The Fairy Tale Bride Read online

CHAPTER ONE

  Kent, 1837

  Miranda slipped deeper into her hiding place as the duke appeared over a small rise with the setting sun at his shoulder. The hooves of his chestnut stallion flashed through the few remaining wildflowers. The last rays of the sun gleamed onto his fair head, giving him a halo that Miranda had always thought he well deserved – until yesterday.

  Was she a fool to hope she could persuade him to help her brother? After all, army life changed men. It had made Valentine laugh less and shout more. It had destroyed the equality between them when even her father's pompous speeches about woman's inferiority and his harsh punishments for her childhood transgressions had not.

  What battle scars might the duke possess if he could quash her brother's elopement with heartless efficiency? A warning unease curled in the pit of her stomach, but Miranda forced it away with a memory of Valentine as she had left him — sitting forlorn and broken in the darkness of Anderlin's drape-drawn study.

  She shifted to ease the stiffness of her knees and the prickling of the yew branches that concealed her, as she watched the duke dismount near the hunter's cottage, tether his horse, and disappear inside. She refused to surrender to the doubt that made her limbs heavy and gave her heart a wild beat as she left her shelter and headed for the cottage.

  The roughly-hewn wooden door swung open easily at her touch, revealing the familiar room and its occupant. His back was turned away from her as he sat at the rackety old table that served the cottage for furnishing. As she entered, Miranda did the best she could to soften the forwardness of her own behavior. She smiled demurely, dropped a perfect curtsy and said, "Good evening, Your Grace." To her surprise, her throat went dry just as she began to speak. Her voice came out in a broken croak just as the door swung closed behind her on noiseless rope hinges. The room fell into darkness save for the single candle the duke had lit.

  She realized her error when his shadowy figure rose abruptly and whipped around to face her. His voice rang out harshly, "What the devil?" Miranda had only the briefest glimpse of a worn leather pouch before it was hidden within his jacket. Aware of the precarious balance of the table, Miranda warned, "Do be careful. That table ... " The table rocked sideways, and the candle fell. They were plunged into darkness.

  "Who the devil are you? What do you want?" His voice was no better than a snarl.

  "I apologize for startling you." Miranda eased her way across the floor toward the spot she had last seen the candle. "Don't move, and I will soon have your candle lit."

  His breath hissed inward, as though he were outraged by her suggestion, and he was silent for a moment before answering abruptly, "I assure you that I do not wish my candle lit."

  Miranda halted in confusion for the barest second and then continued her search. "Here, I have it. The candle has come loose, I'm afraid. Let me just find — " Her foot touched the loose candle. "I do so hate the dark, don't you?"

  She rose from the dusty floor, intending to light the candle now reset in the holder. Her skirts brushed against something unyielding and she could feel him, only inches from her. Startled, she froze, trying to gauge how far away he stood. Only a rustle in the darkness forewarned her before the candlestick was abruptly pulled from her hand.

  "I have no quarrel with the dark, only with young women who consider me easy prey." She felt the heat that radiated from his body, so close they almost touched. Belatedly, she realized that his anger was greater than she had first thought.

  Seeking to soothe him as she might an ill child when the child was in the throes of a temper, Miranda stroked his upper arm gently. "I am sorry, Your Grace. I truly did not mean to startle you."

  The muscles of his arm tensed under her fingers as he spoke, sending a flush of warmth through her as she realized that he was no child and she had no business touching him so intimately. "You would be wise to consider yourself fortunate that I have not seen your face, young woman, or you and your mother both would feel the sharp side of my wrath."

  "My mother is dead." Miranda whispered, pulling her hand away, as the flash of familiar guilt spilled through her.

  "Go out to your aunt, then, or your guardian, and tell her your plan failed. You are dealing with me, and I will not be caught like a baited hare."

  "But ... I am alone — " Perhaps she should not have come. Perhaps he had become unbalanced as well as hardened? Nervously, Miranda reached for the candlestick and met the warmth of strong fingers. A shock passed through her, and she pulled the candlestick sharply from his grip.

