“Cold,” he murmured.
Miranda closed the window and crossed over to the fireplace to stir to life the coals she’d banked. One look at Daniel told her he was suffering fever and chills in equal measures. His eyes were closed and his teeth were chattering. Miranda’s heart went out to him. She knew from her own personal experience that as soon as he succeeded in getting warm, he’d become too warm, and as soon as he succeeded in cooling off, he’d be chilled to the bone.
Reaching up behind her, Miranda unfastened her dress, then pushed it down over her hips, allowing it to pool around her feet. She untied the laces of her short corset, noting as she did so, that her corset, and the silk chemise beneath it, were dotted with stains where Daniel’s blood had seeped through the layers of silk. Miranda pulled off her corset, shrugged out of her chemise, rolled her stockings down her legs, and stepped out of her fine silk drawers, dismayed to find that all of her garments were stained with vomit and reeked of stale whisky and the remnants of Daniel’s last meal.
Holding her breath, Miranda bent at the waist and bundled her clothes into a tight ball and left them on the floor. She straightened to her full height, crossed the room, and opened the door to the massive French armoire. She was delighted to discover it held an assortment of nightgowns and undergarments, until she realized that the woman who had left them behind was half her size. Miranda held up a delicate lawn nightgown. It was no bigger than a child’s nightdress and had probably been wore by a tiny, small-boned, delicate sort of creature who made Miranda look like the female version of Goliath.
Still, Miranda kept searching. It had been her father’s house. Surely, something of his had been left behind. But her search yielded nothing for her to wear.
Daniel’s jacket was the least bloody of all his garments, but the cut of his formal evening attire meant that his jacket wouldn’t cover any of the essentials. Neither would his waistcoat. His shirt would cover her, but having just shed her own soiled garments, Miranda was in no hurry to replace them with his bloody shirt. But his trousers were salvageable.
Since she needed something to put on to make her way downstairs, Miranda reached for them. She was only two or three inches shorter than Daniel, and because she, as he had phrased it so indelicately, “was no featherweight herself” there was a good chance that she matched him in size as well.
The thought was morbidly depressing, but she was desperate to get out of her dress, and Daniel’s trousers offered a solution to her dilemma.
Taking a deep breath, Miranda stepped into Daniel’s superfine evening trousers. “If they fit,” she vowed, “I’ll never eat another morsel as long as I live.”
They didn’t.
Miranda was torn between delight and consternation. Now she knew that although his trousers made him appear slimmer of hip, she was slimmer. The trousers that fit Daniel like a second skin gaped at her waist and refused to stay anchored around her hips. Turning toward the bed, Miranda gave in to a childish impulse and stuck her tongue out at Daniel. She might not be a featherweight, but she wasn’t a heavyweight either. There wasn’t an ounce of extra fat on her. She was exceptionally tall for a woman, and there was no denying that she possessed a generous bosom, but her stomach was flat and her hips, buttocks, and thighs were considerably slimmer than his.
And that left her with nothing to wear, unless … She snatched one of the two remaining sheets from the arm of the chair, wrapped it around her body, tied it into place with Daniel’s cravat, then draped the tail over her shoulder in toga fashion.
After securing her toga into place, Miranda gathered her clothes and carried them out of the master bedchamber, down the stairs to the scullery.
She left her ruined clothes in a wooden washtub she found in the scullery because there was nothing she could do to salvage them. Miranda possessed a number of domestic skills—more than most ladies of her station—and the fact that she had any domestic talents at all was almost entirely due to her mother and to Alyssa Abernathy. But as far as she knew, neither her mother’s nor Alyssa’s vast store of domestic knowledge extended as far as the washtub.
These last few hours spent taking care of Daniel had given Miranda a new appreciation for the labor her household servants performed each day in order to make her life more comfortable. She did what she could to make their lives more comfortable, too, but now Miranda realized that she hadn’t done enough to compensate her employees for their labor. But that would change as soon as she returned home and resumed her life as the Marchioness of St. Germaine.
