Stranger situations no doubt existed, but she couldn’t offhand think of one.
A part of her—the more craven part—wanted to leave the gallery and, while Roscoe was engaged with seeing his guests out, slip out through the rear garden and hurry home . . . but no. She’d come into his house and insulted him, but he’d allowed her to watch the meeting and through it learn what she’d needed to know about Roderick’s new venture.
Rather than being anxious about her brother, she was now rather proud of him.
And that—the slaying of her anxiety and her improved appreciation of Roderick—lay at Roscoe’s door, so like any considerate guest, she sat and waited for him to return and show her out.
Five minutes later, the door opened. Her disconcerting host halted in the doorway, filling it, and looked at her.
Drawing in a determined breath, she rose and faced him. Raising her head, she met his gaze levelly. “My apologies, Mr. Roscoe. Clearly I was laboring under several misapprehensions with respect to both yourself and my brother. I must thank you for allowing me to learn the truth.”
Roscoe didn’t blink, but he was surprised. In his experience, ladies with strong opinions—and Miss Clifford struck him as very much that sort—didn’t readily change their views. Yet scrutinizing her expression, and her lovely hazel eyes, he detected nothing other than absolute sincerity.
Roderick’s sister, it seemed, was one of those rare strong women strong enough to admit to being wrong.
Releasing the doorknob, he inclined his head. “Apology accepted.” He’d anticipated spending half an hour goading her, eventually dragging a grudging apology from her; she’d taken the wind from his sails, but he could hardly admit to feeling deflated. “And most who know me call me Roscoe.”
Why he’d added that he wasn’t sure, yet it seemed appropriate. Stepping back, he waved her to join him. “Come—I’ll walk you home.”
She’d started forward but now stopped and met his gaze. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. As I daresay you know, we live just around the corner.”
He couldn’t keep his lips from curving. “Yes, I do know. However, Miss Clifford, it appears you’re harboring yet another misapprehension—a gentleman like me would never allow a lady to walk home alone, whether at night or during the day.”
Miranda studied his face; the set of his lips—that suggestion of a smile—was subtly taunting. She’d apologized, and he’d accepted, but he wasn’t yet finished rescripting her view of him.
Replaying his words, she searched for some way to acceptably decline, but what could she say? I’m not that much of a lady?
Accepting the inevitable, she inclined her head and went forward to join him in the corridor.
Side by side, they walked back to the gallery. The lamps had been lit; in the soft light, she paused to look more closely at one of the paintings. She pressed her lips tight but couldn’t hold back her question. “Is this . . . ?” She waved at the canvas.
“An original? Yes. One of his better works, I feel.”
She glanced at him; he’d halted at the top of the stairs, waiting with unruffled patience for her. “I’m tempted to make some comment about the wages of sin, but that would be another misapprehension, wouldn’t it?”
He smiled. A genuine, utterly heart-stopping smile, it warmed her in places she hadn’t thought could be warmed. But “Yes, it would” was all he said.
She glanced at the other two paintings, then at the tapestry, then, having delayed the inevitable for as long as she could, joined him.
They went down the stairs; she’d wondered if he would lead her through the rear gardens or go via the streets, but she wasn’t about to argue his choice. Despite the risk of being seen with him—and given it was so late, in such a quiet neighborhood that wasn’t so great—at this time of night, she would much prefer the open streets to the narrow alleys.
His butler was hovering in the front hall. Tall, gray-haired, and stately, and so well-trained that he evinced not the slightest sign of surprise at the appearance of a lady who, as far as he knew, hadn’t been admitted to the house, the butler bowed, then at Roscoe’s request went to fetch his coat. She used the moment to look around the hall, drinking in the elegant paneling and the three large landscapes adorning the walls.
The butler returned bearing a stylish overcoat. As Roscoe shrugged into it, then settled the sleeves, she allowed herself to glance at him again. Lowering his head, he looked at her, and in the stronger light cast by the lamp on the hall’s central table she finally saw his eyes well enough to make out their hue.
Dark, sapphire blue.
It was an arresting shade, jewel-toned and vibrant. As for his hair, fashionably cut, the thick locks layered over his well-shaped head, she suspected it was a deep sable brown that appeared black in most lights.