  He bent toward her in the dark, so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. As she backed away, only to find the table blocking her path, he said, "Has she left you here and driven away? Does she not know the danger in that? Do you not?"

  She struggled to make out his face, but it was only a deeper shadow in the darkness of the room.

  "I trust you, Your Grace. I know your reputation after all." She struck a feeble spark and the candlewick began to glow.

  His voice was grim. "That reputation fits me no longer."

  Miranda lifted the light of the flame until it banished the shadows that held the duke. His mouth hung open in astonishment; then his scowl turned to stern surprise.

  "Dash it all. I would never have believed this of you, Miss Fenster."

  The words Miranda had carefully rehearsed flew from her mind. She blushed and her heart hammered painfully at the disappointment that sped across his face and disappeared into a chilling indifference. With less confidence that she had possessed moments before, she drew a breath and made her plea. "I wish to speak to you on a matter of grave importance, Your Grace."

  His brow lifted, and a smile curved the left side of his mouth. "I trust, then, this is your brother's idea of revenge?"

  His amusement discomposed her. "Valentine knows nothing of this."

  He smiled so widely that a dimple graced his left cheek, but his green eyes were wintry. "I'm afraid, Miss Fenster, that even for someone with your ... notoriety ... I am sadly unable to oblige you by being the prince in your fairytale."

  Miranda was momentarily distracted by his smile, so that it took a moment for her to register the insult. Indignation seared her. How dare he? "You are certainly not acting like any fairy-tale prince."

  He held up one hand. "Don't be offended. I have been stalked by the best and I rank your efforts highly. You simply should have chosen someone other than me."

  "You are the only one who can help!"

  The smile died on his face. "That is unfortunate, then. For I will certainly do nothing. Good day." He turned and left the cottage without further word.

  The heartlessness of his action stunned her.

  He had been so certain Valentine only wanted Emily's money. A moment's worth of listening to the pair would have shown him the truth of their love. Knowing that she could not give up until he had all the facts, Miranda followed him outside into the rapidly deepening twilight where he was untethering his stallion. As she approached, the stallion whinnied and shied away nervously.

  His glance held a pity that chilled her, but she put her pride aside to beg his indulgence. "Please, you don't understand. Let me explain."

  "Nothing you can say could change my mind, Miss Fenster. Have the courage to face the fact that you have failed."

  Failed. All her life she had failed at the most crucial times. But not today. His words sent a spark of anger through her, so that instead of appealing to him once more, she slapped the skittish stallion sharply on the rump. Her only intent was to move the horse farther away and give herself some time to plead with the duke. The chestnut, however, tore the reins from the duke's hand and bolted. In dismay, Miranda watched the mount gallop off. Then relief flooded her — now she had his full attention.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean ... " Her apology cut off as she turned and saw his fingers lift to his mouth. Her advantage had been illusory. The stallion was trained to come at his whistle.

  "No!" she whispered. One of
the tricks she and Valentine had employed as children surfaced in her memory, and she launched herself at his waist like a maddened bull until he overbalanced, unable to whistle. Unfortunately, as he fell, she followed, landing atop him like an ungainly goose.

  When she lifted her head from his chest to look him in the face, her stomach gave a lurch. His green eyes held no more amusement, no more pity — only fury. Certain that she was crushing him, she tried to rise, but he held her tightly. She could not tell if it was anger or fear that made her limbs tremble, but whatever it was lent heat to her words. "Do you not understand what it is to love?"

  Something deep and painful flashed behind his eyes, and then disappeared. "I will not be compromised by anyone, Miss Fenster. I would have expected you, of all people, to understand." To his credit, he sounded calm as his hands held her hips still.

  The combination of being crushed against him by his grip and the shock of his words brought a hot flush to Miranda's cheeks. "Compromise you?"

  His eyes bored into her, and his brow lifted. Miranda realized the picture they would present to any casual passerby — she lying tumbled casually atop him. She struggled once again to rise, but he bent his legs and used them to pin her hips, as he brought his arms up to pull her closer, until she was pressed so tightly against him that she could feel the frantic beat of her own heart against his unyielding chest. This was not the man she remembered from five years ago. That man would have listened to her long enough not to jump to such ridiculous conclusions.

