In silence, she presented Waring with his dish of tea.
“Just as I like it,” he said. “You always remember.”
“It is a small thing,” she protested. “I remember the way everyone takes their tea.”
“Is it small?” he returned, his expression unsmiling. “I do not find it so.”
“Perhaps you should,” she cautioned, fraught with the expectations she suddenly sensed in him.
Expectations which made no sense. He had never treated her as anything more than a sister. Had never expressed a masculine interest in her. And yet, here he was in her sitting room, staring at her with a far too warm regard, saying things that her old dear chum would never have said.
“Tell me how you have been in my absence,” he urged, seemingly content to change the subject for now as he sipped at his tea. “I understand the scandal has withered on the vine.”
“And yet the vine persists.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone as she thought of the wagging tongues that continued to whisper about her, the threats from people like Lord Roberts that were never far.
“It will, in a way, until you marry again,” Waring said, his voice solemn.
“I have no intention of marrying again, so I suppose I shall always be forced to endure it.” She managed a smile she didn’t feel.
It wasn’t that she wanted to wed, she reminded herself sternly, tamping down the traitorous twinges in her heart that had become more insistent over the course of the last month she had spent as Rhys’s lover. But there were times when she wished she didn’t have to face the fear of losing everything she had struggled to build because of her past and the way it would forever taint her future.
“Perhaps you might be persuaded to change your mind on the matter,” Waring proposed mildly. “Enough time has passed since the divorce. You are a young and vibrant woman. Everyone will expect you to marry again.”
She settled her tea in the saucer with a rattle. “They can expect whatever they like. It doesn’t mean that I shall do so.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you should wed to appease polite society’s expectations,” Waring said softly, “but for your own sake. Do you not wish for a husband and a family?”
Her heart gave a pang at his question. For she knew what her answer must be.
“I have always wanted children,” she allowed, “but not at the expense of my freedom. I found the price too much to pay.”
“With Ammondale, yes. But have you ever considered marrying someone else?”
For a wild, foolish moment, she thought of Rhys. But then she banished all such ridiculous notions. He had told her in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to wed. He wanted her as his mistress, not as his wife. She had accepted it, just as she had accepted that she had fallen hopelessly in love with him.
“I have not,” she told her friend calmly, hoping he would grasp her meaning.
“You and I have always had an understanding, I believed,” he said with painstaking care, proving her wrong. “Have we not?”
She opened her mouth to answer him, uncertain of how to proceed, when another interruption distracted her. This time, however, it wasn’t White knocking efficiently at the sitting room door to announce her arrival, however. Rather, it was the door opening to reveal Rhys, who strode into the room with his hat still dangling from his fingers and his gloves clasped firmly in one hand.
A knot of dread tightened in her stomach.
His stormy gaze flicked from Waring to Miranda, lingering on her, and she felt the effect of his stare like a jolt of electricity. It was as if he sucked all the air from the room, and her heart instantly beat faster.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” he drawled. “Your maidservant informed me you already had a gentleman caller, but I didn’t think you would mind the intrusion since we are meant to be taking tea together.”
What must he think, finding her here alone with Waring? She wished she knew, but his countenance was carefully neutral.
He bowed formally to her and then turned to Waring. “The Duke of Whitby, sir.”
“Your Grace.” Waring inclined his head. “I am Waring.”
Rhys’s golden brow rose. “Ah. I don’t believe we’ve traveled in the same circles.”
“No,” Waring clipped, his expression closed and stern.
“Would you care to sit?” Miranda invited. “We were taking tea when you arrived.”
