Chapter 12 #2
“You need not answer,” the woman hastened to say. “Curiosity is one of my downfalls, or so I’ve recently been told by a very overbearing and frustrating arrogant oaf.”
There was such feeling in those words that Miranda found her own curiosity heightened in turn. For the second time, she wondered just who was this beautiful young lady, who claimed to be not precisely a houseguest?
“You sound quite provoked by the gentleman in question,” Miranda observed politely instead of asking the questions she yearned to blurt.
It was no business of hers.
Even if the woman had come in search of Rhys, what hold did Miranda have upon him?
She had no intention of becoming his mistress, and last night, he had returned her to her own room as if he were a kindly guardian tending to a wayward ward.
He had rubbed her feet, fed her dinner, and closed the door in her face.
The reminder was rather lowering—and just what she needed.
“Dukes are the most conceited, smug, supercilious beings,” the blonde was saying with an air of authority that Miranda thought newly perplexing. “Particularly when they think they know better than you do, even if the opposite is true.”
“I cannot say I would argue with the smugness,” Miranda commiserated, thinking of Rhys and his insistence that he would have what he wanted from her.
As if her agreeing to be his mistress were a foregone conclusion.
“You must know m—” the other woman began, and then paused, seemingly correcting herself as she continued “—the Duke of Whitby.”
Even more odd.
What had she been about to say?
And how could Miranda answer without implicating herself?
She was weighing her response when the blonde’s blue eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh heavens, what a silly goose I am! I’ve forgotten something that’s very important. If you will excuse me?”
The mysterious lady didn’t even await Miranda’s response. And, adding to her perplexing behavior, she whirled on her heel and rushed past, disappearing down the servants’ stairs. In the next breath, Rhys rounded a bend in the hall, grinning broadly when he saw her.
“If it isn’t just the lady I was looking for,” he announced, sounding pleased with himself.
Miranda had failed to hear his arrival, but now she couldn’t help but wonder if the woman in the hall had, and if that had been the reason for her hasty retreat. If so, that certainly made the mysterious blonde’s behavior even more curious. But what did it prove?
“You were looking for me?” she asked, trying to tamp down the unwanted surge of desire that overtook her as he neared, bringing with him his potent masculine allure and his decadent scent.
How she longed to throw herself into his arms and kiss him, regardless of all the reasons she must not. And even if the lovely woman in the pink silk had been attempting to seek him out.
“You are an elusive woman to find,” he told her, grinning in a way that called attention to the charming divot in his chin. “I went looking for you in the kitchens and was told that you had left your ices to freeze in their caves.”
“You shouldn’t have gone looking for me in the kitchens.”
“Why not? I had a pressing need to confer with you regarding tonight’s dessert.”
She instantly felt guilty for chastising him. “You do? Is something amiss?”
He winked. “Of course not. That is merely what I told the cook when I went looking for you. I wasn’t about to tell them that I intended to spirit you away and shag you senseless, now was I?”
She gasped. “Your Grace.”
“Do you know that when you reprimand me in that outraged governess voice of yours, it makes my cock despicably hard?” he drawled.
Her face was flaming. The gentlemanly swain of the night before had disappeared, it would seem. And in his place was the grinning, reprehensible rakehell who delighted in saying all manner of wicked things.
“You are a rogue, sir,” she told him primly. “Was there a true reason you sought me out, or was it merely to utter such inanity at half past two in the afternoon?”
“You like my inanity,” he teased lightheartedly. “Confess, kitten. And yes, there is another reason I sought you out. However, I would have it be known that there is no better reason than spiriting you away to shag you senseless.”
He was outrageous, and the vexing man had called her kitten yet again. She tamped down her smile, refusing to allow him to see it.
“What is the reason then, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her voice cool and polite, as if he hadn’t repeated his sinful words and started a fire burning deep within her.
“Luncheon,” he said, surprising her yet again. “I decided to make certain you are fed today.”
She chuckled. “You make me sound as if I am a dog or a small child.”
