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She had wandered about his room during his foray to the kitchens, deliberating what to do with herself. Thinking she should leave until her stomach rumbled. Paging through a book of poetry at his bedside and wondering if he read it until he fell asleep. Or perhaps even first in the morning.

And then he had returned, grinning and handsome, bearing a massive tray laden with more food than she could dream of eating in one sitting, a bottle of wine tucked precariously under each arm.

He had made a nest of pillows for them on the floor by the fireplace and had decanted wine and made up a plate to her specifications.

She had eaten, and he had regaled her with tales of the rumors swirling amongst the revelers below, bringing her to so much laughter, in a few instances she’d been near tears.

“Are you sure I cannot convince you to eat anything else?” he asked softly, tearing her from her thoughts.

She swallowed her wine. “No, thank you. You are too kind to look after me.”

“If selfishness is kindness, then I am guilty.”

“How is fetching me dinner and rubbing my aching feet selfishness?” she couldn’t help asking, even though she knew it was dangerous to linger, to further question him.

She ought to scurry back to her room like a mouse saved from certain death at the paws of a merciless cat. But she remained, holding her wine, watching him, awaiting his answer, enthralled.

He slowly slid one foot flat upon the floor, leaving his knee bent and drawing her attention for a moment to how handsome his feet were.

And what a startling intimacy. She didn’t recall ever even seeing Ammondale’s feet bare, but she was sure they would have been pale and unattractive, marked by spindly toes and dark hair.

The very notion of her former husband’s feet made her grimace, so she took another sip of wine.

“What are you thinking about now?” Rhys asked, his tone curious as he rested his forearm over his knee.

She swallowed hard, nearly choking. Good heavens, what was she to tell him, that she had been ogling his feet, of all things? Comparing his to Ammondale’s? No. She couldn’t bear such a mortifying confession.

“Nothing,” she lied, offering him a bright smile she hoped would fool him.

“Hardly nothing, I think. You’re blushing.”

She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t like him so much.

Wishing he hadn’t proven himself to be considerate and kind, silly and whimsical, intelligent and protective.

Little wonder his eyes were the color of a sky after a storm.

The man himself was a storm, fierce and powerful.

Capable of changing everything in his wake.

“And now you’re biting your lip,” he observed. “I do so hate when you torture your pretty mouth so.”

Miranda stared at him, drinking in his masculine beauty and smooth charm.

There was something so lovely and domestic about this arrangement on the floor, bolstered by several bedrooms’ worth of pillows he had pilfered.

Although she had lain with him, she found something more potently intimate about this moment, about the lamplight glistening in his eyes and the boyish pose he affected for her benefit, the food he had brought her on the tray between them, her stockinged feet facing the dwindling flames in the hearth.

It was, in fact, the most intimate moment she’d shared with any man, and that realization was terrifying.

Because it made her understand she wanted more of it. A perilous desire, that. He was an unrepentant rake, the sort of man who wanted her as his mistress, and she was a divorcée, a scandalous woman who needed to retain her faultless reputation if she was to survive.

“You’re still biting your lip,” Rhys said into the silence. “And you have yet to tell me what is churning about in that clever mind of yours.”

“Your feet,” she blurted, because she couldn’t very well say any of the rest of it. “I was thinking that you have handsome feet.”

He chuckled, the sound soft as velvet, low and deep. “Handsome feet?”

Her ears went hot, and she was painfully aware of how foolish her admission sounded, particularly when repeated back to her. Even if it was true.

“Yes,” she managed. “They are very pleasing to look upon, which ought to come as no surprise, given the rest of you.”

Oh heavens. That was surely the wine loosening her tongue, wasn’t it? She wasn’t even sure.

A crooked grin curved his sensual lips. “You like my feet, kitten?”

She blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Cease calling me kitten.”

“I fear I cannot.”

“Why?”

His grin deepened. “Because I like it far too much. And, I think, I like you far too much, Miss Miranda Lenox.”

The feeling was mutual. But she didn’t dare return the words or the sentiment. Doing so was far too perilous.

“I’ve never heard of anyone liking someone far too much,” she said instead.

His levity faded. “Nor have I. Not until you. And that is why we both ought to get some sleep this night.”

With a sigh, he rose, towering over her and extending a hand.

Startled by the abruptness of his reversal, she settled her palm in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet with one graceful tug.

Of course, tired as she was—and perhaps a trifle disguised from the wine, if she were honest—she swayed on her feet, falling into his chest. He caught her, holding her to him, and even through the layers of her corset and gown and underpinnings, she felt the undeniable ridge of his cock against her.

Which was why it was so very confusing when he kissed her cheek and murmured in her ear, “You should go and get some rest, darling. I don’t want your exhaustion on my conscience along with your starvation.”

“I was hardly starving,” she protested, “and I’m not tired.”

But the yawn she promptly stifled proved otherwise to the both of them.

He lifted one imperious, ducal brow. “You see, kitten? You need your rest.”

Her lips parted to protest. Surely he didn’t intend to…not bed her? That had been his design from the moment she had arrived in her chamber to find him waiting for her.

Had it not?

Rhys smiled. “Tomorrow is another day, and you are worth the wait, darling.”

She didn’t protest as he walked her to the door adjoining their chambers, plucking the wineglass she hadn’t realized she had emptied from her fingers just before sending her back to her own territory.

“But…I thought…” She allowed her words to trail away, realizing she was stammering.

“Besides, we have much more time awaiting us when we return to London and I have you all to myself.”

He kissed her. And then, with a gentle push, she was once more in her own bedroom, and the door clicked softly closed.

Miranda was so shocked by it all that it wasn’t until she was unbuttoning her bodice and preparing herself for bed that what he had said returned to her.

The arrogant man still believed she would be his mistress.

She snorted indelicately, unhooking her skirts and letting them fall. The Duke of Whitby was doomed to be disappointed.