Her eyes widened. “You promised?—”
“Oh, not about something as boring as money,” he interrupted, waggling his fingers at her. “You will have the other half of your funds at the week’s end. And more, I hope, later.”
“Just the three thousand pounds,” she insisted.
“For now,” he agreed, pushing away from the doorjamb and straightening. “But I truly dare not tarry a moment longer here. The hour grows late, and soon, we will meet again for dinner. Until then, my dear Miranda.”
He offered her a bow and then turned on his heel and strode back down the hall from whence they had come.
“Miss Lenox,” she called after him sharply, sounding vexed.
As always, her ire was an aphrodisiac. Rhys couldn’t recall the last time he’d ever had this much bloody fun.
Miranda staredat her reflection in the looking glass, unable to shake the feeling that had been chasing her from the moment her host had left her to explore her room earlier.
The Duke of Whitby was the spider.
And Miranda?
She was the hapless fly. Ingloriously trapped. Awaiting the spider’s leisure.
“Are you certain you don’t wish to wear the blue silk, Mrs. Loveless?”
The query drove Miranda from her musings. She turned to the lady’s maid who had been assigned her for an extortionate fee, if Whitby was to be believed, a girl with a round, friendly visage and the seemingly endless cheer of the young and unjaded. Along with Miranda’s cases, a particularly suspicious trunk of gowns had arrived. Gowns that did not belong to her.
Which meant that the Duke of Whitby had somehow procured a small wardrobe for Miranda during the last week. Naturally, she had decided to eschew the dubious gift, opting instead to don another of her no-nonsense gray gowns. She may be the fly, but she still had wings.
“This gown shall suffice, Green,” she reassured the younger woman.
The lady’s maid gave Miranda’stoilettea somber look over her shoulder. “Of course, madam. The gray does complement your eyes well.”
They both knew that was a lie. Gray was not a becoming hue on Miranda. With her black hair and pale skin, she looked like an apparition risen from a grave. But she didn’t wish to look her finest this evening. Far from it. Moreover, the gown alsobuttoned to the throat, unlike the daring bodice on the blue silk evening gown.
Yes, it would suit admirably for her purpose.
“Thank you,” she told the lady’s maid. “Do you know when the other guests will be arriving?”
“Tomorrow, Mrs. Loveless.” Green frowned at Miranda. “Are you certain I can’t help with your hair? I know a lovely Grecian braid.”
At least Whitby had not been deceiving her about a house party, then. From the moment they had arrived to an empty estate, with no other guests set to arrive that day, Miranda had been suspicious.
Miranda’s hair was scraped into a severe chignon, wound so tightly at her nape that it was already beginning to give her a headache. “Thank you, Green, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Of course, Mrs. Loveless. Will you require anything else from me?”
The name felt strange. Miranda only hoped she could remind herself to continue answering to it for the duration of her time in Hertfordshire.
She forced a smile she didn’t feel, a liquid sense of anticipation settling in her stomach. “That will be all.”
The lady’s maid dipped into a curtsy, but before she could leave, a muffled sound from the chamber next door cut through the quiet of the room.
“Green,” she called, spinning away from the mirror.
The younger woman halted. “Yes, madam?”
“Is someone staying in the chamber adjoining mine?”
Fresh pink suffused the girl’s cheeks and throat. “Yes, Mrs. Loveless.”
