Seated next to Lady Harriet, Miranda kept her ears open and her mouth shut, soaking in the conversations, which were surprisinglynotabout other people but about dress styles, furnishings, and travel.
After what Lady Harriet had told her, Miranda expected within the intimate setting of a dinner party they would all start to gossip about those who were not lucky enough to be present.
After a while, she yawned, belatedly hiding it behind her hand. When their hostess skewered her with a disapproving look, Miranda realized she needed to shake the cobwebs from her head and excused herself. The nobility’s hours were different than her own, and there was no denying this lifestyle took some getting used to.
Out in the hallway, she strolled to the back of the house overlooking the garden. It was partially lit but entirely unwelcoming as a chilly fog had swept in. When she turned, one of the doors opened in her path, and she startled. Realizing she was out of place, Miranda tucked herself behind the curtains and waited.
To her astonishment, a woman’s head appeared, looking hither and yon. Miranda hadn’t even noticed Lady Sarah missing from their gathering. The lady looked back into the room and nodded, then dashed out into the hall and scurried quickly along toward the parlor.
Miranda almost called out to her for the back of her hair was in a state of disarray. Too late, Lady Sarah opened and closed the door, rejoining their hostess’s discussion of bonnets and spencers.
After the span of about ten heartbeats, Lord Pastille followed, his cravat no longer as perfect as it had been during dinner. He disappeared into the dining room across the hall.
Hm!Apparently, there was more than one rake at this dinner party. She didn’t need to fetch her paper and pencil from her reticule. Miranda would easily remember to record this later, too.
Before she could leave her concealment, the dark-haired Lady Penelope, the very same with whom Lord Mercer had first been in conversation, exited the parlor, looked in both directions, and went into a different room.
What the devil!Salacious behavior was going on right and left, proving the baron correct. There was much mischief one could get up to at a dinner party. Pressing her cheek to the cool pane of glass, Miranda waited, not wishing to run into a man who might be about to come for arendez-vous.
After a minute, she wondered if the lady’s paramour was already inside the room. If such was the case, Miranda wanted to return to the safety of the parlor before the pair came out all flustered and disheveled.
Strolling back toward the assembly of women, the dining room door opened once more and Lord Mercer appeared.
Chapter Eight
Miranda’s heart sank at the sight of him.
“The lady is in there,” she told him, pointing to the correct door across the hall.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, bemused.
She cocked her head. “It is not anything to me. I just didn’t want you going into the wrong room and being disappointed. That one,” she paused and pointed to where Lord Pastille had come from, “is empty.”
“Is it?” Lord Mercer asked, taking her arm, walking her back toward it. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” Her fingers on the handle, she swung it open for him to see, and then found herself softly urged inside. When the door closed behind her, she was in utter darkness.
“My lord?”
“That was ridiculously easy,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Why were you wandering the halls where any wolf might pounce upon you instead of being safely with the other sheep where you belong? Our hostess is utterly remiss! Do you understand what just happened and how easily you let me maneuver you into a place of ruin?”
Speechless, Miranda realized the danger she was in. Not with him, of course, but if he were someone unknown to her.
“I only wanted to stroll the hall for a minute. It was tedious and stuffy in the parlor.”
“That is also the cost of attending tonight. You must bear all the awful parts that go with a dinner party.”
“Why?” she asked, not liking the pitch blackness and taking a step forward. Unfortunately, she bumped into him, and his hands reached out to take hold of her.
“Why?” he repeated, his tone softening. “I suppose in order to enjoy the not-so awful parts.”
How he located her mouth, she had no idea, but Lord Mercer’s lips brushed hers. A second later, he cradled the back of her head with his big hand while his mouth firmly claimed her own.
She reached out and clasped ahold of him, hoping she wasn’t disturbing the perfection of his cravat, like Lord Pastille’s. Then, as his other hand swept down her back and grabbed the softness of her bottom, she stopped thinking of anything except the flames flickering through her body as he lifted her hips against him.
When his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth, she gave it. When his hand cupped her breast, she leaned into his palm, aware of a dampness between her legs. With her heart racing and her body trembling, she was ready for whatever he would do next.
Except step away from her, which he did, leaving her panting and longing for his touch.
