“Of course not.” He beamed at her. “Since you required two carriages of provisions to be sent ahead, this was the only vehicle remaining in my stables. Short of having the two of us travel with the cookery, fruits, and ice, this is the best I can provide.”
A lie. Rhys had more carriages at his disposal. But he hadn’t been about to lose this opportunity to be alone with her for the duration of the journey to Wingfield Hall.
“You did manage to find everything I requested?” she asked, her agile mind now going to the task awaiting her.
A suitable distraction for the moment. At least until it was truly too late to turn around and deliver her back to safety.
“My servants are unparalleled,” he told her. “I cannot accept the praise that is due them. All I did was provide them with your intricately detailed list.”
She nodded. “Yes, that is quite good. And as for the items I needed from my school? My ice caves?”
Rhys still didn’t know what the bloody hell an ice cave was, but he didn’t want to ask. “Naturally.”
Another nod. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused, frowning. “But you must see how inappropriate it is for me to travel anywhere with you.”
“If it is up to me, you shall be doing far more interesting things with me than traveling in a boring carriage to Hertfordshire before our association is done,” he said.
Her raven eyebrows winged upward, her emerald eyes widening. “I have already told you, anything improper is out of the question.”
“On the contrary. Nothing is out of the question.” He decided to relent, not wanting to push her too far. They had time aplenty. “However, I will accept your refusal of my suit.”
Her shoulders stiffened, the pose of a warrior goddess going into battle. “I would hardly call making me your mistress pressing your suit. You are not courting me. There is nothing proper about this set of circumstances.”
“I don’t court, my dear Miranda. I fuck.”
She gasped. “Your Grace!”
Well, blast. There went his attempt at trying not to push her too far. And so soon. Still, it was worth it to watch the color creeping back into her cheeks, the flush traveling up her creamy throat beyond the maddening set of buttons bisecting her bodice. Her allure was so potent, he could practically taste it on his tongue. He couldn’t recall ever wanting a woman more.
“Forgive me.” He winked at her. “I am sometimes too forthright for my own good, I’m told.”
Her gloved fingers were twisting on her reticule, worrying it, her lush lips tightened. “I will not… I have no intention of… You may do whatever it is you like with someone else. This is a business arrangement. I am providing your guests with desserts for a week. That is all.”
Watching her attempt to avoid repeating what he had just said made his cock twitch. If only she knew how tempting she was, she would likely pitch herself from the conveyance here and now, the danger to herself be damned.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Unless you change your mind, that is.”
“I shan’t.”
Rhys smiled. “As you wish.”
“You say that in a tone of disbelief or perhaps mockery, as if I could not possibly refuse you.”
“To be fair, no woman has.”
Her nostrils flared as she sucked in air. “Then I shall be the first.”
Rhys said nothing, merely continued smiling.
She could keep telling herself that all she liked. They both knew it wouldn’t be true.
She was trappedin a hell of her own foolish making.
Trapped in a carriage with the Duke of Whitby, who was unfairly dashing this morning, his hat settled on the squabs at his side to reveal his blond hair. Sunlight was presently streaming through the slats of the Venetian blinds, making his wavy locks glint as if they were fashioned of spun gold. His longlegs were stretched out, his ankles crossed, his trousers brushing her skirts with each sway of the carriage over the roads carrying them farther from London.
Farther from sanity as well, it seemed.
This was her fault.
