He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “I have not deflowered many maidens. I am only glad we didn’t break the innkeeper’s bed.”
She didn’t like how he made light of her first time, nor the mention of other women. She would far rather he rolled over and kissed her tenderly. And then she realized — Philip had not kissed her on the lips, not since finding out about the book.
Should she be worried?
“More than adequate,” she said, then yawned broadly, enjoying the utter relaxation of her body. But she would not beg him for a kiss.
THEY DID NOT GET UP early, and Miranda didn’t see her father ride away. They roused at the civilized hour of nine o’clock because, as Philip said, he had spent too many mornings awakening at dawn on an uncomfortable wool blanket in a tent full of pungent men.
She’d hoped after their swiving, they would regain their easy manner with one another. However, after a quiet breakfast in which he seemed preoccupied, they climbed into his carriage and started home under a cloud of solemnity.
Philip had bought all the newspapers he could find at the first coaching inn across the border in England and then buried his nose in them. Miranda took one gingerly after he slammed it down onto the squabs.
The news from London was all mundane. Parliamentary bills explained, word of King George’s health, the opening of a national penitentiary at Millbank Prison in London, and the creation of a society promoting “permanent and universal peace.” Yet the society pages were anything but peaceful.
It was an all-out battle as to who could print more outrageously scintillating quotes from her own book as well as the excited reactions of those quality folks who claimed to know who was who, and the denials of those being identified.
After the third paper with similar scribblings, she leaned back into the corner and closed her eyes.
Like a bolt of lightning, Philip suddenly sent a harsh question across the carriage’s interior, “Whatwereyou thinking?”
Miranda knew what he was asking but didn’t answer. It was futile trying to excuse herself when she had no defense.
“I confessed personal matters to you,” he continued. “Things I had shared with no one else, and you managed to work them into your book as if they were nothing more than silly stories about a stranger.”
She closed her eyes against his wounded tone.
“Look at me,” he said harshly.
Snapping open her eyes, she gazed at him, her husband, wishing fervently she could go back and do everything differently. On the other hand, then they would not be married.
Was that what he wished most of all?
“In all other ways, you seem reasonable, even clever,” he added. “And yet by writing this book, you managed to overshadow all your good qualities.”
It was like a sword blade to her heart. He would never forgive her. Their marriage was doomed for he would grow more and more resentful and then restless.
“If I am such a detestable female, then why did you rush headlong toward our wedding?”
“I saw no other course of action, and I learned from Wellington how to cut my losses and take the best if only path to victory.”
“A hollow victory,” she said. He may have gallantly saved her honor, yet he all but despised her.
Recalling their prior relaxed way with one another, their shared laughter, the passionate kisses, this was a bitter lesson. Better to have let herself be scorned, shunned, and banished from London and away from those who did not matter to her than to marry the one who mattered most and live with his severe judgment.
“Not a hollow victory,” he disagreed. “And I never said you were detestable. You were led astray by Lady Harriet who saw a weakness and exploited it.”
He picked up another paper, then put it aside. “I am used to my exploits amusing my peers, but you mentioned the private predicament in which I find myself with Miss Waltham. When I go to my club, the other men who know of my brandy venture may put two and two together. Believing the Walthams have ruined me, they’ll think I am already a pauper. And when I put my house on the market, I won’t be able to say it is due to an unacceptable abundance of vermin or a leaky roof. Everyone will know it is because I cannot afford to keep it.”
Miranda felt smaller and smaller. She opened her mouth to tell him again how she’d tried to stop the printing presses, but it was pointless. After all, by then the book had been written. Much as she enjoyed gossip, it had not been worth it.
“The thing of it is,” he continued, “the story is amusing. If only you had better disguised those involved. I vow if it weren’t my own life on those pages, I would have praised the writing of your little book.”
“And now you are stuck with a wife you don’t like.”
Philip sighed. Reaching the short distance between them, he placed his large hand on her arm, grabbed hold, and dragged her onto his side of the carriage where she sat in a heap beside him.
“Just because I didn’t go short by the knees and plead for your hand, doesn’t mean I dislike having you for a wife,” he said.
