Chapter Text
She had planned to demure and back off at the first sign he didn’t welcome her advances. Truly, that had been her intention, and not just because she knew all too well how it felt when a person would not take ‘no’ for an answer. She wanted James to feel comfortable with her, not hunted.
But his 'no' hadn't felt like a no, not truly, not to her. He had said the word, he had instructed the carriage driver to take them back to her home instead of the art show, but his eyes had never stopped watching her. His gaze was unbearably soft and longing. Something - something only he knew of, buried deep behind his polite mask - was holding him back.
It was up to her to find a way around it, to find a way to keep him from denying himself something she could clearly see he wanted. It was possible it was a simple sense of propriety or a healthy fear of what would happen should they be discovered. Still, neither rang true for James as she knew him.
She leaned forward, closer to him. "I suspect you care more for what people see and think than you care about what we're actually doing behind closed doors."
"You think you know me so well?" James' defensive words were belied by his fond smile and by the way he mirrored her movements. He didn’t pull away or lean back when she reached across the space between them to grasp his hand.
“Perhaps you are right,” he murmured, his voice gone with an emotion she couldn’t recognize in him. She was still learning to read his expression, with a dedication usually reserved for her books and music.
"I always am, ask Thomas," she said sweetly, and he lifted their clasped hands to brush a kiss across her knuckles. He turned her hand, pressing a second, lingering, kiss to the center of her palm.
"Remind me to do that later. For now, my lady, allow me to indulge in your company for the length of our ride."
"Please Lieutenant, call me Miranda."
"Mm. Convince me to.” His free hand brushed a curl from her face as he leaned further into her space. She met him there, smiling against his lips.
"It would be my pleasure," she murmured against his lips when they paused to breathe.
In answer he lifted her up by the waist, drawing her into his lap, her skirts spilling around them. She shifted to more comfortably straddle him, her legs falling to rest just outside his. "I've been thinking about this since I opened my door to you this morning," he was whispering against her neck, and it wasn't fair, it wasn't right, that she had started this as the seducer and ended up the seduced.
"Then get to it, Lieutenant," she whispered back. "I trust you know what you're doing."
"As my lady wishes," he gasped, and he had them on the floor of the carriage and her skirts shoved up and out of the way in less than five seconds. She pushed away the excess fabric so that she could watch his face as he fumbled with the clothing left between them and entered her in one long stroke. "My God," she moaned, "James, I won't last long, you aren't the only one who has been thinking of this, please just move."
It took them less than five minutes, start to finish, and when they were done James shifted to lay beside her on his back as they caught their breath. It was graceless, frantic, and unromantic. And for her, it was extremely satisfying. She rolled over, sprawling across his chest. "Next time, we'll take the time for sweet words and touches," she told him, her voice husky and rough.
He raised his head and looked about them with a pointedly arched eyebrow. They were sprawled in a still moving carriage, drawing ever closer to the Hamilton Estate. “We’d better choose a more appropriate venue for such an occasion,” he said.
"Certainly," she said, and he laughed.
"A bed would not go amiss. I'd offer mine but you saw my lodgings. You and Thomas—” he cut himself off, turning his face away from her.
"James," she whispered, leaning up to kiss his face, his jaw, his neck, any piece of him she could reach that wasn't hidden under clothing. "Where did you go? Come back to me, darling, please. Thomas adores you and he gave us his blessing. Come back to me."
He turned back to her, leaning into her ministrations.
"My apologies, I didn’t mean to. . .”
"It's alright.” She continued to dote on him, kissing his face and brushing his tousled hair out of the way. "I adore you, Thomas adores you.” She felt him tremor at her words. “And next time we'll do this properly, in a bed at home, I promise."
She felt him sigh beneath her. "Miranda,” he said, “must I remind you that your home is not mine? It doesn't feel right to do this under his roof, no matter how adoring he is or how often he gives his blessing. It—it just makes me uncomfortable. I don't know why, it just does, I—“
She shifted off him slightly, planting her hands beside his head and looming above him. "No, stop, it is your home as well as ours for as long as we all want it to be so. In this case, James, we must let our sense of propriety go silent. Propriety never does anyone any good, not when it keeps us from happiness. We both want you there, in a bed by yourself, or with company, it's entirely up to you. Do you believe me?"
"Yes," he said, his voice a rich, warm rasp as he tugged her back on top of him, cushioning her on his broad chest. He stroked her hair. "Lord knows why, but I do believe you."
That silenced her. She was supposed to be coaxing him into giving in to his emotions, into allowing himself to reach for happiness. Instead, it was James who drew emotion from her as easily as he turned the pages of a book. All it took for him to undo her was a single moment of vulnerability, the slightest evidence of the depth of his feelings for her and Thomas and she found herself swamped in emotions. Affection, fondness, love. He was so reserved most of the time that when he did deign to show an emotion it always took her breath away for a moment.
