His cock stirred, as if on cue.
He wrapped his fingers around his stiffening prick and stroked beneath the cooling waters of his bath. Faster and faster, gripping hard as he thought about opening that maddening line of buttons on her gown and tugging down her corset. About his hand gliding up her inner thigh until he found the slick, plump, hot lips of her sex. He would part her folds and seek her pearl, play with her until she cried out his name. Lift her skirts and sink deep inside her pussy while he sucked her sweet nipples.
It was too much. Not enough. Need roared through him, and he held his breath, working his cock until he came with a low groan, his seed jetting into the water to thoughts of making her his. His breathing was ragged, his heart thundering in his chest,and he’d just had one of the best orgasms in recent memory, but he hadn’t even touched her yet.
There was no denying it. He wanted Miranda Lenox. And he was damned well going to have her—and her cornets and cream ice too.
She wasn’t goingto surrender to temptation.
Miranda inwardly reminded herself with stern determination for at least the tenth time that morning as she pored over the ledgers for the school. One thing was becoming increasingly apparent. The funds she had managed to scrape together to begin the Lenox School of Cookery were thinning with more haste than she had supposed they would.
She needed more pupils. With each day, her advertisements appeared in every daily newspaper she could find, fromThe Morning PosttoThe Times. She needed that two thousand pounds.
“No,” she muttered to herself as she finished a column of sums and settled her pen back in its glass holder. “I do not need his two thousand pounds.”
That was a lie, however, and the glaring obviousness on the ledger page before her told her so. Yesterday, they had lost more fish and other ingredients that were unable to be kept for more than a day to a lack of pupils present to prepare the dishes. This pattern could not continue, or her fledgling school would be at an end before it had even completed its first three months.
Ammondale would no doubt revel in her abject failure.
Securing the building had been her greatest expense. But then, there were the men and women in her employ, the supplies, the endless need to pay for placements in newspapers.So much was reliant upon her success and her ability not just to attract new pupils and income for the school, but to publish her cookbooks, and to grow her employment agency. All of it in the name of giving women the means of securing their own futures instead of relying upon the men in their lives.
Freedom.
It was what Miranda had now, finally, at long last for the first time in her life. She hadn’t realized just how costly that liberation would prove—and in every way.
A subtle knock at her office door interrupted Miranda’s frustrated musings.
“Come,” she called, straightening her spine and pinning a sunny smile to her lips.
Mrs. Kirkeland appeared at the threshold, frowning. “My lady, forgive me for interrupting, but His Grace, the Duke of Whitby is demanding to see you.”
He was here.
Warmth coursed through her, something deep within her fluttering to life.
She swallowed hard. “I must see to the lesson on savories today. Please tell His Grace that he may call another day.”
“Of course, my lady.” Mrs. Kirkeland dipped into a curtsy in a show of deference Miranda had already told the older woman she didn’t require.
But she had been one of the few members of her old life whose loyalty had been strong. Mrs. Kirkeland continued to observe the strict societal deference that had existed upon their first meeting six years ago when Miranda had been a shy young bride terrified of ruling over her husband’s household. Miranda couldn’t lie. There had been something inherently satisfying about taking Ammondale’s prized housekeeper with her. She had been able to offer a more appealing situation—overseeingthe school—to Mrs. Kirkeland. And now she was relying upon Miranda just like so many others.
“How disappointing.”
The deep, masculine drawl had her jolting in her seat as she glanced up to find a familiar, elegant gentleman hovering just behind the unsuspecting Mrs. Kirkeland.
“Your Grace,” she greeted grimly. “I am afraid I haven’t the time to speak with you just now. I have a lesson to teach and pupils awaiting me.”
In truth, the classes were not set to begin for another hour. But Whitby didn’t need to know that. What he needed to do was take his handsome self back to wherever he had come from. To stay away from her. To no longer tempt her with either his presence or the impressive sum he had offered for her services.
“I promise not to keep you for long,” he said, unmoved by her plea.
It was clear he was a man who was accustomed to having his way in all matters. His kingly air of potent command was overwhelming.
Mrs. Kirkeland cast a fretful look in Miranda’s direction. What could she do? Have a row with him before the faithful retainer who had followed her from Ammondale’s employ? No. She must remain circumspect.
Miranda smiled at the former housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Kirkeland. I shall see to His Grace’s concerns and then proceed to today’s lesson.”
“Of course, my lady.” Mrs. Kirkeland dipped into a curtsy and hastened from Miranda’s office.
