Page 11

“The cornets and cream will take up a large portion of my day,” she said, before taking a sip of her own wine.

“Delegate duties to the kitchens,” he told her, reaching forward to lift the lid on one of the tureens. “They are at your disposal and have likewise been instructed to aid you in all matters. You have carte blanche over them. Would you care for some duck soup, my dear?”

“Of course,” she murmured, trying not to be distracted by the underlying implications of the phrase carte blanche .

He ladled some of the richly scented soup into her waiting bowl. Orange, herbs, and savory broth made her stomach rumble. It had been some time since they had partaken of a modest meal en route to Hertfordshire, and she couldn’t deny she was hungry.

“But I still shan’t be spending any time with you, Your Grace,” she added frostily as he added soup to his own bowl next.

“But we will have to plan the menu,” he protested, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“The housekeeper can attend to that.”

“No,” he countered swiftly. “She cannot. I don’t wish to speak with Mrs. Gilliebrand. As kindly and efficient as she is at running this household, she is old enough to be my mother, and she jingles when she walks.”

“That would be her chatelaine,” Miranda protested, amused in spite of herself.

“A dreadful cacophony.” He shuddered.

“A point of great pride for any housekeeper,” she argued stoically. “I will be pleased to consult Mrs. Gilliebrand myself so that I may arrange the cream ices and cornets to best pair with the menu each day.”

He nodded. “Only promise me that you will provide apple and ginger cream ice one of the days, if you please. I’ve been consumed by thoughts of having it upon my tongue again ever since I tasted it last.”

There was something potent and sensual about the way he uttered those words, as if he were speaking of more than mere cream ice.

His gaze was inscrutable and deep blue, piercing hers as he brought the soup spoon to his mouth.

She caught her wine goblet in trembling fingers and raised it to her lips, needing the fortification.

When she had all but drained the glass, she replaced it upon the table linens, aware of the amused smile he sent in her direction.

He knew the effect he had upon her, the wicked rake, and he was well pleased by it.

But what did he expect? She would have had to be fashioned of stone to be unaffected by the potent lure of the Duke of Whitby.

“I will make certain to find a meal best suited to the apple and ginger cream ice,” she forced herself to say.

As if her heart weren’t racing. And as if her nipples hadn’t tightened into aching buds beneath the punishing constriction of her corset.

Green had tight-laced her with far more vigor than Miranda was accustomed to, particularly since she ordinarily did for herself.

Now that she was seated, the boning was pinching her sides.

Neither the slight biting pain, however, nor the tightness detracted from the reaction her body had to the sensual rake opposite her.

“Thank you.” He nodded toward her as-yet-untouched bowl. “Now I must exhort you to eat your soup. It is a delight, though it pales in comparison to the marriage of flavors you created in your dessert.”

Yes, she ought to eat, and for no better reason than she was famished and consuming her soup would provide an excellent distraction.

She spooned some of the broth and brought it to her lips, reminded of the etiquette that had been sternly embossed upon her soul by a demanding governess years before.

Here was a reminder of how it felt to eat in company.

To cling to manners and societal niceties, neither of which had the slightest thing to do with hunger.

The soup was excellent, laced with sherry and fresh herbs, but it may as well have been gruel.

She couldn’t seem to enjoy it when she was seated at the table with the Duke of Whitby.

He stole all the air from the room. His golden, seductive presence denied her the simple pleasure of enjoying the fine meal laid before her.

She consumed her bowl, trying not to look at him.

But it was no use.

“More soup?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t indulge.”

“Whyever not?”

“There are a great many other dishes upon the table,” she reasoned.

He ignored her and served her another ladle of the delicious dish. “But you want more,” he pointed out, and quite correctly too. “Why deny yourself?”

The decadent scent of the soup teased her nostrils. She was close—so close—to bringing the spoon to her lips and draining her bowl a second time. But there seemed to be a more important point to be made, one that superseded all else.

“Miranda,” he prodded gently. “Go on. Eat the bloody soup.”

Her gaze jolted to his. They engaged in a battle of wills that finally saw him sighing and lifting the dome over one of the other dishes. “Sirloin of beef à la Pompadour . Would you care for a slice?”

“Please.”

