Page 29

“Left or right,” he added. “Whatever my queen prefers.”

“I’m not your queen.”

She was frowning, and he didn’t like that. “Yes, you are,” Rhys told her solemnly. “And I intend to prove your devoted page.”

“Rhys.”

“Let me,” he said urgently. “Let me tend to you. Let me spoil you. Let me please you.”

Miranda sighed, and he knew he had won. “How can I say no?”

She gave him her left foot first.

He took the worn boot in one hand, cupping the leather at her heel as his fingers found the knot she must have tightened that morning and loosened it. She sighed in what he presumed was relief as he slipped the boot off.

Her stockings were fine. Cream silk with an exotic spray of embroidered flowers over the ankle in shades of blue, pink, and yellow.

In his haste to bed her the day before, he had taken note of a similar embellishment on her hosiery, but he hadn’t taken the time to contemplate the dichotomy of her colorless, unassuming work gowns and her expensive French stockings and bold corset.

Rhys massaged her foot, knowing it must ache after she had spent so much time perfecting the incredible desserts that had been displayed for dinner. “You surprise me,” he murmured, using the pads of his thumbs on her arch as he attempted to ease the strain of the tight muscles he found there.

“My stockings are for me,” she said softly.

He wondered if there were any other indulgences she allowed herself beyond her undergarments and had to tamp down the impulse to offer to shower her with everything she could possibly want. There would be time aplenty for that later, after he persuaded her to become his mistress.

“Who are your gowns for?” he asked, working her foot gently.

She made a purring sound of pleasure as he massaged. “They are for everyone else.”

“Not for me.” He winked up at her. “I happen to prefer you out of your gowns. And everything else too.”

A flush crept over her cheeks. “Rhys.”

“Do you know why I tell you such wicked things, kitten?”

“Cease calling me kitten.” There was scarcely any protest in her voice now.

Her lashes were lowered, eyes closing. He hoped it was a sign of relaxation rather than exhaustion. The notion of her injuring herself earlier was nettlesome enough. He didn’t want her working herself to death on his behalf.

“Why? I think it suits you. You’re adorable, but you also have claws.”

“Adorable?” Her lashes fluttered, brilliant emerald once more searing him to his soul. “No one has ever referred to me thusly before.”

“Then no one has seen you as I have.” And Rhys couldn’t deny that he liked that. Liked it very much indeed. “Seeing you with your defenses down is a potent aphrodisiac. And you never did answer my question.”

Her brow furrowed. “What question?”

He smiled, thinking he was accomplishing his task splendidly. “Why do I tell you wicked things?”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, and the urge to kiss her was so strong he almost sprang to his feet and pressed his mouth to hers. “Because you are a sinful rake.”

“Wrong, kitten. It’s because I love it when you say my name.”

Absolute truth. And Rhys was, quite unapologetically, a man who had no qualms about lying when it suited him. Not in this instance, however. Everything he said to Miranda was true.

He’d ponder that realization later. For now, he had another boot to remove.

Gently, he placed the foot he’d been massaging on the Axminster, before holding out his hands. “Next.”

She settled her right boot in his hands. “You needn’t play lady’s maid, you know.”

“Lady’s maid? I’m offended.” He untied the knot and loosened the laces. “I’m a page, darling.”

Her lips twitched as if she were fighting off a smile. “Forgive me.”

“Always.” The boot slid away, revealing the same colorful spray of embroidery on her stockings. “How long have you been on your feet today?”

“Most of the day.”

“By God, woman. No wonder your feet are so bloody sore.” He pressed his thumbs into her arch, the same tenseness that he’d found in her other foot greeting him. “What about when you ate dinner? Did you not sit then?”

“I didn’t eat dinner. I was too busy arranging the mushroom baskets to my liking.”

He paused, looking up at her. “You’ve had nothing to eat since luncheon?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I hired you to make cream ice, not to starve yourself.” He placed her stockinged foot on the carpets and rose, determined to rectify this grievous wrong at once.

“Where are you going?” she demanded to know.

Rhys stalked to the bellpull. “To order something for you to eat.”

“No, you cannot.” She flew from the bed, rushing across the room, and caught him just before he reached the cord. “Please, Rhys. It would be ruinous. You cannot request a tray of food for me to be delivered to your bedchamber.”

