She also owned a block of lucrative dockside warehouses, along with several town homes in highly desirable addresses including the villa built by architect John Nash in Regent’s Park into which she and her mother were preparing to move, and the town house on Curzon Street.
The house on Curzon Street intrigued Miranda from the start because her father had purchased it to house his mistress—a mistress who had been pensioned off at his death and who had since moved on to another protector.
The fact that he had had a mistress hadn’t come as a great surprise to his daughter. It was a common practice among the ton. And Miranda had never doubted the sincerity of her father’s affection for her mother, or for herself. The woman he kept on Curzon Street had been a longtime companion whose relationship with the marquess preceded his title and his marriage, and Miranda’s father had been unusually forthcoming with her mother about the arrangement before their marriage, and with Miranda in the letter that accompanied the property deeds his solicitor had turned over to her following his death.
And when, after reading her father’s letter, Miranda had broached the subject with her mother, Lady St. Germaine had been equally forthcoming in explaining her feelings about her marriage and her late husband’s mistress. “I never asked her name,” she revealed. “Nor where she lived, because I didn’t want to know it. I knew what I needed to know—all I wanted to know. She was much older than I. She was a governess until she married an army officer. He was killed in service to the crown, and she and your father struck up a friendship. They shared common interests. He was very fond of her, but he kept that part of his life separate from the life he shared with me. I wasn’t a threat to their friendship, and she wasn’t a threat to our marriage.” She looked at Miranda. “In truth, I was relieved when I conceived and gave birth to you, for it meant your father and I no longer had to share the marriage bed.”
Miranda remembered gasping at her mother’s blunt reply, but Lady St. Germaine had overlooked it. “You must remember, my dear, that I was a girl of seven and ten married to a man of two and forty. And while I’ve been assured that there are delights to be found in the marriage bed, your father and I found it rather awkward and messy and embarrassing. Fortunately, the letters patent of the St. Germaine Marquessate allow the oldest legitimate offspring—male or female—to inherit the title. Your father knew this, of course, and promised that once I conceived and delivered a child, he would seek satisfaction elsewhere and that I might do the same.”
Miranda had blurted out the obvious question. “Did you?”
Lady St. Germaine had given her daughter a mysterious smile. “I’ve enjoyed a flirtation or two over the years, but I prefer to do without the pawing and prodding that accompanies intimate relations.” She reached over and patted Miranda’s hand. “That’s not to say you’ll feel the same way about it. I suspect it’s quite different with a man your own age and one with whom you’re madly, passionately in love.”
“You didn’t love Papa?”
“I grew to love him very much,” Lady St. Germaine answered. “But I was never in love with him—at least not in the way the poets describe. Our marriage was arranged. Your father was forty when he inherited the title from his older brother. As the new marquess, he required a bride of child-bearing age. He saw me at Lady Shackleford’s musicale and approached my papa. Papa was only a viscount, so he was quite pleased that a marquess had offered for me and overjoyed by the opportunity to add to the family coffers.” She smiled. “I, of course, was in love with the idea of becoming a marchioness. It was a good match, and we rubbed along quite well together. And there was never any doubt that your father was quite fond of me or that he adored you. I was very proud to be his wife. I never regretted marrying him or gave him any reason to regret marrying me. When he returned to his lady friend’s bed after you were born, he did so with my blessing and my gratitude.”
In the house on Curzon Street. Miranda looked at her footman. The house on Curzon Street was closed, and since Miranda had never been there, she had no way of knowing whether they could gain entry without waking the neighborhood, but she was willing to try. “Tell Rupert to reverse direction and make our way to Curzon Street while I try to figure out how to get in.”
“That’s easy, milady,” Ned said with a grin, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a ring of keys. “Yesterday was cleaning day,” he replied. “Mr. Hawkins gave me the keys to the house so I could admit the cleaning crew. I neglected to return them.”
Miranda shook her head in wonder, amazed that she had been so preoccupied with looking her very best for the duchess’s party and preparing for her next encounter with the duchess’s son that she’d completely forgotten she’d instructed her man of business to send Ned to attend to the scheduled cleaning of the house. “Thank heavens you did,” she said. “Or we would have had to return home to get them, and that would involve more time and more explanations than I’m prepared to make.”
“I understand, miss.” Ned nodded before turning to relay her instructions to Rupert.
“Oh, and Ned …”
“Yes, milady?”
“I’m trusting you and Rupert to keep the events of this evening a secret from everyone—including my mother.”
“No need to worry, milady,” Ned assured her. “Your secret is safe with us.”
“Thank you, Ned.”
“You’re welcome, milady. I’ll alert you when we reach our destination.”
* * *
Ned was as good as his word. “Curzon Street, my lady,” he announced some minutes later, alighting from his perch on the coach as it rolled to a stop at the rear entrance to the house. He opened the coach door and lowered the steps for Miranda, then made his way from the vehicle up the narrow walk to unlock the back door.
“Daniel, wake up. We’ve arrived.” Miranda gave Daniel a gentle nudge.
He groaned his protest.
She nudged a little harder, then reached over and patted his face with her gloved hands. “Daniel, you must wake up. We’ve arrived at our destination and I cannot carry you into the house.”