  Defeated, Miranda dropped her face into the crook of his neck. The exotic scent of sandalwood took her breath away for a moment, and her heart ached for the loss of the one man during her foreshortened Season who had treated her as if what she thought actually mattered. "I should have known I would make a hash of this. I merely came to beg you to set right what you've ruined for Valentine," she mumbled against the warmth of his neck. "I have no intention of compromising you."

  "Indeed?" His arms tightened around her briefly; then he sat up abruptly, putting her aside. "I'm afraid in that matter, as well, you waste your time with me. You would do better to speak to your brother."

  "I cannot speak to him. He has locked himself in the study and refuses to answer to anyone at all." As if she had not spoken, he rose to his feet and whistled sharply three times. She would not have been surprised had his stallion come galloping back. But it did not, even after another long string of whistles. Miranda watched his long, elegant fingers brush at the dust on the knees of his breeches as he waited in vain for the return of his horse. She remembered with a shiver the feel of those fingers as they held her tight against him a moment ago. She gasped as her gaze continued downward. "I've ruined your boots! I'm so sorry."

  He ceased his brushing to stare at her for a long moment. "You are apologizing to me for ruining my boots, Miss Fenster?"

  She recognized the absurdity. "I know how important it is to a military man to keep a good shine on his boots," she explained, as she rose from her undignified sprawl on the ground.

  He gave her a level look. "Do you?"

  She resolutely ignored the insult that was certainly buried in his question. "My brother was an officer in His Majesty's service, just as you were, Your Grace." She hastily added, ''Though he served in a much less distinguished way than you."

  He said nothing, but a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

  "I've brought some refreshment for us, if you'd like," she said, remembering her mission. "I have a basket with cheese and apples, fresh-baked bread —" the last from the kitchen and who knew what Valentine would eat in the morning, if he ate at all — "and some very fine ale."

  He looked her over pointedly from head to toe until she was uncomfortably warm. His gaze was deliberate and thorough. Blushing, Miranda indicated the copse. "The basket is hidden in there."

  "Admirable," he said. "Your planning seems to be on a par with our great generals. It is unfortunate that you are of the fair sex and so England is denied your campaigning genius — except on the battlefield of love."

  His sarcasm cut deeply. "Perhaps I would have made a good soldier, Your Grace — even if I am only a woman." Seeing his frown, she sighed. This was not the time for that battle. "You must admit it is much too far to the Camberley's estate for you to walk, as it will soon be dark." The clouds foretold rain, and soon, as well, but she decided it was wiser not to mention that fact.

  "So you think you have won your battle?" His anger was daunting. "I told you I have no intention of being compromised."

  Miranda flushed. He must hold the incident five years ago against her, despite his kindness then. "I only wish to convince you to intercede with the Earl of Connaught to win Emily back for Valentine. They are meant for each other."

  "So you said. I can only wonder how far you are inclined to go to convince me." His gaze traveled her length again. Miranda recognized the look she had endured in her short sojourn on the marriage mart. But never once from Simon Watterly. A painful twist in her chest made her short of breath.

  "I will do anything — " His expression darkened and she broke off in confusion.

  He smiled his wonderful smile again, and Miranda did not hear his words for the rush of her heartbeat in her ears. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.

  "I said," he repeated slowly, as if for a daft child, "though the idea of spending the night with the notorious Miss Fenster intrigues me, I must decline." Without a further word, he turned and started across the field.

  "I would suggest that you stop following me, Miss Fenster, or you will find yourself in the awkward position of being forced to explain yourself to the Camberleys. I hardly think you'd like a scandal attached to your name after all this time."

  A light rain had begun to fall, a gentle misting. Miranda scrambled to keep up with his long stride as she stared angrily at his broad-shouldered back. "I care very little what those shallow, hypocritical – " she broke off, surprised by the painful wave of hurt that engulfed her at the injustice that she could be ruined because some man had tried – unsuccessfully – to take advantage of her friendship. All because she was a woman – held to a higher standard, yet not believed competent to defend herself.

