Everything Forbidden (19 page)

Back in London he would forget.

He had to forget.

One month later

Miranda had never liked London, not that she had been there often. Her only real exposure had been during her first Season, before her father died. At the time, she’d been so excited. So certain she would find both love and a grand passion. But the truth had been far different. The balls had been too crowded, her mother had been too loud, and two of the most beautiful women in Society had come out the same year, so she’d never been considered a “Diamond of the First Water”. As for the men, well none of them had been Ethan. In the end, she’d longed for home.

This time, the city was just as she remembered it. Too crowded, too close and the stench of coal hung so heavy in the air that it was cloying and dirty in her lungs.

London in the fall was even worse, for the wind was bitter and the streets dreary and wet, nothing like the family’s country home where the leaves were bright and the air crisp and clean.

She sighed. Unfortunately, even
home
didn’t feel very homey anymore. Since the events of the month before, she hadn’t been comfortable there, either. She wasn’t sure where she belonged, or even if she belonged anywhere.

The only thing she was certain of was that she never would have come back to London if Penelope hadn’t finally gotten her way.

Miranda looked across the carriage at her sister, who was staring out the window with that dead, faraway look that had been in her eyes for two weeks. Ever since she accepted the sudden marriage proposal of Lord Norman, a sixty-year-old Viscount who had come sniffing around just after Ethan departed the countryside.

Their mother was ecstatic, of course. She had already spent through all of Ethan’s money and now Norman’s flowed in, paying for a huge wedding that was utterly unseemly for an eighteen-year-old woman and a man three times her age who had been married twice before. But their mother insisted and Norman seemed to love that the world was so aware of his catch of a young, pretty bride. Miranda could only imagine how he must boast to his friends. Her stomach turned at the thought every time.

Their carriage now weaved through the London streets, moving toward the Viscount’s town home and the party being held tonight in honor of the upcoming wedding.

Miranda tried to catch Penelope’s eye, but her sister ignored her. Despite all her attempts at repair, their bond was still bro
ken. In fact, things only seemed to be getting worse. Penelope’s hostility had increased since her sudden engagement. The entire situation made Miranda’s heart ache.

As did the constant questions that went through her mind. If Penelope wouldn’t forgive her, even after a month, even after Ethan disappeared from their lives…had Miranda made the right decision to let him go? To refuse to be his mistress or his wife?

Those questions haunted her at night, as did dreams and memories of his touch, his kiss, his body moving inside her own.

“Miranda, are you even listening?”

Miranda started. She had become so talented at blocking her mother’s voice that she hadn’t even realized Dorthea had been talking.

“I’m sorry, Mama, simply woolgathering. What were you saying?” she asked, gritting her teeth in the hopes she could force patience. Tonight promised to be trying enough without Dorthea’s “advice.”

Her mother huffed out her displeasure at being ignored, then said, “I was saying that you should make an effort with whatever men are in attendance tonight. It is off Season, of course, so there won’t be much of a good selection, but you might catch the eye of the right man if you simply try. You are not completely without charm, you know.”

Miranda pursed her lips. “Thank you, Mama.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed, although she didn’t turn away from the window. “Miranda doesn’t want to find the ‘right’ man.”

Miranda shut her eyes at her sister’s bitter tone. “Neither did you, Penelope. Please, won’t you reconsider—”

Their mother rapped her fan along the carriage seat. “Stop it!
Stop it, I say. You will not try to discourage your sister from this union again. Lord Norman is a perfectly respectable, perfectly genial, perfectly—”

“Rich, Mama?” Miranda interrupted as she folded her arms.

Her mother frowned. “Yes, there is that, too. And do not look at me like I’m some heartless ghoul for supporting such a match. I would think you would be pleased. You no longer have to scrimp pennies like a miser.”

“But at what cost?” Miranda cried, looking at Penelope again. “The sacrifice—”

“I’m simply following your lead,” Penelope all but hissed as she finally turned from the window. “And you may both stop talking about me like I am not in the carriage. I’ve made my decision and there will be no further discussion. Leave it be.”