He carved into the roast and produced a perfectly proportioned slice for her. The rest of the domes were lifted to reveal haricots verts , potatoes, asparagus à la Princesse , braised lettuce, and a salad of carrots.

Her plate was filled, the duck soup still calling to her longingly from her bowl. Determined, Miranda turned her attention to the various foods on her plate, cutting dainty, judicious bites.

“Your soup is growing cold,” he remarked knowingly.

She ignored him, sawing at her beef with more vigor than the tenderized loin required.

“Stubborn to the last, I see.”

Again, she said nothing.

“Tell me about yourself, Miranda. Do you have any siblings?”

It didn’t surprise her that Whitby was more aware of her divorce and the scandal it had caused than he was of her family’s makeup.

“I have two younger sisters and one brother who is my junior by a year as well.”

“You are the eldest.” He didn’t sound surprised.

She glanced up at him, distracted from the act of slicing her beef into infinitesimal pieces. “Yes.”

The duke took a contemplative sip of his wine, his stare never leaving hers. “I cannot say I’m shocked to learn so. I take it that your younger siblings have something to do with your family’s decision to disavow you?”

Miranda loved her siblings. Her heart squeezed at the reminder that they must forever be lost to her.

It was her turn to nod, the lump in her throat growing larger. “My sisters have yet to find marriageable husbands. Our parents feared an association with me, following the divorce, would leave them tainted.”

Whitby swore beneath his breath. “They ought to have welcomed you. You’re hardly the first divorced woman in England. Instead, they threw you to the goddamned wolves.”

He was furious on her behalf, she realized. His anger was not feigned. And his ever-ready charm had swiftly died in the face of his vehemence.

“It is done now,” she said, struggling for a lighter tone and the pretense that her family’s abandonment hadn’t cut her to the very marrow, for it most assuredly had. “I cannot change what has happened. Tell me, do you have any siblings, Your Grace?”

Although Whitby’s reputation was notorious, she couldn’t recall any mentioning of brothers or sisters in relation to him.

And Miranda found herself genuinely curious to know more about him.

Still, she turned her gaze to her plate, not wanting him to see the tears pooling in her eyes, blurring her vision.

Far safer to look at her beef and haricots verts .

“You may seek to change the subject all you like, but it shan’t make what they’ve done to you right.”

She blinked, holding her eyes closed for a moment. To her humiliation, a hot tear rolled free of her lashes, coasting down her cheek. “Please. Let us speak of something else. You didn’t answer my question. Have you any brothers or sisters of your own?”

There was a lengthy pause, during which she blinked furiously, trying to clear the tears from her eyes and restore her composure.

“I have one sister,” he said at last. “Rhiannon is a hellion.”

His voice was tender, a smile lingering in it. It was plain he doted upon his sibling. Miranda drained the remainder of her wineglass, continuing to avoid his gaze. “Tell me about her.”

“She is ten years younger than I, and she’s bold and fearless and is forever finding herself in one scrape after the next. Woe be to the man who one day takes her to wife. Rhiannon is a bit like fireworks—bright, loud, and unpredictable.”

At last, Miranda ventured a glance in his direction again, finding that his expression had softened, taking on an almost boyish air as he spoke of his sister with unrepentant fondness.

“The two of you are close, then?” she surmised, unable to quell the pang of envy deep in her heart.

She missed her siblings. Missed her family and the seemingly unbreakable bonds that had once tied them.

“We are.” He smiled. “I would protect her with everything I have. And I would never forsake her, not even if she caused the biggest scandal in all England.”

His words were a pointed barb aimed at her family, and she knew it. But she was also grateful he had heeded her plea and hadn’t directly spoken of the rift with her siblings and parents again.

“You are a good brother to her.”

“I try to be.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “Our father was a horse’s arse and ignored her because she was a daughter instead of the spare he so desperately wanted.”

Miranda took note of the bitterness that had suddenly entered his voice. “How dreadful for Lady Rhiannon.”

“It was by far not the worst of our sire’s cruelties, but yet another for which I’ll never forgive him.” Whitby refilled his wineglass and added a bit more to hers. “But enough of all such unpleasant subjects. Let’s leave the past where it belongs, shall we?”

Miranda had her own healing wounds from the past, so she didn’t argue. “Yes, let’s.”