Page 17

It would be good for her ability to resist him.

However, another part of her, one she was determined to ignore, loathed the notion of him carrying on with an untold number of women below.

Giving them his heated glances, his sultry teasing.

His lips ghosting over feminine faces and forms, leaving behind a heady path of fire.

No, these were foolish, dangerous, sinful thoughts she couldn’t bear to entertain. Doing so would be nothing short of ruinous.

She resumed brushing, trying to ignore the hint of disappointment that came with the realization she hadn’t heard anyone at the door after all.

And truly, what had she believed, that Whitby would abandon his lascivious house party below to spend time with her?

Undoubtedly, the feminine companionship to be found was far more alluring.

Likely, he had already forgotten her existence, in favor of seeking women more amenable to his ample charms. But that was for the best. She had come here for one reason and one reason only.

She needed the small fortune the Duke of Whitby had offered her for her services.

For her cream ice and desserts, not for anything else.

Knock-knock-knock.

Her breath caught.

The knock was definitely real this time.

Firmer, more assertive. And she knew who it was.

Knew she ought to ignore it. Ignore him .

Instead, she strode hastily across the room and glanced at herself in the mirror.

Her dressing gown was perfectly modest. She had on a night rail beneath it.

But her feet were bare. Her hair was unbound, curls falling down her back and spilling over her shoulders.

It felt wrong for him to see her thus, although she was no stranger to the intimacies that inevitably followed a marriage, even one as cold and passionless as hers had been.

“Miranda?”

Whitby’s voice reached her, muffled by the closed door, low and decadent and far too alluring.

“Just a moment,” she managed, sounding vexingly breathless.

It was too late for her to sweep her hair into a chignon. Coiling and pinning the heavy mass took concerted effort and a great deal of time. With a deep breath, she rushed across the room to the door, hesitating as her hand hovered over the latch.

If she didn’t open the door, he would think she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him.

At the same time, she very much didn’t trust herself to be alone with him.

In the end, her pride had her lifting the latch on her side and trying the door.

It clicked open, swinging toward her to reveal Whitby standing there, still dressed in his evening finery of stark blacks and whites.

His golden hair was tousled as if he had sifted his fingers through it, and his stormy eyes burned into hers.

“Your Grace,” she greeted. “Is something amiss?”

“Of course not.” His gaze traveled lower, dipping to her dressing gown. “I was wondering if we might take a few minutes to speak.”

He was being carefully polite. Sudden worry assailed her. Had there been something wrong with her cream ice even though he’d claimed nothing was amiss?

She stepped back, opening the door fully, for she felt foolish cowering behind it. She was no innocent virginal miss. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had any more bare skin on display than she usually did, aside from her toes. And surely he wouldn’t find her feet of interest.

“May I come in?” he asked, hesitating at the threshold instead of sauntering inside as she had expected him to do.

He was being unfailingly polite, which also had her at sixes and sevens. It was as if the way he had crowded her against the breakfast table and melted her with those wandering kisses that morning had been nothing but a wild imagining on her part.

“Of course.” She stepped back, allowing him entrée, proud of her ability to maintain her composure.

If the circumstances were unusual, they were surely no more lacking in propriety than they had been on any of the other occasions she had been alone with him. Besides, there was no one to witness her ignominy now.

No one, save herself.

He entered the room in purposeful strides, his gaze dipping to her bare feet. “Forgive me. Were you preparing to go to sleep?”

The lamps in her room yet blazed, and her recipes were spread over the writing desk in piles, all evidence that she was not yet finding her bed. No point in lying. And good heavens, but why did the way his gaze lingered on her toes make her heart beat faster and send heat careening through her?

“I was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner,” she answered simply, cursing herself for the huskiness in her voice.

For remembering how sinfully good his kisses had felt, finding her everywhere but on her lips. For wanting him as a woman desired a man when she must remain a steadfast businesswoman instead.

“The ice and cornets were nothing short of perfection,” he praised. “I wanted to tell you at once and sought you out following the conclusion of dinner. The guests were all well pleased.”

