Miranda barked out a laugh. Only, rather than sounding cynical, some of the hurt she felt escaped. She withdrew a fan from her sleeve and waved it below her chin to recover any dignity she’d lost.
Because her chortle had sounded almost like a sob.
Mr. Spencer didn’t comment but led her off the trail to a charming folly draped in ivy and other unrecognizable vines. It seemed to have been all but forgotten by the gardener.
He covered her hand with his, comfortingly.
Miranda was well aware that he had not led her into the darkness so that he could comfort her.
Inside of the shelter, a wooden table split the space in two, flanked by two benches. The vines provided additional privacy, dangling down the sides like nature’s drapes.
Eerie shadows sent a shiver rolling through her, and he squeezed her hand yet again.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” Emotion caught her voice.
He pressed a handkerchief into her hand. It was something Baldwin would have done. He’d only been gone for eighteen months and yet it felt like a lifetime.
“He wasn’t really all that old. Sixty,” she confided. “And he seemed healthy enough.”
“His death came as a shock to you,” Mr. Spencer observed quietly from beside her. His presence inexplicably wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“It did.” She sniffed. “But he’s been gone almost two years. I ought to stop missing him by now, really.” Baldwin had been good to her and, in turn, she’d done everything she could to make him happy.
He had been one of the only people in her life to ever show her any affection. With him gone, she’d experienced a sense of abandonment she had not expected.
But enough maudlin conversation. Self-pity wasn’t why she’d come here. And she would feel better after.
She would feel needed, precious, significant.
For a while.
Miranda dropped Mr. Spencer’s arm and grasped his hand instead, walking them deeper into the secluded shelter until the backs of her thighs pressed against the end of the table.
“But you did not invite me out here to listen to maudlin tales.” She slid her hands up the lapels of his jacket and pulled his mouth down to meet hers.
Friction
Peter had considered the possibility of kissing her before asking her to accompany him in the garden. In fact, he’d be lying to himself to deny that he’d wondered how her sumptuous body would feel pressed against his.
He no longer had to wonder. He stifled a groan.
The sensation of her breasts against his chest was even better than he’d imagined.
“Not so angelic, after all. Are you, Peter Spencer?” she whispered against his lips at the same time she stroked the wool of his trousers where his already engorged cock pulsed, eager to escape the confines of clothing.
She rubbed her palm over the stretched fabric, up and down his length, and then in a slow circle. She wasn’t afraid to apply force, to create friction.
It felt good. So damn good.
He wasn’t a virgin. Not at all, in fact. But more recently, he’d dedicated all of his attention to his music. Any physical release he’d enjoyed over the past two years had come at his own hand. Was this why he’d asked her to follow him into a dark garden?
He jerked his hips away from her. Much more and he was going to embarrass himself.
Logically, he knew there was nothing exceptional in this sort of behavior. Lady Starling was not a husband-hunting innocent. But marriage wasn’t in his future, near or otherwise, and he needed to be certain she understood that.
“Lady Starling.” He grasped her wrist. “I cannot make an honest woman of you.”
She laughed. And if anything, his words emboldened her. She pushed his waistcoat aside and fumbled at the buttons of his trousers. “I am quite aware, Mr. Spencer. And I won’t attempt to make an honest man of you. I simply want you inside me.”
