the hard worry twisting in his gut. No, she hadn’t gone to the park. At dawn, she’d still been tucked into his bed.
But that didn’t explain where she’d gone after she’d fled Park Place or where she was now. Fresh dread swept through him. “You said Chesney and Mother went after her.”
Josie nodded with a concerned frown. “At some point, she came home, packed a bag, and left again. For Islingham.” She picked up a note from the tea table and handed it to him. “She left this on her bed. She claims her season was a mistake and that she’s needed back in the village.”
He didn’t have to read the note to feel the stab of guilt into his gut that he’d not only ruined her season and taken her innocence but, now, also driven her away. Already he felt the loss of her like a gaping wound he suspected might never heal.
“Mother insisted that she and Thomas go after her,” Josie explained. “She hoped they might be able to catch the mail coach and bring her back.”
“They won’t catch her,” he corrected grimly. As determined as she was when she fled Park Place, as distressed and angry in equal measure, they’d have to chase her all the way to Lincolnshire before they found her.
With a bewildered shake of her head, Josie bit her lip. “I don’t understand. She was having such a lovely season. She even had suitors calling on her. Mr. Downing, especially.”
Sebastian avoided his sister’s eyes. No, not Downing. He’d made certain to chase the man away himself the morning after the opera when Downing arrived at Park Place to ask formal permission to court her with the intention of offering marriage. He’d behaved like a jealous nodcock, making certain the man begged off from their Vauxhall outing at the last minute. Had he known unconsciously even then that he wanted Miranda for himself?
“I thought they were becoming serious,” Josie mumbled, her fingers once again worrying at her pendant. “I was certain that he would offer for her and that she would accept.”
“What made you think that?” He feigned disinterest as he glanced at the note, hiding his growing concern for Miranda. She would be fine on the road by herself, he held no worries about that. In the past few weeks, he’d seen her change from the flighty girl who arrived in London and never looked before leaping to a woman who found the boldness to seize what she wanted, and he’d come to learn that she was far more than capable of taking care of herself. But he worried for her heart now. If he’d permanently extinguished the light in her, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
“Well, he kissed her,” Josie answered, “and a bit more, apparently.”
His eyes snapped up to hers. “What did you say?” Jealousy burned through him at the thought of Downing touching her. At any man touching her but him. “When?”
“The night you all went to Vauxhall.” Not noticing the way he suddenly tensed, Josie took the note from him and placed it back on the table. “She came home all flustered and mussed, and she admitted that he kissed her.”
He grimaced painfully. “That wasn’t Downing.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him and blinked, slightly confused. “Then who?”
“That wasn’t Downing,” he repeated firmly instead, hoping the tone of his voice would discourage her from pressing.
She stared at him curiously for a moment, then she shook her head. “I suppose Mr. Downing doesn’t matter now anyway. But I thought—” She caught her breath as a new thought struck her. “Perhaps she left because she was ill. She’d had those headaches…”
“They weren’t serious,” he assured her. Her only headache—and heartache—had been him. “Most likely she was homesick.” And undoubtedly heartsick. Because of him.
Josie shook her head, not accepting that explanation. “Emily said that you stopped by the lecture and spoke with Miranda. Did she say anything to you about being unhappy and wanting to go home? You two have spent quite a bit of time together lately.” Then her eyes narrowed accusingly on him, in the same disbelieving look she gave all her brothers whenever they tried to dissemble with her, ever since the day they’d strung up her dolls for archery practice. “What did you say to her at the lecture?”
“Flowers,” he answered simply, offering nothing more. He loved his sister and hated keeping secrets from her, but he had no intention of sharing with Josie the subtext of that conversation. “We talked about flowers.”
A dubious expression flashed across her face. “Well, you must know something about what upset her so,” she pressed. “After all, you two have been in each other’s pockets since she…since she…”
Her eyes widened as the words died in her throat, and she stared at him in knowing disbelief. He could do nothing but soberly return her stare, with certain guilt written on every inch of him, and deserving of both her stunned silence and whatever accusation she would level at him as soon as she found her voice.
Her hand went to her mouth, and she stared at him, eyes wide. “My God, it was you,” she whispered through her fingers. “With Miranda that night at Vauxhall…You’re him—the man who curled her toes!”
With a roll of his eyes, he cursed beneath his breath. Curled her toes? He’d done a hell of a lot more to her than that. But he found it hard to regret those precious hours with her, even now, although he certainly regretted hurting her.
“You kissed Miranda?” Then her face broke into a thrilled smile, excited at the possibility that her brother and one of her oldest friends might have gotten swept up in the romance of the gardens. “Oh, Sebastian, I never would have—”
She froze, the words choking in her throat. He tensed with solemn dread, waiting for her to make the connection between Miranda not being in her bed this morning and him hunting her down here. For her to comprehend that he’d done more than simply kiss her. He knew the instant she realized it, when her hand fell limp to her side.
Josie stared at him, for a moment speechless. Then, as if pleading for him to prove her wrong, she whispered, “Sebastian?”
He looked at her grimly, remaining silent beneath her utterly bewildered stare. There was no point in denying his culpability in what she knew to be true, and no point in attempting to explain when he knew she wouldn’t understand. He barely understood himself.
“Oh, Sebastian,” she repeated with compassion and sympathy. He thanked God that he didn’t see recrimination in her eyes. “You’re why she left, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered, his shoulders slumping under both the weight of his guilt and the desolation of the loss of her. She’d fled London because she couldn’t bear being near him. And the truth of that was brutal.