The butler had moved to the door. At Roscoe’s glance, he opened it.
With what she now realized was innate grace, Roscoe waved her through. As she descended the shallow front steps, he told the butler, “I’m walking the lady home. I should be back inside half an hour.”
“Indeed, sir—I’ll let Rawlins know.”
Pausing on the pavement, she turned as Roscoe joined her. Polite custom dictated that she shouldn’t ask, but . . . “Rawlins?”
Roscoe met her gaze briefly, then waved, and they stepped out in unison. “One of my bodyguards. At least one of them is on duty at any time, and they get anxious if I disappear without warning.”
“I see.” She paced beside him. He didn’t offer his arm, for which she was grateful; refusing it would have been awkward, but she would have done so nevertheless. Accepting his support would have signaled a degree of acquaintance that could never be. Helpfully, the street was, as she’d hoped, deserted. The dense shadows beneath the trees in the square spilled across the opposite pavement, but the moon shone unimpeded along their side of the street, lighting their way. “As you appreciate your bodyguards’ concerns, I hope you will also understand my motives in following Roderick to your house.”
Roscoe hesitated, then murmured, “As a matter of fact, I do.” None better; he knew to what lengths protective instincts could drive a man, and, presumably, a woman, too. He waited, knowing what would come next.
It took her several minutes to find the words, but eventually she tipped her chin a fraction higher and said, “I know I have no right to ask this of you, but if you could see your way to not mentioning my presence tonight to Roderick, I would appreciate your discretion.”
“I hadn’t intended to.”
Without looking at him, she inclined her head. “Thank you.”
He waited a few seconds to let her relief sink in before saying, “I am, however, curious as to why you think Roderick, at twenty-three as levelheaded a gentleman as any I’ve met, still needs protecting.”
Glancing at her, he saw a frown take over her fine features.
“That . . . isn’t all that easy to explain.”
The intersection of Chichester and Claverton streets was still some yards away. “We have a few minutes, at least.”
After a moment, she exhaled. “If you must know, we were orphaned very young. The three of us—our older sister, Roderick, and I—were brought up by two aunts, our mother’s elder sisters. In light of our background, we must, understandably, always behave with the utmost respectability, but”—she gestured—“young boys will be boys, so it fell to my sister and me to . . . shield Roderick.”
“So you’ve been protecting him for what? Twenty years?”
“More than that. Hence it’s become an ingrained habit.” They turned the corner and she added, “One I’m clearly going to have to break.”
He wished her luck with that; long-standing protective habits weren’t easy to mute, let alone eradicate.
They were nearing the house he knew was Roderick’s. As they approached the mouth of the alley that ran alongside the gardens, she slowed. “I prefer to use the garden gate.”
She diverted down the alley. Without comment, he followed.
The garden gate lay midway down the property. Miranda halted before it, lifted the latch, pushed the solid wooden gate open, then paused and looked at Roscoe. “Thank you for your escort.”
In the faint light, she saw his lips twist cynically. “Even if it was, in your eyes, unnecessary?”
She regarded him, then said, “It was the gentlemanly thing to do.” She dipped her head. “Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Clifford.”
Turning, she stepped through the gate—and tripped on the low stone step.
Steely fingers gripped her elbow.
Sensation—unnerving and intense—shot up her arm.
He held her up, steadied her.
Straightening, she gulped in a breath, struggled to steady her senses. Her heart was thudding. A second passed, then she forced herself to look at him, now much closer, a superbly masculine rock by her side—suddenly so much more
real,
and infinitely more dangerous.
“Thank you. Again.” She forced the words out, grateful that her voice sounded passably even.
He looked down at her, dark eyes searching her face, then, his own expression impassive, utterly unreadable, he released his grip on her elbow . . . slowly, as if, finger by finger, he had to force himself to let go.
Then he stepped back into the alley, briefly—almost curtly—nodded. “Good night, Miss Clifford.”
She managed to draw a freer breath. Nodded back as she reached for the gate. “Thank you . . . Roscoe—and good night.”
She shut the solid panel, stood staring at it as her thudding pulse slowed.