Hell. She wasn’t wrong about that. But there was another way he could procure her a meal. One that didn’t involve servants.

He nodded. “I’ll fetch a tray for you myself, then.”

Her eyes went wide. “That would be an even greater disaster. Everyone belowstairs will know why you are procuring food for me.”

“It’s none of their concern who the food is for,” he growled. “They’re paid handsomely to have no opinion on such matters. But if they ask, I’ll tell them it’s for me.”

“I’m truly not hungry,” she protested. “There’s no need for you to go to the kitchens and fetch me dinner. I can wait until the morning without perishing, I assure you. I often get so caught up in my work that I skip the evening meal.”

But Rhys’s mind was already made.

“There will be no skipping of dinners whilst you are under my care,” he informed her. “I’ll go and fetch you a tray, and you are to wait here until I return. Understood?”

Her expression turned mulish, and he could tell she didn’t like the way he had taken command of the situation. But quite likely, she was also hungry, despite her protestations otherwise.

“I’m not asking for your permission in this, Miranda,” he added sternly. “You need to eat.”

As if on cue, her stomach issued an angry growl. She flattened a hand over her midriff, looking mortified by her body’s indecorous reaction to the promise of sustenance. “Very well. If you insist.”

“I do.” He drew her to him and kissed her swiftly. “Now, please sit and relax. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As he slipped from his bedroom, leaving Miranda behind, part of him wondered if she would do as he asked or if she would steal back to her own chamber.

“Stubborn woman,” he said under his breath as he stalked down the empty hall.

It was only when he reached the kitchens that he realized he’d been grinning like a fool the whole way there.

“Would you like anything more?” Rhys asked from where he was reclined in a pile of pillows by the hearth. “There is plenty remaining on the tray.”

Between them, the remnants of his kitchen spoils were a temptation that, like the man himself, she shouldn’t indulge in.

Miranda’s stomach was full—he had somehow ransacked the kitchens and emerged with a veritable feast for her, which he had brought on a large tray just as he had promised.

No servants. No one the wiser, even if she did wonder if the domestics hadn’t found the sight of a duke both obtaining and delivering his own food a bit eccentric.

She shook her head. “Not another bite.”

“Wine?” He held up one of the bottles he had also managed to acquire in his absence earlier.

The Duke of Whitby was a very industrious man. In all matters, she was beginning to suspect.

She glanced at her glass, finding it almost empty, and knew she ought to refuse his offer but extended it toward him instead. “Perhaps just a bit.”

There was the embarrassing reminder, of course, of what had happened the last time she had imbibed too much wine at dinner. And her resulting sobriquet, which he seemed to enjoy using more with her every protest.

He finished pouring her wine and met her gaze, the mask of effortless rakish charm he so often wore gone for a moment. In its place was a look of frank affection, as if he enjoyed spoiling her.

But that was silliness, was it not? Tending to her was all a part of his seduction.

And it was working too. She couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so very cared for.

Not since before Waring had left England for America’s shores.

But with the marquess, the feelings burgeoning within her had always been friendship and a deep appreciation for his aid.

With Rhys, it was something else. Something bigger and almost frightening.

Holding his gaze, she took a slow drink from her wine.

At his back, the fire crackled, the flickering light playing in the golds and hints of red in his hair.

His feet were bare, and he had removed his coat and necktie, leaving him in shirtsleeves and trousers and waistcoat.

The buttons at his throat called to her now, taunting.

Above his collar, the protrusion of his Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a swallow from his own glass.

“Dinner was lovely,” she told him, suddenly flustered by his regard and the heat from the fire, which mingled with the warmth inside her. “It was kind of you to fetch me so many offerings and deliver them to me.”

He inclined his head. “Your loyal page, my queen.”

“Thank you for everything that you have done for me this evening,” she said quietly. “It was quite unnecessary.”

“On the contrary. It was absolutely necessary. I cannot have my queen go to bed hungry.”

“I do believe you revel in being as outlandish as possible,” she quipped lightly, before hiding her smile in her wineglass.

Oh, he was amusing. Too amusing. Too handsome. Too kind, too considerate, too charming by half. He was too much of everything, and she wanted it all.

The hour was late, and she knew she needed to go to bed. Alone. In her own chamber. The impromptu dinner’s interruption had shattered the earlier erotic spell between them. She should have gone by now.