  He turned toward her so abruptly that she nearly ran into him. In the half darkness, she could feel his fury radiating toward her. "I would not have expected this of you, Miss Fenster. I suppose it is to your credit that you are naively loyal to your brother. I believe I can find it in myself to forget this lapse if you take yourself home immediately."

  Miranda found a tendril of comfort in his words. He had thought her actions honorable – perhaps even justified? No. He had labeled her naïve. She fought the urge to tumble him to the ground again and pin him there until she'd told him the full story and wiped the smugness from his expression. With difficulty, she held herself in check. As much as she longed for him to look at her and see that she was as competent – and as flawed – as any man, she knew that his respect for her was not her current battle.

  It was Valentine's future she needed to fight for now. And here, with the light rain pattering onto her face, and the darkness soft around them, was her only chance.

  Her tightly reined anger made her bold. She took his hands in her own and stepped close enough to look up into his eyes. "I told you I don't give a fig for my own reputation. But you have crushed Valentine – he and Emily were to marry and you have torn them apart. Do you realize what your actions mean to my brother? To my whole family?"

  The frustrating man merely stared impassively down at her as she spoke.

  Driven to desperation, Miranda blurted out, "Valentine and I are grown, but we have five sisters to bring out."

  His voice was hard as he removed his hands from her grip and stepped back to bring distance between them. "Your brother knew the risk when he attempted to elope with the Earl of Connaught's daughter. If he wanted a dowry so badly, he should have offered for one of the merchant's daughters. They are always glad of a man with a ti
tle, even the title of baron."

  Miranda did not want to admit that such had been Valentine's intent when he had first gone looking for a bride – to find one with a large, liquid dowry. "Emily is the only woman for him. He has known it since he first spied her on the dance floor – just as Prince Charming recognized Cinder Ella as his one true love."

  "He'd best get over it. Her father has set his sights on a marquess or better for his son-in-law, and a false prince, charming or not, will not do." A smile played at his lips, which was quite infuriating. "And if your brother has five more like you to bring out, he'll need all the ready he can marry."

  Miranda stiffened in protest. "My sisters are nothing like me. And Valentine is no false prince." Blindly, she turned and walked away from him. Tears burned in her eyes and she let them fall. He was some distance away and it was dark. Another failure to add to her long list. It was her fault her sisters might never marry well, her fault that the investments she had made in Valentine's absence had nearly beggared them. Though she had hopes, they had not yet paid out enough to make Valentine a "catch" on the marriage market. Given her luck, they might never do so.

  The tears obscured the rabbit hole until she was upon it and Miranda fell with a pained cry. Another failure. She pulled off her boot to examine her injury. Her insides twisted in utter humiliation at the sound of bootsteps approaching on the wet grass. He was beside her in moments, kneeling down, his fingers quick and sure as he examined her twisted ankle.

  "You were heading in the wrong direction, Miss Fenster," he said. His gaze seemed focused on her as if able to penetrate the cover of darkness and rain. For a moment she feared he saw her tears.

  Thankfully the rain came down harder at that moment. She wiped the drops on her face. "Don't allow your pride to force you to walk in this rain. Stay at the cottage, where it is warm and dry. I will trouble you no further."

  What she would do about Valentine's broken heart was another matter altogether. Miranda rose, holding back a gasp at the pain in her ankle. It wasn't broken; it would get her back home. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I cannot offer you shelter at Anderlin… Valentine…"

  He smiled grimly. "You will take a chill." He whipped his short cloak from his shoulders and slung it around hers before she could protest. Distracted by the long-ago memory of her mother draping her lace shawl in the same manner, Miranda fought back more tears, unable to speak. As he reached for her again, she realized that he meant to lift her into his arms.

  She warded him away with her hands, stumbling only a little at the sharp pain in her ankle. "I am perfectly able, Your Grace."

  "No doubt," he answered, sweeping her up so that her cheek was pressed against the damp linen of his shirt. She realized that she had been chilled before, only because she was now warmly nestled against his chest.

