And Miranda could not even blame this mad, wild desire rushing through her upon too much wine. She hadn’t consumed a blessed drop when she’d finally taken a tray in her room earlier. No, it was purely the way her body reacted to his. The way the Duke of Whitby made her feel.
She wanted more of that. Wanted him in a way that she had never yearned for another, so much that her hand trembled ever so slightly beneath the force of it as she reached for him, not quite understanding what she intended.
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour that spurred her.
Or the hushed air of the night.
The loneliness that had never been far since the day she had first left her home and family to become the Earl of Ammondale’s wife.
The desperate need she tried so hard to banish.
The jealousy seething within her at the notion of another woman taking her place with Whitby.
Or all of those things. Or maybe even none of them.
Maybe she just desired the duke, and they were alone with no one to witness her folly. Maybe she was taking what she wanted for the first time in her life. Eschewing duty and obligation and flinging caution to the wind.
Miranda closed the distance separating them, her bare feet padding over the thick Axminster, and then she was in his arms, her brush falling, forgotten, to the floor.
CHAPTER 8
She hadn’t begged.
But it didn’t matter now.
Nothing else did except for Miranda. His beautiful, capable, independent Miranda.
Her hands were on his shoulders, her pale face turned up to his, the lamplight flickering lovingly over her features, dancing in her emerald eyes and glinting off her obsidian hair. The faint, floral scent of her bath clung to her skin, her lush curves were for once not constrained by unforgiving stays and layers of ghastly gray silk and buttons, and her dressing gown had parted ever so slightly at the top to reveal more of her bountiful breasts than she likely realized.
His mouth was dry, his heart hammering harder than a blacksmith on an anvil. He’d never had such a forceful reaction to a woman throwing herself into his arms before. Hell, he’d never had such a forceful reaction to any woman.
Her berry-pink lips parted. “I accept your offer.”
For a moment, a keening thrill of elation soared through him. But then she hastened to clarify.
“To help me with my placement services,” Miranda elaborated, a flush creeping over her cheekbones. “I don’t need further time to think it over. I’ll accept your help.”
Ah, he should have known. Stubborn woman. Fondness rose, mingling with the desire.
He smiled, his hands still lightly on her waist, where they had landed instinctively when she had rushed toward him. “Good. I’m glad you’ve decided to accept.”
He didn’t want to let go of her. Not now, not yet.Not ever, whispered something within him.
Miranda stared at him for a moment, seeming to wage an inner battle, before nodding.
“I like you too, you know,” she said softly, her countenance strained, as if she were torn between what she wanted to do and what she ought to do. “More than I should, I fear.”
His cock, which had been hard the moment she had opened the door to reveal herself, went positively rigid. “You’re right about that. You shouldn’t like me at all. Because I don’t have a shred of honor where you’re concerned.”
It was decidedly against his best interest in seducing her to warn her away from him. But Rhys knew Miranda Lenox was far better than he was. Far better than he deserved, even. And some small bit of his conscience had loosened his stupid tongue. He’d simply have to bite it from now on.
Or put it to better uses.
She caught the fullness of her lower lip in her teeth. “Is there…are you…do you have a woman awaiting you downstairs? Or more than one, perchance?”
Dare he hope she was jealous of the lady members of the club below? That the way she had rushed into his arms heralded an easier, swifter capitulation on her part than her steely determination had thus far suggested?
A long, dark curl had spilled over her cheek, and he couldn’t resist catching it between his thumb and forefinger, giving the silken strands a teasing tug. “I am the host of this wicked affair, and there are many women in attendance. I suspect any number of them are wondering where I’ve gone to.”
