Page 48

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you should wed to appease polite society’s expectations,” Waring said softly, “but for your own sake. Do you not wish for a husband and a family?”

Her heart gave a pang at his question. For she knew what her answer must be.

“I have always wanted children,” she allowed, “but not at the expense of my freedom. I found the price too much to pay.”

“With Ammondale, yes. But have you ever considered marrying someone else?”

For a wild, foolish moment, she thought of Rhys.

But then she banished all such ridiculous notions.

He had told her in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to wed.

He wanted her as his mistress, not as his wife.

She had accepted it, just as she had accepted that she had fallen hopelessly in love with him.

“I have not,” she told her friend calmly, hoping he would grasp her meaning.

“You and I have always had an understanding, I believed,” he said with painstaking care, proving her wrong. “Have we not?”

She opened her mouth to answer him, uncertain of how to proceed, when another interruption distracted her.

This time, however, it wasn’t White knocking efficiently at the sitting room door to announce her arrival, however.

Rather, it was the door opening to reveal Rhys, who strode into the room with his hat still dangling from his fingers and his gloves clasped firmly in one hand.

A knot of dread tightened in her stomach.

His stormy gaze flicked from Waring to Miranda, lingering on her, and she felt the effect of his stare like a jolt of electricity. It was as if he sucked all the air from the room, and her heart instantly beat faster.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” he drawled. “Your maidservant informed me you already had a gentleman caller, but I didn’t think you would mind the intrusion since we are meant to be taking tea together.”

What must he think, finding her here alone with Waring? She wished she knew, but his countenance was carefully neutral.

He bowed formally to her and then turned to Waring. “The Duke of Whitby, sir.”

“Your Grace.” Waring inclined his head. “I am Waring.”

Rhys’s golden brow rose. “Ah. I don’t believe we’ve traveled in the same circles.”

“No,” Waring clipped, his expression closed and stern.

“Would you care to sit?” Miranda invited. “We were taking tea when you arrived.”

What was the protocol for having tea with one’s present lover and the man everyone thought to be one’s former lover? A man who had just intimated that he wished to marry her? Heat crept up Miranda’s throat.

Rhys flashed her another look she couldn’t quite read. “Tea would be lovely, but I confess, I didn’t expect a small gathering.”

“Waring has only just returned from abroad,” she explained, guilt weighing heavily upon her. “His call was a pleasant surprise.”

She didn’t blame Rhys for his reaction. Had she walked in upon him indulging in tea with another woman, she didn’t know what she would have done.

But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t turn away Waring.

Not after all he had done to help her. Her loyalties were hopelessly confused and torn.

“A pleasant surprise indeed,” Rhys said dryly, seating himself in the second chair.

Miranda dutifully fixed him a cup, only belatedly realizing Waring’s shrewd gaze pinned to her as she added sugar and milk to Rhys’s liking.

“You are familiar with how the duke prefers his tea,” Waring commented lightly enough, but she heard the underlying question.

“She is familiar with how I prefer a great many things,” Rhys was quick to add, flashing a smug smile in Waring’s direction.

The implication was clear. She would give him a stern piece of her mind later when they were alone. For now, she could do nothing but attempt to salvage the civility of the conversation.

“Such as cream ice,” Miranda added pointedly through gritted teeth as she passed him his tea. “His Grace has taken an interest in my school, and he has been helping me by encouraging the members of his set to use my employment agency.”

“How generous of him,” Waring said, his lip appearing to curl ever so slightly beneath his new whiskers in a sneer of contempt.

The two gentlemen did not like each other, and that much was plain.

What Miranda could not tell for certain was whether Waring was trying to protect her or if he considered Rhys competition.

If the latter were the case, that meant the man she had considered a dear friend for years had somehow developed tender feelings for her, and she didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

Or what to do about it.

“I’m a generous chap,” Rhys said with a grin before taking a careful sip of his tea. “My dear Miranda, this is heavenly.”

“Is it?” she asked, knowing he was partial to coffee rather than tea.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Much like everything you make. I say, have you sampled Miranda’s cream ice and cornets, Warting?”

Thankfully, Miranda had yet to lift her own cup to her lips, or she would have sprayed it everywhere at Rhys’s less-than-subtle dig. The outrageous devil.