Ah, so that explained his dress. He would return to his revelries. What had she expected—for him to go to sleep before midnight and without a bevy of beauties in his bed? Good heavens, what if he brought a lover to his chamber this very eve? And what if she could hear them?

Her stomach flipped.

“I am glad to hear it,” she forced herself to say, seeking distraction by moving across the room to the writing desk, putting some necessary distance between them. “It’s fortunate that you are here. I did wish to speak with you concerning my idea for tomorrow’s ices.”

“You needn’t run from me,” he said behind her, his tone amused.

That had her stopping mid-stride and whirling to face him.

“I’m hardly running, Your Grace. I’m merely going to fetch my recipe papers.

I have the most darling notion for a basket made of nougat and chocolate ice mushrooms within.

The interior of the basket will be filled with chocolate and raspberry cream ice, but the whole of it will be made to look quite realistic, all edible. ”

She realized she was rambling because she was nervous. Surely the Duke of Whitby need not know the particular details of the cream ices she would be serving at tomorrow’s orgy.

Orgy.

Though he had teased her about it, the mere word made her ill.

She found her gaze roving over him, wondering if the fingers that had been through his golden mane had been another woman’s instead of his.

Had he already indulged in the hedonism no doubt to be found downstairs? Why did she hate the notion?

“Your hair is as glorious as I imagined it would be when it is unbound,” he said softly, standing far too near for her comfort. “It’s a travesty to confine it as you do.”

Did he ply other women with such compliments? Did he admire their hair, kiss their temples, hold them close, and make them long to indulge in all the sensual pleasures he could give them? She hated herself for wondering.

Miranda swallowed hard, belatedly realizing she still gripped her brush in her left hand. How silly she must look, standing before him wielding it as if it were a weapon with which she might fend him off.

“My hair gets in my way,” she told him, forcing her mind to stay on the subject at hand. “To say nothing of what is fashionable. I daresay no one would come to my school at all if I were to carry on with my hair spilling down my back no better than a common jade.”

“No one would ever mistake you for a jade, and I can assure you that there is not one thing about you that is common.” He smiled, sincerity sparkling in the depths of his eyes.

“I am in awe of your talent, Miranda. Something occurred to me earlier during the course of dinner, and I wanted to take a moment now to see what you thought of it. Shall we sit at the hearth?”

Sitting with him in her bedroom seemed an incredibly bad idea.

It implied that he would stay, at least long enough to render standing uncomfortable.

And the longer he lingered here in her room, the greater the danger to her ability to resist him.

Even so, a sinful part of her whispered that if he were to remain cocooned in her room this evening, there was a diminishing chance of him finding a woman to warm his bed.

“I don’t know if that would be wise,” she hesitated.

He flashed her a charming half grin. “I promise to behave myself.”

“Very well, then,” she agreed, moving toward where the fire was burning low in the grate, prepared by Green’s expert hand before she had departed for the night.

Two overstuffed chairs flanked each other, a safe enough distance apart.

She settled in the farthest one and watched as he folded his tall frame easily into the other, crossing his ankles in a comfortable pose.

He looked at home in the cozy privacy of her bedchamber, and she had a wild, fanciful notion of what it would be like to spend each night alone with him just like this.

She cleared her throat, trying to banish all such unwanted thoughts. “What was it that you wanted to discuss, Your Grace?”

His long fingers tapped idly on the armrest. “Your calling me Rhys is an excellent place to begin. I cannot convey how much joy it would bring me to hear my given name on your sweet lips.”

She frowned at him. “You promised you would behave not even a minute ago.”

“I am behaving. If I weren’t, you wouldn’t be sitting opposite me in that chair, darling. You’d be in my lap.”

The seducer was back, and more potently alluring than ever. Or perhaps it was merely that he had so eroded her ability to resist him. Her defenses were already lying in ruins, crumbled in the face of his rakish determination.

“Yes, well, I do have a brush if I need to defend myself,” she pointed out archly, shaking it at him in warning for good measure.