Chapter Twelve
“Oaths are but words, and words but wind.”
—Samuel Butler, 16
12–1680
“Where am I now?” he asked. “Because this certainly isn’t my bedchamber.”
“Nor mine,” Miranda replied.
“Then whose?” Daniel winced when he raised his voice and quickly lowered it a notch. “Look around you. We’re swimming in a veritable sea of pink. Who but your mother would have a room this color?”
“Your mother, for all I know,” Miranda retorted. “And heaven knows the clothes left in the armoire would fit the duchess.”
Daniel widened his eyes in a show of alarm. “You don’t know where we are either?”
Miranda was tempted to let him labor under that misconception, but decided on a different course to see if Daniel recalled more of the previous evening than he realized. “Of course I know where we are. We’re in a house on Curzon Street that my father purchased as a home for his mistress. This room appears to have been hers.”
“Curzon Street?” Daniel was genuinely puzzled. “What are we doing sharing a bed in a house on Curzon Street?”
Daniel was aware that certain sections of Curzon Street were dedicated to exclusive houses of pleasure as well as a number of private clubs catering to the more jaded members of society—all set among rows of houses gentlemen of the ton leased or purchased for their mistresses. He was surprised that Miranda knew about her father’s mistress and the purpose of the house, even if Miranda didn’t seem to be.
“What couples who share a bed usually do, Daniel.”
“How? Why?”
Miranda arched an eyebrow at him. “Why not? Since you know how?”
Daniel looked her in the eyes and realized for the first time that she looked as tired as he felt. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and worry lines at the corners of her mouth. “I understand why I’d want to share a bed with you, Miranda. Any man with half an eye would leap at the chance to do that. What I don’t understand is how it came about.”
Miranda took a deep breath and told him the truth. “Would you believe that you were so foxed you insisted upon calling at St. Michael’s Palace and summoning the bishop from his bed in order to preserve my reputation and to prevent my mother from having to prevail upon you to do so?”
Daniel blanched. Miranda watched as the small amount of color he’d had in his face leeched out. “No, I wouldn’t believe it.” He couldn’t believe he’d go so far as to suggest marriage to Miranda or anyone else, no matter how foxed he was.
“You should,” Miranda said softly.
The aching in Daniel’s head told him she was right. “I proposed?”
Miranda nodded.
Daniel gave a little laugh. “You mean to tell me that if I had secured a special license, we’d be married by now?”
“I suppose that depends,” Miranda told him.
“On what?”
“On whether or not I’d accept.” She stared into Daniel’s bloodshot eyes. He didn’t remember.
“Then I needn’t worry.” He rubbed his temple in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain building there, then raked his fingers through his hair. “You would never accept a proposal under those conditions.” He met her unflinching gaze. “Would you?”
He didn’t remember. He honestly didn’t remember.
It shouldn’t come as a shock. Miranda had known Daniel was extremely intoxicated. She’d warned him that he was acting rashly and that she was afraid he wouldn’t remember his actions in the morning. Or worse, remember and regret. The fact that her prediction had come to pass, the fact that he didn’t recall summoning Bishop Manwaring or participating in the ceremony, shouldn’t shock or hurt her. But it did.
A few short hours earlier, Daniel had promised to love, honor, and cherish her. Keeping his vows was written into the ceremony. Remembering them was not.
“Miranda?” Daniel made no effort to hide the concern in his voice. “You wouldn’t accept a proposal under those circumstances, would you?”