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She stopped before she revealed even more, aware that she was rambling. Rhys’s proximity wreaked havoc upon her. But his gaze, focused and intense as he cradled her injured hand in his, was every bit as potent.

“You must think me silly,” she said, feeling suddenly foolish for sharing so much.

“Not at all.” He shook his head, lowering the towel and releasing her hands. “I think you incredible.”

Miranda couldn’t quite contain her bitter laugh. “You are the only person of that opinion.”

“Surely not.” He frowned. “Stay where you are. I’ll fetch the ointment.”

“Ammondale was disgusted by my interest in cookery,” she said, watching as Rhys prowled to a nearby piece of furniture and extracted a tin from a drawer. “He said he wanted a countess, not a servant. He forbade me from visiting the kitchens or speaking with our cook.”

“So, he was an autocratic bastard in addition to being a notoriously small-pricked bore,” Rhys said as he returned to her.

This time, her laugh wasn’t bitter. “You are outrageous, sir.”

He grinned. “And you love it.”

She smiled back at him, trying to cling to her determination to keep her desire for this man at bay and failing.

“Conceited as well,” she commented archly.

“Your hand, madam,” he requested with a gallant air.

She dutifully held it out, allowing him to tend to her. Enjoying it, even. He unscrewed the lid on the ointment tin and smeared a dollop on his forefinger before gently layering it over her burn.

“The dessert was extraordinary this evening,” he said softly, head still bent as he performed his task. “Everyone was astounded that the baskets could be eaten. The raspberry and chocolate cream ice was delicious, and the ice mushrooms were perfectly formed.”

She knew that her latest creation had been impressive, but she didn’t want his praise to originate from pity. “You need not say so on my behalf.”

“My dear, I can assure you that I speak truth. Grown men were fighting over ice mushrooms. I very much feared Kingham and Richford would come to blows over it.”

He had finished applying the ointment to her burn and turned to wash his own hands. Now was the time for her to remind them both of how improper her presence was here and return to her room.

And yet, she could not seem to make herself leave.

“I doubt that they were truly motivated to come to blows,” she murmured.

“Would I lie?” he asked, giving her a look that was somehow innocent and yet scorching all at once.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

He finished drying his hands and pressed one over his heart in dramatic fashion. “Will there be no end to the mortal blows you deal me, my queen?”

She bit her lip to stifle her laughter. “I was not aware there could be multiple mortal blows.”

“Nor was I until you arrived in my life with your decadent desserts and your resistance to my charms.” He screwed the lid back onto his ointment but left it on the table.

“I fear I am hardly as resistant as I ought to be,” she admitted before she could think better of it.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” His smile was wickedness personified as he closed the distance between them yet again. “Why did you leave my bed before dawn?”

It was his first acknowledgment of what had happened between them the night before, and it made wanton heat roll through her. Forbidden longing. Desire she didn’t want to feel. And shame too. For here was the reminder that she was every bit as sinful as the scandal broth had suggested she was.

“Because I had a great deal of work awaiting me today,” she said primly, hoping he could read none of the turmoil passing through her in her face or tone. “And because I had no wish to be caught there by your valet or my lady’s maid. And because what happened last night cannot happen again.”

“Of course it can.”

Oh, how she longed to agree with him. To fling herself into his arms. But it was too dangerous.

The risk to him was nothing. He could carry on as he pleased, and polite society would not so much as blink an eye in reproach.

But she had already paid the price a woman who dared to seize her independence must inevitably forfeit.

And she had no intention of paying it again.

Regardless of how much pleasure there was to be had in this handsome rake’s bed.

“No,” she told him firmly, pleased with herself for the conviction in her voice. “It cannot.”

“Surely I have proven that you need not fear scandal. Lord Roberts has been removed from Wingfield Hall and the Society both. Kingham, Richford, Riverdale, and I have ensured that he won’t breathe a word about your presence here if he wants to keep his teeth.”

His grim pronouncement should not have brought more warmth to her cold and icy heart, but it did. “You need not have further taken up the matter with him on my behalf.”

“Yes, I bloody well needed to,” he growled, rubbing at his jaw with an irritated expression on his handsome face. “Any man who thinks to cause harm to you answers to me.”

He was being deadly earnest, all the levity and teasing gone from his countenance.

No man had ever been so caring, with the exception of Waring, who had been a steadfast source of comfort in her life until he had left for America in the wake of the scandal following her.

She felt a pang of guilt anew at being the reason for Waring’s absence from England, for which she was entirely at fault.

It had been Waring’s idea to pose as lovers and force Ammondale into granting her the divorce, but the price he had paid had been every bit as high as the one Miranda had.

“I appreciate your protectiveness during this week,” she told Rhys.

“I’m not just speaking of this week.”

“After this week, our association will be at an end,” she reminded him.

And herself too. Yes, she needed to recall that this was all temporary. Fleeting. Finite. It could never be more than this lone week, which would pass in a flurry and then be forever gone.

“You know that need not be the case,” he said, frowning. “Nor can you deny how right it is between us.”

“Rhys,” she protested, trying to cling to her fortitude.

To summon all her strength.

“You want me.” His hands settled on her waist in a possessive hold she knew she could escape with ease if she wanted.

And still, she remained where she was, content to stay for just a few moments longer. To linger in his captivating presence. To breathe in his intoxicating masculine scent. To fool herself into believing there could ever be more for her than one night of passion in his arms.

She licked her lips. “I also want cake for breakfast, luncheon, and dinner, but that yearning is not any more practical.”

“My pride objects to any and all comparisons between my cock and cake,” he drawled, his head dipping toward hers.

He was going to kiss her. And he was shameless.

Sinful. He said words like cock and prick without compunction and stared at her mouth as if he spent all day thinking about kissing her.

He cared about her burned hand and listened to her dreams without disparaging them.

He protected her. He loved her cream ices.

Oh dear heavens, she was falling under this alluring rake’s wicked, wicked spell.

“It’s much harder than cake, for one thing,” he murmured, so close that his breath whispered over her lips, bearing the faint sweetness of wine.

She wanted to taste it on her tongue.

Belatedly, she realized he was still talking about his cock. The man was incorrigible.

“Your Grace,” she protested, trying to summon formality.

“No, you don’t, kitten. You cannot Your Grace me after I’ve been inside you and you’ve come on my tongue.”

His voice was low and deep and sinful as his words. Her nipples went hard, and between her thighs, she was embarrassingly aching and wet. All from his nearness and the things he was saying.

Run, Miranda , she urged herself sternly. Run before you do something you shall regret.

But that would be the practical, reasonable action to take. Just as never giving in and coming to Wingfield Hall would have been after he made his intentions known. And as she had proven just last night, being reasonable and practical were not nearly as enjoyable as their alternatives.

They were alone in the lamplight and the night.

No servants. His hands on her felt like a gift she must not refuse, lest she never again be presented with it.

Sometimes, chances were worth taking. Divorcing Ammondale had been.

Starting her school had been. And this, this magical, sensual bond that existed between herself and Rhys?

It seemed like a chance worth taking too.

She reached for him, feeling as if she had just swum to the surface after being submerged in water, and now she could take a deep breath, filling her lungs with air. Her fingers caught in his white necktie, and she jerked him the rest of the way, pulling his mouth to hers.