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“I’m going to marry her,” he said hoarsely, knowing it was what he had to do.

What he wanted to do. Nothing less than a lifetime with Miranda would suffice. All he had to do was persuade her.

“Good.” Rhiannon smiled, but he swore that there remained a touch of sadness in her countenance. “I have always wished for a sister, and I have a feeling I will like this Fallen Countess of yours very much.”

“You will.” Impulsively, he drew his sister into an embrace, hugging her tightly. “Thank you, Rhi.”

She hugged him back. “You are most welcome, dearest brother.”

Miranda sat in her quiet classroom where the ingredients had been dutifully assembled for the hot entrée class she was meant to be teaching this morning. Two long tables with empty chairs faced her, mocking as the silence. Not a single pupil had arrived.

She had dressed herself with care that morning, pressing a cold cloth to her tear-swollen eyes after dashing off the letter to Rhys ending their arrangement.

With a judicious—if trembling—hand, she had applied pearl powder to her reddened nose and cheeks.

Her hope had been that no one would take note of her altered appearance or inquire after the reason for her sorrow.

Now, however, it would seem that all her efforts had been for naught.

Because there were no eager young ladies awaiting her instruction. No cooks desiring to hone their skills. The Lenox School of Cookery was as empty as Miranda’s heart.

As she stared at the fresh herbs and neatly chopped vegetables before her, tears began to blur her vision.

Tears she had done her utmost to keep at bay since she had first settled upon what she must do.

Tears she had failed miserably in banishing.

Instead, they had fallen, becoming full-bodied sobs that had echoed in the stillness of her little bedchamber.

By dawn, her decision had not been any more impossible than it had felt the night before.

She’d scarcely slept at all, dread and agony keeping her in a tight, unmerciful grip throughout.

But she had done what she did best. She had faced her obligations.

Miranda had always known her divorce from Ammondale would irrevocably change her life.

What she never could have known, however, was how it would taint every action that followed, the one rotten apple that turned a bushel.

She had told herself sternly that her choice had been made. That severing all ties with Rhys was for the best. That all good things must come to an end.

And so they all had.

It was over. Her arrangement with Rhys. Her school. What had remained of her reputation.

She had lost it all.

She had nothing aside from her molds and ice caves and the ingredients before her. It wouldn’t surprise Miranda to find that even White had abandoned her when she returned home. And what could she expect? The tainted divorcée, the scandalous Fallen Countess, had proven everyone right in the end.

She was an immoral woman. The Duke of Whitby’s mistress.

Society’s most notorious scandal rag had published the announcement for all London just that morning.

Mrs. Kirkeland had reluctantly shown Miranda the article after the young lad who helped with carrying about and storing their ingredients had given it to her.

Miranda had been shocked to read a salacious account of her affair with Rhys, from the wicked country house party in Hertfordshire to their time in London, complete with reports of her late-night jaunts to a certain house in St John’s Wood.

Most particularly proven correct about Miranda had been her former husband, the horrified Earl of A.

who, by all accounts, had feared the former Lady A.

would find an ignoble end. She didn’t doubt that Ammondale was somehow behind the article.

It was not without irony, of course, that he would prove the architect of her downfall.

Had she not been so desolate, Miranda might have laughed.

As it was, a hysterical bubble of something worked its way up, from deep inside her, and emerged as something that rather resembled the bleat of a sheep.

“Ran.”

She looked up, blinking furiously to clear her vision. Waring stood at the threshold of her barren classroom. How she wished it were Rhys in his place.

“Waring,” she managed. “What are you doing here?”

“That infernal gossip rag,” he explained, striding toward her, pity in his voice. “I heard about it this morning, and I knew I had to find you.”

Good heavens, did all London know about her ignominy already? It would certainly seem that way, particularly given her lack of pupils.

A sob went through her at the reminder of all she’d lost. “You shouldn’t have come. I’ll only sully your reputation. Have you not heard? I am a fallen woman in all ways now. So immoral that no lady of good breeding would dare to attend one of my classes.”

He reached her, dropping to his knees at her side. “I don’t care about any of that. The gossips can be damned. Marry me, Ran.”

Miranda stared at him, shocked. “Did you not read the article?”

