Page 4

It was too much. Not enough. Need roared through him, and he held his breath, working his cock until he came with a low groan, his seed jetting into the water to thoughts of making her his.

His breathing was ragged, his heart thundering in his chest, and he’d just had one of the best orgasms in recent memory, but he hadn’t even touched her yet.

There was no denying it. He wanted Miranda Lenox. And he was damned well going to have her—and her cornets and cream ice too.

She wasn’t going to surrender to temptation.

Miranda inwardly reminded herself with stern determination for at least the tenth time that morning as she pored over the ledgers for the school.

One thing was becoming increasingly apparent.

The funds she had managed to scrape together to begin the Lenox School of Cookery were thinning with more haste than she had supposed they would.

She needed more pupils. With each day, her advertisements appeared in every daily newspaper she could find, from The Morning Post to The Times . She needed that two thousand pounds.

“No,” she muttered to herself as she finished a column of sums and settled her pen back in its glass holder. “I do not need his two thousand pounds.”

That was a lie, however, and the glaring obviousness on the ledger page before her told her so.

Yesterday, they had lost more fish and other ingredients that were unable to be kept for more than a day to a lack of pupils present to prepare the dishes.

This pattern could not continue, or her fledgling school would be at an end before it had even completed its first three months.

Ammondale would no doubt revel in her abject failure.

Securing the building had been her greatest expense.

But then, there were the men and women in her employ, the supplies, the endless need to pay for placements in newspapers.

So much was reliant upon her success and her ability not just to attract new pupils and income for the school, but to publish her cookbooks, and to grow her employment agency.

All of it in the name of giving women the means of securing their own futures instead of relying upon the men in their lives.

Freedom.

It was what Miranda had now, finally, at long last for the first time in her life. She hadn’t realized just how costly that liberation would prove—and in every way.

A subtle knock at her office door interrupted Miranda’s frustrated musings.

“Come,” she called, straightening her spine and pinning a sunny smile to her lips.

Mrs. Kirkeland appeared at the threshold, frowning. “My lady, forgive me for interrupting, but His Grace, the Duke of Whitby is demanding to see you.”

He was here.

Warmth coursed through her, something deep within her fluttering to life.

She swallowed hard. “I must see to the lesson on savories today. Please tell His Grace that he may call another day.”

“Of course, my lady.” Mrs. Kirkeland dipped into a curtsy in a show of deference Miranda had already told the older woman she didn’t require.

But she had been one of the few members of her old life whose loyalty had been strong.

Mrs. Kirkeland continued to observe the strict societal deference that had existed upon their first meeting six years ago when Miranda had been a shy young bride terrified of ruling over her husband’s household.

Miranda couldn’t lie. There had been something inherently satisfying about taking Ammondale’s prized housekeeper with her.

She had been able to offer a more appealing situation—overseeing the school—to Mrs. Kirkeland.

And now she was relying upon Miranda just like so many others.

“How disappointing.”

The deep, masculine drawl had her jolting in her seat as she glanced up to find a familiar, elegant gentleman hovering just behind the unsuspecting Mrs. Kirkeland.

“Your Grace,” she greeted grimly. “I am afraid I haven’t the time to speak with you just now. I have a lesson to teach and pupils awaiting me.”

In truth, the classes were not set to begin for another hour.

But Whitby didn’t need to know that. What he needed to do was take his handsome self back to wherever he had come from.

To stay away from her. To no longer tempt her with either his presence or the impressive sum he had offered for her services.

“I promise not to keep you for long,” he said, unmoved by her plea.

It was clear he was a man who was accustomed to having his way in all matters. His kingly air of potent command was overwhelming.

Mrs. Kirkeland cast a fretful look in Miranda’s direction. What could she do? Have a row with him before the faithful retainer who had followed her from Ammondale’s employ? No. She must remain circumspect.

Miranda smiled at the former housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Kirkeland. I shall see to His Grace’s concerns and then proceed to today’s lesson.”

“Of course, my lady.” Mrs. Kirkeland dipped into a curtsy and hastened from Miranda’s office.

Leaving her alone with the duke, who prowled into the chamber with leonine grace and a complete lack of contrition for his interruption to the serenity of her day.

