Mark gave Smite a long, measuring look, and then walked forward to greet his guests.
“Robbie Barnstable,” Smite said. “This is Sir Mark Turner.”
Robbie looked up at Mark. “He didn’t say you were a sir.”
“Just call me Mark. I was knighted a handful of years past. I keep hoping everyone will forget it, but alas.”
Smite drew a deep breath. “And Miss Miranda Darling. This is my brother. Mark, this is…” He paused, not knowing how to go forward. He didn’t think Mark would be shocked if he introduced her as his mistress. Still…
Mark solved the dilemma of his introduction by taking Miranda’s hand and shaking it. “I’m delighted to meet you,” he said.
“Miranda has been caring for Robbie,” Smite said. “But he’ll need somewhere safe to stay temporarily. I thought of you.”
“Welcome,” Mark said simply, and that was that. He glanced at Smite. “Are you coming in? Jessica will be furious if I let you run off without saying a word to her.” He glanced around. “But it’s a fine day. We could stay outside.”
It wasn’t. It was gray and cloudy. “It looks about to drizzle,” Smite said. “I won’t perish if I enter. Besides, I would hate to interfere with your marital tranquility. We can come in for a short space of time.”
“Ha!” Mark said. “She’d be angry at you, not me, for dashing off. First order of business.” Mark took Robbie by the arm. “I’ll take you upstairs and introduce you to my wife. Lady Turner is a lovely woman, and she’ll get the servants started on obtaining you a bath.”
“A bath?” Robbie said scornfully. “I just fell in the Floating Harbour yesterday. I don’t need a bath.”
Mark wrinkled his nose. “Ah, so that smell is algae.” He turned to go in the house.
“I’ll—I’ll just stay out here, then,” Miranda said.
Mark swiveled back and took Miranda’s arm. “No,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll come inside. Jessica would have my head if I left Smite’s…” He paused and glanced at Smite—just long enough for Smite to know that he’d heard every word that he hadn’t said. “Smite’s friend outside. Come, now, Smite. Did you not prepare her for anything?”
Smite shook his head and watched his brother bend his blond head close to Miranda’s fire-orange hair. He whispered something; she laughed in response.
In the end, it was Smite who held back, watching from a distance as his brother introduced Jessica to Miranda. It was Smite who concentrated on his breathing. He’d wanted Mark to know Miranda, if only for a few seconds. Mark knew everything important to him, even if he never spoke of it. But this house…it overwhelmed him. He focused on the window to the yard outside, ignoring the cellar that lurked beneath.
The two women exchanged greetings and then took Robbie upstairs, leaving Mark and Smite alone. The smile slowly slid off Mark’s face, and he turned to his brother. “Come,” Mark said. “Let’s go for a walk in the back garden before you cast up your accounts in the house.”
Chapter Eighteen
MIRANDA WATCHED ROBBIE DISAPPEAR behind a door, half-dragged by an upstairs maid.
“There,” Lady Turner said beside her, brushing her hands. “The servants will see to his bath.” She sighed. “I have to admit, I have always hoped that Smite would fall in love, but you are not what I expected.”
Miranda choked. “Pardon?”
“I’ve never been certain he would marry. He’s rather odd,” Lady Turner was saying. “Once you get past his frightening exterior, he’s actually quite kind. But I suspect you know that.”
“He feeds stray cats in Bristol,” Miranda heard herself offering.
“Of course he does.” Lady Turner pinched her lips together. “He’s very sweet, no matter how he tries to hide it. He never doubted me—not once—and I daresay my past is more checkered than yours.” She looked down and drew in a deep breath. “They’ve managed to obscure the matter quite a bit, but I was a courtesan for years before I met Sir Mark. The Turners are something out of the ordinary. All of them. It has taken me some time to grow accustomed to the fact that I am not the oddest one in the room when they’re around. You’ll begin to understand, eventually.”
“You shouldn’t imagine this is anything other than temporary.”