Miranda opened her mouth, but before she could argue further, the carriage pulled to a stop and a footman opened the door. Penelope exited the carriage like the hounds of hell were at her heels and their mother moved close behind, still talking and giving advice as they walked.

With a sigh, Miranda took the waiting footman’s hand and stepped out onto the packed gravel drive. She looked up at the house. It was a fine home, with towering pillars and a large marble staircase. The servants’ livery was only the finest and the guest list was the best as well.

Yes, her sister had made a fine match financially. And there would be no arguing with her about the potential emotional or physical toll that match could bring. Penelope was no longer her best friend. Miranda had lost that on a dark and passionate night. That and so much more.

But there was nothing else she could do about it, so she moved toward the house and the party that already buzzed inside. As she handed her wrap to a waiting servant, she looked around. Her sister was already on the arm of her new fiancé, chatting with a small group of partygoers as their mother looked on, interjecting comments. Servants moved from group to group, handing out punch and taking away empty glasses. Across the ballroom, the orchestra played and revelers danced, smiling and laughing.

Miranda moved into the crowd with a frown. She was so removed from all this. She felt
numb
, like she was watching everything through a wavy wall of water. She had never felt so alone.

She smiled at vaguely familiar faces as she made her way across the room, but didn’t stop to speak to anyone. She just wanted to move to some inconspicuous place and have a moment to sit alone before she played at being happy about her sister’s unfortunate choice in a husband.

Just on the other side of the dance floor, there was one empty chair next to a group of three men. She moved toward it and was halfway there when one of the men moved and she drew up short to stare.

There, across the room, not twenty paces away, stood Ethan.

“You’re no fun anymore, Rothschild.”

Ethan glanced up from his watery punch to glare at his best friend, Randolph Whiting. Well, Whiting was
supposed
to be his best friend. Since his return to London, Ethan found himself more annoyed by the man’s presence than enjoying it. In fact, that was how he was beginning to feel when he spent time with
all
his friends.

“How’s that, Whiting?” he drawled, looking out over the crowd with a cynical yawn. He just wanted to go home.

“Since you came back from the country, you’ve become a bore,” Whiting continued as he downed his punch with a grimace. “You have hardly gone out, you don’t want to gamble, hell, I heard you even turned Francesca away when she showed up naked at your town home. But you’ve never turned away a night of pleasure with her, so I know that cannot be true.”

Ethan frowned. He didn’t know how that story had gotten out, but it
was
true. One of his former lovers, Francesca Salvoy, had shown up at his door just a week before, offering him all kinds of sensual delights. He’d looked at her, so beautiful and alluring and welcoming and he’d felt…nothing. Not so much as a twinge in his cock.

She’d been so angry when he gently told her to leave, she must have decided spreading the story, and no doubt embellishing it, was her best revenge.

“I wasn’t in the mood that night,” he said.

That was a lie, too. That night he had been tormented by dreams of Miranda and woken up hard as steel. That was how it had been for a month. Every night hot dreams of Miranda and no interest whatsoever in anyone else. Anything else. His entire life had shifted, his entire view of himself and others.

He was miserable.

“Not in the mood?” Whiting said each word slowly, like he didn’t understand the concept, then cocked his head with an expression of utter confusion.

Ethan clenched his drink with rapidly whitening knuckles. “Yes, I realize that may not be a notion you are familiar with, but
I just wasn’t in the mood for her or anything related to her.”

Whiting gave him a strange stare as he let out his breath in a long whistle. “I don’t know what the hell happened to you in the country, old man, but I hope you correct it soon. Listen, you’re an old friend, so I feel I must tell you that people are starting to whisper that you’ve gone soft…literally.”

Ethan shook his head. A few months ago, his reputation had been his biggest pride. Knowing he was called one of the greatest lovers in England and that women were fawning over themselves to get his cock inside of them…those facts had been a badge of honor.

Not anymore. Oh, he’d made a good effort when he came back. He’d called on old lovers, visited John and Arabella Valentine’s erotic club. While there, he had even solicited the attentions of a tall, slender lady who had blonde hair and icy blue eyes…but all to no avail. The moment the woman came into the room, he’d been disgusted with himself for trying to replace Miranda with such a cheap imitation. Even the whore had looked at him with pity while she collected his money for her wasted time.