If she returned home and resumed her life as the Marchioness of St. Germaine … Miranda looked down at her bare left hand. She had exchanged wedding vows with Daniel last night—or rather, early this morning—and become the Duchess of Sussex, but had nothing to show for it except a ruined ball gown and a sleepless night. Not that she’d expected Daniel to have a betrothal or wedding ring in his pocket. But it would be nice to know she had a ring, even if she couldn’t wear it …
Leaving the scullery, Miranda hurried back upstairs, stopping long enough to search the armoires in the other bedchambers for clothing. This time, her search yielded results. She discovered a man’s brocade robe and a cotton nightshirt embroidered with her father’s initials in the room with the dark, oversized, masculine furniture and the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. Her father’s room.
She closed the armoire door, dropped the sheet, and pulled the nightshirt over her head. She inhaled deeply, hoping the nightshirt would, by some miracle, retain her father’s scent, but the cotton smelled like the cedar wood used to line the armoire. Her father’s distinctive bergamot and pine fragrance was long gone—if it had ever been there at all. The nightshirt and the brocade robe looked new—as if they had been ordered from Weston but never worn. The armoires in the other bedrooms were empty of clothing. The only items left in them were spare pillows and quilts.
She glanced down. He might never have worn it, but the nightshirt had been made for her father. Miranda could tell because the hem of the garment reached her knees instead of her calves. During the last years of his life, her father seemed to have shrunk and Miranda seemed to have grown a head taller. She shrugged. Her lower legs were visible, but there was no one to see them except Daniel, and he was asleep.
And Ned.
And Rupert.
Miranda grimaced. She’d forgotten that her footman and driver would be returning in a few hours. She took a deep breath. No matter. Ned and Rupert were entirely loyal to her and would never let on that there was anything untoward in her manner of dress. And it wasn’t as if she had any choice. The women’s clothing was much too small and far more revealing than her father’s nightshirt. The nightshirt was short, but it managed to cover the essentials and was free of blood and gore—so long as she stayed away from the patient asleep in the master bedchamber.
Miranda smiled for the first time in hours. Who in the ton would ever suspect that the always elegantly dressed Duke of Sussex would prove to be such a hazard to her wardrobe? Without ever sharing her bed?
She pursed her lips in thought. Just because he had never shared her bed didn’t mean that she couldn’t share his. They were the only two people in the house. And they were legally wed. No harm would be done. Why shouldn’t she spend what remained of the night beside him in bed? Why shouldn’t she be selfish and snatch her chance to fulfill her heart’s desire? For a few hours. While he slept.
What was the harm of holding him in her arms, just once before he awoke and remembered he didn’t love her?
Chapter Eight
“Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.”
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772–1834
Her bridegroom talked in his sleep.
Miranda had dreamed of lying beside Daniel in a big comfortable bed for as long as she could remember. She’d dreamed of making love with him, of him holding her in his arms, whispering in the dark, talking to each other, sharing intimate secret
s …
Sharing a name.
But Daniel had never seemed to share her cozy vision of domesticity. He had told her once, years before, that no matter how charming the companion or how much he enjoyed the companionship, when it came to sleeping, he preferred to sleep alone.
Miranda had been surprised by his admission and puzzled by his seeming disdain for intimacy. Daniel was a generous man, a friendly man who laughed often and seemed to enjoy the company of women.
Now she understood.
He talked in his sleep. And Daniel didn’t trust himself to share a pillow with anyone for a full night, didn’t trust himself not to fall asleep because he talked when he slept, recounting his vivid dreams aloud, revealing his deepest thoughts and fears and his darkest secrets.
The way he was doing now.
Miranda didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She was so tired she thought it very likely that she might do either. Or both. What a wedding night this had turned out to be! Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she realized she had shared nearly forty minutes of blissful slumber beside him before Daniel had awakened her with his feverish raving.
“I must get to London tonight! I’ve urgent business there.”
