Page 28

S he was kissing him.

And ye gods. When Miranda Lenox wanted to kiss, she bloody well kissed .

Her soft lips were firm and demanding, her sharp little tongue bold and insistent, and the dainty fingers grasping his tie and pulling him to her were a dominant touch he hadn’t known would make his prick as rigid as a fire poker.

Until now.

Now he knew. He liked her urgency, her fire, her wild abandon.

Not just because a carefree Miranda was such a rarity—though, to be sure, it was.

She wore responsibility the way some women wore their jewels.

But because he knew what it meant, her unfettered reaction to him.

It meant he had chipped away at her walls.

It meant her defenses were lying in shattered ruins at her yet-booted feet.

Which reminded him—he needed to get her out of her plain gray gown and hideous ankle boots more suited to a somber housekeeper than a woman of such passion. She tasted like chocolate and sugar with a hint of cream and something else that was as mysterious as it was indefinably hers.

Bloody delicious. That was what she tasted like. Like tonight and tomorrow and a hundred nights afterward. Like his. Like something scarce and indefinable. Something he never wanted to forget or be without. And that in itself should trouble him, but somehow, it didn’t.

Her tongue tangled with his, stroking, sliding sinuously, and he groaned, gliding a hand from her waist up the small of her back. The boning of her corset grazed his palm, reminding him anew of all the layers he must strip away to have her naked and utterly at his mercy.

He was taking nothing for granted, of course.

His Miranda was skittish as a newborn foal.

She needed coaxing and tenderness and persuasion—rightly so, after all she must have endured at her oafish husband’s hands.

Rhys couldn’t simply begin to tear away at hooks and laces and tapes, regardless of how much he longed to do so.

No, he would have to woo her and win her.

To savor her and pleasure her. To show her just how much she meant to him, which seemed in this moment, her lips sweet and demanding upon his, more than he could have fathomed.

But he was ever cognizant of her reticence. The fact that she had told him she could not stay with him tonight.

Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, moving his other hand from her waist to cup her cheek, holding her still so he could meet her eyes and search her gaze for the mysteries he longed to unlock.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said. “Please.”

Her kiss-swollen lips parted. And he feared she was preparing to deny him. To deny them both. So he pressed his thumb gently over her mouth.

“Don’t say you cannot. Not until you hear what I have to say.”

Her dark lashes fanned over her cheeks for a moment, long and sooty. And then they rose on emerald eyes that never failed to take his breath, regardless of how many times he fell into them. She nodded.

“There is a reason I placed us in this wing of the manor house. Have you not noticed that there are no other guests but the two of us?”

He was revealing his rakish plotting to her, and he knew he ought to be ashamed. But part of him hoped his actions might actually work in his favor.

“Yes, but?—”

“No,” he interrupted, pressing her full lower lip firmly to the top, keeping her from continuing. “I haven’t finished yet, darling. I placed us here so that we would be assured of privacy. I also made certain that the only servants about are loyal and trustworthy.”

“But Green.”

“Green is being paid handsomely for a young lady of no experience. And beyond that, her family is being well provided for. All I ask in exchange is loyalty and discretion.”

“Bribery?” She sounded indignant despite the way his thumb muffled the word.

“Hardly. Merely making certain that I am prepared in all ways.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “Which I clearly am not. Prepared, that is. I am persuaded that nothing in the world could have prepared me for you.”

He meant that. Yes, he was bombastic and ridiculous, and he used his charm and his tongue and his good looks to woo the fairer sex into giving him what he wanted.

He had been doing so since he’d been a wet-behind-the-ears lad of fifteen when he had first realized he could use his face and his family name to his advantage.

But that wasn’t what he was doing here with Miranda.

With her, it was as if he were bereft of all artifice, stripped bare and vulnerable.

He’d never experienced anything quite like it.

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply, clearly waging war with herself. “You are a notorious rake. Surely you’ve had ample practice at seducing women into doing whatever it is you wish of them.”

“Not with you.” It was all he could bring himself to say.

Maudlin confessions were not in him. He took the ugliness and worst of life and made a jest of it.

