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“ H ere we are.”

Rhys stopped at the door that would be Miranda’s bedchamber for the duration of the house party.

He had intentionally chosen one that adjoined his, in a wing where none of the other guests would be in residence.

Naturally, she didn’t yet know that his room was connected.

She also didn’t know the manner of house party he was hosting.

He could only imagine the tongue-lashing he would receive when both discoveries were made.

“This is where I am to stay?” she asked, a frown furrowing her brow.

“Yes.”

The efficient servants were at work with the unpacking, and because the domestics at Wingfield Hall were charged with their discretion—and the Wicked Dukes Society paid them a pretty penny for it too—the housekeeper kept her distance unless specifically called for.

In her place, Rhys had escorted the delectable woman at his side to her room.

“But I expected to be situated belowstairs,” she said. “This is wholly unnecessary.”

“You are a lady,” he countered, angry on her behalf for the way everyone in her life had apparently abandoned her. “You are not accustomed to such accommodations.”

“I am a lady no longer,” she countered briskly. “It would better serve me to be amongst the servants if they are to respect my presence in the kitchens.”

“They will respect you because I command it of them. Because they are paid well. And you’ll not be staying belowstairs. It’s out of the question.”

Not just because doing so meant she would effectively be beyond his reach.

Though, there was that consideration as well.

But because he was concerned for her comfort and welfare also.

He didn’t want any of the guests lusting over her, nor did he want her to be treated as a servant.

She was here as his guest, damn it, even if he was paying her for the creation of her cream ices.

Miranda shook her head. “I cannot stay here. Surely your guests will be alarmed by my presence.”

Her divorce from Ammondale had left her little more than a shadow in polite society, he realized. Neither seen nor heard. She was simply there.

He didn’t like it.

“The guests will not be in this wing,” he reassured her. “And even if they were, if they objected to your presence, I would be pleased to bid them farewell. I’ll not tolerate anyone paying you insult. Neither servant nor guest. You are to tell me at once if anything is amiss. Is that clear?”

Her lips parted, and she stared at him for a moment, as if his concern surprised her. And he did not like that either, for it suggested that in the wake of her divorce from Ammondale, few others had been concerned for her at all, if indeed anyone had.

Had she no one to whom she could turn for aid? Had she no other recourse, save teaching cookery lessons to undeserving pupils? He wondered, but now was not the time to ask, not when he had to persuade her to settle into this chamber.

“Is that clear?” he repeated when she continued to maintain her silence, and he feared she would argue with him.

“I… Yes, Your Grace,” she said. “Thank you.”

“The footmen are seeing that everything you required is delivered to the kitchens,” he informed her. “Your cases will be brought here to you soon.”

“I should go belowstairs now, then. The sooner I am able to begin, the better.”

“No guests are arriving today,” he reassured her. “They won’t begin to arrive until tomorrow.”

Meaning the two of them were well and truly alone for the evening.

Because of the six friends who ran the Wicked Dukes Society, presently two—the Duke of Brandon and the Duke of Camden—were tied up in matrimony and unable to attend.

Dreadful stuff. Riverdale, Kingham, and Richford were not set to arrive until tomorrow either since it was Rhys’s turn to play host. Rather convenient, that.

Miranda’s eyebrows rose. “Not until tomorrow?”

Yes, that had been a truly brilliant plan of his, bringing her here before anyone else was in residence. He had her all to himself tonight. And Rhys couldn’t be more pleased about the prospect. An additional evening to persuade her to spend a month as his lover.

“I reasoned that a bit of time for preparation would not be unwise,” he lied smoothly.

In truth, he and his chums had perfected the highly secret, sought-after house parties that they had been hosting at Wingfield Hall, an estate that had once belonged to the Duke of Brandon’s grandmother but was now his.

There was no need for preparation. There had, however, been a dire need for Rhys to have as many hours alone with Miranda as he could.

Her eyes had narrowed upon him, as if she were privy to his thoughts. “You wished to prepare?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “Would you care to see your chamber, or do you intend to remain here in the hall, frowning at me?”

“I’m certain it is lovely,” she said, making no move to enter. “And I am not frowning at you, Your Grace. I am merely wondering at the timing and means of our arrival.”