Propping herself on her elbow, Miranda reached out to touch him. His skin was hot and damp, the sheets around him drenched with sweat—as was the front of her borrowed nightshirt. Miranda plucked at it, self-consciously pulling the sodden pleats away from her chest, wishing her breasts weren’t quite so big and prominent, wishing she was small and dainty like most of the other ladies of her acquaintance.
Wishing Daniel would tell her she was beautiful once again …
There was nothing she could do about it now. What was done was done. Marrying Daniel, having Daniel to herself, holding Daniel in her arms for almost an hour, had been the culmination of a lifetime of longings and unspoken dreams, but her wonderful dream had come to an end when her prince charming had awakened her from it by talking in his sleep.
Daniel had been shivering beneath the covers, suffering through a bout of chills, when she returned to the master bedchamber and slipped beneath the sheets to lie beside him, but he was feverish now. “Daniel?”
His eyes were open and he was talking, but Miranda knew he was not awake and that he was not talking to her.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Beekins, but I cannot stay the night.”
Miranda frowned. She ought to wake him to keep him from revealing information she knew he would never reveal in the light of day, but her curiosity and a bit of the old, green-eyed monster got the better of her. Was he dreaming about last night when Mistress Beekins had stitched his wound or some other time? Who was she to Daniel? Was she a kindhearted acquaintance who had tended him in his hour of need as Miranda was doing now, or was she something more? Did he trust Mistress Beekins the way he trusted her?
Trust. Daniel trusted her. Trusted her to keep his secrets. Trusted her to do what she knew was right. By allowing her curiosity to get the best of her, Miranda was in danger of betraying that trust.
“I must return to town,” he was saying. “I have a previous engagement in London that requires my presence. I must be there and I must be seen to be there.”
“Daniel, wake up,” Miranda urged. “You’re in London.”
“Must get to London,” Daniel protested. “Mustn’t disappoint. Must complete my mission.”
“You’re in London,” she repeated. “And if the previous engagement you mentioned was attending your mother’s annual gala, you kept that appointment.”
He kicked at the covers. “Lud, but I’m hot!”
Miranda slipped out of bed, walked around to the bedside table. She didn’t dare give him any more willow bark, and there was nothing else to give him to soothe his fever, so Miranda filled the washbasin with water and reached for a cloth to cool him down once again. “There now.” She placed the damp cloth on his forehead and began to mop the perspiration from his face and neck. “Doesn’t this feel better?”
“Micah, have we any more whisky?” He opened his eyes and looked at her, and Miranda had to bite her lip to keep from crying. Or screaming. Daniel dreamed of Mistress Beekins, but he looked at Miranda and called her by a man’s name—called her Micah.
She wiped the damp cloth over his neck and throat and left it there while she took hold of his wrist and gently pulled his hand away from the strips of cloth binding his ribs and placed it by his side. She thought he’d resist, but Daniel left his hand where she’d put it, and Miranda picked up the cloth and continued his cooling bath. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she answered truthfully, “we’re out of whisky.”
“What of the cargo? Have you delivered it to the address I gave you?”
“Cargo?”
“The cargo we picked up on our journey. Shepherdston is expecting me to deliver it,” Daniel answered. “Take the wheel of cheese and the pouches to Shepherdston. He needs the pouches for the meeting at Whitehall tomorrow.”
Miranda froze, unable to believe her ears. She’d asked the question out of curiosity and was amazed that he’d answered her. She had heard of people dreaming dreams so vivid they talked in their sleep, but she’d never witnessed it. Until now.
“Shepherdston?” She leaned closer and cradled Daniel’s face in her hands. “Jarrod Shepherdston?”
Daniel blinked up at her. “Of course. You must deliver the pouches to him without delay.”
“What pouches?”
Daniel frowned. “The leather dispatch pouches,” he answered succinctly. “He’s expecting them tonight.”
“But, Daniel, it’s late.”
“No matter.” He winced as he spoke, and Miranda was convinced that his delirium had passed and that he’d awakened. “Merlin requires very little sleep. He’ll be up.”
