A Noble Masquerade (30 page)

“I believe I shall decline, aunt. All the rain has put me in the mood for a good book,” Ryland answered.

“So I see. Hmmm, by a lady. Sounds . . . delightful.” Her tone indicated that it sounded anything but.

Miranda clapped her hand over her apron-filled mouth to stifle a giggle. In his haste Ryland had grabbed a novel as his
shield. She wondered if it was the same book she'd read earlier this year. It had been authored simply “by a lady.”

Jess's eyes jerked in her direction. Apparently satisfied that Miranda wasn't going to give away their location, she turned back to watching the edge of the desk.

“It is,” Ryland answered.

Silence dragged on for several moments. Miranda's leg began to cramp. She thought about moving it, but a glare from Jess convinced her that she was better off in pain. Finally the aunt made a comment about having the carriage brought around and the door opened and closed once more.

Jess's arm shot out to hold Miranda still. The scraping sound of a page being turned echoed through the quiet study. Miranda glanced at Jess, who appeared to be waiting for some sort of signal from Ryland. Was his aunt actually still in the room?

The door swung back open with a
whoosh
.

“One more thing,” said the aunt.

“Hmmm?” answered Ryland, sounding for all the world like a man absorbed in his reading.

“When Gregory returns, tell him I've gone to Lady Chevelle's dinner after all. He may join me there if he wishes.”

“Why don't you tell Price? He's much more likely to see him than I am.”

Did the woman hiss? Miranda wriggled her toes in her slipper, trying to stave off the prickly feeling spreading from her ankle.

After a moment, light footsteps crossed the floor. The swish of fabric indicated the woman had yanked on the bellpull. “There. When that infernal butler comes, you can relay the message. If you insist on employing him, you can deal with him.”

Footsteps crossed the room once more, and the door slammed shut.

With nothing better to do, Miranda started counting. She
had just reached ten when Jess slid out from under the desk, dragging the apron from Miranda's mouth. With considerable effort, Miranda unfolded herself and followed.

Ryland's hand appeared, offering her assistance in rising.

“What was that about? She never comes to this room.” Jess busied herself extracting the tea service from the cabinet.

“I believe I made her suspicious with my friendly overture this afternoon.”

A grin split the maid's face as she set the tray back on the table. “An overture? Toward your family? Are you feeling all right?”

Ryland shrugged. “It was Jeffreys' idea.”

Miranda watched the exchange with equal parts awe and foreboding. Free of her urchin disguise, Jess was indeed a beautiful woman. With a silk dress and the proper coiffure she would compete with Georgina in any ballroom in London. That she and Ryland were so familiar with each other was disturbing, to say the least.

Jess poured more tea into the cups. “Jeffreys doesn't understand that some families don't get along. Not families like ours, anyway.”

Miranda couldn't handle any more. Jealousy unlike anything she'd experienced toward Georgina welled within her. This woman had more in common with Ryland than Miranda ever would. “You two seem awfully familiar.”

An impish grin crossed Jess's face. “It's not surprising. We were married, after all.”

Ryland groaned as he watched Miranda's eyes grow wider and wider. The sudden narrowing of her gaze to dagger-like slits indicated the full import of Jess's sentence had finally sunk in. He sent Jess a scathing glare of his own. She shrugged and plopped down on a chair.

He reached out and grasped Miranda's shoulders, intending to use force if necessary to make her hear him out. “We were never married. We only
pretended
to be married in order to stay alive. It was only once and only for a month.”

Miranda's eyes jerked wide once more. “A month? You lived with her as husband and wife for a month?”

“No! I mean, yes, we gave the appearance of it, but no, we didn't. I mean . . . That is to say . . .” Ryland struggled to find the right words to convey his relationship with Jess. “We didn't, ahem, complicate things.”

Miranda blinked at him.

“The entire setup was a complete sham.”

A frown joined the blink.

“It was seven years ago. She was only fifteen.”

The frown deepened to a scowl.

Ryland sighed. Fortunately, the anger seemed to have left her eyes, but confusion had followed in its wake. What else could he say? Miranda had been sheltered her entire life. He couldn't just come out and say—

“He's trying to tell you we never consummated the fake marriage. There were no shenanigans or relations while we worked together.” Jess rolled her eyes and leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling.

A blush stained Miranda's cheeks a most becoming shade of rose. Obviously she now knew what he meant, even if she didn't truly know what it
meant.
While he could never have brought himself to make such a bald statement to a lady, he was grateful that Jess had been able to clear up the confusion. Sometimes her brash behavior was actually helpful.

