the sensitivity was increasing with each stroke.
‘St John …’ She wanted to lecture him, but the feeling of his hands on her was delightful. And he was so devilishly unrepentant. And the situation so absurd. Air escaped her lips in a puff, and then she gasped, as the feeling became too frustrating to ignore and a last featherlight touch of her toes reduced her to a fit of giggling. She lay back in the grass and shook with laughter as he took his hands away and smoothed her skirt over her feet.
‘There, you see. It was not so awful, was it, giving in and taking a little pleasure?’
She shook her head, dropping her eyes from his, and feeling the blush creeping up her cheeks as she smiled again.
‘Good. For I would have you be happy here, Miranda. There is much to be happy about here. My brother …’ She looked up at him as he frowned, trying to find a way to complete the sentence. ‘My brother was not always as he is now. When we were young he was not so cold. So distant. If you cannot find the man that he once was, then know that you will always have a friend in me and need never be lonely or afraid.’ He stood. ‘Now, take my hand and I will help you mount. If you are strong enough, that is. You could always ride in front of me on the saddle and I could lead your horse.’
It was such an innocent offer. Too innocent, she suspected. His eyes were the clearest blue and there was not a hint of guile on his face as he said it.
And yet, she felt the heat of his hand as he helped her from the ground, and her mind drifted to the thought of them, together on the saddle, the gentle rocking of the horse between their legs, and him, close behind her, rocking against her … ‘No. I am quite all right. I’m sure I can ride alone.’ She stumbled in the direction of her horse.
‘Are you sure? You look unsteady. Let me help you.’ And his hand burned through her clothing as he lifted her easily up into the saddle. She kept her face averted from his, so he couldn’t see the crimson in her cheeks.
There was something wrong with her. There must be. Some wickedness brought on by too much knowledge. She wished that she was as naïve and innocent as she pretended to be. But Cici had told her everything and had been so matter of fact about the pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps that was why she responded so quickly to a man’s touch. And the touch of a man who was not her husband. The fact that the man in question was her husband’s brother made it even worse, for she would have to be in close proximity to him, probably for the rest of their lives. She must master the feeling. Gain control of herself so that no one would ever know. Not the duke. And certainly not St John.
Chapter Twelve
Marcus looked at the house in surprise. Not what he had expected. Not at all. He’d imagined a quiet cottage where two ladies might spend their years in modesty, waiting for an improvement in position. Genteel poverty.
There was nothing genteel about his new wife’s old home. It was poverty, pure and simple. Smaller than the homes of his tenants and packed cheek by jowl between other similar houses. He strode to the door and knocked.
The woman who answered dropped a curtsy, but looked at him with undisguised suspicion. ‘Lost your way, milord?’
‘Lady Cecily Dawson?’
She glared back at him. ‘The “Lady” is long retired from her profession, and you’d best seek your amusements elsewhere.’
‘If I could see her, please.’
‘Come to get a look at her after all these years? What are you, then? The son of one of her clients, come to be initiated? A bit old for that, aren’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You take my meaning plain enough. Get yourself off, in every sense of the word. The lady will be no help to you.’
He got his foot in the door in time to halt the slam, and pushed roughly past her, into the tiny room. ‘Close the door. The questions I have to ask are better handled away from prying eyes.’ He tossed his purse on the table and watched her eyes light as it made a satisfying clink. ‘I require information. The money’s yours if you can provide it.’
She dropped another curtsy, this one not tinged with irony. ‘At your service, milord.’
‘I want the whereabouts of Lady Cecily Dawson, and any information you can provide about her ward, Lady Miranda Grey.’
The colour drained out of the woman before him. And she clutched the table edge. ‘Why would you be wanting that?’
‘To satisfy my mind in certain details of Miss Grey’s life before her recent marriage.’
‘She’s done it, then?’ The avarice in the old woman’s eyes changed to a glint of hope. ‘She’s safely married.’
‘Yes.’
The woman pushed on. ‘And her husband. What is he like?’
‘He is a very powerful man, and impatient for information. Provide it, and keep the gold on the table—delay any longer and things will go bad for you.’
A man’s voice rose from the curtained corner of the room behind him. ‘That’s enough, Cici. I’ll talk to the gentleman.’ The last word was said with a touch of scorn. The man that appeared from behind the curtain was in his mid-fifties, but hard work had left him much older. He walked with a cane, and the hands that held it were gnarled and knotted, the knuckles misshapen. He glared at the duke as though this were the reception room of a great house, and not a hovel, and said in a firm tone, ‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing, sir?’
‘Someone who wishes to remain anonymous.’
‘As do we. But you are the one who forced his way into my home, and you can take your gold and go, or introduce yourself properly. You have my word that your identity will go no further than these walls.’
‘Your word? And what is that worth to me?’
‘It is all I have to offer, so it will have to do.’
‘Very well, I am Marcus Radwell, Duke of Haughleigh.’ He heard a sharp gasp escape the lady behind him. ‘And you, sir?’
‘I, your Grace, am Sir Anthony Grey, father of the young lady you are enquiring after.’
Marcus resisted the temptation to grab the corner of the table for support. Just what had he wandered into this time? ‘Her father? I was led to believe—’
‘That she was an orphan? It could well have been the case. Indeed, it would have been better had it been true.’ He looked at the duke in curiosity. ‘Tell me, Your Grace, before we go further—are you my daughter’s husband?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out as a croak, and he cleared his throat to master his voice before speaking again.
‘And you have come to London, seeking the truth.’
‘I left on our wedding night.’ He coughed again. Facing the girl’s father, even under these circumstances, it was a damned difficult subject. ‘Before an annulment became impossible.’
