She blinked. “Oh, but I didn’t request a bath.”
Now that it was here, she most certainly wouldn’t refuse it, however. She had been performing her ablutions with the pitcher and bowl and a small hip bath since her arrival. The oversized tub looked nothing short of heavenly.
“His Grace told me that you did.” Green frowned. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Do you wish it to be removed? I’ll send for the footmen who brought it here and filled it.”
“No,” she hastened to say, heat warming her cheeks at the revelation that Rhys had made such a personal request on her behalf. It was unseemly. As unseemly as sharing adjoining chambers. “That won’t be necessary, Green.”
Calling for the bath had been presumptuous of him. She ought to give him a proper tongue-lashing over his temerity when she saw him next. But for now, she was tired and her feet were sore and she would like nothing better than to settle into the warmth awaiting her in the tub.
“Would you care for my assistance, Mrs. Loveless?” Green asked next. “I could wash your hair for you. If you’d like, of course.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She summoned a smile for the lady’s maid’s benefit. “I will ring for you when I’ve finished.”
It had been nearly a year since she had settled into her own modest rooms following the divorce from Ammondale, when she had begun her life anew. She had been without a lady’s maid for all that time, and Miranda had rather grown accustomed to looking after herself. Besides, a foolish part of her hoped there was a hidden meaning in Rhys’s request for the bath, one that went beyond her mere comfort.
Green nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”
She dipped into a hasty curtsy and left the room.
Once alone, Miranda wasted no time in removing her bodice and skirts, laying them out with care over the back of a chair. Next came her petticoats, easily untied and draped along with her gown. With that gone, she spun about, intending to remove her boots, when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
Good heavens, she had forgotten about her partially torn chemise. How fortunate that she had sent Green away. Surely the lady’s maid would have wondered how Miranda’s undergarment had been so badly ripped when the rest of her garments had remained intact.
Heat crept up her throat as her thoughts returned to what had happened that afternoon during the picnic lunch she had shared with Rhys. The both of them had been overcome. She had done damage to his clothing as well, she recalled with a hint of rising embarrassment at her actions.
It would seem she was every bit as wicked as the gossips had claimed. Because surely no decent woman would lie with a man who was not her husband, in the midst of the day, on the grass where anyone could have come upon them. And yet, anotherpart of her, long suppressed and tamped down, thrilled at the memory. That part of her wanted more.
More adventure, more seduction, more forbidden pleasure.
She untied her boots and unlaced them, slipping her feet free of their stiff leather confines. She was clad in her drawers, damaged chemise, and corset. But instead of taking off the remainder of her garments and slipping into the bath, she was suddenly tempted to go to him instead. To forget caution and ration and reason and seize what she wanted. What they both wanted.
Her body was instantly flooded with sensual awareness. But then she reminded herself sternly that here was her chance. She should cling to her defenses and refuse to surrender to her foolish desires. Twice had been enough. She needed to deny him. To deny herself.
But there was a poignant, persistent voice within her that emerged just then, one that wondered why.
Why must she deny herself? Had she not been putting everyone else first all her life? Beginning with her parents and her duty to them, marrying as they had wanted. Then to her husband, Ammondale, in a marriage that had only served to make her miserable. And when she had finally escaped and found her freedom, she had become constrained by the need to restore the reputation that had been so thoroughly spoiled by her divorce. The need to provide for herself so she would not go destitute or be forced to rely upon the charity of friends or distant family who might be willing to look the other way.
Why not take this for herself? Why not take Rhys?
She could have him. All of him to herself. Could have his kisses and his wicked mouth, his outrageous teasing and his clever hands and even more cunning tongue. Could have the pleasure he brought her, have his companionship. She couldhave everything she had never dared could be hers but now hung within her tenuous grasp.
Do it, urged that inner voice.
If no one ever discovered the truth, what would be the harm? One month of passion, and then a life afterward of penance. It suddenly occurred to her that there was a way she could spend a month with him and still retain her pride. Possibility rose inside her, joining hope for the first time in as long as she could recall.
And, that quickly, her decision was made.
She was going to seize this opportunity. She was going to be the Duke of Whitby’s lover for the next month. And strangely, the realization didn’t leave her feeling worried or fearful within. Instead, it made her feel lighter than she had felt in years. Not since well before she had walked through the church and committed herself to a lifetime of marriage with a man who had disdained her.
With purposeful strides, she crossed the room, stopping at the door that adjoined her chamber to Rhys’s and knocking. Hesitantly at first, and then with greater force as she took hold of this newfound freedom.
By the fourth knock, he was there, tearing the door open to tower over her as so few men did. He was clad in a dressing gown of black silk, the contrast between the dark fabric and his golden hair making him look like some sort of wicked immortal. His hair was damp at the ends, she noted, as if he, too, had been bathing. His stormy-sky eyes met hers before flicking downward, to where her ripped chemise put her breasts on display above her corset.
Belatedly, she saw herself as he must, realizing that her nipples were almost showing. Her corset was loosened, her feet clad in embellished stockings peeping from beneath her drawers, the hem of her chemise stopping at her knees.
“Did you take your bath?” His voice was velvet and seduction.
She almost smiled at his low question. Her hair was yet to be unbound, and she was wearing her undergarments. Did he truly think she had emerged thus from the water?
