Page 10

W ith a deep breath, Miranda emerged from her room, half expecting Whitby to be awaiting her there.

But the hall was empty. Not even a servant in sight.

Which made Miranda painfully aware of the fact that she didn’t know her way around Wingfield Hall.

Good heavens, she wasn’t even certain she could find her way to the dining room.

At least she knew how to reach the staircase. She made haste in moving in that direction, but a familiar voice at her back had her halting.

“Going somewhere?”

She turned to find the duke sauntering toward her in a leisurely prowl that was at once both smug and elegant. He had the unhurried gait of a man who knew he commanded the attention of every eye in a room.

In this case, hers, and not just because he had called out, staying her progress.

But because he was the most compelling man she had ever beheld.

He was dressed in evening black, interrupted only by the slash of a crisp white shirt and matching necktie.

His golden hair shone in the lamplight, looking soft, the waves falling naturally over his brow, as if he had run his fingers through the strands.

Oddly, her own fingers itched to run through his hair too.

“Your Grace,” she forced herself to greet him, clinging to formality in sheer desperation. “Good evening to you. I was attempting to find dinner.”

“I see my timing is excellent, then.” He executed a bow that felt somehow like the prelude to something far more intimate than what next ensued as the duke strode forward, offering her his arm. “I shall be pleased to escort you there.”

She eyed his proffered elbow dubiously. “You need not squire me about as if I’m a lady.”

He raised a brow at that. “You are a lady.”

“I am a businesswoman,” Miranda countered sternly. “One you hired to please your guests.”

The duke took her hand and settled it on his arm. “I’m far too selfish and greedy for that. I hired you to please me.”

She stiffened.

“With your cream ices and those delicious cornets of yours,” he added, chuckling. “Pray, don’t grow vexed with me before we’ve even had the chance to sup. I’m ravenous.”

For some odd reason she didn’t care to investigate, the way he said the word ravenous sent a frisson down her spine.

She gritted her teeth and smiled. “Then by all means, Your Grace, let us descend to dinner without tarrying another moment longer.”

“I do think I would happily starve if it meant lingering anywhere with you for but a moment.” His voice was low and deep and pleasant. Intimate.

Here was the rakehell, the charmer, she reminded herself. The man she must at all costs resist.

“What a fanciful notion,” she said, willing herself to remain unmoved. “I hardly think one moment of anyone’s time would be worth forgoing dinner.”

“How wrong you are, Miranda dear.” His blue eyes flicked down over her, and a sudden frown drew his brows together. “Why are you still dressed like a spinsterly governess?”

She moved to release her hold on his arm, but he clamped a hand over hers, keeping her from withdrawing. “I am dressed like a woman who has a care for her reputation. And I am wearing my own gown because that is what is proper. You cannot buy me gowns, Your Grace.”

“I didn’t buy them. I borrowed them.”

Jealousy seared her, the thought of him borrowing the castoffs of a former lover making her stomach tip. “I will not wear gowns you’ve loaned from a mistress.”

“Oh, they don’t belong to Beatrice.”

She had begun walking with him, but now she nearly stumbled at the mentioning of another woman by name. The envy flared into a roaring fire. “You do have a mistress, then?”

“Of course not. I did have an understanding with Beatrice, but she was married, and quite respectable, believe it or not.” He shrugged.

“We have parted ways, but rest assured that the gowns do not hail from Beatrice’s wardrobe.

Such an arrangement would be wholly inappropriate.

For one thing, your breasts are much larger. ”

She gasped in outrage. “Your Grace, I must demand that you cease such unnecessary crudeness.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Miranda dear. Your bubbies are nothing short of luscious. I can see that quite plainly despite your every effort to hide them in restrictive corsets and bodices more suited to a nun.”

Miranda almost tripped over her hems as they descended the staircase. “Your Grace!”

He sighed. “I do so wish I could persuade you to call me Rhys.”

“Who did you borrow the gowns from?” she asked, even though she didn’t want the answer.

“A friend.”

His enigmatic response left her feeling no better.

“A female friend,” she repeated.

“My dear Miss Lenox,” he drawled, “I do believe I hear just a hint of jealousy souring your dulcet voice.”

He was baiting her. There was no other explanation for what the Machiavellian man was doing.

