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She took another sip of her wine, thinking she would need it for fortification if she had a prayer of continuing to remain unmoved by the duke’s dashing charm.

The fire was crackling low in the grate of the library at Wingfield Hall. Rhys’s left arm had fallen asleep approximately half an hour ago and was presently numb. Despite this, he hesitated to move the sleeping woman at his side.

She was soft and warm, all the starch and stiffness leeched from her, her head leaning against his shoulder, the gentle gusts of her sleep breathing a pleasant rhythm only occasionally interrupted by a small, feminine snore.

No doubt about it, Miranda Lenox was foxed. Adorably, utterly soused. Too much French wine at dinner, he reckoned. Getting her drunk had certainly not been his intent. No, the rake in him had been determined to press his suit.

To woo her.

Win her.

To seduce her.

But as they had decamped from the dining room and she had accepted his offer of a cordial in the library, it had become increasingly apparent to him that his Miranda was not in any state for wooing.

Instead, they had sat together before the ornate marble fireplace, chatting about everything from cream ices to poetry to art until she had gone abruptly silent. She had fallen asleep sitting up, her head tilted back and her lips parted.

“Poor lamb,” he had murmured, settling her into a more comfortable position against his side.

And there she had remained, not even waking when he had shifted her so she might use his person as a pillow.

There was presently a fine patch of drool darkening the black of his coat, and he didn’t even care.

From the little she had shared with him about her divorce and the ensuing scandal and her family’s severing of ties with her, he could glean that she had been through the fiery flames of hell.

Somehow, she had emerged from it all a businesswoman determined to see her school of cookery thrive and succeed. She had earned this rest. And he couldn’t deny there was something pleasing about the way she had trustingly melted against him. The way she had burrowed into his shoulder and slumbered.

He had never, in all his days, dreamt that the act of a woman falling asleep upon him would make him feel as he did now—strangely warm in the darkest cockles of his heart he had believed long dead and cold, a searing sense of rightness lodged behind his collarbone. That last was most concerning of all.

Hell, perhaps he was in his cups as well, and he just didn’t know it.

Surely that was the reason a seasoned, jaded rake such as himself would remain as he was, listening to Miranda’s sleep breathing, her perfume coiling around him like a rope.

His cock wasn’t even hard. He had simply been sitting here for Christ knew how long, enjoying her presence and proximity.

Liking the way she felt against him.

He sighed. Yes, likely he was soused as well.

He’d never even shared a bed with one of his lovers after fucking.

The act of sleeping with another, of the expectations that might accompany such an intimacy, had always made him flee.

Strangely, he had no urge to run now. Instead, he was plagued by a persistent, protective urge where she was concerned.

Her bloody family had disowned her. He wasn’t sure which bothered him the most, her family’s lack of loyalty where she was concerned or the upset they had caused her.

There had been tears shimmering in her eyes earlier when she had spoken of them, and after that lone tear had spilled down her cheek, he had been overtaken by the simultaneous urge to slam his fist into her father’s jaw and to hold her in his arms and soothe her.

He couldn’t shake the all-consuming notion that she was his , damn it.

That he ought to tear off to London at once and give her arsehole family the dressing down they so richly deserved for abandoning Miranda to whatever fate awaited her.

He had no right to feel that way, and he knew it.

He had hired her ostensibly for her culinary expertise for the next week, and perhaps even to warm his bed for the next month if he had his way.

But he wasn’t meant to have feelings for her.

This was all wrong. That didn’t mean he didn’t savor these remaining moments he had her all to himself. Tomorrow would inevitably arrive, and with it, an influx of guests he would be expected to entertain.

Moving slowly, he extricated his pocket watch from his waistcoat to consult the time.

Half past one. Damn it all, he regretted volunteering to host this house party.

The lack of anticipation was deuced odd.

Ordinarily, he looked forward to the debauchery that inevitably happened at the Wicked Dukes Society house parties.

The members of their club paid a small fortune to be assured of both secrecy and carnal abandon in equal measure.

Rhys had always enjoyed the revelries. But now in the shadows of the night, the glow of the fire dancing on the walls, he wished he had spirited Miranda to his own country seat instead.

