Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(42)

“Heaven help the woman you decide to marry,” Mira said gruffly. “One woman will never be enough to satisfy you!”

“Oh, I disagree. I plan to mend my philandering ways after I marry. Since I’ll demand absolute fidelity from my wife, it’s only fair for me to pledge the same, don’t you think?”

“Oh. Yes, I think that’s very… very…”

“Practical,” he said as she floundered for the right word. “Much more convenient, not to mention less expensive than keeping a wife and a mistress. But it makes the task of finding a suitable match far more difficult.”

Mira was disturbed by the turn of the conversation. It’s obvious, she thought unhappily, that I’m not the kind of woman that someone like him could marry. But if I were going to be someone’s mistress, then… it wouldn’t be that terrible to be Alec’s. It wouldn’t be that bad at all.

“I guess your standards are exacting,” she commented dully.

“Exacting, but not impossible to uphold. I’m very fair-minded.” His smile was taunting. “Why, if it weren’t for your temper, your disreputable past, and your habit of scowling at me, you’d probably be high in the running.”

Why did he love to bait her so?

“I don’t know why I bother talking to you,” Mira said shortly.

“I do. Because for the most part, I don’t condemn you for what you are. Because I’m cut from the same cloth, and in an odd way the two of us suit each other.”

How could he say that? Mira wondered, wanting tolaugh and cry at his words. He did not know what she really was, the daughter of a prostitute. Cut from the same cloth? Even if that were true, there were too many significant distinctions between them. They were opposites in every way. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he interrupted her.

“Don’t bother denying it. You have a quick mind and can see right through the superficial airs of those around you. So can I. You don’t genuinely respect many people… neither do I.”

“You obviously don’t respect me or you wouldn’t be speaking to me so rudely,” Mira replied, her ears burning. “If this is your idea of sympathy, reciting a list of my faults—”

“But they’re not faults, my precious brat. I’m complimenting you.”

“I wish that you would stop giving me insults and telling me they’re compliments, and giving me compliments that are insults in disguise!”

“If my company begins to worry you, you can always leave,” Alec suggested, and laughed as she did exactly that.

The clock struck eleven. Mira sat at her dressing table in a small lyre-backed chair, resting her chin in a small palm. The glow from a single candle was reflected in the shield-shaped looking glass, shining on her face and across the mahogany surface of the table. In the looking glass she could see the shadowed images of her surroundings, illuminated by the starlight that shone through her windows. Her turret room was filled with feminine, delicate furniture, woodwork painted white, walls papered with an intricate rose design, frilled curtains and draperies. Gowns and pelisses were stored in the mahogany armoire, gloves and hats in the brass-inlaid cupboard. It was a light and airy room, filled with knickknacks of painted pottery, needlework samplers, china ornaments. Therehad once been a time when she could never have even imagined a place such as this, when she could never have pictured herself in the midst of such luxury. Thick toweling, polished oak floors, and ivory-handled brushes had once been unknown to her.

Living with Rosalie and Rand Berkeley at the Chateau d’Angoux had given her the first taste of this kind of life. Rather than being intimidated by such a foreign world, Mira had immediately taken to it. She was curious and possessed a sharp, accurate memory; learning had never presented a problem to her. She soaked up language and knowledge readily, she learned to imitate more gentle manners until they had become second nature to her. Given enough time, Mira could adapt to any situation. It was a necessary talent. If she had not been able to do this, she would never have survived beyond her first few years of life. She had been many things so far: an actress, a chambermaid, a companion, a mistress. What other parts would she have to play in the future? Only time would tell.

Curiously she stared into the mirror, wondering what it was about her face that continuously gave her away to Alec Falkner. Why was he able to read her so easily? As she stared into the wide brown eyes, the reflection dissolved, and all she could see was her brother’s face, her brother’s eyes. Despite the fact that their fathers had been different, she and Guillaume could have been twins.

Mira closed her eyes and rubbed her temples tiredly, but Guillaume’s image remained in front of her. Dark, bittersweet eyes the color of autumn, a flashing smile that could signify friendliness, slyness, or merry good humor, hair so deep brown that it was almost black, curling slightly over his forehead. Mira did believe that he had truly loved her. But how strange, when they had parted years ago… how strange it had been for her to find that the brother who had always seemed to be so wise and knowing had the capability of beingso brutal in his greed, so cruel in his desperation. She understood his hunger for the security of money, but she could not forgive what that hunger had prompted him to do. Hurting other people was bad enough, and she was guilty of that to the same degree that he was. But destroying them intentionally was unforgivable… and Guillaume had known just as well as Mira that to separate Rand Berkeley and Rosalie for good would have destroyed them both in the slowest and most unmerciful way.