Chapter Twenty-three
It was quiet. Too quiet. It was the kind of silence that was a dull roar in one’s ears, the kind that made thoughts seem loud. And her thoughts were deafening. She should be resting, allowing her body and mind a much-needed reprieve from the planning and plotting of her future, or rather, her sister’s plotting for her future. She should be focusing on the masquerade that would take place in three days.
Three days and life would be different.
She wished she had a different word for it. Maybe bright, or blissful, or some other poetic adjective one dreams of using when considering the future. But no, all she could use was the worddifferent.
Because if her sister’s well-laid plans came to fruition, Miranda would have one or perhaps more potential suitors. And that could easily lead to marriage, which meant there would be no more stolen kisses with the viscount.
No more gentle touches in the hallway, no more knowing, heated glances from across the dinner table, and it broke her heart.
Not that he’d done any of those things in the past week or so. No, he’d been painfully distant, utterly circumspect, and completely aloof. She’d never understand how it was that men could switch off their emotions so easily. It was practically impossible for her, which was only proven once again by the fact that she was wide awake, surely past midnight, and thinking about him.
Missing him.
Because while they had their stolen moments, there had been something more.
He’d become her friend.
And she had the sinking thought that the friendship had meant far more to her than to him.
And maybe the kisses had as well.
It was a horrible circle she kept traveling within her heart.
She sighed heavily, then rolled over in her bed. The fire crackled, the sound loud against the stillness of the room.
How she wished she could just sleep, have a few moments without dealing with the unknown.
A muted thump came from just beyond her door, and she froze, listening. She could barely make out the sound of quiet footsteps passing by her room in the hall, and she wondered.
Maybe she wasn’t the only one sleepless tonight.
Maybe Heathcliff was just as restless as she.
And she wanted to know the answer, needed to know. As she rose from her bed, she told herself sternly that she’d simply peek outside, nothing more. And if itwasthe viscount, well . . . she’d address that problem when and if she met it.
She darted to the door quickly, knowing she had to hurry if she were to catch whoever it was before they disappeared into the dark hall. The door handle was cool against her hand as she twisted it.
“Dear Lord.” The words were spoken before she could temper them.
Heathcliff spun on his heel and froze, his gaze startled and somewhat wild. But his eyes were the least shocking aspect of the scene before her. His shoulders were caked with dirt and mud, a thin red line trailed from his left shoulder to his midback, but she lost sight of it when he spun to face her. His hair was disheveled, and mud was splattered across his face, looking like large freckles in the candlelight.
Belatedly, she realized he wore nothing but his breeches and boots. Blinking, she awaited some sort of explanation for his state of undress and dishevelment. Was he hurt?
“Ach, Miranda, you about scared the wits out of me.” His shoulders relaxed, and he frowned. “What are you doing about?”
Miranda glanced down the hall. Seeing no one, she came out of her room and approached him. “I could ask the same of you. Whatever has happened to you? Are you injured?” she asked, her gaze searching his body for any indication either way.
“I’m well enough.” He shrugged the words as if they were of little consequence.
It was almost laughable. Even in the gothic novels she’d read in secret, she’d never come across a hero—or a villain, for that matter—in such a state. Now that she was assured he wasn’t injured, or at least not much, she was coming to appreciate the view.
She took another step closer, studying his chest and noting how it rose and fell with each breath. It was hypnotic, and she had to force herself to look up to meet his gaze.
“Miranda . . .” He whispered her name, but his tone wasn’t endearing or charming. It was intense, with something that sounded suspiciously like fear.
Her heart sped up its cadence.
