“Fix you?” Miranda said. “Why would anyone need to fix you? You’re not broken.”
“That’s precisely what I’ve always said.” He slid down to lie next to her. “Oddly, few people ever believe me.”
“I know what broken is,” Miranda said. “My father was broken, after my mother died. He just stopped working. He wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t even get out of bed. He just lay there and cried.”
“Good heavens. How long did it last?”
“Three years.”
“Three…three years.” He shifted to face her. “Three years.”
“I told you I know what broken is. That is broken—staring at the wall and weeping, while creditors hammer on the door and your troupe slowly slips away, stealing the best costumes in lieu of wages. When your friends leave you and you still cannot move, and nothing your daughter says can break you out of the spell. No man is broken because bad things happen to him. He’s broken because he doesn’t keep going after those things happen. When you told me about your mother, and how it made you resolve to be the person you are… What I thought was, ‘Yes, please, I’ll take him.’ Because you didn’t break.”
There was a pause. He propped himself up on one elbow and then picked up the watch he’d left on the bedside table.
“Would you know,” he said, his tone a bit more businesslike, “this conversation has officially exceeded my daily quota for mawkish sentimentality. That’s it, then.”
“Quota?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“My sentimentality quota. There’s a limit as to how much sentiment I will tolerate in a day. I’ve just reached it.”
“It’s not—” she glanced at the watch in his hands “—not yet three in the morning. And this is…a special occasion.”
“Nevertheless, we’re done. As much as my pride loves to be puffed up, I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from further compliments. And definitely no protestations of love—that would put me off for a good long while.”
She might have argued. But then…a man who thought of drowning when a woman caressed his face might have reason to shy from sentiment.
This month no longer seemed dreadful. But it was not going to be simple, either. There was nothing easy about Turner. He’d fashioned himself into one hard edge. He was all blade and no handle. If she held him close, she’d risk being cut.
If she wanted proof that he cared for her, she knew how difficult he’d found this conversation. The surprise was not that he’d needed to end it; it was that he’d started to talk in the first place.
“I do have one question,” she said.
“I’m sure it’s more than one.”
“When you call me Miranda Darling, are you calling me Miranda Darling as my name, or are you saying Miranda, comma, darling?”
His hand slid down her hair. “I don’t believe I can answer that question without endangering the sentimentality quota beyond all hope of repair.”
Which was, in its own way, an answer. A good answer. Miranda smiled, feeling suddenly giddy. He didn’t have to say it for her to know it was true. He might not admit to being kind to cats, but if he fed them and petted them and smiled when they purred, she could trust in the strength of her own conclusions.
“Have it your way, then,” she said airily. “I’m profoundly grateful that your skills in bed are passable. I’ll enjoy spending your money, Smite.”
“You know I hate that name.”
“I do. I figured I’d best call you by it, to make sure we didn’t risk your quota. Otherwise I might have to invent a pet name for you, and we should be finished with each other before the day even started.”
He leaned into her. His mouth brushed hers in a kiss, startling in its sweetness.
“Ah. Miranda-no-comma-Darling,” he said, “I knew there was a reason I wanted you to fill my days with an absence of sentiment. Thank you.”
Chapter Thirteen
SMITE SHOULD HAVE SENT a gift instead.
The thought occurred to him only after he’d entered Miranda’s home. It was half past four, almost dark. Scarcely a day had passed since he’d installed her in this house, and already he found himself far out of his depths.
He’d left in a panic last night, scarcely able to suppress his reaction. But when he’d awoken later, it hadn’t been a nightmare that roused him, but a memory. He’d remembered that half-choke in her voice when he’d walked away. And he’d wanted to make it better.
The usual etiquette, when one offended one’s mistress, was that one sent over some glittering bauble. If he’d been accustomed to this sort of affair, he’d have arranged for that. Instead, he’d risked real intimacy.
The warm, polished entry of Miranda’s home smelled of some savory roast. The furniture in the parlor was soft and comfortable. It seemed a beguilement: a promise that he, too, might have these luxuries. Food. Warmth. Companionship.
The only companion he’d had over the last few years was his dog. Dogs didn’t feel pity. Dogs didn’t make plans to fix one, except by repeated application of tongue to face. No matter how much weakness one showed a dog, it still depended on you for food and exercise. As if to emphasize that, Ghost sat in the entry next to Smite, and looked up at him.
He’d let himself believe that he might share an easy affair with Miranda, one that didn’t engage his emotions. Perhaps he’d convinced himself that she’d be so grateful for the largesse he’d thrown her way that she wouldn’t ask any questions.
Any hope of that had gone up in smoke the instant she’d fed him the cake. There was nothing easy about any of this. One night, and she’d wormed her way beneath his skin.
Her tread sounded on the stairs overhead. He’d betrayed too much of himself to her already. She would—
For a second, he had a moment of melting panic. Then she came round the bend in the staircase and saw him standing there. He was dithering, and damn it, he hated dithering.
She broke into a smile at the sight of him.
Oh. Hell. He felt all tangled inside. She was wearing a blue-green satin. The sleeves of her gown scarcely skimmed her shoulders.
There’d been too many shared c
onfidences between them. He scarcely knew how to greet a woman who knew so much of him.
“Turner,” she said. She descended the last few stairs to him, holding out her hands.
He turned abruptly from her. He took off his greatcoat and handed it to the maid who had materialized at his side. She disappeared, leaving them intimately—awkwardly—alone.
When he turned around, she set her hand on her hip. She gave him a rueful glance, and contemplated him with lips pressed together.
Smite looked away from her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to let Ghost loose.”
“Please.”
He leaned down and fumbled with the lead. The knot wasn’t difficult, but he lingered over it. From the corner of his vision he could see her hands, encased in delicate lace gloves. They clenched once and then relaxed. Once Ghost was freed, he walked about the entry, sniffed idly at Miranda, and then curled up on the floor where he could keep an eye on his master.
She watched him. “Would you care for supper,” she asked, “or…”
“Or would I prefer to slake another appetite?”
She colored at that.
“Are you sore?” he asked bluntly.
That pink flush grew until it encompassed the skin of her neck. “I…I could manage. If you wanted.”
“There’s no need to be so damned solicitous of me.” He reached up and loosened his cravat. “You sound as if you have to do everything I wish.”
“Isn’t—” She paused, shook her head. “I had rather assumed that’s what you were paying me to do.”
“Yes,” Smite said. “You’ve nailed it precisely. I wanted you for your docile nature.”
He remembered too late that she might not be used to his peculiar brand of sarcasm. But Miranda, thankfully, gave him a canny smile.
“I care about what you want,” he said awkwardly.
“Then come here and greet me properly.” She curled her index finger at him.
He drifted over to stand before her. She watched him with a little smile on her face, and he found himself leaning into her, setting his palm against her face. She smelt of something subtly sweet and calming—mint, maybe, or chamomile. His tangled insides unclenched.