CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"What is what?" he asked, pretending innocence, though he was braced for the anger that he expected any moment, once she realized what he had done. He hoped her anger would burn cleanly through the fog of desire and passion that they shared.
Her hand reached in and came up with the necklace he had stolen from her. "This." She held it up between them, looking at him. No anger yet, only puzzlement. But her breathing had slowed and he could see the pulse at her neck beating more normally. He strove to control his own response to her nearness, her scent.
"That is something I picked up in London." He was not lying. He had indeed picked it up in London. He just happened to be dressed like a common thief and blessed with breath that would kill a dead man.
"Where in London?" Her voice was urgent. He could well imagine her hurrying there to find the thief and chastise him for stealing from her. Fortunately, she would not have to travel so far.
"On the street, actually."
She was still puzzled. He could see it, but had no idea what would be best, merely to let her have the piece and think he had bought it from a dishonest man, or to tell her the truth of how he had acquired it.
Telling the truth would encourage her anger, and keep her away from him, as he had been so successful in doing these past few weeks. It would also serve, he hoped, to teach her how dangerous it was for her to take matters into her own hands. But she would trust him no longer.
"It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," she whispered. The reverence in the tight planes of her face as her fingers traced the lines of the swans made him glad that he had chosen to return the necklace. Most probably, it was her last tangible link with her mother.
If he'd realized how much the piece meant to her, he could never have kept it from her for so long. He had foolishly assumed that if she meant to sell it, she could not hold it dear. But he had been thinking of it as a piece of jewelry, not a connection to her mother. How he could have misjudged so badly he could not imagine. He knew how much she was willing to sacrifice for her family. They meant everything to her.
It was blind luck that made his delay suit his purposes. Initially, he'd planned to give the necklace to Valentine to dispose of as he would. But any lesson to Miranda would have been muted, as she would not have known the disposition of the piece.
With it here, there was no choice for her but to acknowledge that it had found its way back in a quite unorthodox fashion. He wondered if she would confess her part in the loss of the necklace were he to press her. So he pressed her.
He closed the box, hiding away the rest of the jewelry. "You seem to be partial to that trinket. Why don't you wear it?"
"I will." She still could not take her eyes from the swans.
When she said nothing more, he prodded further. "You are quite enamored of the piece, I see."
He was rewarded by her singular admission. "It was my mother's."
"What!" He pretended astonishment. "Then how did it come to be on a London street."
He saw the war between expedience and innate honesty within her; the slim column of her throat worked as he stood watching her try to shape a response. "It was stolen from me."
Of course she would tell the truth. He was the one caught in a web of lies. "Stolen from you? How?" He pretended to be outraged, which he found to his surprise was not difficult. The desire to bed her was still strong in him and that passion, along with a healthy dose of self-loathing for what he was doing, rekindled his anger at the danger she had put herself in by going to London alone.
She pursed her lips and exhaled softly. "I went to London hoping to sell a few things, including that necklace, and I was set upon by the rudest thief you might imagine."
"Do you imagine that thieves are known for their courtesy? You are lucky you escaped with only the loss of your silver candlesticks and your necklace." He had not consciously chosen to tell her then. But his slip of the tongue had hastened her understanding.
Her eyebrows lifted as one and a cloud of anger began to brew in her eyes. "What do you mean, my silver candlesticks?"
"Didn't the thief also get a fine set of candlesticks?"
He struggled with the smile that seemed to want to break out on his face. He knew she would not appreciate it, but he was rather proud of his effort to teach her not to pawn goods in London again. The little fool, not knowing what might have happened to her. He shuddered, as the possibilities rolled graphically through his mind.
He could see the realization dawn upon her as a thundercloud upon the horizon speeds to bring rain. She was so quick-witted, his anger turned into admiration as her anger rose, erasing the last traces of desire from her gaze. "I thought those candlesticks on the mantel during our wedding reception looked familiar. What do you know of my thief?"
"I put them back the morning of the wedding. I didn't want them, and I didn't think you'd notice another pair of candlesticks on your wedding day."
"How dare you." Her body grew rigid. The skirts of the yellow gown gave not a whisper of movement. "You hired someone to steal them from me and replaced them on the mantel without telling me." Her brow knit in puzzlement. "But how could you have known what I was about and hired someone so quickly?"
He could not resist. She was angry at him and he could risk touching her. He bent, shambled the few steps toward her, and pressed her back against the wall. "What's under your skirts, lass?"
It was a mistake. He knew exactly what was under her skirts and he could barely prevent himself from lifting away the layers of silk and cotton to find the heat of her beneath them. Fortunately for him, she was distracted by the revelation of how he had tricked her. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You didn't!"
He allowed one hand to rest on her hip, feeling the warm curve beneath the cloth, as he answered her in a way calculated to fan her anger to full flame. "I did. You needed a lesson badly. For dressing like a fishwife and walking the London streets alone."
She pulled his hand away. "But you were at Anderlin ... "
He put it back, caressing the curve and stroking downward, to the swell of her bottom. What perversity in him made him cause himself such torment? He would be better served to stand away from her and fan the flames of her anger.
But he did not. "I was there to make certain Valentine was informed of our engagement, remember? I followed you out, saw you board the coach, and followed. And I traveled faster on horseback than you could in the coach."
Her eyes were fixed on his face, and he realized that her anger was not as unaffected by his touch as he had thought. It had dimmed dangerously in her eyes. "How could you?" Her words were soft, the accusation faint.
"You needed a lesson. I provided it." He pressed his palm against the rounded underside of her breast and felt the rapid beat of her heart beneath his fingertips. He kissed her. It was not wise, but he was beyond caring. When he realized that she would not push him away, he brushed her forehead with one last kiss and stepped back. "I must finish my correspondence. I will have little time this weekend for business matters."
For a broken moment, it seemed she would not heed him. She took a step toward him as if she might be the one to kiss him. A kiss he knew without doubt he could not resist, could not recover from.
But then she blinked, and held up her hand to gaze at the necklace she still clutched in her fist. Anger rekindled in her eyes. He told himself fiercely to be relieved.
He did not look at her as he resumed his seat behind his desk and lifted his pen to paper, wondering why he had chosen this particular torment for himself, as if it might expiate his sin of bastardy.
It was long after the door had closed sharply behind her that he noticed he had written several pages of nonsense. He crushed the papers with undue savagery before throwing them into the fireplace, and watched them catch flame and burn into ash in an instant.