Page 19

S he hadn’t begged.

But it didn’t matter now.

Nothing else did except for Miranda. His beautiful, capable, independent Miranda.

Her hands were on his shoulders, her pale face turned up to his, the lamplight flickering lovingly over her features, dancing in her emerald eyes and glinting off her obsidian hair.

The faint, floral scent of her bath clung to her skin, her lush curves were for once not constrained by unforgiving stays and layers of ghastly gray silk and buttons, and her dressing gown had parted ever so slightly at the top to reveal more of her bountiful breasts than she likely realized.

His mouth was dry, his heart hammering harder than a blacksmith on an anvil. He’d never had such a forceful reaction to a woman throwing herself into his arms before. Hell, he’d never had such a forceful reaction to any woman.

Her berry-pink lips parted. “I accept your offer.”

For a moment, a keening thrill of elation soared through him. But then she hastened to clarify.

“To help me with my placement services,” Miranda elaborated, a flush creeping over her cheekbones. “I don’t need further time to think it over. I’ll accept your help.”

Ah, he should have known. Stubborn woman. Fondness rose, mingling with the desire.

He smiled, his hands still lightly on her waist, where they had landed instinctively when she had rushed toward him. “Good. I’m glad you’ve decided to accept.”

He didn’t want to let go of her. Not now, not yet. Not ever , whispered something within him.

Miranda stared at him for a moment, seeming to wage an inner battle, before nodding.

“I like you too, you know,” she said softly, her countenance strained, as if she were torn between what she wanted to do and what she ought to do. “More than I should, I fear.”

His cock, which had been hard the moment she had opened the door to reveal herself, went positively rigid. “You’re right about that. You shouldn’t like me at all. Because I don’t have a shred of honor where you’re concerned.”

It was decidedly against his best interest in seducing her to warn her away from him. But Rhys knew Miranda Lenox was far better than he was. Far better than he deserved, even. And some small bit of his conscience had loosened his stupid tongue. He’d simply have to bite it from now on.

Or put it to better uses.

She caught the fullness of her lower lip in her teeth. “Is there…are you…do you have a woman awaiting you downstairs? Or more than one, perchance?”

Dare he hope she was jealous of the lady members of the club below? That the way she had rushed into his arms heralded an easier, swifter capitulation on her part than her steely determination had thus far suggested?

A long, dark curl had spilled over her cheek, and he couldn’t resist catching it between his thumb and forefinger, giving the silken strands a teasing tug. “I am the host of this wicked affair, and there are many women in attendance. I suspect any number of them are wondering where I’ve gone to.”

“Not in the capacity of host,” she added, further color washing over her cheeks.

He swept the curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Lovers, you mean. You want to know if any of the ladies in attendance are my lovers.”

“It’s none of my concern, of course. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have?—”

“No,” he interrupted swiftly, holding her gaze. “I haven’t any lovers here. It isn’t the ladies presently playing naughty charades in the drawing room who interest me.”

There was only one woman at Wingfield Hall he wanted. And she was watching him warily, hands still on his shoulders. At least she hadn’t flitted away just yet. He liked simply touching her, the potent aphrodisiac of her proximity.

Her next question took him by surprise.

“What is naughty charades?”

A small laugh gusted from him. “It is what you might imagine it to be. Charades, only with a prerequisite that all words being acted out must be sinful in nature. Garments are optional.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Would you care to play?” He couldn’t resist teasing. “Everyone is masked this evening. No one will know your name.”

“Charades in the nude? I daresay not.”

“Or we could play here together,” he suggested devilishly. “Just the two of us. I have it on good authority that I’m quite adept at charades. And other sport as well.”

Her lips compressed in her best imitation of a scandalized governess. “We will be doing nothing of the sort.”

Rhys didn’t bother to point out that she was presently in his arms, clad in nothing more than a dressing gown, in her bedroom.

Doing so would only send her from him, and he wanted her close.

As close as possible. And preferably without the impediment of her dressing gown and his bloody evening suit in the way.

“Perhaps we might do this instead, then,” he suggested, sliding his hand around to cup her nape beneath the heavy curtain of her hair.

