“With your cream ices and those delicious cornets of yours,” he added, chuckling. “Pray, don’t grow vexed with me before we’ve even had the chance to sup. I’m ravenous.”
For some odd reason she didn’t care to investigate, the way he said the word ravenous sent a frisson down her spine.
She gritted her teeth and smiled. “Then by all means, Your Grace, let us descend to dinner without tarrying another moment longer.”
“I do think I would happily starve if it meant lingering anywhere with you for but a moment.” His voice was low and deep and pleasant. Intimate.
Here was the rakehell, the charmer, she reminded herself. The man she must at all costs resist.
“What a fanciful notion,” she said, willing herself to remain unmoved. “I hardly think one moment of anyone’s time would be worth forgoing dinner.”
“How wrong you are, Miranda dear.” His blue eyes flicked down over her, and a sudden frown drew his brows together. “Why are you still dressed like a spinsterly governess?”
She moved to release her hold on his arm, but he clamped a hand over hers, keeping her from withdrawing. “I am dressed like a woman who has a care for her reputation. And I am wearing my own gown because that is what is proper. You cannot buy me gowns, Your Grace.”
“I didn’t buy them. I borrowed them.”
Jealousy seared her, the thought of him borrowing the castoffs of a former lover making her stomach tip. “I will not wear gowns you’ve loaned from a mistress.”
“Oh, they don’t belong to Beatrice.”
She had begun walking with him, but now she nearly stumbled at the mentioning of another woman by name. The envy flared into a roaring fire. “Youdohave a mistress, then?”
“Of course not. I did have an understanding with Beatrice, but she was married, and quite respectable, believe it or not.” He shrugged. “We have parted ways, but rest assured that the gowns do not hail from Beatrice’s wardrobe. Such an arrangement would be wholly inappropriate. For one thing, your breasts are much larger.”
She gasped in outrage. “Your Grace, I must demand that you cease such unnecessary crudeness.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Miranda dear. Your bubbies are nothing short of luscious. I can see that quite plainly despite your every effort to hide them in restrictive corsets and bodices more suited to a nun.”
Miranda almost tripped over her hems as they descended the staircase. “Your Grace!”
He sighed. “I do so wish I could persuade you to call me Rhys.”
“Who did you borrow the gowns from?” she asked, even though she didn’t want the answer.
“A friend.”
His enigmatic response left her feeling no better.
“A female friend,” she repeated.
“My dear Miss Lenox,” he drawled, “I do believe I hear just a hint of jealousy souring your dulcet voice.”
He was baiting her. There was no other explanation for what the Machiavellian man was doing.
“Don’t be silly,” she snapped, irritated with him as much as with herself. “Why should I care if you have a bevy of women from whom you may borrow gowns on a whim?”
“She truly is a friend and nothing more.” The fingers over hers tightened ever so slightly as they reached the foot of the staircase. “You need not fret. Ever since I made the acquaintance of one particular lady, I find myself decidedly uninterested in all the rest.”
He was speaking of her.
Was he not?
And why did a weak part of her secretly rejoice at the notion that he was?
“Hmm,” was all she said in response, because she was incapable of coherent speech just now.
Everything about this man had her at sixes and sevens. His nearness, his scent—this time with the added allure of shaving soap and the fresh, musky notes of his bath—his voice, his hold on her, his teasing words. Every part of him.
