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M iss Miranda Lenox.

Countess of Ammondale.

Lady Miranda Lenox.

The Fallen Countess.

So many names for just one woman. But regardless of what one called her, Rhys had one more to add as he drummed his fingers on his knee and glared at the door to the Lenox School of Cookery.

Late.

He reached into his waistcoat and extracted his pocket watch to consult the time.

Ten minutes late, to be exact. Rhys slid the watch back into its pocket.

He had told her when his carriage would arrive for her.

He had already overseen the collection of every ingredient and utensil she had required of him in the lengthy, enumerated lists she had sent his way since they had parted last.

And now, here he was, sitting in his bloody carriage, getting a sore arse before their journey had even begun—and despite the relative comfort of the leather squabs—all because the lofty proprietress whose services he had employed had not deigned to appear.

Had she changed her mind? If so, she might have sent round word to him—and far sooner than the day they were embarking to the country.

He had done everything she required of him, even using an unmarked conveyance to meet her at her place of business so as to maintain strict secrecy and professionalism.

Of course, she couldn’t know, and she didn’t need to know, that this little display of decorum for her benefit would end the moment she entered this carriage.

For if he had his way, she’d be bouncing on his cock by the time they reached the outskirts of Town.

As Rhys was no fool, he very much doubted he would have his way.

His Miranda was quite firm in her belief she could remain impervious to his rakish charm.

He would happily prove her wrong. But doing so would require patience.

Effort. What better way to shake the ennui he had been suffering since well before Beatrice?

He was about to throw open the carriage door and storm the damned school himself when at last Miranda emerged, dressed in a travel gown of muted gray that was every bit as demure as everything else he had seen her wear, a handsome matching hat covering much of her inky tresses.

Two sins, in Rhys’s opinion. A woman as beautiful as Miranda Lenox should not be swathed in the same subtle shade as a plump little dove. She ought to wear bold emerald to heighten her eyes, deep red to bring out her lush lips, brilliant blues and purples and pinks. Anything but gray.

Also, in a perfect world, she would be naked. Not on the street for the hoi polloi to see. But in his presence alone, her curves would be on full display, his to admire instead of swathed in too much fabric and boning, a veritable sea of undergarments to hide her glorious body from him.

The carriage door swung open, emitting light and a burst of air that smelled of impending rain.

Also, the faintest hint of orange blossom.

She was handed up into the carriage, head down to watch her step, her hat obscuring his presence from her until the last moment when she was already within and the groom was snapping the door smartly closed.

A gasp tore from her parted lips, and she collapsed onto the bench seat opposite his. “You!”

Not precisely the reaction he’d hoped for, but he had deliberately misled her about the carriage arriving to take her to Wingfield Hall. He had known, of course, that she would flatly refuse if she knew she was meant to share the confined space with him.

“Me.” Rhys grinned at her now, feeling like the dangerous cat who had chased the saucy mouse into a corner from which there was no escape. “Good day to you as well, my dear Miranda.”

Her dark brows snapped together, and she clutched her reticule before her as if it were a shield. “I have not given you leave to be so familiar, Your Grace. What are you doing in this carriage?”

He shrugged. “What wouldn’t I be doing in this carriage? It is mine after all.”

“You promised me an unmarked carriage to take me to Hertfordshire,” she reminded him sharply.

“Yes,” he agreed, quite pleased with himself for his cunning. “But I did not say I would not be in it. Now, did I?”

“Oh! You…you…scoundrel!” she sputtered, twin patches of color rising on her cheeks.

Fuck, she was delectable.

He rapped on the roof, and the carriage jolted into motion before she could attempt to fling open the door and throw herself to the pavements in flight. “If you had wished for a personal carriage, you had only to request it.”

“I assumed this was to be a personal carriage,” she said, her voice cross.

“Just as I assumed you would expect to find me within,” he lied smoothly. “I am heartily sorry for the confusion, but now that we are on our way, the journey shan’t last long.”

“I cannot travel to the countryside in this carriage with you,” she protested. “It would be nothing short of scandalous.”

“The carriage is unmarked,” he pointed out. “The hour is early. No one knows you entered any conveyance other than your own.”