“Really, Ryland, are you sure you want to marry her? She seems rather soft.”

Most of the time though, it wasn't helpful at all. “Shouldn't you be cleaning something?”

“Probably.” Jess grinned. “That is what you pay me for, after all.”

He made himself count to ten. He reminded himself that Jess did it on purpose. She thrived on riling people up and watching the aftermath of their explosions. “Get out, Jess.”

She hopped to her feet and executed a jaunty curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He felt Miranda relax under his hands as Jess skipped out the door. His fingers flexed, massaging the supple muscles of her upper arms. The scent of roses drifted to him again as she swung her head around to face him. Did she have rose oil put in her soap? Drop rose petals into her bathwater? He reined his mind in and forced himself to focus on the problem at hand.

Threatening missives needed his attention, not thoughts of Miranda's bathing habits.

All thoughts of the notes vanished when he looked down into Miranda's face. She was biting her lip, the slightly crooked front teeth raking across the tender surface.

His pulse jumped.

Moisture gathered in the corner of her eye. “You want to marry me?”

He was going to fire Jess. Or send her to his country estate. Maybe turn her back over to Napoleon.

“Ryland?”

“Miranda, I—” He looked into her gaze and felt something slide into place with a single blink of those big green eyes. “Yes.”

The smile that spread across her face was a more welcome sight than the English shore had been when he'd returned home from France.

He intended to say more about why he couldn't propose yet and how she deserved a proper courtship, to temper her expectations until he could deal with the eminent threat of a Bedlam candidate threatening English dukes.

But when she smiled, the rest of that didn't matter. He lowered his head and took that smile as his own.

There was no brother in the room this time, no formality, no ensuing argument, no rush. He took his time to savor the soft feel of her lips, the small gasp, and the blessed moment when she leaned in to kiss him back. He made himself keep his hands gripped around her upper arms. His mind clung to the fact that they weren't even betrothed yet, not really. Care had to be taken. He shouldn't even be kissing her, but he could find nothing in him willing to pull away.

She shifted, and he told his fingers to loosen so she could pull away. But then her fluttering touch landed on his arms. The grazes of her hands shyly making their way to his back. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hauled her closer.

Warmth.
Warmth invaded every part of Miranda's body and soul. Emanating from the blissful pressure of Ryland's lips and his snug embrace. Not knowing what else to do, she mimicked his movements, wrapping her arms around him as best she could, and pressing her lips firmly against his.

She heard a low rumble in the back of her mind, but its significance was lost under the sound of blood rushing through her ears. Whatever it was, she felt like cursing it, because Ryland's lips drew away. She forgave the intrusion when he didn't let her go, merely pressed her head to his chest and rested his chin in her hair. One arm remained locked around her shoulders while the other soothed her by rubbing her back.

“What is it, Price?” Ryland's voice sounded different with her ear pressed to his chest. The echoing rumble reached her before his actual words did. The sensation was far from unpleasant.

“Another note, sir.”

The rubbing stopped. Ryland eased himself away and turned toward Price. A chill crept over her, making her legs shaky and unsteady. She sank into a nearby chair.

Price had turned his back to the room, finding the books on the shelf by the door vastly interesting. Ryland crossed the floor in three strides, his body seeming to hold itself tighter with every step. She realized she was watching him shift from gentleman to spy. It was a tad disconcerting.

“Where was it?” He slipped a folded white paper from the butler's hand.

“The silver tray by the door.”

Price's words pierced Miranda's kiss-induced fog. She jumped to her feet. “You're getting notes too? Like the one I got?”

The frozen finger of dread chased away the last of her euphoria and caused small bumps to spring up along her skin.
Clutching her arms across her stomach, she told herself to be strong. She was learning how strong a man Ryland was, and if she wanted a future with him she was going to need significant fortitude herself.

Ryland glanced at her with a stoic expression. Gone was the passionate gaze of moments before. Now he looked almost hard. Cold. “Yes.”

She waited, but no further explanation was forthcoming. He turned back to the note, murmuring something to Price in tones too low for her to hear. The butler nodded and swung his bulky body back toward the door. Ryland folded the parchment and tapped it against his lips. Silence thickened the air. He didn't speak. He didn't turn.

