He’d asked her the day before if she had loved Baldwin, and she’d told him she didn’t know what love was.
And he touched her. Not just sexually but affectionately, which was more heady than she would have guessed.
He’d told her he was coming to care for her.
Why did he care? It couldn’t be because he was falling in love with her. She was a fleeting diversion, an enjoyable fling before immersing himself in his playing again.
And he was only a fleeting diversion for her, as well. She couldn’t allow herself to fall for his unrelenting charm and talk of love. He was leaving, and attaching any real emotion to him would be painful in the end.
Not the same as when Baldwin died, but it would be a loss. And she wasn’t sure she could live through another one.
Returning home, she polished the silver with her housekeeper, went over menus with her cook, and then discussed her wardrobe with Constance, her lady’s maid, all the while contemplating the wisdom of spending another night in Peter Spencer’s bed.
In his arms.
She even penned an excuse but then failed to order it sent to Burtis House, where he resided with his family.
And then his missive arrived.
Miranda,
I’ll arrive to collect you at four this afternoon. Round two of your driving lessons, a picnic, and more...
Yours,
Peter
P.S. Not good of you to leave without saying goodbye.
P.P.S. I can’t wait to taste all of you again.
His voice echoedin her head as she skimmed over his words. She shivered inside each time she read through it again.
This note didn’t read like a business transaction, nor was this a note from a suiter. It was a note from a lover.
She’d had every intention of making an excuse to not go this evening but as the sun moved across the sky, it became too late to cry off.
Her hands clammy and her heart dancing, she donned one of her favorite gowns, sapphire silk, almost too elaborate for a drive, and then she waited anxiously for his arrival.
“He’s here,” Constance announced from the window. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” The maid’s expression was shuttered, as usual, showing neither approval nor disapproval.
“Thank you. No.” Miranda dismissed the woman who’d been with her since she was three and ten. Constance was proficient and performed her duties without question, but for the first time, Miranda wondered why she’d never hired a lady’s maid closer to her own age. Someone she could talk with. Someone who had not been chosen by her father. “Please tell him I’ll only be a moment.”
Left alone, Miranda raised shaking hands to smooth her hair. This was only their second evening in one another’s company, not counting their encounter in the garden. There were only two more nights before he would have to leave for Brighton.
Pausing at the top of the staircase, she caught sight of him before he knew she’d appeared. And when his gaze lifted, it was more than appreciative. He stared at her with tenderness and a shared intimacy that weakened her knees.
He took her hand in his even before she stepped off the last step, and then presented her with flowers.
He’d acknowledged the rational aspect of their agreement but then gone on to act like a suiter—and touch her like a lover. He was making it impossible to not be affected by each corresponding emotion.
Pleasure and excitement from the suitor. Desire and satisfaction from the lover. And the knowledge of their affair’s transient nature, from knowing he would be leaving London soon.
“Thank you,” she murmured, annoyed with herself when her neck, and then her cheeks flushed with heat. “But it isn’t necessary.”
“I know.” He led her outside, ignoring her attempt to reestablish any distance between them. “But I couldn’t help myself.”
“Foolish man.”
