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R hys woke to a hard, aching cock and a disappointingly empty bed.

Miranda was gone.

The place where she’d fallen asleep in his arms was cool to the touch, which meant she had left for her own room long before he had arisen.

And it was the devil of a thing, that discovery.

Not just because he was always the first to leave a lover’s bed—clinging women were tedious, and maudlin sentiments more so—but because he realized, as he absently swept his hand over the slight indentation on her pillow, that he hadn’t wanted her to go.

He had reached for her and met with emptiness. And it was damned unnerving, the way that emptiness had left him feeling—as he imagined he would if he were missing a part of himself.

He wanted more from her than just one night.

He wanted more from her, quite possibly, than he had ever wanted from another woman.

No.

What the bloody hell was he thinking? Likely, it was his randy prick guiding him, he reassured himself as he lay back in the bed that still smelled faintly of sexual congress and her sweet scent.

He would take himself in hand, and then he would begin his morning, facing this first full day of the house party and whatever it brought with his customary sangfroid.

He had bedded Miranda. He wanted to bed her again. It was a normal, usual red-blooded response. That was it. That was all .

Closing his eyes, Rhys reached beneath the sheet and grasped his rigid length.

He thought about Miranda holding her delicious breasts together for him and begging him to fuck her.

Of thrusting his cock between her full, bountiful breasts while she plumped them up for him. Would he spend on her breasts?

Damn it all, he was harder than hard, a bead of mettle seeping from his tip.

With his thumb, he slicked it over his crown, remembering what she had tasted like, how she had writhed and moaned when he had tongued her pussy.

And then he had his answer. Miranda would ask him to take her mouth, and he would have no choice but to give her what she wanted.

She would part her berry-pink lips, and he would guide his erection over her waiting tongue.

She would suck him so good, so hard, moaning around his cock, and…

“Fuck,” he muttered, spilling into his sheets like a randy lad.

For a moment, he lay there, his breathing ragged, as he returned to the world and the still-dismaying absence of Miranda. And…he wasn’t satisfied.

He wanted her here, but not just so he could persuade her to let him show her the joys of morning bedchamber romps.

Not just so he could have his release. But because he wanted to see what she looked like, sleepy-eyed and with rumpled hair.

He wanted to watch her while she slept. To kiss her awake.

To hold her close to him as the sun rose.

He wanted her naked and curled trustingly against him.

What a bloody idiot.

Wincing, Rhys tossed back the bedclothes and stalked to a pitcher and basin, performing some cursory ablutions before ringing for a bath. He needed a thorough soak this morning. Perhaps that would prove the restorative he required. A necessary return to sanity.

But not even submerging himself in hot, pleasant-scented water, which ordinarily cured whatever ailed him, sufficed.

He washed and abandoned his still-warm bath in favor of dressing and receiving a quick morning shave from his valet Lavenue, whose presence rendered a trip next door to Miranda impossible.

Venturing into her territory during the daylight hours was likely inadvisable anyway, given her stern devotion to keeping the household ignorant of their affair.

With a sigh, he deemed himself suitably respectable and descended to the tawdry whirl awaiting him downstairs.

Before he broke his fast, however, there was a matter of supreme importance requiring not just his attention, but that of his fellow founders of the club.

To that end, Rhys arranged for a meeting between the four of them in a private salon.

Unfortunately, only three of them were in attendance.

“Where the devil is Richford?” he asked Riverdale and Kingham, irritated by their friend’s absence.

“Hopefully sleeping off his bloody terrible mood,” King commented lightly, brushing a speck of lint from his coat sleeve.

“I saw him chasing after a masked blonde last night,” Riverdale offered with a shrug. “I don’t recall if that was before or after naughty charades. Thanks to King’s latest potion, my recollection of the evening is delightfully imprecise.”

“Lovely,” Rhys muttered, annoyed. “We arrange a meeting of tremendous importance, and Richford is off bedding some wench.”

He was more than aware of his own hypocrisy, for he had spent the night with a woman as well. But Miranda was different. She wasn’t a mere drunken tryst at a Wicked Dukes Society house party.