They wouldn’t have been interrupted. He would have been free to seduce her at leisure.

To allow her to sleep in his arms in the library.

To savor her. But tomorrow would come far too soon, and he also needed to warn her about the true nature of the house party.

She was going to be furious with him when she discovered it.

But her outrage would be too late, just as he had planned. She was already in Hertfordshire where he wanted her, the fifteen hundred pounds he had paid her having been applied to her cookery school’s debts.

Rhys swiftly banished an accompanying pang of conscience at the thought of how thoroughly he had deceived her. He had merely done whatever was necessary to persuade Miranda to join him here. And he would compensate her handsomely, both in pleasure and monetary gain.

He allowed a few more minutes to tick by on his pocket watch before reluctantly pocketing it once again. He knew he could not continue delaying the inevitable.

Gently, Rhys stroked a wisp of hair from her cheek that had worked itself free of the unforgiving knot at her nape. “Miranda, sweeting.”

She mumbled something he couldn’t identify and then nestled closer, like a kitten seeking solace from its mother. Only, Miranda was no kitten, and he was decidedly not her mother.

“Miranda,” he tried again, his voice a bit louder this time.

“Mmm,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Better than my favorite cream ice.”

“What is?” he asked, curious, even though he knew she was still half asleep.

She gave an indelicate snort and smacked her lips.

Rhys stifled a chuckle. Dear God, she was nothing short of delectable. A fresh wave of something built in his chest, strong and forceful. Something that felt remarkably like tenderness.

But no, surely that was wrong.

He scarcely knew this woman. And he, Rhys Northwick, Duke of Whitby, did not develop tender feelings for the women he fucked.

Not that he had bedded Miranda yet, of course, but it was inevitable that he would.

Their attraction was palpable, and the only present obstacle to having her naked and beneath him was her damnable sense of pride.

“Miranda, sweeting,” he tried again, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. “The hour is late, and we should both find our way to our beds so that we can get some sleep tonight.”

With a throaty sound, she awoke, making soft noises that made his stupid cock twitch back to life. Excellent. Now he would have to go to bed alone, and with a cockstand. Apparently he was just as depraved as he’d always been after all.

Her eyes fluttered open, her long, dark lashes parting to reveal the brilliance of that shocking verdant gaze. “Whitby?”

“Rhys,” he reminded her, hoping that her sleep-and-wine-dazed mind may be persuaded to eschew her infernal insistence upon adhering to formality.

A vee had formed between her brows. “Wh-where am I?”

“In the library,” he reminded her, tamping down the rising, raging urge to kiss her. “You accompanied me here after dinner, and I fear the journey left you wearier than I had realized. You fell asleep.”

“Oh dear.” Pink crept up her throat, and he longed to undo some of her buttons to see just where her flush began. “I fell asleep?”

“Indeed.” He grinned down at her. “You snore adorably, you know.”

“I snored?” Her frown deepened, lucidity returning to her eyes and her voice now as sleep rapidly fled. “And I fell asleep on you. Good heavens. On you.”

As if he were fashioned of flame, she jolted away from him on the Grecian couch, sliding hastily to the opposite end.

“You also drooled on me,” he added, amused by her reaction.

Clearly, her body felt more at home with him than her mind did.

Her face flamed. “I am certain I did no such thing.”

Still grinning, he tapped on the damp spot on his left lapel. “Right here.”

“I must beg your pardon.”

“You must, indeed,” he said with mock levity. “You see, it isn’t every day that a woman falls asleep on me. My pride is unutterably destroyed.”

“I thought it had already cracked and disintegrated earlier,” she pointed out, that rapier-sharp wit and tongue of hers returning.

“It is remarkably adept at restoring itself,” he quipped, enjoying himself far too much.

He would happily stay here with her all night, trading barbs and nothing more. The realization was both astonishing and alarming.

“Of course it is. You are a duke after all.”

“What does that have to do with pride?”

A small, sad smile tipped the corners of her lips upward. “You are important. A well-titled, wealthy, handsome gentleman. I have no doubt that legions of women chase after you daily.”

