“You are the eldest.” He didn’t sound surprised.
She glanced up at him, distracted from the act of slicing her beef into infinitesimal pieces. “Yes.”
The duke took a contemplative sip of his wine, his stare never leaving hers. “I cannot say I’m shocked to learn so. I take it that your younger siblings have something to do with your family’s decision to disavow you?”
Miranda loved her siblings. Her heart squeezed at the reminder that they must forever be lost to her.
It was her turn to nod, the lump in her throat growing larger. “My sisters have yet to find marriageable husbands. Our parentsfeared an association with me, following the divorce, would leave them tainted.”
Whitby swore beneath his breath. “They ought to have welcomed you. You’re hardly the first divorced woman in England. Instead, they threw you to the goddamned wolves.”
He was furious on her behalf, she realized. His anger was not feigned. And his ever-ready charm had swiftly died in the face of his vehemence.
“It is done now,” she said, struggling for a lighter tone and the pretense that her family’s abandonment hadn’t cut her to the very marrow, for it most assuredly had. “I cannot change what has happened. Tell me, do you have any siblings, Your Grace?”
Although Whitby’s reputation was notorious, she couldn’t recall any mentioning of brothers or sisters in relation to him. And Miranda found herself genuinely curious to know more about him. Still, she turned her gaze to her plate, not wanting him to see the tears pooling in her eyes, blurring her vision. Far safer to look at her beef andharicots verts.
“You may seek to change the subject all you like, but it shan’t make what they’ve done to you right.”
She blinked, holding her eyes closed for a moment. To her humiliation, a hot tear rolled free of her lashes, coasting down her cheek. “Please. Let us speak of something else. You didn’t answer my question. Have you any brothers or sisters of your own?”
There was a lengthy pause, during which she blinked furiously, trying to clear the tears from her eyes and restore her composure.
“I have one sister,” he said at last. “Rhiannon is a hellion.”
His voice was tender, a smile lingering in it. It was plain he doted upon his sibling. Miranda drained the remainder of her wineglass, continuing to avoid his gaze. “Tell me about her.”
“She is ten years younger than I, and she’s bold and fearless and is forever finding herself in one scrape after the next. Woe be to the man who one day takes her to wife. Rhiannon is a bit like fireworks—bright, loud, and unpredictable.”
At last, Miranda ventured a glance in his direction again, finding that his expression had softened, taking on an almost boyish air as he spoke of his sister with unrepentant fondness.
“The two of you are close, then?” she surmised, unable to quell the pang of envy deep in her heart.
She missed her siblings. Missed her family and the seemingly unbreakable bonds that had once tied them.
“We are.” He smiled. “I would protect her with everything I have. And I would never forsake her, not even if she caused the biggest scandal in all England.”
His words were a pointed barb aimed at her family, and she knew it. But she was also grateful he had heeded her plea and hadn’t directly spoken of the rift with her siblings and parents again.
“You are a good brother to her.”
“I try to be.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “Our father was a horse’s arse and ignored her because she was a daughter instead of the spare he so desperately wanted.”
Miranda took note of the bitterness that had suddenly entered his voice. “How dreadful for Lady Rhiannon.”
“It was by far not the worst of our sire’s cruelties, but yet another for which I’ll never forgive him.” Whitby refilled his wineglass and added a bit more to hers. “But enough of all such unpleasant subjects. Let’s leave the past where it belongs, shall we?”
Miranda had her own healing wounds from the past, so she didn’t argue. “Yes, let’s.”
She took another sip of her wine, thinking she would need it for fortification if she had a prayer of continuing to remain unmoved by the duke’s dashing charm.
The fire was cracklinglow in the grate of the library at Wingfield Hall. Rhys’s left arm had fallen asleep approximately half an hour ago and was presently numb. Despite this, he hesitated to move the sleeping woman at his side.
She was soft and warm, all the starch and stiffness leeched from her, her head leaning against his shoulder, the gentle gusts of her sleep breathing a pleasant rhythm only occasionally interrupted by a small, feminine snore.
No doubt about it, Miranda Lenox was foxed. Adorably, utterly soused. Too much French wine at dinner, he reckoned. Getting her drunk had certainly not been his intent. No, the rake in him had been determined to press his suit.
To woo her.
