She need not have agreed to the rogue’s scandalous invitation. She could have turned away from the three thousand pounds he had offered, particularly after he’d made his true intentions known. And yet, she had not. She had believed herself capable of remaining unaffected by his handsome face, his charm, and his every heated, rakish look that suggested they ought to adjourn to a bedroom at once.
Digging into her reticule, she fished out a fan. Heavens, she was overheating. With a snap of her wrist, it opened, and she proceeded to wave the stagnant air in an attempt to cool herself. But that was all wrong, because the air smelled of him. And he smelled despicably inviting. Like a forbidden forest tinged with musk and sin. It didn’t help that he was so elegant, so sure of himself, so quick-witted and confident, everything she could not resist.
And then, there were his words. His wicked, wicked words.I don’t court, my dear Miranda. I fuck.
She went even hotter just thinking about them again. How would she survive the week? How would she resist him? He was like the sun, burning hot and bright, dangerous to look upon for too long.
At the moment, resistance was not her problem, at least. Because the Duke of Whitby was sound asleep. Head tipped back to reveal the sturdy column of his throat, his Adam’s apple a prominent bulge, his lips parted, his breathing even, those storm-filled eyes thankfully closed.
How could he sleep in a time like this?
He had cozened her into sharing a carriage with him, said all manner of sinful, wrong things, had scorched her with his words, with his stare, with his blatant intent to seduce her. And her body had a mind of its own, still reeling. Still filled with unbearable, unwanted desire. She was not meant to be a creature of passion. She was meant to remain stoic. To cling to her honor. She needed her reputation.
She was beyond discomfited. She was…bothered. She wasoverheated.
Miranda shifted on her seat, pressing her thighs together to stave off the unsettling ache between them. But it was no use. The longing just persisted—if anything, growing stronger. And meanwhile, her fellow passenger was blissfully asleep.
Why couldn’t he snore?
Or drool?
Why did he have to be so unfairly breathtaking and elegant and handsome, even in slumber? She huffed an irritated sigh and fussed with her skirts to distract herself.
“Are you uncomfortable, Miranda?”
The velvet-soft question had her gaze jolting back to Whitby, whose eyes were still closed.
“I thought you were asleep.”
His lips curved upward in a slight smile. “Merely resting. Do you know I had to wake despicably early today? Ye gods, I daresay it was even before the sun rose. A terrible travesty, really. Travel can be so tiresome.”
“I have been awake for hours already,” she told him pointedly. “Rising with the sun is good for one’s constitution.”
He opened his eyes, nary a hint of drowsiness in their glittering depths. “I would beg to differ.”
Of course, it would not be done for a duke to rise early. Waking at dawn was for lower classes. But Miranda now found herself in a curious world where she no longer belongedanywhere. She had been born a lady, but the scandal of her divorce had stripped her of everything, save a few treasured, loyal friends. Even her own family had disavowed her.
But she mustn’t dwell on such unpleasantness, for the Duke of Whitby was watching her again. Seeing too much, she feared.
“On this matter, we shall have to agree to disagree,” she told him, attempting a politic air she scarcely felt.
“I might be persuaded of the merits of rising early, given the right reason,” he drawled.
There was no mistaking the underlying implications in his smooth baritone. Or in his frank gaze. He was challenging her.
She whipped her fan back and forth, thinking she would need to gird herself for his full assault over the coming days. The Duke of Whitby was like a cavalry brigade charging determinedly across an open field, and she wasn’t certain she possessed the defenses to stay the enemy racing toward her.
“A dog,” she ventured.
His golden brows drew together. “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
“I said that if you require early-morning persuasion, you ought to get a dog. I had one as a girl, and she was remarkably adept at urging me from slumber each day.”
He chuckled. “Somehow, I find the notion of a little Miranda being awakened by a hound ridiculously endearing.”
There was an open warmth in his smile, in his voice, that had been absent from her life in the wake of the scandal. But even before her divorce from Ammondale, it had been far too long since a gentleman had looked at her or spoken to her with such intense regard. Perhaps not ever. Her debut and the beaux who had gallantly courted her seemed a lifetime ago now. The closest she had come to male affection had been her dear friend the Marquess of Waring, but their relationship had been strictly platonic.
Either way, she mustn’t be charmed, just as she must not lower her guard.