His mind caught on only a fraction of what she had said, because her lips were glistening and full, and he very much wanted to feel them against his, but he wouldn’t kiss her now because she had drunk too much wine and he was trying to be a gentleman, damn it.

“You think me handsome?” he asked, pleased.

“You own a mirror, do you not? Of course you must know that you are.”

“Yes, but hearing you grudgingly say it after you’ve spent the last two hours curled up to me like a kitten is more gratifying than I can possibly convey.”

His teasing words had their intended effect.

Her lips parted, her mouth forming a perfect o of indignation. “Curled up to you like a kitten?”

“A sweet kitten who has awakened and unsheathed her claws,” he drawled.

“I haven’t claws.”

“I beg to differ.”

They stared at each other, another errant strand of hair clinging to her cheek that he could not resist. Rhys slid across the couch in one swift motion, then reached out and tucked the curling tendril behind her ear. As he did so, his fingertips brushed her cheek ever so slightly.

She trembled, her eyes widening, her pupils going black in her brilliant green eyes. “What are you doing, Your Grace?”

He was far too close for propriety’s sake, but it didn’t bloody well matter. They were alone, no one would happen upon them, and he intended to be far closer to her than this soon. So he lingered where he was.

“Your coiffure is coming undone,” he murmured. “Did not your lady’s maid assist you this evening?”

He would admit, he had hoped to see her in one of the gowns he had brought for her, all borrowed from the dressmaker he often used to buy gowns for his lovers should they wish it.

Mrs. Williams had an entire wardrobe available that no longer fit the intended lady because she was increasing.

The timing had proven excellent. Likewise, he had chosen a lady’s maid to assist Miranda in the hope she might take at least the week to attend to herself.

He had underestimated her determination.

“I coiled it into a chignon myself,” she said, her voice still a trifle breathless. “I don’t need your gowns, Your Grace, any more than I need a lady’s maid.”

“There is a vast difference between needing something and wanting it,” he pointed out, remaining where he was, deliciously near to her on the couch.

If she had a hint of self-preservation, she would leap from the furniture and flee at once. Because now that she had awakened, it was plain to see she was no longer in her cups as deeply as she had been before her little nap.

“Wanting something does not mean you should have it,” she countered, ever practical, rather like a martyr, willing to sacrifice herself for the good of her cause.

“Nor does it mean that you should not have it, and everything else you want, too,” he cajoled.

“Are you saying you do not deny yourself anything that you want?” she asked softly.

His grin faded, utter seriousness overtaking him as he propped his forearm on the back of the couch and held her gaze. “Of course not. I want you very much, Miranda. More, I think, than I have ever wanted anyone or anything. And yet, I must deny myself until you reach the inevitable conclusion.”

Her chin went up, her lips parting. “Which is?”

Her voice had gone husky. Her eyes settled on his mouth. And holy God, it was the most erotic moment he had known in as long as he could recall, her gaze on him, tempted and curious and hungry too.

“That you and I are meant to be lovers,” he answered.

Her swift inhalation of breath cut through the silence, followed by the pop of a log in the fireplace. Sparks shot over the grate in his peripheral vision, and he couldn’t help but to think it a metaphor for what was happening now.

If only she hadn’t consumed too much wine. He cursed himself for refilling her goblet with too liberal a hand. For tonight, all they would have was flirting. He had to know that she was not otherwise influenced. That she wouldn’t regret what passed between them.

“I have already given you your answer,” she reminded him.

“And I will accept it when you mean it.” He winked. “For now, we both ought to retire. The morning will come soon enough.”

He reluctantly rose and offered her his hand, which she eyed dubiously.

“I cannot accompany you to your bedchamber.”

He would have laughed had he not feared she might misconstrue his lightheartedness. “Nor did I invite you. As I said, I want you very much. But you will come to me of your own volition, or not at all.”

“Then I am afraid you are doomed to be disappointed.”

This time, he did chuckle, just as she laid her hand in his and his fingers closed around hers. “My sweet Miranda, how wrong you are. Before this week is over, you will be begging me.”

And that was a promise he intended to keep.