as soon as he concluded his meeting with Laurence.
All night, as she helped Monsieur Leblanc and the other kitchen staff prepare supper, she had been deciding what she would do next. Tomorrow, Jason would bring her back to Thornwood, and she had very little doubt what the outcome of the visit would be: her aunt ousted, the charges against her brother dropped, Thornwood restored to them. In the three days she had been at Blakewell’s, it had become abundantly clear to her that Jason was the kind of man who could accomplish anything he set his mind to, and having promised to help her, Jason would deliver on his promise.
But then what? He would return here to London, to Blakewell’s and the life he had built here, a life that did not include her. As for her, she should remain in Hertfordshire, mistress once again of her own home. But the thought did not fill her with as much pleasure as it ought to, and she feared she knew why.
She had loved Jason all her life, and she had never stopped loving him. But all her old love seemed to pale before the ardor of the emotion burning within her heart for the man he had become. To see the willpower and ambition that had elevated him from the hulks and the docks to this palace on St. James, the unassuming kindness to his staff, all of whom evidently adored him… To feel the press of his mouth on hers, the feel of his hands on her body.
How could she endure it again, to let him go? She knew it would happen; after Jason restored Thornwood to her and left, he would not come back. But how would she go on living? She must go on living, of course. Girls in books and operas could go about killing themselves for love, but she was a Thornwood, and for a Thornwood to succumb to such a bourgeois condition was unthinkable.
Jason would not come to her. But should she go to him? The answer rose in her mind immediately. Yes. She had been given this last chance—this only chance—to know what it was like to be his. She must not let it pass her by. She had already wasted enough of the time that had miraculously been given to her in her hour of greatest need; she would not waste another second.
Acting quickly, she stripped off the gown she wore and exchanged it for the negligee and wrapper. Because the fire had died and it was cold, she huddled beneath the covers to wait.
When the latch of the outer door finally opened quietly, she sat up in the bed, her heart beating very fast. She slid out of the bed, crossed the room and pushed the door slowly ajar—and then came to a halt.
In the flickering light of the dying flames, she could see Jason sprawled in a massive armchair, tilting a glass of something golden in one hand as he gazed broodingly into the fire. He had loosened his cravat and his shirt hung open; she could see the dusting of dark hair across his chest.
A strange, distant sense of recklessness overcame her. Without stopping to think, she pushed the door entirely open and stepped inside.
“Your cousin doesn’t hold his drink very well,” he said, without looking up. “He proved to be a veritable gold mine of information tonight.”
“What did he say?” she asked, not really caring. Whatever it was, Jason would take care of it.
“Apparently, there was some harebrained—”
He finally raised his head as she crossed the length of the room, then broke off when he saw she was dressed for bed. “Miranda?”
Taking a deep breath, she allowed the robe to fall in a silky heap on the floor. Beneath the weight of his gaze, she was no longer cold.
“You said you wanted me,” she said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “I am here.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “Our bargain.” He set his glass aside. “You agreed to give yourself to me. I agreed to save your brother.” He rose to his feet as she drew closer, and when she stood before him, he took her face between his hands and gazed down at her for a long time. Then he lowered his head and kissed her, slowly and leisurely, his tongue flicking at the corner of her mouth.
When he drew back again, she made an unwilling sound of protest.
“You are not here because of the bargain, are