Rhys cleared his throat. “I fear I’m too tired for such festivities. Preparing for this house party was exhausting. I’ll see you all in the morning. Don’t drink too much of King’s potions, and if you do, stay away from rooftops, swords, and fireplaces.”
They all chuckled, but the warning was only partly a sally. With that, he excused himself and escaped from the dining room, his mission clear. An idea had occurred to him over the course of dinner earlier, one he hoped Miranda might approve of. Either way, it would prove an excellent excuse to speak with her again tonight.
Because he missed her.
It had been hours since they had parted ways at breakfast, damn it. The intervening time may as well have been an eternity. He hoped he had left her as desperately wanting as he felt. Hoped that those taunting, teasing kisses he had delivered everywhere but to her lips had made her ache for more. He had vowed he would make her beg, but he had also come to the grim realization that his restraint would only last for so long.
If she didn’t ask him to kiss her soon,hewould be the one begging.
Miranda’slower back ached and her feet were sore, but she was also happily bathed and clad in a dressing gown when the knock sounded at the door connecting her bedroom to the Duke of Whitby’s. For a moment, she simply stared, pausing mid-stroke of her brush through damp hair. Surely she had imagined the sound, she thought. Perhaps it had been a thump somewhere else in the manor house that she had mistaken for a knock.
After all, the house was fairly crawling with guests by now. She had seen the arrival of carriages heralding the true beginning of the house party earlier. And she could not lie, she had taken in the presence of others with half relief, half dismay, all for the same reason. She would no longer have the duke to herself.
It would be good for her ability to resist him. However, another part of her, one she was determined to ignore, loathed the notion of him carrying on with an untold number of women below. Giving them his heated glances, his sultry teasing. His lips ghosting over feminine faces and forms, leaving behind a heady path of fire.
No, these were foolish, dangerous, sinful thoughts she couldn’t bear to entertain. Doing so would be nothing short of ruinous.
She resumed brushing, trying to ignore the hint of disappointment that came with the realization she hadn’t heard anyone at the door after all. And truly, what had she believed, that Whitby would abandon his lascivious house party below to spend time with her? Undoubtedly, the feminine companionship to be found was far more alluring.
Likely, he had already forgotten her existence, in favor of seeking women more amenable to his ample charms. But that was for the best. She had come here for one reason and one reason only. She needed the small fortune the Duke of Whitby had offered her for her services. For her cream ice and desserts, not for anything else.
Knock-knock-knock.
Her breath caught.
The knock was definitely real this time. Firmer, more assertive. And she knew who it was. Knew she ought to ignore it. Ignorehim. Instead, she strode hastily across the room and glanced at herself in the mirror. Her dressing gown was perfectly modest. She had on a night rail beneath it. But her feet were bare. Her hair was unbound, curls falling down her back and spilling over her shoulders.
It felt wrong for him to see her thus, although she was no stranger to the intimacies that inevitably followed a marriage, even one as cold and passionless as hers had been.
“Miranda?”
Whitby’s voice reached her, muffled by the closed door, low and decadent and far too alluring.
“Just a moment,” she managed, sounding vexingly breathless.
It was too late for her to sweep her hair into a chignon. Coiling and pinning the heavy mass took concerted effort and a great deal of time. With a deep breath, she rushed across the room to the door, hesitating as her hand hovered over the latch.
If she didn’t open the door, he would think she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him.
At the same time, she very muchdidn’ttrust herself to be alone with him.
In the end, her pride had her lifting the latch on her side and trying the door. It clicked open, swinging toward her to revealWhitby standing there, still dressed in his evening finery of stark blacks and whites. His golden hair was tousled as if he had sifted his fingers through it, and his stormy eyes burned into hers.
“Your Grace,” she greeted. “Is something amiss?”
“Of course not.” His gaze traveled lower, dipping to her dressing gown. “I was wondering if we might take a few minutes to speak.”
He was being carefully polite. Sudden worry assailed her. Had there been something wrong with her cream ice even though he’d claimed nothing was amiss?
She stepped back, opening the door fully, for she felt foolish cowering behind it. She was no innocent virginal miss. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had any more bare skin on display than she usually did, aside from her toes. And surely he wouldn’t find her feet of interest.
“May I come in?” he asked, hesitating at the threshold instead of sauntering inside as she had expected him to do.
He was being unfailingly polite, which also had her at sixes and sevens. It was as if the way he had crowded her against the breakfast table and melted her with those wandering kisses that morning had been nothing but a wild imagining on her part.
“Of course.” She stepped back, allowing him entrée, proud of her ability to maintain her composure.
If the circumstances were unusual, they were surely no more lacking in propriety than they had been on any of the other occasions she had been alone with him. Besides, there was no one to witness her ignominy now.
