Page 62

“She wants you.” The aching tone in his voice spoke for itself. “If you’re not fool enough to drive her away again, you’ll keep her forever, because she’s loyal, even to a drunken sod like me.”

“I won’t.” It was a vow that came from the heart, unlike those he had spoken that morning.

“Then sit down and let her sleep.” Frederick picked up his book.

The only sound in the room was the popping of sparks in the fireplace and the gentle swish of Frederick’s pages turning. From where he sat, Miles could see a pale wash of Daisy’s hair. It wasn’t precisely moonlit silver; pale straw would be a better comparison, with a few strands of amber woven here or there. As he sat, her cheeks gradually flushed from sleep and her hand relaxed, setting free Frederick’s lapel and lying flat against his chest.

His chest.

Not Miles’s chest.

Never again, he told himself silently.

He had betrayed their marriage by storming out in a rage. His punishment was to see her pressed close to another man, a man to whom she’d fled for comfort.

Her husband should be comforting her. Hell, her husband should have made sure that his wife wouldn’t run away in a hackney cab. The truth slowly dawned on Miles. He didn’t know how to be a husband, and he’d failed at the task in a matter of hours.

His parents had died years ago, and searching his memory didn’t help. Were they loving toward each other? Kind? He had no idea, though five children suggested that if nothing else, they liked each other better than Daisy’s parents did.

Still, he remembered his father’s burst of anger after his youngest sister was born; even at thirteen years old, he had understood that his father wanted a second boy. A spare heir, in case his only son died.

The work Miles did at the House of Lords had consolidated his belief that marriage was a matter of money and birth. Heirs were important. Spare heirs were also important. Emotions should be corralled outside of the house, and definitely outside the marital bed.

He had tried to protect himself by labeling Daisy as impulsive, but so was he. He’d called her foolish, but so was he. Strong-willed? So was he. He could picture himself twenty or thirty years from now, arguing with his beautiful wife at the breakfast table. The picture wasn’t quite right, so he added Belle, cheerful but naughty. And then two more children with Daisy’s eyes.

If he could talk her into staying married to him.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Frederick muttered.

Miles opened his eyes.

Frederick waved his book in the air. “Don’t bother reading this absurd piece of drivel.” He tossed it to the carpet and then gently slid away from Daisy, who didn’t stir. As Miles watched, Frederick strode across the room and snatched up the brandy decanter.

“Well, go on,” he said, heading for the door.

Miles rose. “Wake her?”

Frederick rolled his eyes. “Your wife. My couch. I’ll warn everyone that you are finally consummating your marriage and not a minute too soon.”

“I am not consummating my marriage on your couch!”

“I admit to being grateful to hear it,” Frederick said. “Stop being an ass, Miles.”

“I will.”

EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN

THE TRUTH CAN BE MORE PAINFUL THAN LIES

Daisy woke up slowly. Her cheek was crushed against a strong male shoulder. She dimly remembered going to sleep next to Frederick, but this was not Frederick. After only a few hours of marriage, she already recognized her husband’s particular mix of spice and clean linen.

Miles slept like a cat, quiet and self-possessed. One of his arms clamped her to his side and the other curved around her waist. He looked …

He looked male and satisfied and rather pleased with himself.

Which was absurd, since his bride had left him, planning to move abroad.

While she was still thinking about his expression, his long eyelashes fluttered. They looked black from afar, but this close they were thick and brown, like mink fur. Sculpted cheekbones, deep bottom lip, strong chin … His beauty registered like a thump of her heart.