From the mouth of babes . . . in this case, an experienced babe. She had little doubt that Henry was correct, at least in general, yet she had managed to get Roscoe to at least bend, several times; she felt rather chuffed about that. “So what’s next for you? I take it you’ve finished school?”
“Yes. I’ll be going up to Oxford next year—all the males of the family go there.”
She listened with half an ear, throwing out another question whenever he ran down. Henry reminded her of Roderick at that age; despite the difference in class, the similarities were marked. But by the time they’d ambled through the shrubbery and were heading back toward the house, Henry’s words had reminded her of a highly pertinent question that had been buried beneath the avalanche of recent revelations.
Why had Lord Julian Delbraith become Neville Roscoe? Why had he dropped one identity and created another? A very powerful other?
Reentering the house with Henry, she felt increasingly sure that the primary motivation behind Julian’s transformation to Roscoe would be something to do with protecting his family. How, she couldn’t imagine, but if their liaison was to have much of a future, that was one of his secrets she might need to know.
“Julian, dear”—Lucasta caught his eye as they rose from the luncheon table—“if you would, I would like a few minutes of your time.”
“Yes, of course.” Drawing back Miranda’s chair, he watched as she rose, smiled at him, then went to join Edwina and Caroline as they headed for the door, already engrossed in a discussion of wedding bouquets. He turned as Lucasta joined him. “Where?”
She twined her arm with his, patted his hand. “The gardens, I think. It’s pleasant enough, and no doubt the weather will soon turn. We should take advantage of clear skies while we may.”
He made no reply, simply steered Lucasta through the corridors and out onto the terrace. As they descended the steps to the path circling the lawn, the voices of the three ladies in the morning room reached them, the pleasant, gentrified sound fading as they walked further from the house. He waited for Lucasta to broach the subject she wished to discuss; she wouldn’t until they were well away from any chance of being overheard or overseen. She’d wanted privacy, so the matter would, indeed, be sensitive, but he had no idea what it might be; these days, between him and her, there were few topics that would qualify for such discretion.
She waited until they reached the far side of the lawn before saying, “No one knows better than I why you became Roscoe. Why you let Julian vanish into some unspecified limbo.”
He managed not to tense; that was a direction he hadn’t foreseen. Noncommittally, he inclined his head. “Indeed.”
She glanced at his face, trying to read it—something not even she was all that good at. “That said, I wondered if, given the current state of the dukedom, given our collective financial health, whether you’d considered the prospect of stepping back, as it were, and becoming Julian again.”
“I can honestly say the thought had not entered my head.”
“Yes, well—I did wonder if you’d realized that the prospect was now a possibility, or so I judge. You would know better than I, of course, but my understanding is that, courtesy of you being Roscoe for the past twelve years, we are all in excellent financial shape, and, indeed, our continued financial well-being is no longer dependent on the activities of your alter ego.” Her gaze remained on his face. “Is that assessment correct, or have I got it wrong?”
“No. You’re correct.” After a moment, he admitted, “If Roscoe ceased his activities tomorrow, none of you would be materially affected.”
He, however, would be, albeit not financially. For some years now, all the profits from his gambling enterprises had gone back into the businesses, or to the people running them, or to charity.
They walked slowly on. Again, he felt his mother’s gaze touch his face.
“The reason I wondered if you’d considered the reversal, as it were, is . . . well, you missed giving Millicent away, and Cassie, too, and Edwina is the last. I know it would mean a lot to you, and to her, indeed, to us all, to have you, as yourself, walk her down the aisle.”
The emotional tide the prospect conjured damned near swamped his heart, but . . . he was too wise in the ways of his mama to let his reaction blind him. Instead, he looked past it, beneath it, for the real reason Lucasta, of all women, had chosen to prick him with such a potent blade.
Only if she was envisaging something even more powerful . . .
When he didn’t immediately respond, she glanced idly around, and as they continued slowly strolling, went on, “If Roscoe were to disappear one day—sell his businesses and simply go, set sail for America, perhaps—and a few weeks later Lord Julian Delbraith returned from wherever his fancy had taken him twelve years ago, repentant, of course, but as charming as ever . . . can you see how that might play out?” She patted his arm. “And, of course, wherever you were, whatever it was you were doing, you’ve made a spectacular fortune, so, my dear, you’d be beyond eligible, too.”
And there it was.
Did she know? As perspicacious as she’d always been about anyone but George, he had to wonder whether she’d guessed what his dearest, deepest, most personal wish—the one he’d set aside, the one he’d knowingly sacrificed to his family’s need—was. The wish that, when he’d stood over the old wishing pool, had sprung fully formed, undimmed by the years, back into his mind.
“I hadn’t thought of reverting”—he heard his clipped accents, didn’t try to soften them—“so if you’re asking whether I will, or might, I can’t answer.” He met her eyes, so like his own. “It’s not a simple matter—there’s a great deal I would need to consider, with many aspects to be weighed on each side of the scale.”
She searched his eyes, then nodded and looked ahead. “Yes, I daresay. And I suspect I cannot even guess at most of those aspects. However, if only to please me, do, I beg you, consider the possibility.”