“I don’t know that I can get there. That stretch of Park Lane has been jammed with vehicles and pedestrians since your mother’s midnight buffet began,” she replied. “And I’ve no way to get there. Rupert hasn’t returned with the coach. And I cannot pay a call on a gentleman at this time of night. Not dressed like this.”
Reaching up, Daniel grabbed a fistful of Miranda’s nightshirt and pulled her closer to him, but there wasn’t a spark of recognition in his eyes as he looked up at her. “Damn it, man, if you’ve no vehicle, then walk. And he may be a gentleman, but Shepherdston isn’t a snob. He won’t give a damn how you’re dressed.”
Miranda begged to differ. Shepherdston would definitely take an interest in having a marchioness appear upon his doorstep in a man’s nightshirt.
“But, Daniel …”
“Look, man, you must go!” Daniel was frantic. “We don’t have a choice. He’s expecting the delivery.” He paused to catch his breath. “You must go in my place and deliver the pouches.”
“Don’t worry, Your Grace,” she soothed. “The pouches have been delivered. You’re tired and hurt and dreaming.”
“With my eyes open?” he demanded. “I don’t think so,” he protested, his words clipped, his tone of voice regal, sounding exactly like the duke he was despite the fact that he was deeply asleep. “Look, my good man, I require your word of honor that you will call upon Lord Shepherdston and deliver the dispatches immediately.”
“But, Your Grace …”
“Very well.” He pushed her hand and the cool cloth away and sat up in bed. “If I cannot have your word, then I shall deliver the pouches myself.”
“No!”
Daniel arched an eyebrow at her as if daring her to contradict him.
“You’ll do yourself further injury, Daniel.”
“Better I suffer further injury than for the pouches to go undelivered.”
Miranda tried to force him to lie back down, but Daniel was as stubborn asleep as he was awake, and he fought to get to his feet. She glanced at the bandage around his ribs and the bandage covering the wound in his side. Afraid that he would manage to undo her needlework this time or do further damage
to his ribs, Miranda relented. “I’ll see that they are delivered.”
“I require that you deliver them personally,” he corrected.
“All right, Your Grace.”
“Have I your solemn word upon it?”
“You have my word, Your Grace.”
Daniel exhaled slowly and painfully sank back against the pillows and relaxed. “Your word of honor that you will act in my stead and report to Lord Shepherdston …”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very good, man,” he conceded. “Remember that you have given your word to a duke and that I shall hold you to it.” He stared up at her. “What are you waiting for, man? Go!”
“Aye, sir,” she replied in quick military fashion. “I shan’t disappoint you, sir.”
“No,” he answered, “I don’t expect that you will.”
Miranda smiled at that. Even in sleep Daniel did his best to have the last word. And she was no better. When would she stop making promises and giving her word of honor to Daniel Sussex?
Never, Miranda acknowledged. Not as long as he had her heart, and Daniel had had her heart almost from the moment she’d met him. Tonight, he had married her and earned it—along with her loyalty and her word of honor. And she had willingly given it to him while he was asleep and believed her to be a man named Micah who had been sent to help him.
That last thought gave her pause. Daniel had been shot. So what had happened to Micah? Who was he, and more importantly, where was he? Daniel hadn’t mentioned him at the duchess’s gala. Had he been there? Or had he gone to deliver the leather pouches to the Marquess of Shepherdston?
She pursed her lips in thought. Whatever they held, the leather dispatch pouches were important and obviously on Daniel’s mind—so much so that he was dreaming about them, worrying about the completion of his mission and demanding Micah’s word of honor that he—that she—would see that the leather pouches made it safely into Shepherdston’s hands.
Miranda had gleaned enough information from Daniel’s feverish ranting to understand that he was engaged in a business venture with Jarrod Shepherdston. Griffin Abernathy and Colin McElreath were also engaged in business ventures with Jarrod Shepherdston. But Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod had been friends since childhood. Miranda didn’t find it odd that they should be involved in business together. But Daniel hadn’t been one of Abernathy’s, McElreath’s, or Shepherdston’s friends or associates growing up. He’d attended Eton instead of the Knightsguild School for Gentlemen, where the other three had received their schooling.