He buried his feelings so deep that they could never be resurrected.

The lad who had been ruthlessly beaten by the former duke to remove all hints of weakness had learned his lessons well.

Except for the woman in his arms.

Her eyebrows rose. “And that matters?”

“ You matter.” His voice was so raw with emotion that it was hoarse. “I’ve made certain to protect you and your reputation. No one shall ever be the wiser.”

“I will.”

He hadn’t expected that response from her. Nor the stricken expression on her lovely face.

He longed to kiss her, but he denied himself. The moment was too serious for that.

“Are you saying you regret what happened between us last night, Miranda?” he asked, needing to know.

Because if she did, he would be done. Despite how much it would bloody well kill him to walk away from her, he would. She had been through enough.

“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes again as she struggled with herself. “I don’t regret it at all, and that is the problem.”

Her answer was all he needed. Fierce, potent need shot through him as one.

Rhys leaned into her, pressing his lips to her ear. “If I lifted your gown and touched you right now, would you be wet for me?”

A breathless sound escaped her, and she clung to him, as if without his support she would fall to the Axminster at his feet. “Rhys, please.”

“Please what, kitten?” He licked the whorl of her ear, desperate for a taste of her, then nuzzled the floral-scented hair at her temple.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me yourself.

Please kiss me? Please lift my skirts and see if my cunny is slick and wet?

Please take me to bed? Please give me your?—”

She moaned, cutting off the rest of his words, and startled him by cupping his face in her hands and bringing his mouth to hers for a kiss that was nothing short of ferocious.

He kissed her back, giving her his tongue as he moved them toward the bed awaiting them.

The bed she should never have slipped out of in the dark night, leaving him alone.

The bed where she belonged.

Because at his side, with him, beneath him, atop him, that was where Miranda Lenox was meant to be.

He broke the kiss. “Stay with me.”

She closed her eyes, her expression tortured.

“Miranda,” he pressed, brushing his lips over hers with tender strokes. “Say you’ll let me make love to you tonight.”

And a thousand more , he thought, but these were words he knew he must keep to himself. Hell, they were words that frightened even him with their intensity and the way he felt them to his marrow.

“Yes,” she whispered at last.

Elation soared through him, desire not far behind. His cock was so hard, he was already leaking, and they had done nothing but kiss. They were both dressed, he in his evening wear from the dinner he had fled after dessert and she in the dove-gray gown she wore like armor.

And it was armor, he realized now. It was her defense against the rumors, the scandal, the rest of the world that would judge her so blasted unfairly. Only he could remove it with her permission.

“Thank you,” he breathed and took her mouth, the kiss deep, ravenous, showing her what he felt without needing words.

As their lips clung, he guided them the rest of the way to the bed, until her skirts connected with the mattress, staying further motion. With great reluctance, he tore his lips away again.

“Sit on the bed, darling.”

“In my gown? I’m sure it smells of the day’s work in the kitchens.”

Her protest made his heart lurch. He hated that she toiled away.

Despised that she had hurt herself today and, worse, that she had done so many times before.

But he had witnessed the pride she had for her culinary confections—and rightly so.

Hearing her confessions about how her own mother had regarded her passion for cookery, coupled with Ammondale’s treatment, made him more aware than ever that he must not try to dissuade her from her course.

Her work was important to her, and therefore it was to him as well.

He kissed her again swiftly before withdrawing. “It smells like chocolate and a spring meadow and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She struggled to contain her answering smile and failed. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“Not always, or you would have agreed to the rest of my proposal and not to only this portion,” he pointed out. “Now sit, please.”

She eyed him warily, as if she was wondering what he could be plotting, but did as he asked, settling her modest bustle on the edge of the bed so that she was perched, long legs just barely grazing the floor.

God, he loved those long, well-curved limbs. He couldn’t wait to have them wrapped around him again. But first, he wanted those godawful boots of hers gone.

He sank to his knees on the carpet, holding her gaze. “Your servant, madam. May I have your boot?”

She looked at him, eyes wide, almost as if he had spoken a language she didn’t comprehend, until at last she spoke. “My boot?”