Truly a Wife (Free Fellows League 4)

sh garments for her. Miranda frowned. Daniel, at least, would have the brocade robe and dry shoes. Everything she’d worn tonight was ruined, including her green silk dancing slippers.

In fact, the only good to come from the cold, soaking rain was that it had washed the blood from Daniel’s clothing and dispersed the crowds that had filled Park Lane and made the street impassable only hours earlier. Miranda listened as the Tower clock struck the hour. Three quarters of an hour past three in the morning, and the streets were all but deserted—except for the hooded figure hurriedly making its way to the Marquess of Shepherdston’s front door…

Miranda squinted through the rain and brushed the raindrops from her eyelashes with the back of her hand in a futile attempt to get a better look at Shepherdston’s early-morning visitor.

Was it Micah?

She had never seen the man. How would she know if it were he? Miranda took a step closer and bit back an unladylike curse as a stream of cold rainwater rolled off the brim of her borrowed hat and down the back collar of her shirt. Miranda watched as Shepherdston’s visitor glanced over his shoulder, then put his head down and increased his pace, hurrying down the walk the way a woman would do. According to Daniel, the Marquess of Shepherdston was expecting Micah. But there was something decidedly female about the visitor …

Shepherdston’s caller should be a man, but what gentleman would wear a hooded cloak? And what lady in her right mind would travel about town alone in this weather and at this time of morning? Miranda grimaced. Except herself, of course. But then, she’d never claimed to be in her right mind where Daniel was concerned. Why else would she be dressed as a man and standing in the rain in the wee hours of the morning, hoping for the opportunity to pay a call on the Marquess of Shepherdston?

Miranda scrutinized the caller, following his movement, watching as a gust of wind caught the hem of the visitor’s outer garment and lifted it, revealing a delicate white lawn nightgown and a glimpse of a bare leg wearing a black slipper much like her green ones. Miranda widened her eyes in amazement. What gentleman indeed?

Good heavens, but she’d managed to make it to the Marquess of Shepherdston’s town house in time to witness another young lady’s arrival. Miranda almost smiled at the irony. There were, it seemed, two young ladies roaming the streets of Mayfair in the downpour, both intent on calling upon the Marquess of Shepherdston and both attired in scandalous and unconventional costumes—one in a nightdress and one in gentleman’s dress. One intent on business and the other apparently intent on pleasure.

Miranda nearly cried out in frustration. If she’d arrived a few minutes earlier or the other woman had arrived a few moments later or had been turned away at the front door, Miranda might have gained an audience with Lord Shepherdston. But that was out of the question now. The front door had opened, the female caller had been admitted inside, and the Marquess of Shepherdston was suddenly otherwise engaged.

Miranda firmed her lips into a thin line and tasted the bitter taste of disappointment. She had failed. Her journey had been for naught. She was no closer to finding out whether Micah had delivered the pouches, or in what sort of smuggling ventures Daniel and the Marquess of Shepherdston were involved, than she had been before she left Curzon Street.

And Miranda needed answers. Smuggling was a crime punishable by imprisonment or death. Daniel might require protection, but she couldn’t protect him as long as she remained ignorant of his activities.

And he couldn’t protect her if she had knowledge of his activities.

The thought came to her unbidden, but once in her mind, it refused to leave. Daniel professed to trust her, yet he hadn’t breathed a word about smuggling when he’d told her he’d been shot or mentioned returning from the coast in time to attend his mother’s party. Yet that’s what he must have done, otherwise he would have spent the night with Mistress Beekins as she’d invited him to do. Was he keeping her in ignorance of his illegal activities in order to protect her from the consequences should he be caught? Or had he insisted on marrying her in order to protect them both?

Either way, he’d done what he had to do in order to protect her. Thank heavens she’d thought to remove the special license from Daniel’s jacket and place it beneath the cardboard bottom of her reticule for safekeeping. If she hadn’t, the proof of her wedding—the proof they might both have to produce—would be a mass of wet parchment and illegible black ink.

Pulling Daniel’s jacket tighter about her, Miranda shoved her cold hands into the pockets and retreated into the shadows of the lilac bush once again. She watched Shepherdston’s caller enter the mansion, waited until the front door closed behind her, then turned and began the long walk back to Curzon Street, wondering all the while what she would say to Daniel, how she would explain her failure to complete the mission.

Provided, of course, that Daniel remembered the mission … Provided that Daniel remembered what he’d demanded of her … Or that he’d married her …

Not that it mattered, Miranda decided, clamping down on her bottom lip to keep her teeth from chattering. She couldn’t blame Daniel for her current discomfort. He’d made her promise that she’d pay a call on the marquess, but she was to blame for her own state of affairs. She had, after all, willingly taken instructions and given her solemn oath to a man who’d been asleep at the time.

It would serve her right if she caught her death of cold. Of all the reckless, foolhardy, stupid things to do, Miranda had chosen this one. Not only chosen it but leaped at the opportunity to pursue it. Why? Because Daniel had asked her. Because Daniel needed her. Because she had married him for better or for worse and Miranda wanted to do everything in her power to help him.

Miranda took a deep breath and slowly released it. And she’d kept her word. She’d gone to Shepherdston’s house. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only lady paying the marquess a call. Miranda shrugged her shoulders. She was bold, but not bold enough to present herself at Shepherdston’s door and interrupt his tryst.

Shepherdston was entitled to a romantic rendezvous. He was, after all, a handsome bachelor with a presumably normal, healthy appetite for the opposite sex. He was entitled to companionship and entitled to keep his rendezvous and the identity of his partner a secret if he chose to do so. He had suffered enough notoriety to last a lifetime. He deserved whatever happiness he could find.

Miranda wouldn’t intrude. She had a companion of her own back on Curzon Street—her husband, Daniel, ninth Duke of Sussex. Miranda thrilled at the thought. Daniel was hers at last—or at least until he recovered.

She wanted to believe that he would always be hers and that he had meant every word of his wedding vows, but she couldn’t count on it. Daniel had a way of dashing her hopes and disappointing her. Miranda hoped that wouldn’t be the case this time, but the fact that their wedding had to remain a secret troubled her.

Daniel had married her tonight, but would he remember it in the morning? She was his bride, but she didn’t know if he would ever truly allow her to be his wife.

All she knew for sure was that she still had a few hours to spend alone with him before Ned returned, and Miranda intended to make the most of her opportunity.

Squaring her shoulders, Miranda trudged through the rain back to the house on Curzon Street and slipped quietly through the back door. She hurried up the stairs to the room that had been her father’s, stopping long enough to collect the sheet she’d used as a toga before returning to the master bedchamber and Daniel.

He had kicked the covers off once again, and his skin was hot to the touch. Miranda’s heart caught in her throat when he opened his eyes and looked up at her. She waited for him to say something as she placed her hand on his forehead, but he showed no signs of recognition. She slowly released the breath she’d been holding.

He was feverish again. Miranda didn’t think he was as hot as before, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d spent the better part of an hour in the cold rain. She was chilled to the bone and her hands were freezi

ng.

They made a good pair. He needed the touch of her cool skin, and she needed the heat of his.

Miranda removed Daniel’s hat, unpinned her hair, shed her wet garments, and slipped, naked, into bed beside him. She snuggled against his uninjured side, absorbing the excess heat from his body, inhaling the scent of him—a unique blend of Daniel, lime, exotic spices, and a slightly excessive amount of Scots whisky.