He still had no notion of why she’d been wandering in the moonlit gardens. When they had parted ways, she had lookedas if she were exhausted and ready for bed, clad in her dressing gown and bare feet. Somewhere along the way, she had donned her familiar armor of sturdy walking boots and gray gown, her hair neatly pinned up once more.
The sad, tattered state of the skirts suggested she was going to have one hideous sack less to hide her ample curves within. Rhys did not mourn its loss, but he despised the source of the damage to her dress.
“I should never have left my room,” she protested. “At the very least, I ought to have worn one of the masks you provided. I wouldn’t have been so easily recognized if I had, and then I daresay he would have left me alone.”
Rhys scrubbed at the last vestiges of scarlet staining the cracks on his fingers. “Only a scoundrel would have all but forced himself upon you, threatening to cause a great deal of scandal. I’m going to speak with Richford, Kingham, and Riverdale about him in the morning and decide what punishment he must face.”
“Oh, please don’t.” She was closer now, her husky voice wrapping around him like an embrace. Her scent too, floral and sweet.
He wanted her so badly.
But he was also furious at himself for bringing her here. For exposing her to a conscienceless rake like Roberts.
Rhys dried his hands and turned to face her, still unprepared for his body’s reaction to her, regardless of how beautiful he already knew her to be. Each time he looked at Miranda, a jolt went through him. It was like his soul was made of dry kindling and she was the spark that set him alight.
“He doesn’t deserve your mercy,” Rhys told her. “Nor do I. I’m as much to blame for what happened as Roberts is.”
“It was Viscount Roberts?” she asked.
“Yes.” His lip curled with distaste. “Are you acquainted with him?”
“Scarcely.” She shook her head. “I believe he is a familiar of Ammondale’s. We met on a few occasions in passing, but I doubt whether we ever exchanged more than a paltry number of words. He is married, is he not?”
“Indeed. His lady wife is a member of the club as well. When I saw her last, she was off to join in the charades.”
“Of course,” Miranda said dully.
“Some husbands and wives are both members of the club, and others keep it a secret from their spouses.” Explaining the rules of the Society felt somehow sordid and wrong, particularly in light of what Miranda had just endured. His gut curdled.
“How did you know where to find me?” she asked, sparing him further such explanations.
Rhys had just finished his bath when he thought he’d heard a sound outside. He had gone to the window and noticed movement in the garden below. The full moon had illuminated the entire expansive maze, paths, and roses with almost impossible detail. And he had recognized her figure moving across the path at once.
“I saw you by chance,” he said. “I was at the window when I saw you walking along the path, or who I thought was you. To be certain, I knocked at your door. You didn’t answer. What were you doing in the gardens at this hour? I thought you were going to rest.”
He had meant what he’d said—she had done nothing wrong in venturing out to take the air. But he also wanted her to take caution after what had happened with Roberts. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had brought an innocent lamb into a den of wolves. Rhys would be damned if he allowed anyone to make her the sacrifice.
“I…I intended to rest,” Miranda said, pink staining her cheeks. “But I decided to get a bit of fresh air first. I am sorry that my recklessness led to what happened in the gardens. You are not injured, are you?”
He flexed his fingers. “Still in working order.”
She frowned, closing the distance between them and reaching for his hand, taking it gently between hers. “But are you in pain? Is anything broken?”
A rush of tenderness swept over him, along with a protective surge he’d never known before. He wanted to gather her into his arms. To shield her from all the evils in the world. To cut down anyone who dared to hurt her.
“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Besides, even if I were injured, I wouldn’t care. I’d break every one of my fingers trouncing any man if it meant protecting you.”
Her emerald gaze searched his, his hand still held tenderly by her. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before.”
He didn’t want to ask about Ammondale. To the devil with him. He hadn’t known what he had, or else he never would have let Miranda go. But Rhys couldn’t shake the impotent rage filling him that a man who had taken her as his wife had not vowed to defend her so.
“It’s a damned shame,” he began, but he was never able to finish the rest of his words.
Because in the next instant, Miranda’s lips were on his, smothering anything else he had been about to say. It didn’t matter. At the first touch of her velvet-soft lips, he was lost to all thought anyway. With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her waist, anchoring her to him, and kissed her back with all the frenzied longing that had been pent-up within him ever since the moment she had first pinned him with an icy green glare.
He had been hers then and there, in that instant.
He was hers now.
