Page 18

He chuckled. “Beating me with a brush would be the last thing on your mind, but that’s a topic for later. For now, let us discuss my reason for seeking you out this evening. I think you will be intrigued by the proposal I have to offer you.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Whitby, I’ve already told you that I’ll not be your mistress.”

“And you know I don’t believe you that your denial will remain steadfast, but sadly, that wasn’t the sort of proposal I had in mind this time.”

She pinned him with a narrowed stare. “What manner of proposal did you have in mind, then?”

He smiled, and her stupid body continued fluttering to life at his proximity, his magnetism, his cheeky grins and handsome face. “You mentioned a desire to begin a situation placement portion of the school, I believe you called it.”

She nodded. “Yes. I intend to offer training for women hoping to find situations for themselves as cooks in well-to-do households. Some of them are my pupils already. My plan is to be the means of connecting households in search of reliable, well-trained cooks with women seeking respectable employ in reputable households. I will charge a small fee to both for my efforts, and it will benefit all parties.”

As far as Miranda was aware, there was no other such establishment presently in operation that devoted itself to cooks trained in the sophisticated cookery she taught. But like so many of her ideas, both her reputation and her available funds presented a problem.

“A sound plan.” He nodded, an undeniable expression of admiration flitting over his features. “You are an astute businesswoman, my dear. Many in your shoes would have cowered rather than starting anew.”

Warmth unfurled within her at his praise. “There was no other choice for me. Had I cowered, I would have lost everything. The Lenox School of Cookery is my chance for a future I was once too afraid to claim for my own.”

“I admire you for your determination, your intrepidness, and your skill.”

His frank words and his gaze held her trapped for a moment.

He had said so much. And it wasn’t empty, rakish flattery either.

He was praising her for her abilities. Abilities she was desperately proud of, because embracing them had meant leaving a life that was familiar and comfortable.

She had been raised to be a gently bred lady, to become the wife of a peer one day.

To sacrifice her own hopes, wants, and needs for a greater good that had turned out to be neither great nor good.

“Thank you,” she managed, inclining her head.

“Allow me to act as a testimonial for your services, if you will. Everyone in attendance at dinner this evening was utterly enthralled with your cream ice and cornets. You should have heard their exclamations. One would have thought they were in the midst of coital delight.”

His words made her frown at him anew. “I fail to see what your guests have to do with my intentions of creating a placement service for domestics.”

“I will make it known to them—individually, of course—that all of the week’s most divine creations hail from your school.

I’ll let them know you have begun teaching cooks in your methods, but that this service is exclusive and quite naturally comes at a dear price.

That they should be the first to hire from your well-trained cooks.

Naturally, they would not know you are in residence.

I would tell them that one of your students is visiting Wingfield Hall at my behest to avoid any hint of scandal.

By the week’s end, you’ll have dozens of ladies begging you to find them a domestic capable of crafting incredible ices and other marvels. ”

She bit her lip, tempted by the description of his plan, but it was almost too lovely to be true. “Why would you wish to help me in this way?”

He grinned again, displaying neat, even teeth. “Because I like you, Miranda.”

His words should not take her breath. Make her heart stutter. And yet, they did.

She shook herself from his thrall. “Because you want to bed me, you mean.”

Whitby winked, unrepentant. “Of course. But that isn’t why I want to help you.”

“What would you gain from such an arrangement?” she pressed, unconvinced.

“The satisfaction of knowing a woman I admire very much and who deserves to succeed will do so.”

It sounded far too noble for a man like him. She eyed him warily. “You cannot expect me to believe that.”

“I’m crushed, darling.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “Indeed, I am wounded to the very marrow at your poor opinion of me.”

A laugh escaped her before she could suppress it. Just one. He was amusing, the Duke of Whitby. And despite all the reasons she should not, she liked him. Liked him very much.

“You cannot blame me for my suspicions,” she pointed out, very near to accepting his offer.

“Naturally not. My own reputation is hardly sterling, and I’ll admit to being quite greedy and selfish. Think upon it, Miranda.” Suddenly, he rose. “Now, I should leave you to your rest. You must be weary, and I have guests awaiting me.”

She shot to her feet as well, feeling already strangely bereft when he had not even gone yet.

“Wait,” she said before she could hold her tongue. “Don’t go just yet.”

Because if he left, he would seek someone else. Surely he would. Another woman would know his lips. Would taste him, touch him. She didn’t want that. She wanted him all to herself. Had been sitting here, agonizing at the thought of him downstairs, hosting countless other women.

And Miranda could not even blame this mad, wild desire rushing through her upon too much wine. She hadn’t consumed a blessed drop when she’d finally taken a tray in her room earlier. No, it was purely the way her body reacted to his. The way the Duke of Whitby made her feel.

She wanted more of that. Wanted him in a way that she had never yearned for another, so much that her hand trembled ever so slightly beneath the force of it as she reached for him, not quite understanding what she intended.

Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour that spurred her.

Or the hushed air of the night.

The loneliness that had never been far since the day she had first left her home and family to become the Earl of Ammondale’s wife.

The desperate need she tried so hard to banish.

The jealousy seething within her at the notion of another woman taking her place with Whitby.

Or all of those things. Or maybe even none of them.

Maybe she just desired the duke, and they were alone with no one to witness her folly. Maybe she was taking what she wanted for the first time in her life. Eschewing duty and obligation and flinging caution to the wind.

Miranda closed the distance separating them, her bare feet padding over the thick Axminster, and then she was in his arms, her brush falling, forgotten, to the floor.