He raised a brow, feeling rather murderous at the moment, and positively medieval. “To run Roberts through? I wouldn’t turn it down.”
King whistled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so taken with a woman, Whit.”
He ground his molars until his jaw ached. “I’m not taken.”
But was that true? Rhys didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not after he had made love to Miranda just last night. Not when she had disappeared before morning, flitting away like a seductive, elusive phantom. Not when he had to make certain Roberts would never breathe a word about Miranda again.
Riverdale and King were sharing a look that suggested they didn’t believe a thing Rhys said. Before he could tell either of them to go to the devil, the door to the salon opened and Richford stalked over the threshold, resembling nothing so much as a thundercloud brazening his way across an otherwise faultless blue sky.
“Is something wrong?” he bit out.
Clearly, his mood had not improved since the day before. Rhys found himself wondering whatever or whoever it was thathad Richford in such high dudgeon. But that discovery would have to wait.
“We’re going to beat Lord Roberts to a pulp and then send him out of here,” he informed his friend. “He threatened a woman in the gardens last night.”
Richford nodded. “I never did like him.”
King grinned. “If there is one thing I can approve of before half past ten, it’s spilling the blood of arseholes.”
The four of them set off in search of the unfortunate Lord Roberts.
The hour waslate by the time Miranda returned to her bedchamber that evening.
Intentionally so.
She had kept herself from the temptation of Rhys by throwing herself headlong into dinner’s intricate dessert preparations. Of course, keeping her hands busy had not prevented her mind from wandering inevitably to thoughts of him. To thoughts of what had happened between them the night before, and thoughts of what must never, ever happen again.
With a heavy sigh, she stepped over the threshold into her darkened chamber. As they had the night before, her feet and back ached. She had spent a great many hours in her preparations for the delicate mushrooms she had created.
The door closed at her back, and she found herself grateful for a low light that Green must have kept lit for her. But when she noticed a male form sitting in the shadows by the hearth, she let out a squeal of alarm. Until recognition hit her in the next moment.
“Hush.” Rhys was on his feet, moving toward her. “It’s only me, darling.”
“Oh, heavens.” She pressed a hand over her pounding heart. “You gave me a fright.”
He reached her, and she noted he was dressed formally, as if he had fled dinner to be here with her. “Forgive me. That wasn’t my intention.”
Goodness, he was handsome. She knew he was, of course, as surely as she knew the sky was blue. And yet, it seemed that each time she saw him, whether in shadows or moonlight, by dawn or full sun, she took note of new facets, rather like a terrain she was learning day by day. The strength of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the stubborn tilt of his sensual lips, the golden lashes framing his stormy eyes, the hues of amber glinting in his hair, the breadth of his chest, the strength of his shoulders.
Her reaction to him was infallibly visceral, potent as a warm embrace or a knowing kiss. She wanted him here in her territory, in her private space, the same way she wanted him inside her again. But despite those irreverent yearnings, her rational mind was aware of the consequences should she simply fling herself into his arms and bed yet again.
He could not be here. He should not be here.
And she should not want him.
Miranda forced her countenance into stern admonishment. “You are forgiven for startling me, but not for your presence in my bedchamber. What are you doing here?”
He raised a brow, near enough to touch, to be perilous to her ability to resist him. “Waiting for you.”
He said it as if his presence were obvious, as if she ought to have expected him to be awaiting her on a chair by the hearth in the dim recesses of her bedroom. Something deep within, something forbidden and sinful, sparked into a flame that no amount of reason could douse.
“Why?” she asked, locking her hands together at her waist in a pose that was meant to mimic that of her most fearsome girlhood governess, Miss Biddle.
In truth, she braided her fingers to keep from reaching for him. To keep from cupping his face in her hands and testing the prickle of his gilt stubble on her palms. He was more intoxicating than any wine she had ever consumed. She longed to bask in him. To savor him. To seduce him and make her mark upon him just as surely as he had done to her.
“Because I have yet to see you all day,” he said, reaching for her linked hands and folding them in his.
“That seems a woefully insufficient reason.” She swallowed hard as he lifted her hands to his lips to skate warm, affectionate kisses over her reddened knuckles.