Lady Turner’s eyes met hers. “Nonsense. Smite hasn’t been back to Shepton Mallet in twenty years. Mark goes to Bristol to see him because he won’t come here. Smite knows perfectly well that bringing you here is tantamount to a declaration.”
“No.” Miranda stared at the wallpaper. “He’s quite precise in everything he does. I have no doubt that he cares for me. He may even love me. But he sees what is between us as fleeting.”
“I’ve never known him to be fickle.”
Miranda shook her head. “It’s not that. I know when a man is saying good-bye.” She thought of the way he’d held her last night, and the dire look in his eyes in the phaeton this morning. “Even if he doesn’t say it directly, Smite is most assuredly telling me farewell.”
Lady Turner gave her a long, level look. “That, I can believe. He scarcely lets Mark close. I was so hoping…”
“What? That he’d fall in love and turn into an ordinary man?” Miranda choked on the words. “Anyone who loved him would never want that. It would be like loving the ocean, but wishing it would change into a glass of water.”
“No. I rather think it would be like loving the ocean and wishing it could feel a little sunlight.” Lady Turner adjusted a vase on a shelf. “When I first met Mark, he told me that I reminded him of his brother. At the time, I didn’t realize what a compliment he was paying me. He was saying I was difficult, but worth the trouble.”
It had never occurred to Miranda that Smite was on good terms with anyone in his family. He was so extraordinarily solitary, and he’d argued so ferociously with his brother, the duke. She’d supposed that his relationship with his siblings was as fraught as his time with his mother. But that wasn’t so. He was loved.
It made his solitary life seem all the starker.
“Come,” Lady Turner said. “They’ll be in the garden. Let’s go find them.” She led Miranda downstairs and out the front. But Smite and his brother were nowhere to be seen; Lady Turner frowned and then took Miranda along a path of slate stones along the side of the house. Miranda heard male voices before Smite came into view.
“Aren’t you going to lecture me?” Smite was saying.
“What about?”
“Chastity.” Leaves rustled. “Miss Darling. I know what you must be thinking.”
“I’m thinking that there’s no need for me to lecture you, as you appear to be lecturing yourself quite effectively.” Smite’s younger brother spoke with an easy air.
“Did you know she was a virgin when I met her?” Smite threw out. Miranda knew that tone of voice; he was daring his brother to quarrel with him.
“Tsk, tsk.” Sir Mark didn’t sound disappointed in the least. “You terrible man, seducing an innocent young lady. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Say something. Say anything. I can’t argue with you if you won’t even put up a good show.”
“I refuse to quarrel with someone who wins arguments by profession. It seems rather imprudent.”
“Ha,” Smite replied grimly. “It’s never stopped you before.”
There was a long pause. Then, in a low voice, Mark spoke again. “Is it so bad, then?”
Lady Turner rounded the corner just ahead of Miranda. At the rustling of the underbrush, the two men looked up. They were seated facing one another on a bench. Smite looked up at Miranda. His eyes caught hers, darted to Jessica, and then he looked back at Mark.
“No,” he said. “Which makes it utterly impossible.”
Sir Mark seemed to think that this answer made perfect sense. He rose from his seat and smiled cheerfully. When Miranda held back, he cocked his head at her. “Smite surely didn’t tell you that we’re sticklers for propriety. It’s rather misleading, that A
sh ended up a duke. We’ve been anywhere and everywhere between. Ash says that the notion of social class is a delusion. At some point, someone will figure out that he really means that.”
She’d never thought about what it meant, that Parford had left home at fourteen, that Smite and this man had ended up on the streets of Bristol as children. She’d never thought about the bewildering change of events that had struck them. And Sir Mark had married a courtesan.
“What does it mean, then?”
“It means,” Sir Mark said, “that I’m quite pleased with you. I consider it my personal mission as younger brother to keep my elders out of sorts. You’ve been doing a beautiful job of it.”