He opened his eyes and blinked at her, struggling to comprehend. “Not to worry, my sweet, beautiful Miranda. I’ll carry you,” he said, before falling face-first against her bosom.
“I’ll carry him, milady,” Ned told her. “If you will slide His Grace onto the floor of the coach so that I might take hold of him, I’ll do my best to keep from adding to his discomfort.”
“All right,” Miranda agreed, shoving Daniel’s legs off the opposite seat before tugging on his arm until she’d maneuvered him to the edge of the cushions. Once she got him where she wanted him, Miranda placed her shoulder against his and pushed with all her might.
Sussex rolled off the velvet cushion and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor of the vehicle.
“Very good, milady.” Ned leaned into the coach and rearranged Daniel’s arms and legs before hefting the duke onto his shoulders in much the same manner the butchers in Market Square hefted sides of beef and pork onto theirs.
Miranda stared transfixed at the sight of the mighty Duke of Sussex hanging upside down across the shoulders of her footman.
“If you would be so kind as to light the way, milady.” Ned nodded his head toward the lantern hanging by the door of the coach.
Miranda reached up and unhooked the lantern, then stepped down from the coach and lighted the way as Ned carried Daniel into the house.
Ned provided directions as Miranda made her way toward the stairs at the center of the house. “There are two guest chambers on the right and two on the left,” he said as she left the second-floor landing and headed down the hall.
Although she owned the house, Miranda had never been inside it. But Ned, as head footman, had been inside it many times over the past six months, overseeing the maintenance.
Miranda walked past the guest chambers and headed for the door at the end of the passageway.
Ned gave a slight shake
of his head. “That’s the main bedchamber,” he told her.
“I surmised as much,” Miranda replied, opening the door. “My hus … His Grace is a duke. And as such, he’s entitled to the best bedchamber in the house.”
“But, milady, I think the duke would be more comfortable elsewhere …”
“Is there a larger, better bedchamber elsewhere?”
Ned hesitated a moment before replying. “No, milady, it’s the most modern and the best-equipped.”
“Then he shall have the best.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Besides, he’s taller and he’s indisposed.”
“Whatever you say, milady.” Ned waited until Miranda lit the bedside lamp, moved a pile of tapestry pillows out of the way, and flipped back the coverlet before depositing the Duke of Sussex on the bed. Ned was as gentle as he could possibly be, but Daniel moaned as he sank into the depths of the soft feather mattresses.
The room was cold, and Miranda shivered involuntarily as she removed Daniel’s shoes and set them on the floor beneath the bed. She untied the tapes of his stockings and was about to peel them down his legs when Ned cleared his throat.
“If you’ll wait outside, milady, I’ll see that His Grace is settled comfortably into bed and build a fire.”
Miranda took a step toward the door, then remembered Daniel’s wound. Ned had seen the blood on her gown and gloves, and knew the duke was foxed and feverish and that he was sporting injured ribs, but he didn’t know the nature of the injury, and although Miranda trusted her footman, she wasn’t certain Daniel would approve of Ned knowing that his aching ribs were the result of having been shot. “Build the fire,” she instructed. “I’ll see His Grace is settled comfortably into bed.”
Ned arched an eyebrow in disapproval as he walked over to the fireplace and lit the tinder beneath the bed of coals.
“You needn’t worry about protecting my delicate sensibilities. We’re married.” Miranda unbuttoned her gloves, tugged them off, and laid them on the night table alongside her reticule. “And it isn’t as if I haven’t seen a naked man before,” she reminded her footman. “I did help my mother take care of my father.”
“Your father was an old man, milady,” Ned replied. “His Grace is not.”
“What difference does that make?” she demanded. “The anatomy is the same.”
Ned stood up and brushed his hands free of dust. “I think it may make a great deal of difference to His Grace.”
“Then I shall face that bridge when I come to it,” Miranda pronounced, retrieving her reticule from the night table.
“If you’re certain, milady.”
Miranda drew in a deep breath. “I am. Thank you, Ned. You and Rupert are free to return home and retire for the night.”
“But, milady, we cannot leave you here alone,” Ned protested.
“I’m not alone,” Miranda reminded him. Opening her reticule, she withdrew two gold guineas and handed them to her footman. “For you and Rupert.”
“Thank you, miss … I mean, ma’am … but …”
“Don’t worry, Ned. His Grace is here.” She smiled at her footman, then glanced at the seven-day clock on the mantel and saw that the time had been set and that it was ticking. “Is that the correct time?”
Ned nodded. “I set it myself yesterday.”
“Then go home and get some sleep. You’ve been at my beck and call far too long.” He opened his mouth to protest, but Miranda stopped him. “I’ll need you later this morning after I’ve checked the larder and prepared a shopping list.”
“I can stay and do that, miss …”
“I’m perfectly safe. His Grace is my husband and an absolute gentleman.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Besides, he’s in no condition to tangle with me. My mother will be worried. I need you to deliver a message to her.”
Ned glanced at the bed, realized his mistress was right, and gave her a deferential nod. “Very good, milady.”