As the unprecedented wave of sensation slowly ebbed.
Hauling in a long breath, she lifted her head, turned, and walked toward the house.
R
oscoe stood for a full minute inwardly frowning at the closed garden gate, then swung away and continued down the alley, taking the shortcut back to his house.
Miss Clifford—he didn’t know her first name, but it would be in his file on Roderick if he cared to look—was . . . different from the usual, run-of-the-mill lady.
Different in exactly what way he wasn’t sure. Sinking his hands into his pockets, he pondered the point as he strolled unhurriedly home.
Admittedly, she was older than the usual ton miss; he didn’t know her age, but she was older than Roderick, he judged by at least five years. Twenty-eight years old seemed about right, and would in part account for her strength—the sort of inner strength a man of his experience recognized instantly. Yet despite that strength, she’d seemed . . . off-balance, uncertain.
Not quite sure of herself in a rather strange way.
That moment when courtesy of the garden step and her trip he’d touched her flared in his mind. It had been a long time since he’d felt such a jolt of sensual awareness, if he ever had; it had been amazingly intense. That she’d felt it, too, wasn’t in question; he’d seen the truth in her wide eyes, her parted lips, had heard it in her suddenly shallower breathing.
Regardless, any thought of further exploring the possibilities suggested by that moment of stark attraction was, he judged, doomed. Unless he missed his guess, Miss Clifford had shut the gate, and in so doing had shut him permanently out of her life.
“In light of our background, we must, understandably, always behave with the utmost respectability.”
Contrary to her expectation, he didn’t understand why she thought that, but if she was rigidly wedded to respectability, then the very last man she would be interested in developing any degree of acquaintance with was London’s gambling king.
He walked on for several minutes, then, lips twisting cynically, he looked ahead and increased his pace. The reality of his life lay waiting.
M
iranda dallied in the cool of the gardens until her violently jarred senses had settled back into their customary quiescent, if not somnolent, state. She’d never felt such a spark—had never before felt alive in such a way. She didn’t want to think what that meant. From the first her instincts had warned that Roscoe was dangerous; clearly they hadn’t been wrong. She was beyond sure she didn’t need such a distraction in her life—anywhere near her respectable life.
Finally setting the episode aside as a never-to-be-repeated experience, she crossed to the side terrace and entered the house through the morning room French doors. The morning room was largely her domain; going to the escritoire, she set her reticule on the desk, then swung her cape off her shoulders and draped it over the back of the chair.
Her thoughts circled back to Roderick’s project and the work of the Philanthropy Guild. Crossing to the door, she opened it; through the dense shadows of the downstairs hall she walked to the stairs and started climbing.
A pale-robed figure loomed out of the shadows on the landing.
Miranda very nearly squeaked. Swallowing her shock—it seemed to be a night for shocks of all kinds—her hand at her throat, she fought to catch her breath. “Aunt—you frightened me.”
“Indeed, miss—and you frighten me.” Gladys glared at her, then gestured with her cane. “Where have you been, heh? Coming inside at such an hour—how many times have you heard me say—”
“I was merely walking in the gardens. Roderick had gone out—you know I can’t sleep until he gets home, so I was wasting time until he did.”
Gladys humphed. “He came in a good half hour ago—he’s probably already snoring.”
“Yes, I know—I got distracted.” By London’s gambling king.
“You need to be more careful, my girl.” Gladys ponderously turned and started to heave her considerable bulk back up the stairs. “Never forget you can’t afford even a whisper of improper behavior.”
Following, Miranda let her aunt’s well-rehearsed admonitions flow over her; she’d heard the litany so many times the words were engraved on her soul.
Gladys halted at the top of the stairs, forcing Miranda to halt lower down. Turning her head, Gladys bent a sharp look down at Miranda and delivered her invariable culminating exhortation. “You don’t want to end like your mother and your sister, do you?”
Stifling a sigh, Miranda dutifully replied, “No, Aunt. I don’t.”
Gladys humphed again, then waddled on to her room. “Roderick’s a wealthy gentleman—society won’t bat an eye over him coming in late. But you, girl—just one false step and your reputation will be shredded. Never forget—respectability is all.”