She trembled, her eyes widening, her pupils going black in her brilliant green eyes. “What are you doing, Your Grace?”
He was far too close for propriety’s sake, but it didn’t bloody well matter. They were alone, no one would happen upon them, and he intended to be far closer to her than this soon. So he lingered where he was.
“Your coiffure is coming undone,” he murmured. “Did not your lady’s maid assist you this evening?”
He would admit, he had hoped to see her in one of the gowns he had brought for her, all borrowed from the dressmaker he often used to buy gowns for his lovers should they wish it. Mrs. Williams had an entire wardrobe available that no longer fit the intended lady because she was increasing. The timing had proven excellent. Likewise, he had chosen a lady’s maid to assist Miranda in the hope she might take at least the week to attend to herself. He had underestimated her determination.
“I coiled it into a chignon myself,” she said, her voice still a trifle breathless. “I don’t need your gowns, Your Grace, any more than I need a lady’s maid.”
“There is a vast difference between needing something and wanting it,” he pointed out, remaining where he was, deliciously near to her on the couch.
If she had a hint of self-preservation, she would leap from the furniture and flee at once. Because now that she had awakened,it was plain to see she was no longer in her cups as deeply as she had been before her little nap.
“Wanting something does not mean you should have it,” she countered, ever practical, rather like a martyr, willing to sacrifice herself for the good of her cause.
“Nor does it mean that you should not have it, and everything else you want, too,” he cajoled.
“Are you saying you do not deny yourself anything that you want?” she asked softly.
His grin faded, utter seriousness overtaking him as he propped his forearm on the back of the couch and held her gaze. “Of course not. I want you very much, Miranda. More, I think, than I have ever wanted anyone or anything. And yet, I must deny myself until you reach the inevitable conclusion.”
Her chin went up, her lips parting. “Which is?”
Her voice had gone husky. Her eyes settled on his mouth. And holy God, it was the most erotic moment he had known in as long as he could recall, her gaze on him, tempted and curious and hungry too.
“That you and I are meant to be lovers,” he answered.
Her swift inhalation of breath cut through the silence, followed by the pop of a log in the fireplace. Sparks shot over the grate in his peripheral vision, and he couldn’t help but to think it a metaphor for what was happening now.
If only she hadn’t consumed too much wine. He cursed himself for refilling her goblet with too liberal a hand. For tonight, all they would have was flirting. He had to know that she was not otherwise influenced. That she wouldn’t regret what passed between them.
“I have already given you your answer,” she reminded him.
“And I will accept it when you mean it.” He winked. “For now, we both ought to retire. The morning will come soon enough.”
He reluctantly rose and offered her his hand, which she eyed dubiously.
“I cannot accompany you to your bedchamber.”
He would have laughed had he not feared she might misconstrue his lightheartedness. “Nor did I invite you. As I said, I want you very much. But you will come to me of your own volition, or not at all.”
“Then I am afraid you are doomed to be disappointed.”
This time, he did chuckle, just as she laid her hand in his and his fingers closed around hers. “My sweet Miranda, how wrong you are. Before this week is over, you will be begging me.”
And that was a promise he intended to keep.
CHAPTER 6
“Oh, Mrs. Loveless, you’re awake!”
Green’s cheerful voice interrupted Miranda’s perusal of her recipe collection. It took a moment for her to realize she was the one being spoken to and to recall that she, in fact, was currently “Mrs. Loveless.”
She looked up from her task, seated at the writing desk that was situated by an eastern-facing window. She had been awake as soon as the fingers of daylight slowly stretched across the dawn sky. Ever since leaving the town house she had occupied during her marriage to Ammondale, Miranda had been rising early. There was so much to accomplish in her days and never sufficient hours.
“Good morning, Green,” she greeted with a smile.
The girl was ruddy-cheeked and beaming, fairly vibrating with the enthusiasm and optimism that was the hallmark of the unjaded and truly young. Miranda wondered if she had ever been as filled with joyful cheer. If she had, she could no longer recall that time or what it had felt like. The misery of her marriage and divorce had eclipsed all else.
