“What of you?” he asked, wanting to turn the attention away from himself. Her words made him poke and prod too deeply into his own inner workings, exploring things he wasn’t ready to think of yet. “Would you ever marry again?”
“I would, but only under certain circumstances.”
“I see.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I know it might be foolish for a woman of my age, but I want more out of my second marriage, if there is to be one. I cared for Lord Hughes. He was a good, kind man and he treated me well. But he made no attempt to try to know me outside the bedchamber. When he died, it occurred to me that I was mourning a virtual stranger. If I am to marry someone else, it will be for love. Passionate, fiery, real love. I want someone who knows me like no one else does, and someone who will let me know him. I want to cherish and be cherished, and I … I would very much hope the person I choose might not die and leave me all alone. I think I should like to marry someone I could grow old with.”
Once she finished speaking, Roger realized he had forgotten to breathe for several seconds. He released the air in his lungs in a rush, feeling as if he’d been hit over the head. Every word she’d just said spoke to the parts of him that wanted those same things. It was as if she had reached into his chest and pulled out the deepest desires of his heart.
“I think you deserve exactly that,” he said, his voice low and strained due to his tightened throat.
“So do you,” she said.
Chapter 9
Within one week after Christmas Day, Miranda had come to see Roger as the perfect companion. The festivities of the house party seemed more like a nuisance when all she wanted was more time alone with him. There had been a bit of tension following their conversation on Christmas Day, but the familiar ease between them had made itself apparent again by the time they joined the other guests for dinner. It should have startled her to think of how completely she had bared herself to him, surrounded by snow and trees and the quiet of winter. The longings of her heart had been nursed silently in the depths of herself, and she hadn’t even expressed them to her friends.
However, thinking back over the moment she had spoken the truth about her desires for a loving marriage and a true husband, Miranda could feel nothing but relief. Roger’s quiet demeanor proved an asset, as he never spoke unless he had something meaningful to say. When he wasn’t speaking, he was listening, and Miranda hadn’t realized how sorely she’d needed someone to hear her. Conversation with Lord Hughes had been light and banal. They had never spoken of their deepest fears or greatest desires. Roger, however, seemed curious about her, and said curiosity led to probing questions and insightful observations. The fact that he rarely spoke to anyone had apparently left him overflowing with things to say.
They spoke of their childhoods and the follies of their youth. She’d learned that his favorite color was brown, and that he owned an extensive collection of books—his one concession to lavish spending. He was a fabulous rider, a fact that had been proven during the Boxing Day hunt. He shared her love of the theater and opera, and spent many evenings chaperoning his sister to some performance or another. There was nothing more important to him than family.
Having expected to simply revel in the physical attentions of a lover, Miranda was surprised to realize that she enjoyed Roger’s company out of bed as well as in it. As a lover, he was attentive and eager. Never ashamed to ask her what she wanted or if she liked what he was doing, he often made her forget that she was the first woman to make love to him. He had confessed to having read several books on the subject of intercourse, as well as descriptive erotic literature. His face had flushed adorably while describing a collection of lurid paintings depicting several carnal acts. Watching him discover how it felt to experience such pleasure, to share intimacy with someone, gratified her as much as his kiss and his touch did.
Their days were spent trading secretive looks and sneaking murmured conversations when no one was paying attention. Every evening, Roger came to her and subjected her to hours of his amorous attentions. Each night, they would lie in a tangled heap of limbs and mussed bedclothes until they fell asleep together. Roger had an uncanny ability to awaken at just the right time, kissing her good-bye before sneaking back to his own room.
It seemed like the height of irony to have been married nearly ten years, but only just discover what it was like to share a bed with a lover. There was something poignantly unifying about those moments following their lovemaking, a stillness and closeness that made Miranda feel as if she knew Roger better than she ever had her husband. It was ridiculous, considering they’d only known each other for ten days. Yet, Miranda was hard pressed to convince herself that her feelings were as outlandish as they seemed.
“You’re smitten,” Mary whispered one evening over a game of whist.
The cards had been brought out after dinner, and Miranda, Mary, Joan, and Maud had a table near the edge of the room. The low murmurs of dozens of other conversations ensured they were not overheard.
“I most certainly am not,” Miranda protested, though even she could hear that her words lacked conviction.
Joan smirked while casting a glance at a table toward the center of the room, where Roger shared a table with Angus, Emily, and Lord Lovett—Emily’s prospective bridegroom. “Who wouldn’t be? The man is positively delectable.”
Even knowing her friend had no real interest in Roger, Miranda experienced a sharp pang of annoyance at Joan’s comment. Roger was hers and no other’s.
He is only yours because you are paying him, an insidious voice whispered in her mind.
Miranda pushed the thought aside and forced her expression to remain neutral. There was no reason to dwell on the fact that in any other circumstance Roger might never have been hers. The reality was, she was his client and he her courtesan. He was being paid to make her happy, and thus far he’d earned his fee several times over. She was so pleased with Roger, in fact, that she could envision herself keeping him for a good, long while.
“Miranda?”
She blinked to find her friends staring at her, their expression varying from curious to concerned to consternated. “I beg your pardon?”
Maud sighed. “Mary asked if he makes you happy. You certainly have seemed like a different person altogether during this party.”
“I have?” she murmured.
“You smile more,” Mary pointed out. “And you’ve been … giggling.”
Miranda sucked in a sharp breath. “I have not.”
“Oh, yes you have,” Joan countered. “And you can hardly keep your eyes off Mr. Thornton. It’s a wonder everyone here hasn’t noticed.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure they haven’t,” Maud remarked with a raised eyebrow. “If the two of you were any more obvious, you’d be ruined.”
Miranda’s face warmed and her gaze strayed to Roger before she could think of what she was doing. To her surprise, he was looking straight at her over his cards, his eyes simmering like dark, fiery coals.
“He is just as smitten as you are,” Joan said with a dry snort. “It’s sickeningly adorable.”
“He’s a whore,” Maud whispered, as if affronted at the very thought of Miranda having true feelings for a courtesan.