“ Waring , Your Grace,” she corrected him gently. “I believe you misheard.”

“Quite.” He sent Waring a patently insincere smile. “Do forgive me, my lord.”

“Perhaps your hearing is going,” Waring returned. “I understand it happens to those of us who have reached a certain age.”

“And I am certain you would know, given the profusion of hoary hair in your beard,” Rhys quipped.

“Miranda was just telling me how lovely my beard is,” Waring proclaimed. “Weren’t you, Ran?”

“Ran?” This time, it was Rhys’s lip that curled.

Miranda was beginning to feel as if she were a bone that had been laid between two dogs, watching as they bared their teeth and snarled and growled and otherwise attempted to stake their claim and scare the other away. It was a most unsettling sensation, and not one she particularly liked.

“His lordship and I are old and fond acquaintances,” Miranda interrupted, giving the both of them a look of stern admonishment. “Waring is a dear friend to me, just as His Grace is also a cherished friend.”

“And I am honored to be your friend , my dear,” Rhys told her gallantly, putting an indecent emphasis on friend, as if she had said lover instead.

“Just what are your intentions where Miranda is concerned, Whitby?” Waring asked, taking Miranda by surprise yet again.

He had always been staunchly protective of her, particularly when it came to Ammondale, but she had believed it was a brotherly protection. That of a friend. Not a lover. However, given the way he had been acting ever since his surprise appearance in her sitting room, she could no longer be sure.

Rhys gave Waring a withering look. “I’m sure it’s not any of your concern what my intentions are, as you suggest, if indeed I have any.

Although, I daresay, the same could be said of you.

Did you not cause Miranda suffering enough?

An honorable man would have remained in America and allowed the gossips to wear themselves out. ”

Oh dear. Rhys did know precisely who Waring was to her.

She ought not to be surprised, she supposed.

He had known that the gossips had called her the Fallen Countess.

It stood to reason that he would know the rest of the sordid tale too.

The urge to explain was strong, but not now when she and Rhys were not alone.

“An honorable man wouldn’t have a reputation like yours,” Waring returned, his voice rising.

“An honorable man would not go sniffing about the skirts of a married woman,” Rhys countered.

“Ha!” Waring sneered. “Do not tell me you have never cuckolded a man. I’ll not believe it for an instant.”

Miranda had endured quite enough of their masculine posturing. At the moment, she was every bit as cross with Waring as she was with Rhys.

“That is enough,” she interrupted sharply. “The two of you cease this nonsense at once. I do not wish to hear another word of it.”

Their gazes swung to her, both blue and yet each so different.

One turned her insides to molten fire, and the other made her feel safe and comforted.

One was dangerous, and the other was innocuous.

One had helped her in her time of need, and the other had invaded her world and turned it upside down in the very best way.

Still, their behavior was equally childish and abominable.

The heat that had been crawling up her throat reached her cheeks. “I’ll not be fought over as if I am a bone and the two of you are territorial mongrels, snarling and snapping your jaws. If neither of you can keep a civil tongue, then you may go.”

“I believe she’s talking to you, Wartly,” Rhys taunted.

Waring glared back at him, his fists clenched. “Clearly, you were the recipient of her harangue.”

“ The both of you ,” she interrupted, frustrated with their antics. “I was speaking to the both of you.”

“Miranda,” Rhys began.

“Ran,” Waring said simultaneously, a note of hurt in his protest.

She replaced her dish of tea on the tray and shot to her feet. “I think it best if the two of you go.”

Miranda hated the hurt on her old friend’s face. He had just crossed an ocean—and seemingly to return to her. But the expectations he had arrived with did not match her own. She cared for Waring, but she loved him as a brother.

And as for Rhys, he had her heart, but loving him did not matter when there could be no future for them together. He had made his opinion of marriage more than clear. His offer to her had been finite and founded purely in the physical.

She had to think of her school. Of her own future. Before her was a stark representation of the choices she must make. And she knew, to her marrow, what she must do. Even if it broke her heart.

“Please,” she added, emotion making her voice thick. “For my sake. If you both will excuse me?”

Without waiting for their responses, she hastened from the sitting room, leaving the two bickering men and the cooling tea behind her. The time had come for her to put an end to her folly before it was too late.