Keepsake (The Distinguished Rogues Book 5) (14 page)

He gestured to the plate and wineglass. “I take it by that you must also dislike pulled pork and wine too.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Those are recent dislikes I’ve not managed to conquer as yet.”

He caught her hand and pulled her to her feet angrily.

Miranda steadied herself against his chest. “Must you manhandle me so rudely?”

“Oh, I have not even started.” He dragged her toward the sideboard where the remainder of the meal had been placed, ready to be served. He uncovered each dish to show her. “Does anything else here displease you?”

Her glanced flickered over the silver and glass dishes and she smiled. “No. I’m fond of everything there.”

“Good.” Kit caught her chin in his fingers and tilted her face upward. Her eyes were still irritated as he stared into them.

All of a sudden, they softened from their usual coldness and Miranda stumbled back a step, far out of reach. “I’m fine now.”

Kit wasn’t so certain that was the truth, but he felt better for knowing the rest of the meal would be uneventful and acceptable to her. He ushered her to her chair, called the servants back to them, and watched his wife carefully all through the meal. He didn’t understand her in the least, but he knew three more facts about her. He would give her anything she wanted if only she spoke truthfully from her heart.

His parents had never hesitated to criticize each other’s decisions and tastes in all things little and great. Their blunt honesty had been the basis for his life. Yet his parents had spent a great deal of their later years apart, which did go a long way to explaining why he was an only child. He had never wanted that for his own family.

In the back of his mind he considered what else Miranda might have lied about before their marriage. Had she really believed herself set up so she could not refuse to marry him? At the time he’d believed them a fair match when it came to their likes and dislikes. Had they only been a match in bed and then only in his mind?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

No matter how loathe Miranda was to admit it, there was something compelling about being more or less alone with her husband. An indefinable air about him that drew her close while her mind shrieked at her to run away before he captured her heart and crushed it to dust. He was an enigma she couldn’t help but be intrigued by. Handsome, but proud. Cold, but possessed of a cheeky, warm smile.

Where she’d imagined him furious over her absence, he expressed only mild concern now. He hadn’t laid out any plans beyond sharing a meal with her, and he’d stopped delivering ultimatums.

Unless he’d decided it was a foregone conclusion where she’d spend the remains of the evening. She groaned softly under her breath.

Miranda thanked the footmen as she turned for the door to the dining room and avoided touching her husband at all costs. He seemed amused by that; the corners of his eyes creased, adding a touch of wickedness to his face.

Miranda lengthened her stride so she wouldn’t have to see any more of his good looks. The evidence that he’d gone out of his way to look his best tonight when she hadn’t irritated her unbearably.

“Miranda,” he called and she drew to a stop like a puppet on a string outside their chambers. She hated he could still do that. She hadn’t felt so under another’s control in quite some time.

Kit smiled down on her. “In the absence of a drawing room, I hoped you might join me in my room for tea.”

“Tea?” Surely that wasn’t what he intended.

“It’s already arranged. A servant will be here directly.” Without waiting for a response of any kind, Taverham unlocked his bedchamber door and stood aside to let her pass.

Ahead lay a room of similar proportions to her own: a bed, chaise lounge, washstand, and countless traveling trunks stacked neatly in one corner. There were a few other pieces of furniture, but likely nothing to the luxuries found at his London home. Her husband did not normally skimp on life’s little comforts, and she was surprised by how frugal he appeared today.

The only luxury appeared to be a chaise lounge without a back to rest against. Miranda didn’t have one of those in her room, but it was the kind one could escape from in a hurry from almost any direction if pressed.

Miranda crossed the room and took a position on the edge of the chaise, closest to the empty hearth, to await the promised tea being delivered. If Taverham so much as twitched in her direction before or after that, attempting to
get his heir
, she’d bash what little brains he had with the fire poker.

She observed him discreetly as he closed the door, shutting them inside where he had control and privacy. He placed his key on the table beside the door, then laid hers beside it neatly. Miranda made note of the position of hers for later. He strolled toward her and Miranda’s heart pounded fiercely. Yet he passed her, stopping at the covered window and peeking outside. “We’ll have rain tomorrow.”

“Certainly.” Anyone with sense could tell the cloud-filled sky boded rain on the morrow. She fiddled with her glove, then scolded herself for showing nervousness around him. She wasn’t afraid to refuse him his husbandly rights. He wasn’t completely irresistible.

A knock on the door brought tea and a brief respite from the tension building inside her. When the servants were gone and he hadn’t moved, Miranda took it upon herself to pour as if she were the hostess and tonight’s meeting was an everyday event.

“Have you finished reading
Tom Jones
?”

Henry Fielding
was one of her favorite authors. Christopher’s too. “Yes. Many times.”

“It’s still my favorite. Haven’t found anything to surpass it while you’ve been gone. Have you?”

“No.” Miranda shrugged. Enjoying the same book meant little. It wasn’t enough to base a marriage—a life—on when there was no hope for more.

He sighed and took a place beside her on the other side of the chaise, facing the blanketed window. Close but not so close as to invade her personal space. Her skin tingled as if he stared at her face. “You have more lines about your eyes now,” he said suddenly.

Miranda stiffened at the accusation she was growing old. “So do you.”

He laughed then, a bitter sound that, despite her best efforts, made her even more aware they were alone. “Yours are laugh lines, I think, rather than worry.”

She faced him. “How could you know that?”

He shrugged and turned away, brushing imaginary lint from the fabric straining across his strong thighs. “What have you had to worry about? There was only you, and you knew what you were doing when you left me, didn’t you?”