"The carriage will arrive soon," he whispered, and she sighed, shifted.
"I know," she said, "will you come in and see Thomas?"
"That depends," he said, "you woke me from the first decent sleep I've had in several days—would he mind if I took a nap during my visit?"
"Do you really have to ask?"
"No, but it is fun to rile you up."
The next day, while James was at a meeting with the admiralty, Thomas cornered her in the library. "Your endeavor with James was successful, wasn't it?"
She set down the book of poetry she'd been flipping through. There was a moment's silence as she let his anticipation build and then she said, "yes."
"And yet he slept in the guest room alone. I was sure that he was going to invite you to join him after drinks last night."
She made no response.
"Was it me? Did I do something to discourage him?" He asked.
"No, my love, no," she said.
"Dinner went well, I had him talking about naval tactics and his ship again and he seemed so relaxed with us. He called us by our given names! But then he clammed up again over drinks. What am I doing wrong?"
Miranda crossed her legs, patting the cushion beside her on the couch in a silent invitation.
Once he sat, she grasped his hands in hers. “You did nothing wrong, my love. James is a hard nut to crack, it will take time. He comes from a different background, one where being eccentric isn't just something to be gossiped about but to be punished. We will have to ease him into this, yes?"
He nodded, fractionally. She squeezed his hands. "You have the harder job of waiting, I know, as I must be the one to draw him further in. But Thomas, it will be so worth it if he cares for us even half as much as we care for him." He turned his hands over to lace their fingers together and she smiled at him. “If he does, it will be magnificent. We will be magnificent."
Together they leaned in, resting their foreheads together. From what she could see, his face looked as intent as if he and James were once again pouring over their plans for Nassau. As if he could craft the future with his own hands if he just put enough effort and thought into it.
"I think we can safely say he cares for you the way we desire him to. So the question remains: does he care for me in that way?"
She nodded. "I believe he does, but I also believe he doesn't know that yet. I need more time, he needs more time," she continued, "can you be patient?"
"I thought that was what I was doing," he said, his tone rueful.
"Can you continue?"
"For you? For him? I could wait an eternity."
She smiled, shifting to rub her cheek against his and then to find his mouth and kiss him softly. "In the meantime, I think a distraction is in order."
When she had first met James, his appreciative looks at Thomas, at herself, had been noted and returned. He was physically handsome and his interest wasn't unwelcome. Her husband had spoken of him so often since meeting him that she had felt she knew him already.
It hadn’t taken much interaction to convince her that Thomas’ regard for the man was deserved and something she shared.
She had leaned out of her carriage and drawn his attention fully onto her. What’s your name, Lieutenant? she had asked.
McGraw, James McGraw, he had answered with a wry smile—he had guessed somehow that she already knew the answer to her question. They had spoken of Thomas then, and of what made great men: Great. It had been an auspicious start for them.
Their first time together had been in the back of that carriage and their second had been in the promised bed in a guest room at the estate. It had been as tender, gentle, and romantic as their first time had not been.
They went at it whenever they could carve out time alone, by common consent never at his lodgings and never in the bedroom she shared with Thomas. Once they had stayed up too late entertaining in the salon, had drunk too much wine, more than a little too much as it turned out. Their love-making had been so good that night that her guttural cries had drawn a concerned Thomas to the door of the guest room to check that they were both okay.
Christ, she had moaned, trying desperately to regain her composure so that Thomas would be assured of her health and leave before James turned so mortified that all their progress would be undone. She had managed to convince Thomas not to come into the room, her own embarrassment and the shame radiating off James eating at her insides. Until he had caught her hand and pulled her down to him. Hush, James had said, it's okay beautiful, it's all right.
We're alright, he had raised his voice to carry through the door to Thomas, we just got a bit carried away. That had been enough to convince Thomas to go back to his bed but Miranda hadn't been surprised when he hovered much closer the following day, concerned about her and about James.
I'll muffle my noises next time, she had told James matter-of-factly once Thomas was out of hearing range. He had sat up, taking her with him but still holding her to him.
Please don't, he had said, I like hearing you, and as she had kissed him, something had shifted in her chest, and she had thought: finally. Their time together had gotten more intense after that, more intimate, fueled more by affection than by lust. Those weeks together burned into her memory in a series of vivid images and feelings.
And then she had taken ill—she'd always been prone to sickness as a child and when the weather grew cold she had caught a cough that exhausted her.
She had roused to see James' face over her, white and drawn with worry, and saying nothing but Miranda, Miranda in a tone she had never heard from him before. Thomas had swum into view behind him, one hand on James' shoulder and the other reaching down to wipe at her face with a damp cloth.