  "You have no need to do this, Your Grace," she protested, a needle of humiliation plying through her. He ignored her words as if she had not spoken and began walking purposefully toward the cottage.

  She settled back, surprised at how easy she found it to relax against him, wrapped in the cloak that smelled of sandalwood – of him. She was aware that he did not share her comfort. His every movement indicated a great deal of tension. Hope sprang anew that this twist of fate might allow her to reach the Simon Watterly of old and convince him to help Valentine. But first, she must lay his primary concern at rest. "I will not risk compromising you, I promise. Anderlin is not far. I have walked it in the rain before; I will again."

  He did not answer.

  The rain grew heavy and Miranda admired how little note he took of the water that gathered in his thick honey-colored eyebrows and run in rivulets down his lean cheeks. The rain had darkened his blond hair and curls had sprung out on the back of his neck. She twisted in his arms until she brought her head level with his and drew the cloak so that it would protect him from the worst of the rain.

  Though she did not feel in the least penitent, she knew he would expect an apology. In her experience, men did not give apologies, they demanded them, deserved or not. Best to give it now, and wait until they were dry and warm again before she renewed the campaign to get Valentine and Emily wed. "I'm sorry that I did not accept your refusal at the first. I'm afraid one of my many faults is an inability to understand when a battle is lost I would not blame you if you chose to scold me."

  He stopped, oblivious to the rain, and turned his head until their eyes met. His grip tightened. "Is that all you think I should do? Scold you?" His voice was soft and strained.

  Miranda became abruptly aware that his fingers were touching the edge of her breast. She was grateful for the darkness that hid the scarlet of her blush, and shadowed the expression in his eyes as he stared down at her.

  After he resumed walking once more, there was a long silence between them. Miranda silently contemplated what his words meant. She could not dredge up within herself any mistrust of this man. He had behaved too well in the past and his reputation was impeccable, though his years away had obviously hardened his heart against lovers. And he had secrets dark enough that he would ride to a ramshackle hunting cottage before he dared pull certain items from his leather pouch and examine them.

  She would not chide him for the tightness of his grip. Really, how could he support her otherwise? And if she had mended her stays weeks ago, she would likely have been completely unaware that two of his fingers pressed against the far side of her breast.

  "I suppose I should be grateful that no one shall ever know of this. My sisters do not need for me to create a scandal before they come out. And it certainly could not help Valentine's cause." She thought of Valentine, sitting listless and mute in their father's chair before the fire. She had had to climb through the study window to see him, for all the good it had done her.

  Miranda closed her eyes as sadness swept over her.

  "He said that you were right, and he should never have overreached himself with Emily in the first place."

  "Perhaps he is not as foolish as I had thought. I will speak to him— "

  His words dispelled Miranda's growing sense of hope. Knowing her impertinence, but anxious that he heed her, she put her hand to his cheek. The rasp of stubble against her fingers startled her. "He has been badly hurt. Do not humiliate him further by speaking to him as if he were an errant lad in need of guidance. "

  He turned his head so that his lips brushed her fingers as he spoke. "I take your point, Miss Fenster."

  Miranda let her hand drop away from his face.

  But the intimacy of being in his arms and jolting comfortably against him at every step could not be prevented. "Valentine must never know that I tried to intercede on his behalf."

  "It does not speak well of you that you would deceive him."

  Stung by the censure in his words, she said, "Perhaps someday, when Emily joins our family, I shall tell them both."

  "Then you believe your brother will not give up his hopes so easily?"

  "Wouldn't you search for your Cinder Ella, Your Grace, if you had once met her at a ball and wanted no one else to be your wife?" He stumbled slightly, and her arms tightened around his neck in alarm.

  After a silence so long that she realized he would not answer her, she said, "No. Valentine will not give up so easily." Remembering her brother's slumped figure, Miranda wondered if she spoke the truth. "I do understand that you only did what you thought was best for Emily. I will be happy to act as though this meeting between us never occurred."

  They reached the cottage as she spoke. He stooped slightly to enter the doorway, and his arms tightened around Miranda. His breath against her damp neck made her shiver. "And what if I am not?"

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