The Fairy Tale Bride

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

There was a carriage in the drive when they arrived home, both sunk in silent misery. Trunks sat upon the steps, and for a moment Miranda thought that Valentine had sensed her distress and come to support her. The thought of facing him, of explaining the nightmare her life had become, filled her with dread. He had given up on happy endings for himself; could he help her accept her own unhappy tale?

To her horror her brother was not the one waiting in the hallway. Instead, the American, with three young girls of various ages surrounding him, stood speaking in hurried low tones to Simon’s mother.

The dowager turned toward them, and Miranda wanted to sink into the cool marble floor and disappear, as the keen eyes missed nothing of her disarrangement.

Their eyes locked a moment before the question came. “Were you reconciled?” Evidently her unlocked secret had not softened the bluntness of her tongue. Indeed, she almost seemed more distant then she had been when Miranda met her.

“No.” She could say no more. Her throat was swollen with the need to cry, to scream, to deny what she had learned.

The dowager’s brief nod, without comment, surprised her — until she noticed that the older woman was unnaturally pale, and trembling ever so slightly as she addressed her son.

“We must find room for an unexpected guest. It seems your brother, Peter, has arrived. You are to be allowed to live, after all.” Her smile was half hearted . “At least, to live without the burden of the dukedom. Although I expect you will find your wife and her family a handful to manage.”

Simon glared at her coldly. “I beg your pardon, Mother? What lies are you telling now?”

Miranda, numb with despair, wondered how he could dredge up such anger.

“How dare you speak so disrespectfully to your mother.” The American ... no, Peter ... said.

Simon’s father. Simon’s brother? Miranda sighed in confusion as he continued.

“She speaks the truth. I am Peter Watterly, the eldest son of Sinclair Watterly.”

Simon snorted rudely. But Miranda, standing next to him, saw the trembling in his fingers that he sought to hide with clenched fists.

Peter’s eyes flashed with sudden fire, and Miranda was painfully reminded of Simon. Her doubts dropped away as he finished. “Apparently you and I think alike. I did not want the burden of the dukedom and chose to allow the false notice of my death to go uncorrected. But I am back now, to relieve you of the burden you no longer wish to shoulder.”

He looked over at the dowager in silence, and added quietly, “You have your mother to thank for that. She persuaded me that there was no other course.”

For a moment, the import of the words did not come clear to Miranda. It was simply too much for her exhausted mind. First the news that Simon had lied to her about dying, then the crushing truth that he intended to disappear — and leave her behind.

She stared in bemusement as the man she had known as Mr. Watson stepped forward and held his hand out to her. “I’m sorry to have caused you such trouble in your young marriage, my dear.” She stared at the long, calloused fingers uncomprehendingly as he said, “I want to thank you for making things clear to me, young lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” Miranda forced her mind to focus. Something important had happened. She knew it. She just could not understand it yet.

Peter. Simon’s father, Hadn’t he said he wanted no part of England? She had heard him with her own ears. But then, she had not understood the full import of his words. He was not an American. He was the rightful duke.