After a moment, he inclined his head. “I will.”
Now she’d put it into his head, of course he would.
Now she’d raised the prospect of a way in which he might, just might, be able to pursue the dream he’d refused even to allow himself to dream.
Being Lucasta, she patted his arm and said not a word more.
Leaving him wrestling with a raft of questions he hadn’t, until then, thought he’d ever have to answer.
She wasn’t going to dwell on what the future might bring. When she heard Roscoe open her door that night, Miranda, waiting by the uncurtained window, reminded herself of her decision to simply make the most of every minute.
On their return to London, what would be would be, but for now . . . the door closed, and, turning, she watched him walk through the moonlight and shadows toward her.
To her.
Halting before her, he drew her into his arms, and she went, raising hers to drape them over his shoulders, hands clasping his nape as he bent his head and kissed her. Lightly.
Raising his head, he looked down at her. She couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t see his eyes well enough to gauge his mood, but she thought it was serious. “Have you heard something about Kirkwell?”
The question seemed to surprise him.
Shifting his mind from the track, courtesy of his mother’s suggestion, it had started down, Roscoe took a few seconds to refocus. “No.” After a moment, he added, “Not about Kirkwell.” Roderick’s abduction was a much safer topic.
Miranda widened her eyes. “About Kempsey and Dole?”
He nodded. “I told you I had men checking in Birmingham. Given the Kempsey and Dole families’ state of alert, my men have had to be exceedingly careful, but so far no one’s sighted either Kempsey or Dole in the city. And they’re not at the cottage any longer—it’s deserted.”
She studied his face. “I take it I shouldn’t assume they’ve gone back to London.”
“They’ve been sighted near various inns, along certain roads�
��the sorts of places you’d expect to see them if they were searching for Roderick.” For him and her, too. “But you don’t need to worry.” Stepping back, he shrugged out of his coat, then moved to toss it over a chair. “We’re safe here. There are eyes and ears all around the estate—if, or perhaps when, Kempsey and Dole start sniffing around here, I’ll know, and we’ll be ready. And no, don’t ask, ‘Ready how?’—I haven’t yet decided.”
She’d followed him deeper into the room. “About Kirkwell—when do you expect to hear from London?”
“Within the next day or two. Mudd and Rawlins are coordinating the efforts there—they’ll come and report as soon as they learn anything definite.” Cuffs unlaced, he undid his waistcoat, shrugged the garment off, and tossed it on top of his coat.
Reached for her again and she came, placing her palms on his chest and running them upward, over the upper slope of his chest to curve about his shoulders. He bent his head and she stretched up; cupping his nape in a caress he now associated with her, she offered her mouth and he took. Lips merging, tongues stroking, then tangling, in instinctive harmony they started down their now-familiar road into passion’s embrace.
His hands shaped her body, the lush curves of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, reimprinting her on him, him on her, stoking their flames. His fingers found her laces; hers slipped the pin from his cravat, deftly reanchoring the diamond in the folds, then unraveling them.
Their lips didn’t part but supped, then, hungering, he pressed deeper and devoured, and tasted her growing urgency, her burgeoning desire, the tempo of her escalating arousal, something she wantonly—innocently—allowed on full display.
As always, she captured him; with her open and honest ardor, with her enthusiastic embrace of this, of him, of them, she snared him and held him captive, his mind and senses entirely focused on the simple act of having her. Loving her.
This time he fought against her tide, her siren’s lure. The question in his mind, flaring insistently from the moment he’d touched her, was, What is this? Was it what he thought it was? Could it become what he hoped it might?
Most importantly, was she and this the route to his dream?
That dream.
Or was it just a more intense liaison—an affair between two people who had somehow connected in a more intimate way, on a somewhat different plane than the norm? Different, but not special.
He kissed her and wondered, then drew a deeper breath and plunged into her mouth, claimed and sought, and she kissed him back with building urgency until between them the flames ignited and rose.
Heat spread, insidiously urgent, beneath their skins. Desire rode, hungry and needy, in its wake.
So many questions and the answers . . . some of the answers, surely, lay here, between them. In what flared between them.
They stood pressed together, pressing close and closer, mouths communing hungrily in the dark, hands searching out the places most sensitive to caress, to pressure. To the evocation of pleasure.
Arousing, yes, but possessive as well, and it wasn’t only he whose touch carried that telltale stamp.
But this time he needed more, more than mere surrender, more than possession. He needed revelation.
How to gain that he didn’t know. He stood in the whirlpool of their needs, feeling the maelstrom tug at him, and fought to find the path to enlightenment through the swirling, beckoning enticements.
The first time they’d come together, in the hotel room in the aftermath of danger, her wish to taste passion—a wish she’d already had, but that had been sharpened to need by the threat and their escape—had combined with his own response to that danger and swept them both into the fire.
The second time, here in this bed, she’d reached for him, wanted him, and he’d been driven to simply be with her, to soothe and comfort and share the triumph of having successfully rescued Roderick and brought him to safety.
The third time . . . he’d needed her to declare she wanted him, and she had. Since then, indulging in their mutual passion, exercising their complementary desires, feeding the other’s hunger, had become an uncomplicated progression.