Her gaze was pointed, as was her tone. She was an intelligent woman. He’d made no secret of the fact that he wanted her. Undoubtedly, his ruse was as obvious as the Axminster at their feet. But he was unapologetic.

“Can you blame me for selfishly wanting you to myself for an evening?” he countered.

Her stubborn chin went up, and damn but she was glorious in her dudgeon. “I have told you already, my answer to your other proposition is no. Absolutely, unequivocally, no.”

“Of course it is,” he agreed. “Until it is not. For now, you may as well get yourself situated, my dear. Dinner shall be here before we know it, and you will be eating with me.”

She huffed a nettled sigh. “It wouldn’t be proper for me to have dinner alone with you.”

He had guessed that might be her protest. “No one will know.”

“The servants will know, and I must work by their sides for the next week, creating desserts for your guests. I would not be able to bear it if they were all looking upon me in scorn, thinking me your kept woman.”

“As I have already assured you, no one will look upon you in scorn. Your presence here will remain unknown. And if you should prefer it, you may take a pseudonym for the duration of your stay at Wingfield Hall. I’ve already thought of a few surnames that might suffice.”

“A pseudonym?”

“Of course. You are not so notorious that the servants shall recognize you. Thus far, no introductions have been performed, and by design. Choose the name you wish to be called, and no one will ever be the wiser.” He cocked his head at her, wishing he had the freedom to reach out and brush a stray tendril of hair from her cheek and restraining himself just the same. “Do you want to hear my suggestions?”

She eyed him as dubiously as he imagined she might a snake that had just slithered into her path. “I’m not sure I dare.”

“You must be a married woman, of course,” he carried on, despite her suspicion. “Mrs. Lovely is an excellent option. There is also Mrs. Lovejoy, Mrs. Love, Mrs. Loveless, Mrs. Lovett… Shall I go on?”

“No,” she denied, giving him a shrewd look. “I begin to sense a certain theme. Perhaps I shall be Mrs. Loveless, then, if I must assume a surname containing love at all. It seems far more apropos.”

He didn’t like it, but he reckoned it would have to do. The name was only necessary for the week anyway.

Rhys inclined his head. “Mrs. Loveless, then.”

“However, that does not solve the problem of your domestics believing there is something inappropriate between us,” she pointed out.

He had to admit he hadn’t considered as much, but he was determined to get what he wanted. “We will dine à la Francaise . I’ll have the servants place all the dishes on the table and then leave the room before we go inside.”

“Do you not think some of them will see me?” she persisted. “Or wonder why I am staying in this chamber?”

He moved past her, opening the door to her chamber.

“They are paid handsomely not to think or wonder and to hold their tongues. The only servant who will be attending to you personally is a lady’s maid I’m paying an extortionate fee, and I can assure you she won’t carry so much as a hint of a tale to another soul.

Now, have a look inside, if you please. Tell me whether it shall be sufficient for your comfort. ”

If she intended to argue with him, she would only lose. This was not a battle in which Rhys was about to concede defeat. And besides, he was the one with the upper hand here.

Instead of crossing the threshold, she peered around his shoulder. “It looks lovely, thank you.”

“I won’t go inside with you,” he said on a sigh. “I promise.”

Not unless you issue an invitation , he added silently.

Giving him a stern look of spinsterish admonishment that was at odds with the passionate woman he sensed hiding beneath her prim exterior, she swept over the threshold and into the room.

“There,” he murmured, leaning his hip into the doorjamb and unapologetically watching her as she skirted the chamber, taking interest in the bric-à-brac scattered about. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

She paused and cast a suspicious glance over her shoulder, making certain he had kept his word. “Not terribly.” Clever as ever, she pointed to the door adjoining her chamber to his. “Where does that lead?”

“To the chamber next door,” he answered smoothly. “Never fear. It locks on both sides.”

With purposeful strides, she moved to the door, testing it in a blatant show of distrust. And, well, he could scarcely blame her, could he?

Rhys was not exactly trustworthy where she was concerned.

But he hadn’t lied about the locking mechanism.

Her test proved the door to be sturdy and soundly locked from his side.

Not that she knew whose chamber was on the other side of hers.

Yet.

“Good.” She nodded, turning back to him, all business. “Who has the bedchamber next door?”

Blast. He was going to have to deceive her. He didn’t dare reveal the truth just yet.