He delighted in her passion, gloried in having her beneath him. In having her with him as together they raced through the fire and up and over the peak. As exhausted, wrung out, they slumped, deliriously ecstatic, in each other’s arms.
Joy, pleasure, and delight—and the greatest gift she could give him, it seemed, was to show him how much those were shared.
She had, and the intimacy, the closeness of the moment when he’d settled her in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, and he’d raised her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm, then settled her hand, palm down, over his heart, had been shattering.
Acute, intense, soul-deep.
What they shared . . . she thought, sensed, that it was something special. She’d had no other lover, no other affair with which to compare, so the fact that it felt special to her didn’t mean that it would feel special to him, yet . . . perhaps there was something in Lucasta and Caroline’s view. Perhaps being with her was at least part of what was holding him at Ridgware.
But what would that mean in terms of what came later? After?
She’d taken him as her lover initially purely as a means to an end, as a way to learn something, to experience something she’d needed to experience at least once in her life.
Once had extended effortlessly into many more times; their liaison, their affair, had come to exist without any huge effort from either of them, more as a natural extrapolation of a connection that had suited them both.
How long would it suit them? How far could it go?
She halted, unsettled, unnerved by the strength of her reaction to the prospect those questions evoked—a vision of a time when their liaison was no more and he was no longer in her life.
Looking inward, she recognized and admitted that she didn’t want their liaison to end. That she would rather go forward and see what they might make of it. That she’d already gone too far, become too enthralled with him, with them together, to be unaffected by their connection ending. Severing.
Yet once they returned to London, to their lives there, how could such a connection survive? If as Lord Julian Delbraith he was, if not out of, then certainly at the limit of Miranda Clifford’s reach, when he was Neville Roscoe she was absolutely definitely out of his.
The only way their liaison could continue was illicitly, as a carefully guarded secret.
Still, perhaps that would do. Would suit them both.
Would allow them to continue—
“Miranda!”
She blinked back to her surroundings and saw Henry striding over the lawn.
“Are you strolling alone?” He halted before her, a smile wreathing his face. “I’m sure it says somewhere that we can’t have that.”
She smiled. “Your mother, your grandmother, and your aunt were busy, so I took myself for a stroll.” She started to walk on. “Where’s your uncle?”
Henry fell in beside her. “We just rode in, but the family solicitors were waiting, so he’s gone off to deal with them. We’ve all agreed that I’m not yet up to wrestling with the legal stuff, so I’m excused.” He glanced ahead, then at her. “Were you wanting to explore some particular area? It looked like you were lost—or perhaps didn’t know which way to go?”
An accurate observation, but . . . she shook her head. “I was just woolgathering.”
“Oh.” He paused, then more diffidently said, “Would you rather continue alone?”
“No.” There was no point pondering unanswerable questions. She smiled at him encouragingly. “Actually, I would welcome your company.”
“Well, then.” Relaxing, he looked around. “The rose garden is over there—have you seen it?”
Several times, mostly in moonlight. “Yes, but . . .” The rose garden now held a lingering presence, one that would only distract her. “I’d thought to wander through the shrubbery—I haven’t been there, yet.”
“Right-ho.” With an elegance he had to have copied from his uncle, he gestured ahead. “We can go this way.”
She walked on, and he paced beside her. “Tell me, how does your uncle manage with you? I know he’s your guardian. Do you meet with him often?”
Henry waggled his head. “Yes and no. If all is going well, I only see him in summer and at Christmas here, when he visits Ridgware. Until recently I was at school, of course, so wasn’t here during his occasional other visits.”
“If all is going well . . . but what if you have a problem? Do you send word and he comes to you, or do you go to him?” She knew Roscoe well enough to know it would be one or the other.
“Both. Sometimes he would come and stay near the school, and send for me—the headmaster hated that, but given the family, they couldn’t argue. And at other times, when he couldn’t leave London, he’d send for me and I’d go to his house there.”
“In Chichester Street?”
“Yes.” Henry glanced at her. “Do you know it?”
“We live close by.”
“Oh. Then you know . . .”
“Roderick and I know your uncle as Roscoe.”
Henry nodded. “I keep tripping over his name when I’m there . . . but, oh! I say—you must be sure never to mention that I go there to Mama, or Grandmama, or—heaven help us all—the aunts.”
When she turned questioning eyes on him, Henry pulled a face. “He doesn’t allow them to visit him there, and I don’t think—in fact, I’m perfectly certain—he’s never let on that he allows me to visit.”
She could understand that. “Consider my lips sealed.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want him to have to face the lot of them, all pining to come and visit him.” Henry shuddered feelingly. “They’ll pour on the histrionics, and then get angry when he refuses to budge.”
She glanced at him. “You’re sure he won’t budge?”
“Never.” The conviction in Henry’s tone was absolute. “If he decides something’s necessary for your own good, nothing short of the apocalypse will shift him.”
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.
“J
ulian, 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.
S
he 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.”