“Of course not. I don’t care about such drivel. All I care about is you. I’m in love with you, Ran. I always have been.”

Her mouth fell open. “In love? With me?”

He searched her gaze. “Did you not know?”

“No,” she admitted. “I had no notion.”

“Why do you think I allowed my good name to be dragged through the mud in the divorce from Ammondale?” he asked softly, taking her hand in his.

“Because you knew how miserable I was, and you vowed to help me.”

“And because I am selfish. I wanted you as my wife, Ran. But I was willing to wait until you were ready to marry again. That is why I went to America. I wanted to give you the chance to restore your reputation on your own terms and pursue your school.” He paused, shaking his head.

“I can see now that it was a mistake to go. I should have stayed here, where you needed me.”

“I thought you wanted to go to America,” she said weakly, feeling suddenly drained of all emotion.

“I wanted what was best for you. I feared that if I would remain, the scandal would only grow worse, but that if I left, it would die down.”

“You… I cannot… I don’t understand.”

“I want to marry you,” he said again. “It’s why I returned. It’s why I helped you to obtain the divorce from Ammondale.”

“Oh dear God.” She pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling another sob.

How wretched she felt. Waring had claimed he was selfish, but surely it was she who was far more so. She had accepted his aid, thinking them friends, never seeing what seemed plain to her now—that Waring had feelings for her that were decidedly more than merely friendly in nature.

“Marry me, Ran,” he said, his expression hopeful. “Please.”

“The scandal, Waring. You’re not thinking properly.”

“I don’t care what happened with Whitby. It doesn’t matter to me. All that does matter is that you agree to be my wife.”

How easy it would be to accept his offer. Marrying Waring might even ameliorate some of the damage done to her reputation by the scandal rag. She cared for the marquess. He had saved her from misery, regardless of the reason, and she would forever be grateful to him for that.

But she didn’t love him.

She swallowed hard against a rush of searing misery so acute that it nearly choked her. “I’m in love with someone else.”

He rocked back as if she had struck him. “You’re in love with him?”

“With Whitby,” she clarified, sniffling.

“Almost everything printed in that wretched article is true. So, you see, I cannot accept your proposal of marriage, but I do thank you for it. Just as I thank you for caring for me as you have. For saving me from my marriage to Ammondale. For your friendship.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

Friends was all that they could ever be. And she hated seeing the hurt on his face now, the disillusionment in his eyes.

“You can be in love with another and marry me,” he said quietly. “My love for you has not changed, nor has my offer. Be my wife. We can journey to America together. Start a new life.”

She closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head as fresh tears squeezed free and ran hotly down her cheeks. “No, I cannot. I’m sorry, Waring. So sorry.”

His hand tightened on hers. “I’m sorry too. I hope he makes you happy. If he doesn’t, he’ll answer to me.”

Miranda opened her eyes, frowning. “You misunderstand. I’m not marrying Whitby either. He hasn’t asked, nor do I expect that he will. Our arrangement is at an end.”

“Then he’s a damned fool, Ran.”

In that moment, Miranda was rather certain that she was the fool, for falling in love with a man who would never love her in return. A dashing, beautiful rake who had shown her the depths of pleasure and stolen her heart in the process.

By the time Rhys reached Miranda’s narrow house, he was nearly mad.

He had gone directly to her school, dismayed to find it deserted.

Although he knew she was meant to be teaching a class today, there appeared to be neither pupils nor anyone else about, the front door solidly barred.

He had returned to his carriage and given his coachman her direction, not knowing where else she could possibly be.

His overactive mind tormented him with hideous scenarios the whole bloody way there.

There were thoughts of Miranda running away with the Marquess of Waring.

Her in Waring’s arms. Waring daring to kiss her, to touch her.

Worst, Miranda telling Waring that she loved him and that she had been awaiting his return so she could confess her feelings.

The carriage had not even come to a complete halt before he vaulted from it, rushing along the pavements until he reached the front door. He didn’t even bother to catch his breath before knocking.

No answer.

He rapped again, his knuckles smarting from the effort he put into it.

Where was she? He had to find her. To tell her that he loved her. To ask her to marry him before it was too late and she eloped with that milksop marquess.