“Hardly. However, I have noticed that you possess a distinct ability to place everything and everyone before yourself, particularly in regard to your work. It’s my solemn duty to subvert you at all costs.”
Miranda tried with all her might to remain impervious to him. And failed. He was looking at her expectantly, little different than her brother had as a lad when someone had agreed to go fishing with him—pure, unfettered delight.
“I don’t see any luncheon here,” she pointed out, taking a glance at the empty hall surrounding them, its damask-lined walls anointed by an array of gilt-framed portraits.
“We’ll have it in one of the private salons downstairs,” he announced, still sounding quite pleased with himself.
“Downstairs?” Her alarm was instantly raised. “You know that I cannot go downstairs with you, not after what happened with Lord Roberts in the gardens.”
Although Roberts himself was gone, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t come across someone else who recognized her as he had and sought to cause problems.
“You can wear one of the masks I gave you,” he countered.
“I fear the masks aren’t sufficient.” She shook her head. “There’s a chance I’ll be recognized. The risk is far too great.”
“Ah, but the reward will more than outweigh it, I promise. Besides, I’ve made certain that the guests are otherwise occupied in the library and the billiards room. There will be no one about to see you.”
“There will be servants,” she pointed out. “They are familiar with me by now from my time in the kitchens, and my gowns are all gray. None of your club members would dream of going about dressed in my sensible day dresses.”
“You could wear one of the gowns I gave you,” he suggested.
Predictably so.
“We have discussed this before, Whitby. I cannot wear them.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Both.”
He frowned. “You must eat, kitten.”
“And you must cease calling me kitten.”
“Perhaps I shall, but only if you agree to join me for a late luncheon.”
She glared at him, irritated by his stubborn insistence and tempted beyond all ration and reason. “This is but a lark to you, but to me, it is everything. It is my reputation, my school, my future. Without what remains of my good name, I have nothing.”
His gaze searched hers, presumably reading the determination there, because he sighed heavily. “It would appear we are at an impasse.”
She smiled, another surge of tenderness for him moving within her breast. “Thank you for your concern. You needn’t worry over me, however. I can find some tea and toast to tide me over until later.”
“Of course I must worry over you. No one else does, and you most assuredly do not worry over yourself.”
She found it astonishing that this golden devil of a rake would be so bothered by whether she took luncheon.
“I am a woman of independent means,” she said. “I look after myself.”
“Woman, it is as plain as the nose upon my face that you do not look after yourself.” He offered her his arm. “Now, come with me, if you please. I have a new plan, one that doesn’t involve you venturing anywhere you might be spied.”
She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that either.
Miranda narrowed her eyes at him. “What is your new plan?”
He sighed. “Oh, kitten. Cease looking at me as if I’ve just announced my intention to become a highwayman of old and go about robbing carriages and stealing family jewels.”
She bit her lip to keep a chuckle from escaping. He was so very expressive. And impossible. And endearing.
And, and, and. Her foolish heart could go on. It was steadily becoming far too fond of the Duke of Whitby. As was the rest of her.
“My name is not kitten,” she reminded him pointedly.
“If you had seen yourself curled against me in slumber, you would know how utterly appropriate the sobriquet is,” he insisted, apparently unmoved by her irritation.
He reached for her hand then, the connection of his skin on hers sending a jolt of awareness through her like a live electric spark. “Please,” he added, with meaningful emphasis. “Trust me, Miranda. Come with me.”
Tell him no , urged her inner voice of reason.
And she knew she ought to do so. Knew she would be better served returning to her bedroom as planned and throwing herself headlong into the planning of the next day’s cream ices. She wanted to impress the guests. The distraction would be welcome and, most of all, safe.
“Please,” he added softly. “You won’t regret it, I vow.”
Miranda nodded, relenting despite all her misgivings. “Very well, then.”
She allowed him to lead her down the hall, the persistent suspicion she would regret her capitulation despite his solemn promise dogging her with every step.