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A fter what had seemed a lifetime of overseeing the arrival of the weeklong house party’s guests—during which time he had not seen Miranda at all, curse it—Rhys at last sat at the head of the Wingfield Hall dining room table, flanked on both sides by his good chums Riverdale, Kingham, and Richford.

The final course was laid before them by the efficient domestics.

Perfectly molded cream ices served on golden cornets with edges that had been dipped in red royal icing and chopped pistachios.

All around the table, exclamations of delight went up, as if on cue.

“Ye gods, this is damned delicious,” said one chap in a scarlet mask.

“I’ve never had cream ice in anything other than a mold before. How clever,” praised a lady in a mask trimmed with peacock feathers and encrusted in gemstones.

“How delightful,” exclaimed a sultry brunette in a purple satin mask. “What is this crispy bit?”

“I have a crispy bit for you, love,” her male companion suggested with a chortle.

She curled her lip. “I don’t think that particular appendage ought to be crispy, my lord.”

“It was a figure of speech,” the chastised chap mumbled into his dessert course, before shoveling another spoonful of cream ice into his mouth.

“What has you so bloody happy, Whit?” the Duke of Richford grumbled darkly.

Rhys realized he was grinning with pride.

Grinning like a witless idiot. Because he was proud.

He was proud of Miranda and her accomplishments.

But he wasn’t about to share that with his friends.

Not before an audience of club guests. Perhaps not at all.

He was struck by the odd, possessive need to keep her to himself like a priceless jewel.

“Dessert,” he said succinctly. “It’s glorious, isn’t it?”

“Passable,” Richford decreed, his countenance grim beneath his black mask.

He was clearly in one of his moods.

That was just as well.

“What’s the matter with him?” he asked Riverdale.

Riverdale shrugged, mouth full of cream ice. “He’s in a foul mood.”

“I’m not in a foul mood,” Richford snapped.

“Rather proving the point, old chap,” Kingham drawled. “Perhaps it’s on account of that wretched waistcoat. I know I would be bilious as well if I had chosen to wear such a monstrosity in public.”

King was notoriously pedantic when it came to fashion. Mostly, their circle ignored his icy quips where their choices in waistcoats or hats or even neck ties were concerned.

In this instance, however, Rhys found himself agreeing. “The gold damask does look a bit like paper hangings, now that you mention it, King.”

Richford scowled. “He didn’t mention it, and it doesn’t look like paper hangings. There’s not a single goddamned thing wrong with my waistcoat.”

“Is the chest padded as well?” King asked, grinning like the devil he was, unmoved by Richford’s sullen response.

“Looks more like the middle is padded, if you ask me,” Riverdale interjected, having already eaten his cream ice and cornet.

“No one did ask you,” Richford pointed out acidly.

“Perhaps it was implied,” Riverdale offered mildly. “I say, you don’t pad your waistcoats, do you?”

“I have no need to pad them,” Richford growled. “Except I am perhaps too lean in the waist, unlike certain cream ice vultures I might name.”

Their insults were not heated any more than they were accurate. Riverdale was built like a prizefighter, muscled and massive, and Richford had a smaller though similarly brawny build.

Riverdale only chuckled, amused. “Richford needs one of your potions, King. No doubt that will improve his spirits.”

Richford did appear to be remarkably cantankerous, even by his standards. Rhys found himself wondering at the reason.

“Does this have something to do with a woman?” he asked gently.

“No,” Richford bit out quickly.

Too quickly.

Rhys, King, and Riverdale exchanged knowing looks. The reason for their friend’s mood was obvious.

“Who is she?” King asked.

“Stubble it,” Richford snapped with a glare.

“Has she thrown you over?” Riverdale wanted to know.

“Judging from the thunderous expression on his face, the lady has,” Rhys offered.

“No, she hasn’t,” Richford snarled. “Because there is no woman.”

His glare was that of a wounded wild animal, cornered and prepared to fight to the death.

Rhys sighed. Apparently their friend’s mood was even worse than any of them had supposed.

“Perhaps you ought to get some rest, old chap,” he suggested, taking pity on Richford. “You look weary.”

“Tell me, Richford, did you commission that waistcoat out of one of your grandmother’s dresses?” King asked slyly.

Richford’s only response was to bare his teeth, rather in the fashion of a dog hell-bent upon protecting his bone.

“Christ,” King muttered, shaking his head. “You need a drink, old chum.”