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped, irritated with him as much as with herself. “Why should I care if you have a bevy of women from whom you may borrow gowns on a whim?”

“She truly is a friend and nothing more.” The fingers over hers tightened ever so slightly as they reached the foot of the staircase. “You need not fret. Ever since I made the acquaintance of one particular lady, I find myself decidedly uninterested in all the rest.”

He was speaking of her.

Was he not?

And why did a weak part of her secretly rejoice at the notion that he was?

“Hmm,” was all she said in response, because she was incapable of coherent speech just now.

Everything about this man had her at sixes and sevens. His nearness, his scent—this time with the added allure of shaving soap and the fresh, musky notes of his bath—his voice, his hold on her, his teasing words. Every part of him.

“Did the gowns not fit properly?” he asked quietly as he guided her through the great hall and an assorted collection of statues and antlers.

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered primly, taking care to keep a proper distance between their persons.

So proper that her body was held at an awkward angle, almost as if she feared her own arm and sought to remove herself from it. The result left her with a cramp in her shoulder, but she refused to so much as frown and allow him to see her further weakness.

“Never mind. There is something irresistible about that infernal line of buttons,” he told her sotto voce as they reached another hall and approached a room where the doors had been left open and the savory smell of food wafted outward, along with the inviting glow of lamps.

“A man cannot help but think about undoing them, one by one.” They crossed the threshold to find a table dressed in snowy linens and gleaming cutlery, an epergne laden with fresh flowers at its center, domed platters and twin tureens neatly laid, awaiting their delectation.

“With his teeth,” Whitby added, his lips so close to her ear as he spoke those final, sinful words that Miranda swore she felt the graze of them, like hot velvet, brushing over her.

She shivered, but not from cold. “I have already given you my answer, Your Grace.”

“Ah, but your hungry emerald eyes give me one answer, whilst your honeyed lips tell me another.” Gallantly, he escorted her to a chair and held it out for her as she seated herself.

“I do believe you are being intentionally ridiculous, Your Grace,” she said coolly, trying to tamp down the stupid thrill his words somehow sent through her.

“What part of what I say is ridiculous, Miranda dear?” he asked smoothly.

“I have neither emerald eyes nor honeyed lips.” She kept her tone soft and curt, despite their lack of audience.

True to his words, the room was bereft of servants, as if the entire affair had been arranged with one courtly wave of his hand.

She knew he could not have timed their arrival with such perfection.

Perhaps the food awaiting them had been standing for several minutes already, but the silver domes, etched with engraving and placed neatly over each dish, served to keep them warm.

“On that, we agree.” He seated himself at the place setting opposite her. “Your eyes are bolder and more brilliant than emeralds. Likewise, your lips, one must imagine, are sweeter than any honey.”

Miranda was determined to remain unaffected by his effusive charm. “How do you utter such claptrap with a bland expression?”

“Wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle. “It’s une grande année , Chateau Margaux 1864.”

She eyed the bottle, then the duke. “I cannot think it wise.”

He tipped the bottle and poured a handsome amount into her glass. “Wisdom is boring.”

She swallowed, watching as he filled his own glass, trying not to admire the strength of his jaw or the way his hair curled under his ears, too unruly to be tamed, just like the rest of him.

“Having been the recipient of far too much upheaval, I can assure you that there is nothing wrong at all with boring. Boring is safe.”

He raised his glass to her, regarding Miranda with a solemnity she found disconcerting. “May you always feel safe with me, but never bored.”

Her inbred sense of politeness stirred, forcing her to raise her glass in kind, despite her inclination to avoid drinking so much as a drop of the wine it contained. “As we won’t be spending much time in each other’s presence this week, I cannot think it shall matter either way.”

Whitby took a slow, considering sip of his wine, never ceasing watching her as he did so. And she found herself stupidly entranced by a drop of wine lingering at the seam of his lips until his tongue darted out to catch it. His Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed.

“I do hope to make a liar of you. I’ll have duties as host which will require my time and attention, and naturally, you shall have your cream ices and cornets to make. However, there is no reason why we cannot see each other often.”

Seeing him often sounded akin to torture. Acute, sensual torture. Miranda was sure her resistance couldn’t possibly withstand it.