Lowering his head, he placed a delicate kiss on her cheekbone.

Her skin was as smooth and warm as he had recalled from that morning. He wanted to kiss every sweet inch of her. To throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the bed and make love to her all night long.

He heard her inhale sharply, felt her fingertips tightening on his coat.

“Or this.” He kissed her ear, then the hollow behind her earlobe, unable to keep from flicking his tongue over her.

A low sound emerged from her, but she made no effort to move.

He took that as a sign to continue, dropping his mouth to her throat, absorbing the hasty beat of her pulse. She tipped her head back, giving him better access to the velvet-soft column. It required all the restraint he possessed to keep from devouring her as he longed to do.

But he was determined to make her admit that she wanted him.

That she wanted his lips on hers.

He found the hollow of her throat next as she shivered and stepped into him, her full, round breasts crushing against his chest. And fuck, her nipples were hard little points he could feel through all the layers separating them.

“Whitby,” she murmured, a plea in her voice he would be happy to answer.

He needed more from her first, however.

“Rhys, darling.” He rasped his teeth along her throat. “Say my name, and I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you need.”

Still, she was stubborn. The silence was interrupted only by her ragged breaths and dainty inhalations as he flicked his tongue over her pulse.

Undaunted, he moved back up her throat to her jaw, stringing hot kisses over the delicate angle.

Her hands shifted, fingers sifting through the ends of his hair as she sighed.

He kissed the corners of her mouth, first one and then the other, avoiding settling his lips over hers and giving her the all-consuming kiss he so desperately wanted to give her. She was tenacious, but so was he. And he would have her surrender before he was done.

Rhys kissed the space below her plump lower lip, then kissed her philtrum above it before withdrawing and staring down into her lovely, flushed face.

“Say it, Miranda,” he demanded, his voice hoarse with suppressed desire. “Say my name, and I’ll give you my mouth like you want.”

But she bloody well wouldn’t.

Rhys slid the hand at her waist higher, then slipped it over her dressing gown, cupping her luscious, full breast. Her hard nipple studded his palm through the fabric.

“Your Grace,” she countered just before stepping away from him as if he had burned her. “You should return to your guests, as you said.”

“Of course,” he forced out smoothly—no small feat past the roaring lust coursing through his veins. “You’re sure I cannot persuade you to don a mask and join us below?”

“Thank you, but no.” With queenly elegance, she righted her dressing gown, smoothing the bodice and clutching the twain ends more firmly together. He had been so close to toppling her defenses, so close he could all but taste her surrender.

Rhys’s straining cock was proof of that. But Miranda’s countenance had turned positively mulish, and tomorrow was another day. Her desire was feverishly matched with his; he had no doubt of it. Before the week was at an end, he would have her exactly where he wanted her.

Naked in his bed.

Rhys bowed. “Until tomorrow.”

As he turned and stalked from her chamber, he decided not to bother descending to the drawing room, King’s potions, or the revelries again. They held little appeal for him. Instead, he rang for a bath.

There was no cure for what ailed him this night, save one.

He was going to have to take himself in hand to the memory of Miranda’s smooth, warm skin beneath his lips.

In the silvery glow of a full moon, Miranda walked through the gardens of Wingfield Hall, trying—and thus far failing—to purge the restless, reckless longing from her blood.

Although the night air was chilled and she had escaped the maddening nearness to the source of her yearning, she remained as overheated as she was overset.

For a long time after the Duke of Whitby had retreated from her chamber, Miranda had simply stood where he had left her, the memory of his heated kisses haunting her.

Resisting him had been almost impossible.

She had wanted, in the span of those decadent moments when she’d been pressed up against his muscled chest, to strip him free of his formal blacks.

To reveal the true man hiding beneath the debonair rake’s clothes.

She had wanted to set her lips against his and kiss him with all the pent-up desire burning within her.

But she had known that to do so would have been a terrible mistake.

After the scandal she had caused in divorcing Ammondale, she needed to remain as circumspect as possible for the sake of her cookery school.

And being circumspect whilst taking a notorious rake as a lover was simply impossible.

The Duke of Whitby was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.