“When my mother inquires about my absence at breakfast tomorrow, tell her that I decided, on the spur of the moment, to spend time with an old friend.” She thought for a moment. “Tell her I rode with my friend and that I sent you and Rupert home to collect enough clothes for a week’s stay. It’s not uncommon. I’ve done it before.”
Miranda had done it lots of times. She’d spend almost the entire season at Abernathy Manor when Alyssa Carrollton married Griffin Abernathy shortly before he left for the Peninsula three years before. And she’d continued to make frequent visits to Abernathy Manor even after Griffin returned from war a hero and had been elevated to the title of Duke of Avon. She traveled so often that her mother complained that Miranda made a habit of running away from home. “My mother will understand. Have my lady’s maid pack the necessary clothing and return here as soon after breakfast as you can. And bring food. His Grace will be hungry when he wakes up. And I’m starving.”
“Yes, milady.”
“And Ned,” Miranda cautioned, “I want you and Rupert to come in a plain coach, without livery and without the grays.” The St. Germaine stable was known for its matched gray carriage horses.
“I’ll send Rupert back tonight.” Her footman lifted his hand to forestall Miranda’s protests to the contrary. “His Grace is ill. You may have need of a carriage to send for a physician.”
“You heard His Grace,” Miranda reminded him. “No physicians.”
“But you may need to send Rupert for help,” Ned replied. “And he’ll need a vehicle.”
“Agreed.” Miranda gave in. “You may send Rupert back, but remember that no one must know what happened tonight. No one must know that His Grace and I are here. Absolutely no one.”
“You can rely on it, milady.”
“Thank you, Ned.” She looked him in the eye. “I am relying on it. My good name and the duke’s depend upon it.”
* * *
Miranda waited until Ned left the room before she resumed the task of undressing the Duke of Sussex. Miranda smiled at the thought. She had wanted to undress Daniel for years. Now he was her wedded husband, but undressing him this way wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind. There was nothing romantic about tugging and pulling and lifting an unconscious man in order to remove his clothing. It was hard, heavy work, and as she tugged his superfine jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, Miranda called herself ten kinds of a fool for dismissing Ned.
Until she’d relieved Daniel of his jacket, untied his elegantly fashioned cravat, removed his black brocade waistcoat, and unfastened the black onyx studs from the front of his shirt, then, pulling his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and peeling it away from his torso and over his head …
She stared transfixed by the sight of his naked chest. Ned was right. There was absolutely no comparison between a man of three score and five years and one of a score and eight.
Miranda had only seen her father’s naked torso once, but she remembered it well. Growing up, Miranda had always imagined that her father’s shoulders were broad and strong, but she realized that the marquess had benefited greatly from the skills of his tailor. Her father’s shoulders were wide, but the muscles were long and weak. His chest was sunken and pale, and his skin felt clammy to the touch. There had been a sprinkling of gray hairs scattered across her father’s chest and a ring of them around the flat, pink disks surrounding his nipples. The flesh covering his ribs and abdomen had been soft and doughy, his navel large and deep.
Daniel’s naked torso was as different from her father’s as night from day. His shoulders were broad and so well-muscled there was no need for padding in the seams of his jacket. His skin was a dark, golden color and appeared to be tanned by the sun, like the flesh of seamen who spent long, hot days amid the ship’s rigging, or the flesh of the gypsy men who wore short vests without shirts and who sought permission to camp with their families upon her estates during their journeys across England.
Daniel’s muscles rippled and bunched with his every movement, and the hair on his chest was golden bro
wn and formed a neat, compact wedge that spanned the width of his chest and covered his dark, flat nipples. The color contrasted sharply with the strips of snow-white linen encircling his ribs and the square of linen that had been stained red by his blood.
Miranda bit her bottom lip to keep from gasping at her first glimpse of the muscle and flesh covering his ribs and his abdomen. There was nothing soft and doughy about this flesh. Daniel’s abdomen was rippled with twin rows of taut muscles, his navel a mere indention bisected by the waistband of his trousers.
His was the body the Greeks and Romans had sculpted, the body of David that Michelangelo had so lovingly freed from the marble encasing it, and Miranda’s heart beat a rapid staccato at the sight of it. Except for the bloodied bandage on his side and the strips of linen wrapped tightly about his ribs, Daniel’s body was sheer perfection.
She had never seen anything quite as wonderful, had never dreamed that his elegantly tailored clothing had hidden such strength and beauty.
And she had never dreamed that Daniel, bleeding so profusely from a wound in his side, could still find the strength to waltz her out of a ballroom, cross a huge expanse of lawn, stop long enough to carry on a civil conversation with a fellow gentleman, then climb aboard a coach and suffer the jolting ride over the cobblestones to St. Michael’s Square and get married before passing out.
Glancing at the shirt she still held gripped in her fist, Miranda saw that the tails of it were stained with his blood in front and on back. She looked at the square of linen covering the wound in his side, then at the buttons at the waistband of his trousers. The buttons beckoned to her like siren songs luring sailors onto treacherous rocks, urging her to slip them from their buttonholes in order that she might satisfy her burning curiosity and explore the flesh hidden beneath the black superfine. But Miranda chose the truest course.