“What is today’s lesson?” he asked as he seated himself in a chair opposite her desk.

“Hot and cold savories,” she answered, taken aback by his question and his familiarity, settling in as if he belonged here.

He grinned. “Are your lessons open to gentlemen?”

And dear heavens, but something inside her was melting faster than cream ice in the sun. The Duke of Whitby was far too handsome. And when those summer-storm eyes of his twinkled with devilish merriment, she couldn’t help but want to smile back at him.

But she wouldn’t.

Because his reputation was notorious. And because if she caused even the slightest hint of further scandal, the fledgling business she had managed to build would disintegrate into the ethers, and she would be left with nothing.

“No,” she blurted, then straightened her spine. “The school of cookery is not for gentlemen. I am afraid you would be most unwelcome.”

“Pity.” Idly, he drummed his long fingers on the arm of his chair. “How many pupils do you have, Miss Lenox?”

She didn’t miss the emphasis he placed on miss, as if it were dubious.

But although she had been born the daughter of an earl and the honorific Lady Miranda was her due, she had chosen to shed it just as she had the hollow title of countess.

Her family had disowned her, and she would be damned if she continued to acknowledge that familial connection.

She was Miss Lenox now. Most importantly, she was independent, beholden to no one.

“I have a large number of pupils,” she lied. “Indeed, I don’t dare keep them waiting, which is why I must disappoint you, Your Grace. My students need me. I must refuse your generous offer.”

Proud of her control in issuing the pronouncement, she rose with as much stateliness as she could muster, given her present discomfiture. The Duke of Whitby left her flustered and hot and uncomfortably aware of his blazing masculinity. He made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn’t in some time.

“Sit,” he instructed, his tone languorous, as if they had all day to conduct a tête-à-tête and suit his whims.

“I am not a dog, Your Grace, nor am I your servant,” she informed him with icy reserve. “You cannot command me.”

“Of course you are neither.” He gestured implacably. “Do sit down, lovely Miss Lenox.”

It was the second time he had referred to her as lovely, and whilst she had once felt quite pretty, her bitter marriage had left her without vanity.

She hadn’t even thought about her appearance, other than to make certain she was properly dressed.

The weakest part of her could not help but to warm to his praise.

To long for more of it.

Ruthlessly, she banished such ridiculous feelings.

“As I said, my pupils await me,” she countered, refusing to obey him and seat herself again.

The less time she spent in this magnetic duke’s presence, the better.

“If you shall not sit, then I reckon I must rise,” he said, standing. “Pupils, you say.”

“Yes.” She held his gaze, hoping he couldn’t read the desperation in her eyes. “They are the reason my school can continue to exist.”

He stroked his jaw, his expression turning thoughtful. “It is interesting indeed to me that a handful of pupils are able to keep such an establishment flush in funds.”

She stiffened. “I have more than a handful, Your Grace.”

He sauntered around her desk, drawing dangerously near, invading her personal territory. “That is not what I’ve heard from your neighbors.”

“My neighbors?”

She was astonished. Had he been conducting interviews? The sheer nerve.

“Those whom I was fortunate to speak with,” he said, propping his hip on the end of her desk in an indolent pose and trapping her neatly where she was.

She could not flee this corner of her office without moving past him. And she could not bear to do so, lest she touch any part of his person.

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. “And what tales have my neighbors been telling?”

“Only that the trail of students into your still relatively new Lenox School of Cookery has been a trickle at best.” He paused, his gaze dipping to her folded arms, and curse him if she didn’t feel the heat of his gaze to her toes.

If it didn’t make her breasts tingle and her nipples tighten to hard points.

“Some think you shall fail within the next few months, given the expense of upkeep. Fresh ingredients daily that are never used. Fish, butter, eggs, to say nothing of the fruits and all that ice.” He shook his head.

“A terrible shame, according to the fellow across the street.”

Her pride forced her to carry on, even if what Whitby said was not entirely wrong. “Any excess is sent to the orphanages, who welcome it. Nothing goes to waste.”

“Generous of you to be sure, madam, but can your coffers withstand such largesse?” he asked with far too much perception.