The dinner gong would be sounding in approximately an hour and a half’s time. Likely, Rhys ought to be presiding over the house party guests. There had been rumbles that morning of naughtytableaux vivantsbeing staged. Christ knew what could have happened since breakfast. And yet, he found himself entirely disinterested in revels that would have, a mere month ago, amused him.
Instead, he was taking the air. Pacing the garden maze. Trying to gather what remained of his wits, it was true. Because earlier that afternoon on a picnic blanket, they had been ruthlessly scattered to the wind by one beautiful, stubborn, sensual woman.
Miranda had ruined him.
Ruined him for Wicked Dukes Society house parties. Ruined him for lovers. Hell, he didn’t even want to play billiards, dice, or cards. He didn’t want a brandy and soda water or a glass of wine. He didn’t even want to trade ribald jests with his closest chums.
Because all he wanted was her.
Miranda.
More Miranda. More than he’d been able to have thus far. More than stolen moments in the shadows and clandestine, half-clothed romps in the outdoors. He wanted her to agree to be his mistress, and not just for the next month but for the next bloody year. Perhaps even longer. He was insatiable for her.
He’d never been afflicted thusly, and he had to admit as he rounded a bend in the boxwood hedges that the intensity of his attraction to Miranda frightened him. He was attuned to her, desperate for her, an utter fool for her. Since they had parted ways earlier so she could return to her molds and inspect the progress of her ices for the evening’s dessert, he had been adrift. Half wild with the need to follow her to the kitchens and watch as she worked, rather like an eager pup who could not stop trailing in his mistress’s wake.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. “You’re so bloody stupid, Rhys.”
And yet, no amount of inwardly issued chastisements served to abate the all-consuming need for her. He was plotting all the ways he could persuade her to agree to his madcap scheme. The promise of further funds was always an option, though not the most enjoyable one. He would far prefer to woo and seduce her into agreement.
Yes, the latter would be infinitely more delightful. Perhaps he could arrange for a warm, soothing bath for her this evening. He could help her to bathe, wash her hair, and afterward, he would dry her off with his tongue.
Indeed, that would?—
His plans for seduction were abruptly interrupted by the distant sound of voices, one male and the other female, rising heatedly from somewhere within the garden maze. Not another damned contretemps in the gardens. His first thought was of Miranda. Surely, she would not have ventured here after what had happened with Roberts. Would she?
Frowning, he started moving, hastening his steps as he made his way through the twisting and turning maze, in search of thevoices. But try as he might to tread lightly, the crunching gravel beneath his soles must have alerted the couple that they were not alone. The voices suddenly stopped.
Rhys continued on, determined to discover who it was and reassure himself that nothing else untoward was unfolding here at Wingfield Hall beneath his watch. If yet another woman were being accosted…
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a man who had been barreling toward him. A man he recognized.
“Richford?”
His friend drew up short, looking equally surprised to see him. “Bloody hell, Whit. You gave me a fright.”
Rhys’s suspicions were instantly raised. What the devil was Richford up to? This was getting deuced strange.
“What are you doing skulking about in the gardens?” he asked.
Richford drew himself up, his expression turning haughty. “I do not skulk.”
Rhys raised a brow. “As you wish.”
“I don’t.”
He shrugged. “I thought I heard you arguing with someone. A female someone.”
Richford stiffened. “You must be hearing things. I say, you weren’t indulging in another of King’s potions, were you?”
“Riverdale said something about you and a blonde. Are you dallying with one of the club members?” Jesus, he hoped it wasn’t a servant because domestics were decidedly forbidden.
But nothing else made sense about the way his friend was being so oddly elusive and defensive since their arrival here at Wingfield Hall.
“I don’t dally either.” Richford scowled. “Is Riverdale your spy now?”
“Do I have need of one?”
“Of course not,” Richford said hastily.