Cold was no longer a problem. Strength ceased to be an issue. Miranda was positively rigid with anger. How could he block her out like this? What part of him thought “Yes” was an adequate answer to the inquiry concerning a potential threat to his well-being?

He took three steps toward the door and put his hand to the latch.

“Not another step.” The words sounded foreign, a lower, deeper tone than her usual voice.

Ryland froze with his hand extended. Moments passed where the only movement in the room seemed to be the clenching and releasing of her fists in time with her heavy breaths.

“I need to take care of this, Miranda.”

“You need to tell me what's going on.”

His knuckles paled as his fingers tightened on the latch. “I'll protect you, Miranda. And Griffith. You have nothing to worry about.”

Something broke inside Miranda's chest. A wall that she had spent her entire life building. Until that moment she hadn't realized how much of her natural exuberance and emotion had been
repressed by her commitment to expected and correct behavior. But with Ryland she didn't need that wall. She knew she could be herself and he would delight in her freedom.

“Nothing to worry about?” She strode across the carpet. It took both hands and a significant amount of her weight, but she spun him around to face her. “What about you? What am I supposed to do while you go in search of the man looking to fill you with lead?”

Their eyes met, and for a moment she thought he would relent and tell her, show her that he wanted to partner together in life. He broke the look first and turned to glance around the room. “The tea is probably still hot. Why don't you—”

“Tea? You want me to sit and have some tea.”

“Well, it would pass the time.”

She wanted to hit him. Better yet, she could grab the vase off the bookshelf behind him and beat in his brain box with it. All of her life, men had been taking care of everything for her. She didn't even know how much her last trip to the modiste had run. The bill had been sent directly to Griffith, and she'd never seen it.

Now Ryland expected her to simply sit and drink some tea while he went in search of a vengeful madman. The proper, dutiful position was no longer acceptable.

“I will not drink
tea
. If you won't tell me what is going on I'll go find out myself.” Miranda spun around and stalked to the door, but her hand never made it to the latch.

Ryland whipped her up in his arms. In any other circumstance she would have blushed furiously at the romantic intimacy of the action. Romance was the furthest thing from her mind as she beat his shoulders and kicked her legs, determined not to be left out.

He threw her in a chair and blocked her in with his arms. Leaning down until his nose nearly touched hers, he whispered, “You will not leave this room. If you so much as poke your head
out the door, I will tie you to this chair. If you require something to make your stay in my study more comfortable, ring the bell and Jess will see to whatever you need.”

As if Miranda wanted anything more to do with the trouble-making maid.

“Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand. I don't agree, but I understand.”

He sighed. “I'm posting a guard. Don't. Leave.”

He pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips and then backed toward the door. He felt for the latch behind him and slipped out. A second later the click of the key told her he'd locked her in.

She began to pace the room, trying to work off some of the restless energy coursing through her legs, making them tingle. There wasn't much she could do, locked inside Ryland's study. She could think, she supposed, but she didn't have much information to ponder.

A flash of white on the floor caught her eye on her second trip around the perimeter of the room. She knelt to retrieve the folded paper. It was Ryland's note. Now she would know what the killer was threatening him with.

The paper tore a bit, and she cut her finger in her haste to open the missive. Sucking on the injured appendage, she held the paper open with her free hand. Disappointment filled her. This wasn't Ryland's note—it was hers. Or rather Griffith's.

She plopped down in the chair Ryland had deposited her in earlier. The note fluttered from her fingertips to the tea tray, landing at an awkward angle against the half-filled cup. It looked like a little lean-to shed. Amused by the thought, she took the linen napkin from beneath the other cup and began folding it to make a house to accompany the shed.

The jostling of the tray had caused the tea to slosh out of the cup, leaving a light brown stain on the napkin. She twisted her creation to use the tea mark as a door. The effect was rather cute.

She sat back to look at her makeshift diorama. Maybe she could find some scraps of paper and fold some animal and people shapes to populate her cottage. A thought niggled at the back of her mind, telling her something was wrong with the picture in front of her.

Leaning back in the chair, she turned her head one way and then another, trying to look at the disheveled tea tray in different ways. The appearance was that of a normal tea tray. It looked very similar to the one delivered to her that evening, starting this entire debacle, right down to the puddle of spilt tea.

When she'd found the note the corner of it had been splattered with tea—

She sat up and snatched at the note, knocking her napkin cottage over as well. There was no tea on the note—only her blood. This
was
the note Ryland had gotten.

Confusion filled Miranda.

Why would two men be given the same threatening letter?