When she had groaned and curled onto her side for another bout of coughing James had rubbed her back gently, pressing his face into the curve of her shoulder. Thomas bustled around them, fetching water and tea and taking his own turn comforting her.
The next morning when the worst had passed and Thomas had left to wash up, James had leaned over to kiss her forehead and then said, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do this anymore.
She had nodded, had expected that he would pull away at some point. Shame was a hard emotion to overcome, but she had been surprised at the twist in her stomach, at the pain, it summoned in her. Alright, she had said, trying for a light tone, what part can't you do?
He hadn’t smiled but he also hadn’t leaned away. I have to get some distance, and I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner.
Realize what?
I'm in love with you, he had said, I love you and Thomas is my best friend, and every time we go behind his back with his blessing, something inside me breaks a little more. I know you love him, that I can't hold a candle to what the two of you share, so it's better for all of us if I remove myself from the situation.
Oh, she had said, Is that all? I'm in love with you too, James, darling, and Thomas knows. She had looked at him, and he had bent to kiss her, and he had stayed. Together he and Thomas had looked after her, doted on her as much as their schedules allowed as she had recovered. She hadn't known it was possible to feel as loved as she had in those days, some part of her had never wanted it to end, even if it meant living with a perpetual illness.
The three of them had found a balance after that, spending time all together and in pairs. She and James kept each other company when Thomas held court in salons across London, she and Thomas continued their easy and loving relationship when James was called away by the Navy, James and Thomas argued and debated over their plan for Nassau, and all three of them read together in the library and discussed their favorite books.
They may have continued on like that indefinitely, if not for Lord Alfred Hamilton, Thomas' father.
“I find his motivations just and true and I find yours to be wanting, sir,” James said, his tone as firm and unyielding as she imagined it was when he commanded a ship. It was not the kind of tone anyone took with the elder Hamilton and Miranda bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. “I think it is time you took your leave.”
Alfred Hamilton stood, throwing his napkin down on the table. He took a long look at each of them, lingering on her until she shuddered and averted her gaze, remembering the harsh words he'd had for her moments prior. She knew Thomas and James didn’t see her that way—that they didn't think she was a harlot—but hearing it spoken aloud in their presence was humiliating.
“You will come to regret this night, Lieutenant McGraw,” he said before striding from the room.
It was silent in the dining room save for the crackle of the fire and the sound of their breathing. She collapsed back into her chair, her hands clasping in her lap where no one would see them shake. Some days, she wished her men were a little less noble and brave than they were.
James was still standing by his chair, his gaze fixed on where his hands were clutching the backrest. His knuckles were white and she wished to go to him and comfort him, but it wasn’t her he needed at that moment. Thomas had always been the better comforter, in any case, as she preferred to provoke and tease the people she cared about out of a bad mood. She wasn't good at comforting as such.
“Did you just ask my father to leave his own house?” Thomas asked as he slowly stood as well. His words trembled with incredulity and James flinched away from him.
“I,” he said hoarsely, “yes, I suppose I did.”
“James—“
“You’re a good man Thomas. More should say it, and someone should be willing to defend it.”
“Oh,” Thomas said.
“I apologize if I overstepped—if I created problems for you, either of you. But I won’t apologize for defending you.” He raised his head and she could see the determined turn of his mouth, the glint in his eyes daring them to condemn him and throw him aside.
Thomas crossed the room to him and Miranda knew what would come next. He reached out to cradle James’ face, his movements slow and exaggerated so that he would have time to turn away, and for a moment James leaned back, his stubbornness fading to confusion. Thomas followed the movement, his thumbs stroking across James’ cheeks. His touch was tender and gentle and everything she knew James would never to think to ask for.
“Do you love me?” Thomas asked.
Miranda had never seen either of her men look quite the way they did at that moment, so vulnerable and yet so willing to reach out to each other.
“Yes, I do,” James said, glancing at her to include her in the statement before returning his focus to Thomas, “more than my life.”
“And I love you.”
James shook his head, his disbelief visible to her from across the room, “I don’t understand why.”
“Because you’re James, a good man, a fine lieutenant who challenges me on my ideas and makes me better for it. Because you care for and defend me and my wife when you have no obligation to do so, because of so many little things I could spend my life enumerating them. I want to spend my life doing just that.”
James learned in and Thomas met him in a kiss so soft she found herself holding her breath. When they parted James crushed Thomas to him and she watched as her husband held him close as he shuddered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my temper got away from me, I don’t know what I was thinking.” And Thomas just kept saying “hush, it’s alright. Our timetable will move up, it's alright, we’ll find a way to work around my father, hush now, James, it's alright, I will make it alright.”
Miranda looked away—she hoped Thomas was right but she worried that this dinner had set them all down a road that would only lead to their doom.