What was the protocol for having tea with one’s present lover and the man everyone thought to be one’s former lover? A manwho had just intimated that he wished to marry her? Heat crept up Miranda’s throat.
Rhys flashed her another look she couldn’t quite read. “Tea would be lovely, but I confess, I didn’t expect a small gathering.”
“Waring has only just returned from abroad,” she explained, guilt weighing heavily upon her. “His call was a pleasant surprise.”
She didn’t blame Rhys for his reaction. Had she walked in upon him indulging in tea with another woman, she didn’t know what she would have done. But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t turn away Waring. Not after all he had done to help her. Her loyalties were hopelessly confused and torn.
“A pleasant surprise indeed,” Rhys said dryly, seating himself in the second chair.
Miranda dutifully fixed him a cup, only belatedly realizing Waring’s shrewd gaze pinned to her as she added sugar and milk to Rhys’s liking.
“You are familiar with how the duke prefers his tea,” Waring commented lightly enough, but she heard the underlying question.
“She is familiar with how I prefer a great many things,” Rhys was quick to add, flashing a smug smile in Waring’s direction.
The implication was clear. She would give him a stern piece of her mind later when they were alone. For now, she could do nothing but attempt to salvage the civility of the conversation.
“Such as cream ice,” Miranda added pointedly through gritted teeth as she passed him his tea. “His Grace has taken an interest in my school, and he has been helping me by encouraging the members of his set to use my employment agency.”
“How generous of him,” Waring said, his lip appearing to curl ever so slightly beneath his new whiskers in a sneer of contempt.
The two gentlemen did not like each other, and that much was plain. What Miranda could not tell for certain was whether Waring was trying to protect her or if he considered Rhys competition. If the latter were the case, that meant the man she had considered a dear friend for years had somehow developed tender feelings for her, and she didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
Or what to do about it.
“I’m a generous chap,” Rhys said with a grin before taking a careful sip of his tea. “My dear Miranda, this is heavenly.”
“Is it?” she asked, knowing he was partial to coffee rather than tea.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “Much like everything you make. I say, have you sampled Miranda’s cream ice and cornets, Warting?”
Thankfully, Miranda had yet to lift her own cup to her lips, or she would have sprayed it everywhere at Rhys’s less-than-subtle dig. The outrageous devil.
“Waring, Your Grace,” she corrected him gently. “I believe you misheard.”
“Quite.” He sent Waring a patently insincere smile. “Do forgive me, my lord.”
“Perhaps your hearing is going,” Waring returned. “I understand it happens to those of us who have reached a certain age.”
“And I am certain you would know, given the profusion of hoary hair in your beard,” Rhys quipped.
“Miranda was just telling me how lovely my beard is,” Waring proclaimed. “Weren’t you, Ran?”
“Ran?” This time, it was Rhys’s lip that curled.
Miranda was beginning to feel as if she were a bone that had been laid between two dogs, watching as they bared their teeth and snarled and growled and otherwise attempted to staketheir claim and scare the other away. It was a most unsettling sensation, and not one she particularly liked.
“His lordship and I are old and fond acquaintances,” Miranda interrupted, giving the both of them a look of stern admonishment. “Waring is a dear friend to me, just as His Grace is also a cherished friend.”
“And I am honored to be yourfriend, my dear,” Rhys told her gallantly, putting an indecent emphasis on friend, as if she had said lover instead.
“Just what are your intentions where Miranda is concerned, Whitby?” Waring asked, taking Miranda by surprise yet again.
He had always been staunchly protective of her, particularly when it came to Ammondale, but she had believed it was a brotherly protection. That of a friend. Not a lover. However, given the way he had been acting ever since his surprise appearance in her sitting room, she could no longer be sure.
Rhys gave Waring a withering look. “I’m sure it’s not any of your concern what my intentions are, as you suggest, if indeed I have any. Although, I daresay, the same could be said of you. Did you not cause Miranda suffering enough? An honorable man would have remained in America and allowed the gossips to wear themselves out.”
Oh dear. Rhysdidknow precisely who Waring was to her. She ought not to be surprised, she supposed. He had known that the gossips had called her the Fallen Countess. It stood to reason that he would know the rest of the sordid tale too. The urge to explain was strong, but not now when she and Rhys were not alone.
