A smile that felt as if it were meant for her alone.
“I…”
She wanted to deny him, but the words would not come.
“I’m a man of my word,” he murmured, his head dipping nearer, their lips perilously close. “Your presence here will have no bearing upon your reputation or your school. I vow it upon my life. Do you believe me? Do you trust me?”
No.
It was on the tip of her tongue. She knew better than to trust a man like him. Better than to trust any man.
But as she searched his stormy eyes, she read what felt like sincerity there. And she heard it in his voice, in his promise. He had already paid her half the sum. She owed him the week. She had already promised to uphold her end of their bargain.
“I’ll do everything in my power to protect you,” he added. “Nod your head, darling.”
She nodded, obeying like a fool. It would seem she had misplaced both her wits and her pride. The Duke of Whitby had, quite impossibly, thieved them.
“Good.” He closed the distance, but it wasn’t her mouth that received his kiss.
Instead, his hot, smooth lips pressed to her forehead.
She swallowed hard, realizing that her hands had been trapped between them, her fingers curled against his shirt and waistcoat. She moved them now tentatively, gliding them up his muscled chest to linger on his shoulders. Miranda clutched at his tweed, feeling as if the world had tilted and she needed to cling to him for purchase.
Somehow, over the course of the breakfast they had failed to consume, everything had changed. He kissed her temples next, first one, then the other. Her lips parted. Surely he would lay his mouth upon hers next.
“I’ll have the masks sent to your chamber,” he murmured against her ear, his lips finding her earlobe next. “Anything youwant shall be yours. You need only but ask. For the next week, I am at your disposal.” He paused and pressed another kiss to her throat, just above the demure collar of her gown. “Do with me as you like.”
She couldn’t. Her heart was galloping, her breath coming faster. She had never been so attuned to a man in her life.
“I shan’t be doing anything with you,” she managed.
“No?” He kissed the very edge of her jaw, the farthest point from her mouth. “That would be a travesty, darling. Be warned. Just as I’ll do everything I can to protect you, I’ll also do everything I can to change your mind. And I do meaneverything.”
One more heated kiss to her cheek, and then he withdrew from her as suddenly as he had pressed her to the table, the loss of him leaving her aching for more. He hadn’t kissed her. Hadn’t settled his lips over hers, and now she was desperate to know what that would feel like.
“Now, let’s eat our breakfast, shall we?” he asked, his façade firmly in place again. “The day promises to be a long one, and I have a feeling we’ll both require all the sustenance we can get.”
Miranda watched as the Duke of Whitby sauntered back to his side of the table. She was badly shaken and all too aware that she had just proven herself infinitely vulnerable to his seduction. Not just to herself this time, but to the both of them.
CHAPTER 7
After what had seemed a lifetime of overseeing the arrival of the weeklong house party’s guests—during which time he had not seen Miranda at all, curse it—Rhys at last sat at the head of the Wingfield Hall dining room table, flanked on both sides by his good chums Riverdale, Kingham, and Richford. The final course was laid before them by the efficient domestics. Perfectly molded cream ices served on golden cornets with edges that had been dipped in red royal icing and chopped pistachios.
All around the table, exclamations of delight went up, as if on cue.
“Ye gods, this is damned delicious,” said one chap in a scarlet mask.
“I’ve never had cream ice in anything other than a mold before. How clever,” praised a lady in a mask trimmed with peacock feathers and encrusted in gemstones.
“How delightful,” exclaimed a sultry brunette in a purple satin mask. “What is this crispy bit?”
“I have a crispy bit for you, love,” her male companion suggested with a chortle.
She curled her lip. “I don’t think that particular appendage ought to be crispy, my lord.”
“It was a figure of speech,” the chastised chap mumbled into his dessert course, before shoveling another spoonful of cream ice into his mouth.
“What has you so bloody happy, Whit?” the Duke of Richford grumbled darkly.
