He stared into the never-ending sea of porcelain, wood, and ornaments, vision blurring the colors into a muddied mass. While doubts and uncertainty and what-ifs threatened to overwhelm him, a singular truth rose above the chaos with astounding clarity.
Devin had, against all reason and his better judgement, somehow fallen in love with Miranda Wilde.
Fallen, crashed, dragged kicking and screaming, but here he was and there was nothing he could do to stop it now. He would have whatever life kept him close to her. A portrait in a grand hall, husband and wife, perfectly squeezed into all the proper molds. It didn’t matter how rare the chance that he had inherited a title, it still meant he fit the definition of “titled nobility.” Hecouldgive her that life if she wanted.
Or, if she asked, he’d live cast from society and all the security it offered. The wealth and acceptance. The stability. She was rebellious enough that he wouldn’t put the idea past her.
He spared a glance at the door as Miranda’s voice grew louder. He closed his eyes to the limitless list of what she could be saying.
It didn’t matter.
Only Miranda mattered.
Maybe that was why, now that revenge on Graves was finally within reach and the culmination of years of guilt and rage finally about to be sated, he was more concerned with a portrait on a wall.
Miranda’s father moved through the room to slam the door and then returned with the agility of a breeze through trees, darting past furniture and broken glass. Her heart was pounding.
“I don’t want details,” he said, calmly. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
She had always remembered looking up at him. As a child, as an adolescent, even as she reached adulthood he had always had those last few inches that required she crane her neck to meet his gaze. But she could see in her peripheral as some of his control faltered and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I was young, Miranda, I know…things happen. You’re not the first to let your feelings run away with you, it’s part of being young, though we all like to pretend to be above such indulgences. Your mother—” He cleared his throat. “Wait, what I mean—”
“What about mother?” She pressed, not giving him the chance to backtrack.
Her father was always careful with his words, always sure of himself. Now,herefused to meet her eyes, hands growing fidgety as he scratched at his cheek or his ear. “That’s…nothing. It was nothing. I was going to say nothing. If your mother asks…I said nothing.” He sighed, but his hands never moved behind his back and his posture never returned to its normal rigidity.
“The way he looks at you,” He continued through his teeth, “It’s not…dissimilar to how I once looked at your mother nor, I suspect, much different than how much I, well,caredfor her, even before we were married—but weweremarried. Promptly. As was the expected course. I had always planned to marry your mother and waiting for what we already knew proved…impossible.” He closed his eyes, taking another breath in and Miranda allowed him a moment to gather himself before continuing.
Her cheeks burned all the brighter. Infernal blast it, she did not want to hearthatabout her parents.
“And you,” he took a careful breath before finishing, “I’ve never seen you so assured.”
Wait, was this approval?
“Don’t get me wrong, you have always been confident. Divine above, you were never lacking in spirit. But, it’s clear now that even then you were holding back. Locking away part of yourself,” his hand reached out and gently took hers. “But I saw it now. Your anger, your passion, your spark. You were confident in more than just your ability to take someone out at the knees, you were confident inyourself. The whole of you. Or you would never have spoken to your mother that way.”
Miranda was not sure what to make of this conversation. Her father was always so controlled and disciplined. He followed the rules, never faltered from routine, saw good as black andwhite, and was not the type to overshare. And what did he mean she lacked confidence in herself? Miranda had always been confident in herself. She was secure in who she was…right? She caught her reflection in the broken glass of a decorative vase that had belonged to her great-grandmother. Her mother’s dress had knocked it from its perch as she had ripped through the room, her emotions raw and unmasked.
Miranda always pulled loose strands of hair free to soften her features, to hide. She alwaystriedto keep her voice from rising, to keep the bite out of her tone—even if she didn’t usually succeed. She alwaystriednot to step on toes or kick the boy who had thrown mud at her in the park or push the Lord who thought he could call her ‘too much’ or ‘annoyingly quarrelsome.’ Miranda hadtriedto not be all those things, because she was not supposed to be all those things. Even when all those faults invariably slipped through her attempts at control, the guilt that surfaced had always made her shrink afterward, made her question, made her doubt.
She had never had confidence in all of who she was, only the parts that were acceptable.
Until meeting Devin.
She was starting to embrace the parts of her that she’d been told to hide. Which had felt good and liberating, but…then why had her father’s reaction sent unease rolling through her chest?
“I’ll never hate someone who makes my daughter smile like she means it,” her father finished, and Miranda felt no relief at his acceptance, if that’s what this was.
Her heart started beating harder, crashing against her ribs. Was he giving her the okay to…to court Devin?
No, he was probably giving his blessing for an official marriage that aligned with all the rules and structure she was expected to set her life to, but that’s not what she wanted. She wanted Devin, but marriage to him—he was a titled lord, even if somedid not approve of the means and circumstances, he was exactly the sort of suitor her mother would push onto her at a ballroom—would mean trapping herself in that life she had hated. She thought choosing him meant giving that up, but if her parents approved…if he agreed to marry her, then her life was right back on the same path it had always been.
“Miranda?” Her father reached out to her, but she stepped back.
“I don’t want to get married,” she said, finally. Loudly. Her eyes glanced at the door, but she could only hope her voice hadn’t carried.
Her father shook his head. “First, no one has mentioned marriage, so let’s not get carried away. I don’t hate him, that’s still plenty of steps away from wanting the man who had my daughter out at all hours for a son-in-law. Second, if you intend to continue this…whatever you two have, what other option is there than marriage?”