“Nonsense.” Miranda drew herself up. “I do nothing of the kind. Smite keeps himself out of sorts all on his own.”
Sir Mark let out a sharp crack of laughter, and behind him, a rueful grin spread across Smite’s face.
“Tell me,” Miranda said, “how do you handle his sentimentality quota?”
“That?” An airy wave of Sir Mark’s hand. “I simply refuse to acknowledge its existence.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course I can. I’m his younger brother. I can do anything I wish.”
It had never occurred to Miranda that Smite was so well loved. He’d spoken to her of horrors in his past. He’d mentioned his brothers in warm tones once or twice. But she’d never believed that he might have this teasing friendship available to him—and that he might nonetheless turn away from it.
It wasn’t the only thing he rejected. He could obtain a luxuriously furnished house on a few hours’ notice without blinking about the cost, and yet he himself lived in a few austere rooms. He chose not to spend nights with her. She’d been harboring—somewhere deep inside her—the hope that if she offered him the warmth and care that he’d lacked all these years, that he’d decide he couldn’t do without her.
But this destroyed all her illusions. She wasn’t the first person to care for him. She wasn’t special at all. And if he could walk away from the brother who so clearly adored him, whom he had known from infancy, a few weeks with her would prove no impediment at all. Her last, foolish hope crumbled under the crushing weight of reality.
“Come, Miranda,” Smite said, standing. “We’ll need to say our farewell to Robbie and get on the road.”
Sir Mark stepped forward. “It will be dark in a few hours. Won’t you at least—”
“Stay the night?” Smite asked, raising his eyebrow. “Come, Mark. You know there isn’t the least chance of that happening.”
Sir Mark shook his head and shrugged. “Well. I had to offer.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE JOURNEY FROM BRISTOL to Shepton Mallet in a phaeton had taken half the day. On horseback, Smite might have managed the return in one single, tiring afternoon. But they’d gone no more than eight miles down the road before dusk crept up on them.
Had these been ordinary circumstances, he might have pushed through, even with a team of horses. But he was exhausted, having not slept the night before. And Miranda slumped next to him. Her hands were entangled around his arm; her head leaned against his shoulder.
Somehow, he was supposed to give her up.
Ahead, he could see the lights from a posting inn. He sighed and tapped Miranda on the shoulder.
“Mmm?” came her sleepy response.
“We’ll be staying at the inn ahead for the night,” he informed her.
She straightened, rubbing at her eyes. “We?” she repeated? “Staying?”
He took a deep breath. “With you here, I likely won’t strike out in my sleep, as nightmares will be less probable.” There. That sounded plain. Unemotional. “Still, you should consider whether you’ll take the risk and share a bed with me. There is always some danger.” His fingers clenched about the reins as he waited for the questions to come. You still have nightmares? You poor thing. If he’d wanted her pity, he’d have mentioned his dreams earlier.
Instead, Miranda pulled off her gloves and fumbled with the little silk bag she’d brought with her. “There,” she finally said in satisfaction. He had no idea what she’d found; he couldn’t see it.
It was almost worse to have her not comment on what he’d said. But she tied up the strings of her bag, and then slipped her gloves back on. She was close enough, and there was just light enough, that he could see the intense expression in her eyes.
“There is no chance I would forgo the opportunity to share your bed,” she said quietly. “But then, you had already guessed that.”
He gave her one painful nod. One night with her—it could not hurt so much, could it?
“I don’t believe it is your intention to be so secretive,” she continued. “But you are not much in the habit of explaining yourself to others. I had already guessed you were afflicted with nightmares.”
He drew a breath in. “You did?”
“You mentioned them before.”
He rummaged back through their conversations, brought up those words. “In the past tense.”
She shrugged. “You’re not a very good liar.”
“Ah.” He turned the reins over in his hands.
“I had assumed it was simple pride that kept you away for the night. You don’t like being fussed over, and I suppose others might feel pity if you woke in the middle of the night. But I’ve learned better than to do any of that.”