“I do so hate to argue finer points,” King drawled, “but we haven’t arranged a meeting. You have. And I have yet to eat breakfast, so this better be damned good.”

“I ate an hour ago, and I’ve already gone for a ride.” Riverdale grinned cheekily. “Lazy bastards, the lot of you.”

Rhys wasn’t in the mood for lighthearted banter. He was in the mood to blacken Lord Roberts’s eye.

“We may as well proceed without Richford,” he decided. “The matter cannot wait until he has decided he’s finished emptying his ballocks.”

King made a gagging sound and shuddered. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to think about Richford’s ballocks before half past ten in the morning.”

“How about after half past ten?” Riverdale asked.

King pretended to contemplate the question, stroking his jaw. “No, I daresay not then either. Half past ten just seemed a proper sort of time.”

“Lord help me,” Rhys muttered. “Would the two of you cease nattering like a pair of dowager biddies at the edge of a ballroom? I have something serious I need to discuss with you.”

“Why didn’t you say so, old chap?” King asked, blinking innocently.

He glared at his friend. “I did say so. Curse your hides, and curse Richford’s too.”

“What about Brandon and Camden?” Riverdale wanted to know. “Should they not receive the same curse, given their absences as well?”

Rhys growled in frustration. “Yes, to the devil with them all. Now to the matter of import, and the reason I’ve convened this meeting.

Last night, Lord Roberts threatened a woman in the gardens.

If I hadn’t intervened when I did, there’s no telling what would have happened.

Given his actions, I believe it’s clear he needs to be expelled from both the Society and this house party. ”

“He threatened someone?” King asked, frowning, his amused expression fleeing.

“Yes.” Fury roiled through Rhys anew as he thought of the scene he had come upon, the fear in Miranda’s voice last night when she had run into his arms in the moonlight.

“She wasn’t masked, and Roberts threatened to reveal her presence here to polite society in an effort to hurt her reputation.

He also suggested that he would hold his tongue if she bedded him. ”

White-hot rage accompanied the last revelation. Roberts was bloody well fortunate that Rhys hadn’t simply thrashed him to death then and there.

“That is vile,” Riverdale agreed, “and decidedly against our rules. Who is the lady in question?”

Damn it, he didn’t want to reveal it was Miranda. Not because he didn’t trust his friends to keep the matter private and avoid causing a scandal for her. But because he wasn’t ready to examine what he felt for her or to admit it to King and Riverdale.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “Roberts was attempting to blackmail a woman and to coerce her into bed with him.”

“The woman in question wouldn’t happen to be the saucy bit of skirts you brought here to make the cream ice and cornets, would it?” King asked knowingly.

Rhys knew he shouldn’t be surprised that King was aware of Miranda being at Wingfield Hall. His friend had an uncanny knack for knowing everything about everyone.

He clenched his jaw. “She has a name, and I’ll thank you to refrain from referring to her as a saucy bit of skirts .”

King grinned. “But I do so enjoy watching how nettled you get over the mere mentioning of her, I must admit. What is she calling herself now? Lady Miranda, Miss Lenox, or Lady Ammondale?”

Bloody hell, either King was omniscient, or he had a spy in the ranks. Neither would surprise Rhys.

“It is Miss Lenox,” he ground out. “But the lady is rightfully protective of her reputation. Her presence here is not to become common knowledge. As far as the guests are to know, she has sent a pupil trained by her to delight us with her culinary confections. No one can know the lady herself is staying here at Wingfield Hall. Given the nature of the house party and her divorce being fodder for the gossips, she is concerned that further scandal should fall upon her.”

“You ought to have a sword, playing the knight as you are,” Riverdale said, shaking his head as if he despaired of Rhys.

He raised a brow, feeling rather murderous at the moment, and positively medieval. “To run Roberts through? I wouldn’t turn it down.”

King whistled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so taken with a woman, Whit.”

He ground his molars until his jaw ached. “I’m not taken.”

But was that true? Rhys didn’t want to think about it.

Not now. Not after he had made love to Miranda just last night.

Not when she had disappeared before morning, flitting away like a seductive, elusive phantom.

Not when he had to make certain Roberts would never breathe a word about Miranda again.