“I don’t have a carriage.”

“A hired coach, then.”

“This is far too fine to be a hired coach.”

She was a bloody stubborn woman. “It is the most modest conveyance I possess.”

She gave him an arch look. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

His Miranda had a rapier tongue. And he loved it.

Rhys laughed. “You wound me. Do you mean to imply I am a vainglorious gentleman?”

“I mean to imply that you lied to me about the carriage that would take me to the house party,” she said pointedly, apparently not about to be distracted from her original source of displeasure with him.

“ Lied is a strong and ugly word. As we already agreed, the travel arrangements were a mere misunderstanding,” he said magnanimously.

“One that is in your favor.”

He allowed his gaze to slip to her tempting, pouting lips for a moment before meeting her disapproving stare once more. “It could be in yours as well, if you but allow it, my dear Miranda.”

“Miss Lenox,” she corrected icily.

“No, I do think it shall be Miranda when we are alone,” Rhys decided.

Which will be as often as I can possibly manage , he kept to himself.

“This was a mistake,” she pronounced, sliding to the edge of her seat. “Please, take me back to the school. I have changed my mind.”

His sweet purveyor of decadent cream ices. She wasn’t so na?ve that she believed he was going to turn the carriage around and deliver her back to the haven of her school, was she?

“You cannot change your mind,” he reminded her. “I have already furnished you with one thousand five hundred pounds.”

The color fled her cheeks. “You also said that you prefer women who are willing, Your Grace.”

Well, sweet God, what did she think he was going to do, tear her gown off and fuck her on the Moroccan leather?

“That hasn’t changed.”

And she would be more than willing. If there was anything Rhys knew, it was how to seduce a woman.

Judging from the palpable attraction crackling between them like roaring flames, said conquest would prove easy, despite her determination to cling to her prim facade.

There was a passionate woman hiding in the depths of her eyes, and he would find her.

“Then you cannot insist upon seducing me in this carriage,” Miranda bit out, looking flustered.

“What an imagination you have. I’m planning nothing of the sort, I promise.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t?”

“Of course not.” He beamed at her. “Since you required two carriages of provisions to be sent ahead, this was the only vehicle remaining in my stables. Short of having the two of us travel with the cookery, fruits, and ice, this is the best I can provide.”

A lie. Rhys had more carriages at his disposal. But he hadn’t been about to lose this opportunity to be alone with her for the duration of the journey to Wingfield Hall.

“You did manage to find everything I requested?” she asked, her agile mind now going to the task awaiting her.

A suitable distraction for the moment. At least until it was truly too late to turn around and deliver her back to safety.

“My servants are unparalleled,” he told her. “I cannot accept the praise that is due them. All I did was provide them with your intricately detailed list.”

She nodded. “Yes, that is quite good. And as for the items I needed from my school? My ice caves?”

Rhys still didn’t know what the bloody hell an ice cave was, but he didn’t want to ask. “Naturally.”

Another nod. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused, frowning. “But you must see how inappropriate it is for me to travel anywhere with you.”

“If it is up to me, you shall be doing far more interesting things with me than traveling in a boring carriage to Hertfordshire before our association is done,” he said.

Her raven eyebrows winged upward, her emerald eyes widening. “I have already told you, anything improper is out of the question.”

“On the contrary. Nothing is out of the question.” He decided to relent, not wanting to push her too far. They had time aplenty. “However, I will accept your refusal of my suit.”

Her shoulders stiffened, the pose of a warrior goddess going into battle. “I would hardly call making me your mistress pressing your suit. You are not courting me. There is nothing proper about this set of circumstances.”

“I don’t court, my dear Miranda. I fuck.”

She gasped. “Your Grace!”

Well, blast. There went his attempt at trying not to push her too far.

And so soon. Still, it was worth it to watch the color creeping back into her cheeks, the flush traveling up her creamy throat beyond the maddening set of buttons bisecting her bodice.

Her allure was so potent, he could practically taste it on his tongue.

He couldn’t recall ever wanting a woman more.

“Forgive me.” He winked at her. “I am sometimes too forthright for my own good, I’m told.”