“Indeed,” was his stellar contribution to this conversation, which was not going as he’d envisioned it at all. “You are quite acute.”
“Don’t fob me off with false compliments, Smite. Just now, you implied your nightmares are less likely to happen if I am present. What the devil did you mean by that?”
The air against his face was bitter cold. They had drawn near enough to the inn that he could see white walls rising up, overgrown with some creeping vine. Light seeped from the windows. He could catch the savory smoke from some roasting meat.
“There are some things that help alleviate the nightmares,” he said, as he drew the phaeton to a halt. “Companionship. Comfort. If I lived the life of luxury my eldest brother wished for me, my dreams would probably dwindle to once-a-year occurrences.”
She sat in silence, digesting this, as he tied up the reins. “You want to have nightmares.”
“They serve as a reminder of why I am needed. What will happen to others if I fail. It’s nothing to lose a few moments of sleep on occasion.”
She made no response for a few moments, and rubbed her hands together. “That’s bloody stupid,” she finally offered.
“Why? I do not fear what comes at night. I dread its absence. I fear being caged by luxury. I fear that one day I will no longer understand desperation, and with that, I will slowly stop listening to what others have to say.” He pulled on the reins, bringing the phaeton to a halt just outside the inn. “I don’t regret what circumstances have made of me, inconvenient though they may be. I make a difference.” His breath was growing harsh. “If I made myself like everyone else, I would fail. This way—” He stopped, choking on the words. “If you put it all together, it sounds so awful. The nightmares. Not being able to bear it when someone touches my face. If I tried to be like everyone else, I would be nothing more than a broken failure. This way, it means something.”
“You purposefully push others away so that you’ll have nightmares.”
“I did tell you I was wed to my duties.” He sighed. “Although it is an annoyance when I wake half the inn, shouting.”
“Is that likely tonight?”
“I just came from my mother’s house. It’s a possibility. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.” He shrugged. He didn’t think that show of indifference convinced her.
She pulled her coat more snugly about her. He stepped down from the phaeton; she gave him her hand. His hand clenched around hers through her gloves. But the only comment she made in passing was, “Lady Justice is a lucky woman.”
If there was a hint of bit
terness in her voice, it did not show in her face when they entered the lamp-lit entryway of the inn.
The proprietress had roused herself from the kitchen; she ran her gaze over them with a sharply trained eye. No doubt she was considering the fine cut of Smite’s coat, the smooth wool of Miranda’s traveling habit. The ostler had likely whispered a word about the phaeton—hired from Bristol, but well-made. This, she weighed against the lack of servants traveling with them.
“Welcome,” she said, with a hint of curtsy that suggested she’d totted up the sums and decided the two of them ranked just above poor gentry. “Might I be having your names for the register?”
It was at that moment that Smite realized he’d made a tremendous miscalculation. He’d been so preoccupied with the prospect of going to his mother’s house—and then the necessity of staying in an inn—that he’d simply not considered how they were to present themselves.
He cast Miranda a pained look—one that the sharp-eyed woman detected instantly. One hand shot to her hip and her lips narrowed. But if Miranda noticed this, she paid it no attention. Instead, she gave Smite a brilliant smile—one that seemed to slice deep into his belly. “May I do it, dearest?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Sign the inn’s register.” Miranda beamed at the innkeeper’s wife.
The woman’s face was still frozen in a mask of suspicion.
But Miranda simply removed her gloves and set them on the counter. “I can’t get enough of it.”
Smite made a gesture, which Miranda seemed to take as permission. She swept forward, took hold of the barrel of the pen, and spoke as she signed. “Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood. I just adore the sound of that. It never grows old.”
Miranda was wearing a ring made of simple gold on her finger. It looked the sort of thing that impoverished gentry might use as a wedding band. She must have slipped it on in the phaeton. Smite shook his head. She’d come prepared to tell a story.
The scowl on the woman’s face began to melt away. “You’re newlyweds, are you?”