Page 63 of If the Duke Demands

CHAPTERTWELVE

Thunder rumbled through the silence of his room, and Sebastian stirred from sleep. His eyes opened slowly to the gray darkness of a morning rainstorm striking at the windows, the coals in the fireplace now completely cold. But the bed was warm. He smiled as he languidly stretched. He’d awoken happier than he had in years, and his body ached pleasantly in places where it hadn’t ached in far too long. All because of Miranda.

“Rose,” he whispered blissfully as he rolled over, “are you—”

The bed was empty. He flung back the coverlet and bolted to his feet to search for her. She wasn’t in the adjoining sitting room nor in the connecting bedchamber after that. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.

She was gone.

He scrambled into a pair of trousers and yanked a shirt over his head, then charged from his room to search the house for her. But the town house was quiet, and there was no sign that she’d been there at all last night, except for the small stain of blood on his sheet where he’d taken her innocence and the scent of rosewater, which still clung to his skin.

He charged downstairs. The frustrating woman had left him in the middle of the night, without a chance to say good-bye or explain to her the way things had to be between them going forward. She’dleft, damn it! When she should have stayed all night, when she should have been emotional and clingy like any other woman would have been. Oh no, not her—she never did as expected, not even in intimacy. She’d sneaked out under the cover of darkness as if she’d never been there at all. As if last night meant nothing to her.

Andthatbothered him most of all.

He flung open the breakfast room door and caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. “Miranda!”

Quinn turned away from the buffet, his heaping plate in his hand, and popped a sweet roll into his mouth. “Why would Miranda be here?” he mumbled around the roll.

Why, indeed? Sebastian’s shoulders sagged with more disappointment than he wanted to admit. He’d been looking forward to spending the morning with her, to prolonging their night together. He’d felt more relaxed and at peace last night with Miranda than he had in the company of any other woman in his entire life. And he felt more alive than he had in years. For a few hours, she’d lifted the weight from his shoulders, and he’d wanted that lightness and sense of freedom to last as long as possible before the burden settled back onto him. Even now he felt his back growing tighter.

But Quinton was still staring at him in bewilderment, still waiting for an answer.

He forced a casual shrug. “Mother mentioned something last night about Miranda bringing something over this morning sometime,” he muttered as he slumped down into his chair. Well,thatwas certainly vague. But the answer seemed to satisfy Quinn, whose attention had already returned to the kippers piled on his plate. “I thought I heard the front door.”

“Must have been Saunders fetching the post.” Quinn sat at the table and snatched up the morningTimes, which the butler had already ironed and left at Sebastian’s place. Then he glanced up and frowned with concern. “You look like hell this morning.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled, stealing a slice of bacon from his brother’s plate and taking a bite. Hefeltlike hell this morning.

“So…you had a woman in your room last night.”

Sebastian choked.

Quinn slapped him hard on the back with an appreciative grin. “Sowing wild oats before you’re leg-shackled, then?”

He rolled his eyes. Leave it to Quinn to bring up his search for a wife, something he hadn’t thought about since he parted from Lady Jane at Vauxhall. That moment now seemed like years ago rather than less than one day, and something that felt as if it had happened to someone other than him.

Quinton arched a brow, his eyes shining mischievously. “And how is Lady Jane this morning?”

“It wasn’t Jane Sheridan,” he corrected in a growl, despite knowing that Quinn was simply baiting him. Then he came as close as he could without openly lying— “It was a woman from Vauxhall.” There was no point in denying he had company last night. He should have known he would never be able to keep Miranda quiet, not with all that eager passion bubbling inside her. Nor had he wanted to. One of the things he liked best about her was her exuberance. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a long swallow of the black liquid, letting it burn down his throat. “Jane Sheridan isn’t the kind of woman who has trysts in a gentleman’s bedroom.”

“Pity.” Quinn sighed in exaggerated disappointment and returned his attention to the newspaper. He asked with mock solemnity, “Still set on marrying her anyway?”

Instead of laughing at his brother’s teasing—or even scowling at him—Sebastian stared down into his coffee as fresh guilt rose inside him. What happened last night with Miranda was special and amazing, a wonderful gift he wasn’t certain he deserved. Yet it didn’t change the fact that he’d promised his father to find a proper duchess to represent the title and his family’s legacy. Or that Miranda, with her pirate plays and boisterous laughter, was not that woman.

But the events of last night had proven one very important point to him with complete certainty—Lady Jane Sheridan would never be his wife.

“No,” he said somberly, raking his fingers through his bed-mussed hair. “I’m not marrying Jane.”

Quinn froze in mid-chew, his eyes darting to his brother. “Are you certain? She seems perfect.”

“She is.” Janewasperfect in every way—perfect for some other man.

He frowned, puzzled. “I thought she was at the top of your list.”

“She was. But not any longer.” He gulped down half a cup of coffee, wishing Quinton would talk about something other than his hunt for a wife. He couldn’t even entertain the thought this morning of courting anyone, not when his skin still smelled of Miranda. Not when his chest continued to ache with disappointment that she wasn’t here with him.

“But you’re still planning on finding a wife this season, then?” Quinn pressed.