But it was too late.
The room was empty.
He was alone. Talking to himself.
Chapter Thirteen
“It was a dream of perfect bliss,
Too beautiful to last.”
—Thomas Haynes Bayly, 1797–1839
Her eyes were red and swollen when she returned to the bedchamber. And although she’d splashed cool water on her face in the kitchen, where she’d retreated to make her ablutions, there was no disguising the fact that she’d spent the better part of half an hour sobbing.
She didn’t know why she always allowed him to get beneath her skin. But she did, and it had taken less than a day for marriage to Daniel to turn her into a veritable watering pot.
In all fairness, Miranda knew that she wouldn’t have shed a single tear had Daniel remembered taking the vows that had made her his duchess—or if he’d seemed the least bit happy by the prospect. But nothing was further from the truth.
Daniel was horrified by the very idea.
What should be the happiest day of her life was turning into a nightmare. Ned hadn’t returned, and neither had Rupert. She was tired and hungry and disappointed, and she hadn’t anything to wear. She had married a man who didn’t want a wife. And compounded her mistake by lying to him, telling Daniel what he wanted to hear, telling him that he’d fallen asleep before the bishop could marry them instead of telling him the truth.
Miranda had no one to blame for her tears but herself. She had known Daniel was in no condition to marry her or to remember it afterward. She had taken advantage of his moment of weakness. But how could she deny herself the thing she wanted most when it was within her grasp? How could she refuse his proposal? When Daniel had insisted on marrying her then and there?
And now that it was done, how long could she pretend she’d never said “I do”?
Taking a deep, calming breath, Miranda knocked once, then opened the bedroom door to find Daniel standing by the casement window overlooking Curzon Street with the coverlet from the bed wrapped around him and tucked beneath his arms.
He turned to face her as she entered.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“Answering the call of nature was easier on my feet.”
Miranda looked at the open window, then at Daniel, and back again. “You didn’t.”
“Of course not,” he assured her. “I know better than to use a front window.”
She relaxed.
Daniel couldn’t resist. “I used the chamber pot and the side window.”
Miranda glanced at the side window that overlooked the narrow lane between her house and the one beside it, and at the chamber pot sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, its porcelain lid firmly in place. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
Until he gave her a wicked smile.
“You’re in luck, milady, for this happens to be a very modern house. There’s a bath through that door.” He pointed toward a door that Miranda had supposed led to a sitting room. Ned had neglected to mention that the master bedchamber connected to a bath, and Miranda hadn’t thought to look. “With a Bramah toilet, sink, and bath, complete with hot and cold taps.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But the water coming out of both taps is cold.” He turned suddenly, leaned out the front window, and whistled to someone down below. “Up here.”
“Daniel!” Miranda’s heart beat a rapid tattoo. “Someone might recognize you.”
“Wearing a pink toga and morning whiskers?” he asked, rubbing his hand over the whiskers that had appeared on his face overnight. “Not likely.”
“I recognize you,” Miranda shot back. “And there may be other residents of Curzon Street who will. Especially if you fall out of the window and onto the street below.” She frowned as he leaned a bit farther out the window. “What on earth are you doing?”
He glanced over his shoulder at Miranda as if the sight of a half-naked duke leaning out an upper story window was a common occurrence. “Ordering breakfast.”
Miranda was clearly surprised. “Breakfast?”