“Say it, Miranda,” he demanded, his voice hoarse with suppressed desire. “Say my name, and I’ll give you my mouth like you want.”
But she bloody well wouldn’t.
Rhys slid the hand at her waist higher, then slipped it over her dressing gown, cupping her luscious, full breast. Her hard nipple studded his palm through the fabric.
“Your Grace,” she countered just before stepping away from him as if he had burned her. “You should return to your guests, as you said.”
“Of course,” he forced out smoothly—no small feat past the roaring lust coursing through his veins. “You’re sure I cannot persuade you to don a mask and join us below?”
“Thank you, but no.” With queenly elegance, she righted her dressing gown, smoothing the bodice and clutching the twain ends more firmly together. He had been so close to toppling her defenses, so close he could all but taste her surrender.
Rhys’s straining cock was proof of that. But Miranda’s countenance had turned positively mulish, and tomorrow was another day. Her desire was feverishly matched with his; he had no doubt of it. Before the week was at an end, he would have her exactly where he wanted her.
Naked in his bed.
Rhys bowed. “Until tomorrow.”
As he turned and stalked from her chamber, he decided not to bother descending to the drawing room, King’s potions, or the revelries again. They held little appeal for him. Instead, he rang for a bath.
There was no cure for what ailed him this night, save one.
He was going to have to take himself in hand to the memory of Miranda’s smooth, warm skin beneath his lips.
In the silveryglow of a full moon, Miranda walked through the gardens of Wingfield Hall, trying—and thus far failing—to purge the restless, reckless longing from her blood. Although the night air was chilled and she had escaped the maddening nearness to the source of her yearning, she remained as overheated as she was overset.
For a long time after the Duke of Whitby had retreated from her chamber, Miranda had simply stood where he had left her, the memory of his heated kisses haunting her. Resisting him had been almost impossible. She had wanted, in the span of those decadent moments when she’d been pressed up against hismuscled chest, to strip him free of his formal blacks. To reveal the true man hiding beneath the debonair rake’s clothes. She had wanted to set her lips against his and kiss him with all the pent-up desire burning within her.
But she had known that to do so would have been a terrible mistake. After the scandal she had caused in divorcing Ammondale, she needed to remain as circumspect as possible for the sake of her cookery school. And being circumspect whilst taking a notorious rake as a lover was simply impossible. The Duke of Whitby was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.
A risk that had haunted her when she had heard the undeniable sound of a bath being prepared next door. He hadn’t returned to the game of naughty charades or his guests at all. Instead, Whitby had stripped himself bare and lowered himself into the hot water of his tub.
She had paced the floor, trying not to think about how he would look, naked and glistening in the bath. Oh, how she had attempted to keep herself from imagining how he would use a cloth and soap to lovingly wash each hard masculine angle, every roped ridge of muscle. And she had failed utterly on all counts. With his teasing kisses earlier, he had brought her perilously near to abandoning her good intentions and reputation both. She had been desperate for his mouth on hers.
Instead of doing something incredibly foolish, she had decided to take some air. Painstakingly, she had removed her dressing gown and dressed again in one of her modest gray gowns, before sweeping her hair into a hasty chignon. A wrap and a solid pair of walking boots, and she had made her way carefully downstairs. The raucous laughter and voices echoing from the drawing room had been enough to tell her that most of the house party’s guests were otherwise occupied. She slipped out a door and into the gardens, alone with her thoughts.
And yet, though she must have been pacing the gravel paths for at least the last hour, and despite the cool nip in the air, she hadn’t been able to outrun the troubling thoughts whirling in her mind. Perhaps it was the full moon at work, beguiling her and bringing devilry upon them all.
As she rounded a bend in the path, the scent of cigar smoke reached her, warning her she was not alone in the moments before the tall figure of a man emerged from the distant shadows. She froze, heart thudding in her chest as she realized that in her haste to flee her chamber, she had forgotten to don a mask before venturing from the haven of her room. The bright illumination of the full moon made it appear as though a silver lantern had been hung aloft, brightening the nightscape with unnatural intensity.
If she didn’t hide, the man approaching her would see her face. She attempted to skirt a massive rosebush, but in her haste, she passed too near and the thorns snagged in her silk, catching her there. It was either rip her dress or remain as she was, a hare trapped neatly, awaiting the hound.
“What have we here?” the man asked, moving toward her with purposeful strides.
Frantically, she tugged at her gown, trying to free herself from the clutches of the roses. The sound of silk tearing made her freeze anew.
“It looks as if we’ve a little bird caught in the roses,” the unfamiliar man drawled.
She gave another frantic jerk at her skirts and finally managed to reclaim them. Too late. The interloper was almost upon her, and there was no denying the damage to her silk. One less gown in her wardrobe now, unless she could somehow manage to wield a needle and repair the destruction without it being noticeable. She very much doubted so; Miranda had neverbeen skilled at embroidery. She hadn’t the patience for it. All thumbs, as her mother had often regretfully said.
“I am freed now,” she managed with far more cheer than she felt, attempting to keep her face averted so that the man wouldn’t see her.
As he approached, she saw that most of his countenance was obscured by a dark mask. She had no notion of who he was or what he might want with her. And foolishly, she had wandered into the gardens without anyone the wiser of her whereabouts.
“So I see.” He stopped and offered a formal bow. “Pity. I do so enjoy rescuing damsels in distress, particularly when the risk is more than worth the reward.”
Miranda kept her head ducked toward the ground as she dipped into a polite curtsy. If she was lucky, the man would think her an errant servant wandering in the gardens where she didn’t belong and simply leave her to return to her room.
“As you can see, there is no need for either rescue or reward, sir,” she offered in a quiet voice, her chin tucked firmly to her chest.