But tonight . . . tonight he wrested control of his senses from the all-consuming act, held tight to his wits and dove into the engagement wanting to see, to uncover and learn . . . more. To see what lay beneath their passion. To learn what gave it such unprecedented strength, what lent their mutual desire such irresistible power.
With her laces dangling, he slid her gown off her shoulders, bared the delicate curves—had to bend his head and taste. She shivered, and pushed the halves of his shirt wide, spread her hands on his chest and, devoured by touch, greedily explored and claimed.
He drew the gown down; his hands occupied, he caught the ribbon ties of her chemise in his teeth, tugged them free, then followed the downward slide of the fine silk with his lips.
Heard her gasp. The evocative sound was all encouragement and delight. Her fingers tangled in his hair and held him to her as he cruised his lips over the firm mounds of her breasts, circled, then settled his mouth over one furled nipple, licked, slowly laved, then drew the tight bud into his mouth and suckled.
Her head tipped back and she clung, gasped again.
He immersed himself in the moment, devoted himself to drawing a moan of surrender—sweet and low—from her throat. She was so vibrantly alive, supple and giving under his hands, flagrantly urging him on, a full partner in their game.
He wanted to strip her bare, not just her body, but her heart—if he could, her soul. Wanted to see what it was that brought her so passionately to his arms. Wanted to reach deeper within himself and answer the complementary question.
Instead . . . under his hands, her gown and chemise slid to the floor. Her hands pushed his shirt from his shoulders; he surrendered to her insistent tugs and released her long enough to strip his arms from the sleeves.
While he did, she reached for the placket of his trousers, slid the buttons free, slipped her hand inside and found him.
Caressed and adored that painfully rigid part of him.
He gritted his teeth, hissed in a breath, but it was too late.
Despite his intentions, despite his determination, his senses slipped their leash and his wits sank, subsumed beneath a wave of explicit, unadulterated sensation, while between them passion’s fires raged and cindered his every thought.
She stepped free of her crumpled gown, leaving her slippers behind; without thought, without conscious direction, he toed off his shoes, stepped out of his trousers, and their bodies met.
Both felt the jolt, that scintillating senses-stopping moment of contact, of skin meeting naked skin with nerves so aroused and so close to the surface they sizzled.
Miranda drew in a tight breath; wits flown, senses reeling, she yet marveled—could not do otherwise. This was still so new, so utterly compelling—this moment when he, and this, became her everything.
She wrapped her arms about him, surrendered her mouth to him, pressed naked against him, and let the flames have them.
She’d never defined the man of her dreams, but he was with her now, conjured in the flesh—in the heavy muscles of his chest and the crinkly dark hair that pressed against her breasts and abraded the sensitive tips, sending heat and sensation lancing through her. The powerful muscles of his thighs, his narrow hips and waist, the ridges of his abdomen, surrounded and impressed, male to her female, hardness to her softness, angles to her curves. Above all he was power and strength, dark beauty, and virile masculinity.
He was everything she’d never known enough about to dream.
And he was hers, tonight. Hers to welcome in the moonlight. Hers to draw to her bed, to enfold in her arms and take into her body.
And suddenly—suddenly—there was no more time.
He lifted her, hoisted her against him; instinctively she wrapped her legs around his waist.
Felt his erection nudge into her slick softness; haulin
g in a breath, she eased down and he pushed up.
Slowly, he slid inside her; slowly, she engulfed him in her heat.
Took him in.
When he was fully seated within her, she could only cling and tremble, all but overwhelmed by the feel of him there, somehow so much clearer to her senses this way.
Then he grasped her hips and lifted her, drew her up until she almost lost the fullness of him, but then he reversed and drew her down, thrust up, and glorious sensation surged through her.
Tipping her head back on a half gasp, half sob, from under heavy lids she met his eyes, burning and sure behind the screen of his lashes. She looked for only a second, needed only that to see, to sense that the fury of the fire within him was every bit the equal of that inside her . . . then she offered him her mouth and he angled his head and took.
And lifted her again.
And again, filling her to a slow, then escalating rhythm; filling her mouth to an echoing beat, he waltzed her into the glorious fire, kept her there, whirling ever faster, ever more desperately burning in the flames until ecstasy fractured her tension and reality split and she shattered.
Sensation poured through her, down every nerve, glory sliding, heavy and golden, down every vein.
Lips parting from his, she hauled in a huge breath; barely sentient, she registered him still hard, rigid and heavy within her.
She felt him carry her the few paces to the bed. Supporting her with one arm, he hauled back the covers, then knelt on the bed and laid her down.
Followed her down, the connection between them unbroken. Settling his hips between her thighs, with one hand keeping her legs curled about his waist he thrust harder and deeper, sinking fully into her.
Then he rode her to glory.
Into the all-consuming heart of passion’s fire.
Within seconds, she rose again, rode with him again. The landscape of desire, of passion and need, flashed past, given reality in their panting breaths, in the greedy grasp of their fingers.
Hearts thundering they raced to the lip of oblivion—seconds later they soared, bodies locked, hearts entwined, into a universe of scintillating ecstasy.