Page 83 of If the Duke Demands

Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Hamish had been surprised at her unexpected return—and concerned, although they were kind enough not to press for the real reason she’d fled the city for home. All she could tell them was that her season had not gone as planned and that she missed Islingham. Which was the truth. For the past four days, she’d mostly stayed at home and paced, cried, then paced some more, until the silence and stillness of the house drove her into the village to the orphanage.

But even here, amid the familiar noise and chaos of the children, her thoughts were not her own.

By now, Sebastian had undoubtedly found a lady to formally court, and she would have eagerly accepted, knowing he planned on marrying her. After all, what woman in her right mind would refuse a man like him? If a handsome, golden-blond duke with a brilliant mind and witty sense of humor, a wonderful family, and oh, so much passion inside him just waiting to burst out had offered forher—

But he hadn’t.

And never would.

Unable to stop herself from wallowing in misery, she folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself tightly as she wondered if Sebastian ever thought about her.

But of course he didn’t. She cursed her foolishness as she wiped at her wet eyes, a few tears apparently left in her after all. Why would he? What they’d shared was precious but fleeting, especially for a man like him who’d left a string of broken hearts fluttering in his wake over the years. By August, he’d most likely have forgotten all about what happened between them.

Butshewould never forget. And so she couldn’t remain here.

Islingham was her home, and after having experienced the disappointments of London, she never wanted to leave it again, content to spend the rest of her days here with the orphans and the people she loved. But that was impossible now. She would have to find a position someplace else as a governess or a teacher, perhaps as a manageress for another orphanage. But she had to be gone by August. Shehadto. Having to see Sebastian with his wife, to see the children she would give him and the home they would create together at Blackwood Hall…Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand hard against her chest and the shattered heart inside—Oh God, she simply couldn’t bear that!

“Miss!” Mr. Grundy ran into her office, hat in hand and visibly agitated. “Miss, come quickly!”

She sat up and swiped at her eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen the tears. But of course he’d seen them, although he was too kind to say anything. “What’s the matter, Mr. Grundy?”

“You’re needed in the rear garden—real quick!”

Panic flashed through her, and dread instantly replaced her own sorrow as her mind immediately feared the worst. The children! They’d been quiet all morning, and even though they’d been squirreled away in their classroom, they’d beentooquiet. And that was never good. She’d been too distracted by her own selfish problems to notice that something was wrong. If the children had hurt themselves because of her own self-pity, oh, she wouldneverbe able to forgive herself!

She jumped to her feet and ran through the building, out the kitchen door and into the garden—and stopped.

She stared and blinked in wonder. And utter bewilderment.

The space had been transformed. The small spot of lawn within the garden walls where the housekeeper normally hung the laundry to dry and where the children played their games now resembled a fairy-tale land. Pink satin streamers billowed among white sheets strung up like curtains, and dark red ribbons stirred gently on the warm afternoon breeze. Everywhere, there were roses…dozens and dozens of them in all colors and sizes, spilling out of buckets and vases, pitchers and barrels, and whatever else could hold them, right down to teacups big enough to hold only a single bud. Their sweet scent filled the air and surrounded her like a soft cloud from heaven. And in the center, fashioned of papier-mâché and wood, stood a miniature pagoda, exactly like the one at Vauxhall.

Around the small structure, the children had gathered in a group, all of them holding red roses. When they saw her, their faces lit with excitement and they began to sing.

“What is all this?” Miranda rested a stunned hand on Mr. Grundy’s arm as the handyman gently led her forward into the garden, a beaming smile on his weathered face. She laughed with incredulity; the happiness of the children and Mr. Grundy was infectious, despite the heavy weight that pressed onto her heart. And always would. “What play is this? I thought we were studyingRomeo and Julietthis—”

“You are.”

Her breath strangled at the sound of the deep voice, and her heart stopped.

Sebastian.

Like a ghost from her tortured dreams, he slowly stepped out from behind the rows of children and crossed the garden toward her. He held out his hand.

But Miranda didn’t move to go to him. She could only stand there, staring at the apparition of him and pressing her hand against her chest, as if she could physically hold back the stuttering lurch of her heart. Because he couldn’t be real. Hecouldn’tbe. He was in London with his family—

Yet the agonizing torment swirling inside her chest told her that hewasreal, that he wasn’t a dream that her fevered mind had conjured up from her desperate longing to see him again. As she stared at him, every pounding beat of her pulse was torture, and each step that brought him closer sliced new agony into her chest. But even now, as the anguished memory of his parting words flooded back to her, she couldn’t look away.

When he stopped in front of her, he reached to gently pull her hand away from her heart and folded his fingers over hers.

She flinched at the burn of his touch. She couldn’t help it, or the way her fingers trembled in his. Or the soft cry of pain when he raised her hand to his lips to kiss her palm. His handsome face blurred behind the tears that now streamed unbidden down her cheeks. Leaving him in London had been agonizing, but having him return to her here—unbearable!

“Miranda,” he whispered, sudden concern darkening his face as he cupped his palm against her cheek and brushed at her tears with his thumb. Behind him, the children continued with their song, and the sheets danced around them on the soft breeze. But inside her chest, the pain was blinding, so terrible that she could barely breathe. “Don’t cry, sweet. You know how much I hate it when you cry. This was supposed to make us happy.”

Happy?She forced back a sob of desolation. How on earth did he think that tormenting her like this could make them both happy? Unless…unless he was troubled about having to face his guilt every time he saw her in Islingham, unless he thought that making an elaborate enough apology would make them all get along again as if nothing had ever happened between them. Was that why he was here—anapology? Certainly, if she were willing to overlook what happened, to never give it another thought and go back to being no more than friends, life would be easier for him and his new bride. Her forgiveness would makehimhappy, even if it cut her into pieces.

Anger swelled inside her, and she stepped back, breaking contact with him, unable to bear it another second. Oh, this was so typical of the Carlisle brothers and the way they’d always handled their mistakes. The bigger their blunder, the bigger the apology they had to give in order to set it to rights. But there weren’t enough roses in Lincolnshire to heal the damage Sebastian had done to her heart. And she doubted if she could ever forgive him. She should laugh at him—yes! Make him see that he meant nothing to her. Or slap him for humiliating her once again by putting on this show.

Yet hurting him was the last thing she would ever do, because even now her foolish heart still loved him.