Win her.
To seduce her.
But as they had decamped from the dining room and she had accepted his offer of a cordial in the library, it had become increasingly apparent to him that his Miranda was not in any state for wooing.
Instead, they had sat together before the ornate marble fireplace, chatting about everything from cream ices to poetry to art until she had gone abruptly silent. She had fallen asleep sitting up, her head tilted back and her lips parted.
“Poor lamb,” he had murmured, settling her into a more comfortable position against his side.
And there she had remained, not even waking when he had shifted her so she might use his person as a pillow. There was presently a fine patch of drool darkening the black of his coat, and he didn’t even care. From the little she had shared with him about her divorce and the ensuing scandal and her family’s severing of ties with her, he could glean that she had been through the fiery flames of hell.
Somehow, she had emerged from it all a businesswoman determined to see her school of cookery thrive and succeed. She had earned this rest. And he couldn’t deny there was something pleasing about the way she had trustingly melted against him. The way she had burrowed into his shoulder and slumbered.
He had never, in all his days, dreamt that the act of a woman falling asleep upon him would make him feel as he did now—strangely warm in the darkest cockles of his heart he had believed long dead and cold, a searing sense of rightness lodged behind his collarbone. That last was most concerning of all.
Hell, perhaps he was in his cups as well, and he just didn’t know it. Surely that was the reason a seasoned, jaded rake such as himself would remain as he was, listening to Miranda’s sleep breathing, her perfume coiling around him like a rope. His cock wasn’t even hard. He had simply been sitting here for Christ knew how long, enjoying her presence and proximity.
Liking the way she felt against him.
He sighed. Yes, likely he was soused as well. He’d never even shared a bed with one of his lovers after fucking. The act of sleeping with another, of the expectations that might accompany such an intimacy, had always made him flee. Strangely, he had no urge to run now. Instead, he was plagued by a persistent, protective urge where she was concerned.
Her bloody family had disowned her. He wasn’t sure which bothered him the most, her family’s lack of loyalty where she was concerned or the upset they had caused her. There had beentears shimmering in her eyes earlier when she had spoken of them, and after that lone tear had spilled down her cheek, he had been overtaken by the simultaneous urge to slam his fist into her father’s jaw and to hold her in his arms and soothe her.
He couldn’t shake the all-consuming notion that she washis, damn it. That he ought to tear off to London at once and give her arsehole family the dressing down they so richly deserved for abandoning Miranda to whatever fate awaited her. He had no right to feel that way, and he knew it. He had hired her ostensibly for her culinary expertise for the next week, and perhaps even to warm his bed for the next month if he had his way. But he wasn’t meant to have feelings for her.
This was all wrong. That didn’t mean he didn’t savor these remaining moments he had her all to himself. Tomorrow would inevitably arrive, and with it, an influx of guests he would be expected to entertain.
Moving slowly, he extricated his pocket watch from his waistcoat to consult the time. Half past one. Damn it all, he regretted volunteering to host this house party. The lack of anticipation was deuced odd. Ordinarily, he looked forward to the debauchery that inevitably happened at the Wicked Dukes Society house parties. The members of their club paid a small fortune to be assured of both secrecy and carnal abandon in equal measure. Rhys had always enjoyed the revelries. But now in the shadows of the night, the glow of the fire dancing on the walls, he wished he had spirited Miranda to his own country seat instead.
They wouldn’t have been interrupted. He would have been free to seduce her at leisure. To allow her to sleep in his arms in the library. To savor her. But tomorrow would come far too soon, and he also needed to warn her about the true nature of the house party. She was going to be furious with him when she discovered it.
But her outrage would be too late, just as he had planned. She was already in Hertfordshire where he wanted her, the fifteen hundred pounds he had paid her having been applied to her cookery school’s debts.
Rhys swiftly banished an accompanying pang of conscience at the thought of how thoroughly he had deceived her. He had merely done whatever was necessary to persuade Miranda to join him here. And he would compensate her handsomely, both in pleasure and monetary gain.
He allowed a few more minutes to tick by on his pocket watch before reluctantly pocketing it once again. He knew he could not continue delaying the inevitable.
Gently, Rhys stroked a wisp of hair from her cheek that had worked itself free of the unforgiving knot at her nape. “Miranda, sweeting.”
She mumbled something he couldn’t identify and then nestled closer, like a kitten seeking solace from its mother. Only, Miranda was no kitten, and he was decidedly not her mother.
“Miranda,” he tried again, his voice a bit louder this time.
“Mmm,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Better than my favorite cream ice.”
“What is?” he asked, curious, even though he knew she was still half asleep.
She gave an indelicate snort and smacked her lips.
Rhys stifled a chuckle. Dear God, she was nothing short of delectable. A fresh wave of something built in his chest, strong and forceful. Something that felt remarkably like tenderness.
But no, surely that was wrong.
He scarcely knew this woman. And he, Rhys Northwick, Duke of Whitby, did not develop tender feelings for the women he fucked. Not that he had bedded Miranda yet, of course, but it was inevitable that he would. Their attraction was palpable, andthe only present obstacle to having her naked and beneath him was her damnable sense of pride.
“Miranda, sweeting,” he tried again, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. “The hour is late, and we should both find our way to our beds so that we can get some sleep tonight.”
With a throaty sound, she awoke, making soft noises that made his stupid cock twitch back to life. Excellent. Now he would have to go to bed alone, and with a cockstand. Apparently he was just as depraved as he’d always been after all.