“I need four drinks,” Richford said. “Enough to render me insensate.”

“That bad, is it?” Riverdale shook his head in commiseration.

Rhys scraped up the last bite of cream ice and cornet, savoring the creamy delicacy on his tongue.

Damn, but it was glorious, and he was momentarily distracted by the wicked thought of smearing it all over Miranda’s nipples and then licking it off.

Not the cornets, of course. No need for crumbs.

But the cream ice. The cold would make her nipples stiffen into taut pink buds.

He’d swirl his tongue over the peaks, lick up the ginger and apple and then suck…

Fuck.

He had to stop himself, for his cock was growing hard and insistent in his trousers, and he was surrounded by his friends and the club members.

“Are you well, Whit?”

Riverdale’s voice interrupted Rhys’s sordid musings.

He flashed a smile. “Perfectly. Why do you ask?”

“You look like my sister did when she was taken with fever.”

“How should you know what your sister looked like when she was feverish?” King jeered lightly. “Never tell us you were playing nursemaid.”

“She’s my sister, and I love her,” Riverdale defended, frowning. “You know what it’s like, don’t you, Whit? You dote upon Lady Rhiannon.”

“Enough about sisters,” Richford retorted with far too much speed and bite.

Curious, that. Richford didn’t have a sister. His objection to the subject was either an extension of his mood, or something else. Something damned perplexing.

“You object to speaking about sisters now too?” Riverdale demanded. “Is there anything you’ve deemed a suitable topic of conversation this evening, sire?”

“Don’t be an arse.” Richford scowled.

King sighed. “Fortunately, I’ve brought several of my potions along with me. It looks like a restorative will be just the thing.”

“Let’s play a game of naughty charades,” announced the woman in the peacock mask, her voice loud enough to carry through the cavernous dining room.

A chorus of agreement rose up. He thought of Miranda’s assertion that he was hosting an orgy.

He wasn’t. Not strictly. But naughty charades could often lead to a lack of clothes and all manner of sin.

Ultimately, the revelers would find their way to bed—their own or each other’s.

The prospect only left him feeling hollow.

He had no interest in playing games that once might have amused him.

All he wanted now was her.

“What say you?” Riverdale asked Rhys, King, and Richford.

“The drawing room would do nicely for such a purpose,” Rhys suggested.

Dishes were being removed by the assiduous domestics. The hour was growing late. The wine had been flowing freely enough that, coupled with King’s potions, Rhys was beginning to hope no one would notice if he were to slip away from the festivities and go off in search of Miranda.

“I bloody hate charades,” King complained, taking care to keep his voice from carrying.

“Bring your potions,” Riverdale said, grinning. “I have no doubt they’ll make anything interesting.”

“I’ll join you there soon enough,” Richford said, his lip curling in distaste. “There is something I must do first, however.”

Rhys cleared his throat. “I fear I’m too tired for such festivities. Preparing for this house party was exhausting. I’ll see you all in the morning. Don’t drink too much of King’s potions, and if you do, stay away from rooftops, swords, and fireplaces.”

They all chuckled, but the warning was only partly a sally.

With that, he excused himself and escaped from the dining room, his mission clear.

An idea had occurred to him over the course of dinner earlier, one he hoped Miranda might approve of.

Either way, it would prove an excellent excuse to speak with her again tonight.

Because he missed her.

It had been hours since they had parted ways at breakfast, damn it.

The intervening time may as well have been an eternity.

He hoped he had left her as desperately wanting as he felt.

Hoped that those taunting, teasing kisses he had delivered everywhere but to her lips had made her ache for more.

He had vowed he would make her beg, but he had also come to the grim realization that his restraint would only last for so long.

If she didn’t ask him to kiss her soon, he would be the one begging.

Miranda’s lower back ached and her feet were sore, but she was also happily bathed and clad in a dressing gown when the knock sounded at the door connecting her bedroom to the Duke of Whitby’s.

For a moment, she simply stared, pausing mid-stroke of her brush through damp hair.

Surely she had imagined the sound, she thought.

Perhaps it had been a thump somewhere else in the manor house that she had mistaken for a knock.

After all, the house was fairly crawling with guests by now.

She had seen the arrival of carriages heralding the true beginning of the house party earlier.

And she could not lie, she had taken in the presence of others with half relief, half dismay, all for the same reason.

She would no longer have the duke to herself.