Within a week, he’d given up trying to pursue pleasure. Not that he still didn’t have urges. It was just that his urges all centered around one woman. And if he couldn’t have her, it turned out he didn’t want anyone else.

He looked around with a stifled groan. He just wanted to leave. He didn’t give a damn about this party or his friends or what people thought about him. He just wanted to be alone and drown his sorrows in something stronger than George Norman’s weak punch.

“Come now, Rothschild, look around you.” Whiting motioned
around the room with one hand. “There are so many beautiful women who want to be in your bed. If you pull yourself together, you’ll be back on track and probably end up doing better than Norman. He has the right notion of it.”

Ethan stared at his drink. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t really care, but if he didn’t ask, Whiting would just become more bothersome. Aside from which, talking about Viscount Norman was far more comfortable than talking about himself.

“Are you completely out of touch?” Whiting asked with a chuckle. “Do you even know why this party is being held?”

Ethan shrugged. He hadn’t even planned on attending until Whiting showed up insisting earlier that evening. “No.”

“God, read the latest paper, friend. Norman is marrying some woman a third his age.” Whiting smiled with transparent admiration. “Never thought the old boy had it in him.”

Ethan lifted his gaze in disbelief as he pictured the paunchy, balding Viscount. “
Norman
is marrying again? No. That cannot be true. How did he manage that?”

“Money, of course,” Whiting laughed. “He bought his pleasure with cash. Maybe the old fool will actually produce an heir this time. The poor little country chit he’s marrying is certainly a fine specimen. I might look her up in a year or so when she’s well worn-in and likely bored of the fumbling gropings of a man who could be her grandfather.”

“Who is she?” Ethan asked. He was just going through the motions really, but it seemed the thing to say.

“Oh God, what is her name?” Whiting said, rubbing his chin
as he thought. “Prudence? Persephone? Petunia…no, wait! It’s Penelope.”

Ethan’s gaze snapped up and his heart rate doubled instantly. Penelope? No. No, that was a common name. It couldn’t be Miranda’s sister. Though, the poor country chit marrying for money part certainly did fit.

“Do you recall her last name?” he asked, setting his drink on a passing servant’s tray. He clenched his hands behind his back and prayed he looked nonchalant in asking. The last thing he needed was more of Whiting’s pointed interest.

“Why do you want to know?” his friend laughed. He stared at Ethan for a moment and his grin widened. “Ah, I understand. All this moping is for show, isn’t it? You’re just trying to bait the trap for a shy little country miss who wants to heal a broken man. Oh no, I’m not telling you any more about the lady. This little Petunia is mine.”

“Penelope,” Ethan said through clenched teeth. He truly despised Whiting at present. “And I don’t have any interest in the girl beyond her last name. What is it?”

Whiting drew back at the tone of his voice. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rothschild?”

“I want to know her name. Give me her name,” he repeated, stepping toward his friend.

He must have looked rather menacing, for Whiting immediately retreated a step, eyes wide. “It’s Alton or Alworth…”

Shutting his eyes, Ethan prayed the room would stop spinning. “Albright?”

“Yes, that’s it, that’s the name. Daughter of some dead
younger son of a peer. Can’t remember where she hails from, but it might be close to one of your own estates—”

Ethan didn’t hear anymore. Turning on his heel, he stalked across the room. If Penelope was here, Miranda was here. And he had to find her.

His gaze darted over the crowd, blurred from the powerful emotions that coursed through every fiber of his body. His mind kept repeating a harsh refrain.

Miranda is here. Miranda is here.

But he didn’t see her. He searched every corner, examined every woman’s face. Each time he saw golden hair, his heart lurched. But she was nowhere to be found.

And then, the crowd parted and there was Penelope. She was standing beside Lord Norman, head tilted as if she were listening to whatever he was prattling on about. Except her face was totally blank, emotionless. Like she had been wiped clean.