“Then you have to go after her!” Urgency pulsed from her, and she reached for his arm to pull him toward the door. “If you ride your horse, you can easily catch up with her by evening and…”
But he didn’t budge from where he stood. She let go of his arm and drew back to stare at him. In that look finally flashed the recrimination he’d been waiting for.
“You have no intention of marrying her,” she accused softly.
“No,” he confirmed, unable to say anything more. The earlier argument with Miranda over marriage had scraped him raw. He didn’t think he could bear it a second time with his sister.
Her look of cutting reproach deepened, even as she reminded him, “But you have to.” She lowered her voice as if she was afraid they’d be overheard, even as they stood alone in the room. “You’ve ruined her.”
Her soft accusation tore through him. He answered quietly, his voice hoarse, “I cannot marry her, and you know it. So does she. She’s known that all along.”
He saw understanding fall over her, followed immediately by a grief-stricken expression of sympathy for him and concern for Miranda. To those in the ton, Miranda was no better than a barmaid, servant, or shop girl. But he knew better. He knew now how special she was, how fine and regal in her own way. Yet that made no difference in the distance between their stations or who he was expected to marry. No matter how much he cared about her, no matter how happy she made him, she could never be his duchess.
Her eyes softened, glistening with sadness. She rested her hand gently on his arm, still attempting to persuade him as she told him softly, “But if you care about each other—”
“I am a duke,” he snapped out as he turned on her, the frustration and guilt inside him reaching a boiling point. “She is my tenant’s niece and an orphanage manageress. Do you really think she’s what Father had in mind for my wife? Do you?” The impossibility of having Miranda in his life and the loss of happiness he knew she would bring raged through him until he could no longer contain it, and he struck out in his anger. “I made a promise to Father that I would do everything in my power to serve the title well, including finding a proper wife. Can you stand there and honestly tell me that Miranda Hodgkins was the woman he had in mind to be Duchess of Trent?”
Josie gasped at the ferocity of his words and the palpable pain behind them. She slowly drew her hand away as the look of sympathy on her face turned hard, until she stared at him as if he were a stranger.
Immediately, he regretted lashing out at her. Drawing in a jagged breath of remorse, he explained ruefully, “I have no choice, you know that. I have to find a proper bride. Society expects it.” His chest squeezed around his heart so hard that he winced. “And Father insisted on it. When I find the right woman, I’ll marry her. I’ll have a duchess by fall and, God willing, by next year an heir.”
She straightened her spine, her eyes narrowing with disdain. “Congratulations,” she told him icily. “You’ve finally become a true peer. Just as arrogant and cold-hearted as the rest of them.”
* * *
Miranda sat in the overloaded mail coach for Islingham, pressed up against the wall by the five other people crammed inside with her, and stared miserably out the window, with the small bag she’d packed in her hurry to flee resting on her lap. As the city drifted past outside, everything that had happened to her since the masquerade swirled through her mind and only added to the deep humiliation she felt at what Sebastian had told her, and to the utter anguish that pierced her at knowing she would never be good enough for him.
Well, she had been right. The night of the masquerade had certainly led to her ruination, all right, but not at all the way she’d intended.
The irony was heart-stoppingly agonizing. During the time since she stole into Sebastian’s room by mistake, she’d lost her innocence and shattered her heart, she’d been accepted at court and humiliated in the home of the only family she’d ever known, and she’d fallen out of infatuation with Robert and into love with Sebastian.
Oh yes, she still loved him. She was certain of it. Because only love could make her feel this wretched.
She swiped a gloved hand at her eyes, the same pretty gloves that Katherine Westover, Duchess of Strathmore, had been kind enough to give her as a welcome gift when she arrived in London for what was to have been her dream season. Like the rest of her life, that, too, had been ripped inside-out. A London season was meant for a young lady to find a husband, not for her to lose her heart to a man who refused to marry her, even though he wanted to.
But Sebastian would marry, exactly as he’d planned all along. But not her. He would marry the daughter of a peer from an old and wealthy family, a darling of society who would be perfect on his arm at every event to which he escorted her. There would be a grand wedding, most likely at Chestnut Hill and at that beautiful time of year when August faded into September and the stately brick house always looked so beautiful. Of course, she would be expected to attend. To do otherwise would insult the entire Carlisle family, but how was she ever going to bear it? To have to sit there and watch Sebastian pledge his life to a woman he didn’t love, one who stirred no passion in him, who would let him continue to live in that same, soul-killing way he’d been living since his father died…
A woman who wasn’t her.
The tears came unbidden now, and she turned her head aside to keep the other passengers from seeing the anguish on her face and the pain that threatened to consume her. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, and she pressed her hand to her chest. Dear God, it hurt so much that she could barely breathe! Being with him was supposed to have been pleasure. Now, though, she felt nothing but aching misery.
She’d told Sebastian that she wanted him, and she meant it. With every ounce of her soul and being. She loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, to make a loving home for him and bear him children. To make him laugh and smile. To simply make him happy.
But he could never be hers. She’d been a fool to ever wish for that.
She opened her eyes and gazed at the last bits of a tear-blurred London slipping away as the mail coach headed north past Hampstead Heath.
The city had held so much promise for her when she arrived, so much potential for fun and happiness this season. But now, how would she ever be able to think of the city again without thinking of Sebastian?
That was the problem with London, she decided as she closed her eyes again and took a deep breath in a futile attempt to choke back her tears. From the outside, the city appeared so inviting, so exciting and wonderful…just like the pleasures beneath the flickering Chinese lamps at Vauxhall Gardens.
But just like Vauxhall, when the lamps died and the dawn came, it proved to be nothing more than an ugly illusion. Like love, it was nothing more than a dream that would never be real.