Instead of crossing the threshold, she peered around his shoulder. “It looks lovely, thank you.”
“I won’t go inside with you,” he said on a sigh. “I promise.”
Not unless you issue an invitation, he added silently.
Giving him a stern look of spinsterish admonishment that was at odds with the passionate woman he sensed hiding beneath her prim exterior, she swept over the threshold and into the room.
“There,” he murmured, leaning his hip into the doorjamb and unapologetically watching her as she skirted the chamber, taking interest in thebric-à-bracscattered about. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
She paused and cast a suspicious glance over her shoulder, making certain he had kept his word. “Not terribly.” Clever as ever, she pointed to the door adjoining her chamber to his. “Where does that lead?”
“To the chamber next door,” he answered smoothly. “Never fear. It locks on both sides.”
With purposeful strides, she moved to the door, testing it in a blatant show of distrust. And, well, he could scarcely blame her, could he? Rhys was not exactly trustworthy where she was concerned. But he hadn’t lied about the locking mechanism. Her test proved the door to be sturdy and soundly locked from his side. Not that she knew whose chamber was on the other side of hers.
Yet.
“Good.” She nodded, turning back to him, all business. “Who has the bedchamber next door?”
Blast. He was going to have to deceive her. He didn’t dare reveal the truth just yet.
“At present, no one.” He flashed her a grin, deciding it was time they parted ways until dinner. “Now, I should allow you to freshen yourself after an arduous day of travel. Your cases will be brought round, and the maid assigned to you will see to the unpacking. The bellpull is in the corner should you require anything at all, and if you need me before the dinner gong, any of the servants will direct you to me.”
“Oh.” She fussed with her skirts, looking suddenly like the sails of a ship bereft of wind. “Yes, of course.”
“Never say you miss me already, Miranda,” he teased, secretly pleased at the notion.
“Certainly not,” she denied hastily.
Too hastily.
She’d been caught.
Rhys pressed a hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “O lovely maiden, how you wound me so. My vanity shall never recover from this mortal blow.”
She laughed then, the sound clear and gorgeous, as sacred as a church bell calling the faithful. As quickly as her mirth emerged, it was gone. She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle it, looking horrified with herself for deigning to find him amusing.
“Your vanity appears to be quite omnipotent, Your Grace,” she said, sobering.
She wasn’t wrong. Women adored him, and he knew it. He was handsome. He was wealthy. He was a duke. He had a big cock. Life had blessed him immeasurably in most ways.
Except the ones that mattered most.
He banished that stupid thought at once.
“Do you hear that sound?” he asked theatrically, cupping a hand to his ear.
“No.” Her inky brows knitted together in an expression he recognized. “What is it?”
“Come here,” he urged her.
She moved nearer with a hesitant air, just as he imagined she might approach a strange mongrel who she was not certain would either kiss her hand or lick it. “What sound, Your Grace?”
He waited until she had drawn almost close enough to touch, before answering. “The shattering sound of my pride cracking and disintegrating before you.”
Miranda stopped, still clutching the worn reticule that he knew from their carriage ride contained a similarly shabby fan. “You bounder. I believed you.”
“And there is a very important lesson for you to learn, Miranda.” He flashed another grin. “You ought to never trust me. Not completely.”