Miranda stiffened. How dare he sound hurt when he was the one at fault in their marriage? He’d thrown away any chance for happiness by keeping a mistress. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

He turned his head slowly, green eyes completely lacking any warmth. She shivered.

“I know I failed you somehow,” he said slowly, brow furrowing. “I’ve spent the years since our wedding looking for some sign you existed, always fearing the worst and hoping you’d come back of your own accord, even if only to ask for your freedom. Were you happy, Miranda? Was being so far away from me what you truly wanted?”

She stared at him and urgent need for the truth glittered in his eyes. He’d looked for her and not just to drag her back to where he thought she belonged. A dull thud began in her chest and she forced a smile to her face to hide her confusion at how that pleased her. She couldn’t have stayed to watch him and Lady Brighthurst together, so she’d left to save herself the misery of seeing every day what she’d lost. “So many questions.”

He leaned toward her, his gaze boring into her and setting her heart racing at a mad gallop. “Would you prefer it if I didn’t give a damn whether you lived or died? Answer me.”

Miranda shook her head to clear away her sudden feeling she should ask for his forgiveness. It wasn’t his heart that had been broken ten years ago, but hers. Actions spoke louder than words. He’d betrayed her even before the wedding breakfast’s last dish was cold. “I left of my own volition, and yet circumstances gave me little choice.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No. I doubt you would.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Now that you have shown yourself to be alive, you must know I will never let you go. I will never agree to a divorce and our marriage will never be annulled. We were intimate once, and I cannot as a gentleman forget that you are already my wife in every way that matters to me.”

Miranda closed her eyes. That was her one remaining fear. Returning had prevented him from declaring her dead and annulling their marriage so he might start over with another woman. A divorce after her return though could have ruined all her plans and Christopher’s future. She couldn’t let him know she was pleased that they would remain married. That would lead to more questions she couldn’t answer. “That is for you to decide, husband,” she told him, adding sadness to her voice rather than the exaltation and satisfaction she felt building inside her.

He leaned closer and his hand rose to brush against her hair gently. “I have decided. I decided long ago. I wanted you to be my wife from the moment we met, and that feeling hasn’t changed. I didn’t seek my freedom the moment I could because I clung to hope.”

His brow creased as he continued to touch her. A thousand thoughts flittered through her mind, but the most pressing was the discovery that Kit was desperately unsure of himself. They were strangers to each other again. Married strangers, admittedly.

“Kiss me good night, Miranda.”

Miranda swallowed. A kiss wasn’t part of her plan. There was no need to encourage him when she wouldn’t fall into his bed again. He had his heir, yet didn’t know it. Miranda turned her face away and the fingers ghosting over her hair firmed. Could she tell him of Christopher now and be believed?

Kit turned her face back to his and closed the distance between them.

The first brush of his lips was soft. Tentative. When Miranda would have drawn back, he wouldn’t let her. He pulled her tighter against him, his fingers digging into her hair, but not brutally. His lips hovered beside hers and his warm breath panted across them. “Another kiss won’t hurt you after the many we’ve shared.”

Except Miranda remembered the power of his kisses. They made her forget herself and all thoughts of any sense. She met his gaze reluctantly and swore under her breath. If she ran now, he would know she wasn’t as immune to him as she’d hoped to be after so long apart.

But if she stayed and gave in, he would think he’d won.

Retaining the upper hand in their marriage was vital. He would not be the one to dictate the terms of their intimate encounters if she couldn’t avoid them. A kiss was a kiss, unless she allowed it to be more.

Daringly, Miranda leaned forward to kiss Kit first, hoping to prove to herself that she could withstand his magnetism.

As their lips touched, a thousand suppressed emotions swirled and fought for prominence in her mind.

Need—possessive, raw, and unflinching—brought out her aggression. She hungered for him, cradled his head too, and possessed his mouth as if not a day had passed since their last kiss.

Anger that she could not hold on to the feeling came next. Taverham wasn’t a faithful man by any stretch of the imagination. He would never want only her and would break her heart if she let him. She would not be a victim again. What was she thinking to believe his lies? He would not have given her a second thought after she’d left except to curse her for not giving him the son he needed. A child he would rip from her arms the moment he could and refuse to give her one say in the child’s upbringing. By leaving, she had not allowed that to happen, and Miranda was proud of that fact.

To show him what he’d missed, taunt him with what he’d thrown away, Miranda forced Kit down on the chaise until he lay helpless beneath her.

A tactical mistake.

His arms closed about her, holding her tightly against his body until his warmth penetrated her gown. In her desire to best him, she’d forgotten that Kit was rarely helpless. His lips devoured hers despite his seemingly weak position. His tongue slipped between her parched lips, possessive and hungry for victory. Miranda held his shoulders tightly, aware that their legs had aligned even while she shifted over him restlessly, unable to help herself. She imitated the intimacies they’d shared before their marriage, and she couldn’t remain still. He was her husband. Her lover once. Her body remembered how he felt and acted of its own accord.

He groaned once then flipped them over until Miranda lay beneath him. His weight bore down on her, pinning her beneath him where she hadn’t been in so long. He stared into her face until Miranda’s grew hot.

“My wife,” he whispered. He kissed her again while his fingers caressed her face. The soft touch frightened her because it muddled her mind and made her forget what she was here to do.

She pushed against his chest to gain some space. “That was more than one good-night kiss.”

Chest heaving, Kit appeared ready to devour her but smiled at her observation. Miranda wriggled beneath him, noting he was aroused and hard against her sex. He did not draw back his hips and give her space.

His eyes softened and he grinned wickedly. “And yet less than one kiss for each day of our marriage. I mean to claim them all, Miranda. Everywhere I can.”