Chapter 14
T he dinner gong would be sounding in approximately an hour and a half’s time.
Likely, Rhys ought to be presiding over the house party guests.
There had been rumbles that morning of naughty tableaux vivants being staged.
Christ knew what could have happened since breakfast. And yet, he found himself entirely disinterested in revels that would have, a mere month ago, amused him.
Instead, he was taking the air. Pacing the garden maze. Trying to gather what remained of his wits, it was true. Because earlier that afternoon on a picnic blanket, they had been ruthlessly scattered to the wind by one beautiful, stubborn, sensual woman.
Miranda had ruined him.
Ruined him for Wicked Dukes Society house parties. Ruined him for lovers. Hell, he didn’t even want to play billiards, dice, or cards. He didn’t want a brandy and soda water or a glass of wine. He didn’t even want to trade ribald jests with his closest chums.
Because all he wanted was her.
Miranda.
More Miranda. More than he’d been able to have thus far.
More than stolen moments in the shadows and clandestine, half- clothed romps in the outdoors.
He wanted her to agree to be his mistress, and not just for the next month but for the next bloody year.
Perhaps even longer. He was insatiable for her.
He’d never been afflicted thusly, and he had to admit as he rounded a bend in the boxwood hedges that the intensity of his attraction to Miranda frightened him.
He was attuned to her, desperate for her, an utter fool for her.
Since they had parted ways earlier so she could return to her molds and inspect the progress of her ices for the evening’s dessert, he had been adrift.
Half wild with the need to follow her to the kitchens and watch as she worked, rather like an eager pup who could not stop trailing in his mistress’s wake.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. “You’re so bloody stupid, Rhys.”
And yet, no amount of inwardly issued chastisements served to abate the all-consuming need for her.
He was plotting all the ways he could persuade her to agree to his madcap scheme.
The promise of further funds was always an option, though not the most enjoyable one.
He would far prefer to woo and seduce her into agreement.
Yes, the latter would be infinitely more delightful. Perhaps he could arrange for a warm, soothing bath for her this evening. He could help her to bathe, wash her hair, and afterward, he would dry her off with his tongue.
Indeed, that would?—
His plans for seduction were abruptly interrupted by the distant sound of voices, one male and the other female, rising heatedly from somewhere within the garden maze.
Not another damned contretemps in the gardens.
His first thought was of Miranda. Surely, she would not have ventured here after what had happened with Roberts. Would she?
Frowning, he started moving, hastening his steps as he made his way through the twisting and turning maze, in search of the voices. But try as he might to tread lightly, the crunching gravel beneath his soles must have alerted the couple that they were not alone. The voices suddenly stopped.
Rhys continued on, determined to discover who it was and reassure himself that nothing else untoward was unfolding here at Wingfield Hall beneath his watch. If yet another woman were being accosted…
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a man who had been barreling toward him. A man he recognized.
“Richford?”
His friend drew up short, looking equally surprised to see him. “Bloody hell, Whit. You gave me a fright.”
Rhys’s suspicions were instantly raised. What the devil was Richford up to? This was getting deuced strange.
“What are you doing skulking about in the gardens?” he asked.
Richford drew himself up, his expression turning haughty. “I do not skulk.”
Rhys raised a brow. “As you wish.”
“I don’t.”
He shrugged. “I thought I heard you arguing with someone. A female someone.”
Richford stiffened. “You must be hearing things. I say, you weren’t indulging in another of King’s potions, were you?”
“Riverdale said something about you and a blonde. Are you dallying with one of the club members?” Jesus, he hoped it wasn’t a servant because domestics were decidedly forbidden.
But nothing else made sense about the way his friend was being so oddly elusive and defensive since their arrival here at Wingfield Hall.
“I don’t dally either.” Richford scowled. “Is Riverdale your spy now?”
“Do I have need of one?”
“Of course not,” Richford said hastily.
Too hastily.
“Something is afoot,” Rhys insisted. “Tell me what it is.”
“Nothing is afoot.”
“You never did have a face for cards. I can tell when you’re guilty, old chap.”
It was true. Of all vices, Richford was notoriously bad at anything that involved not revealing his thoughts to his opponents. Which also made his evasiveness all the more suspect and concerning.
“Nothing is afoot. I am merely here in my capacity as one of the leaders of the club, given that two of our members were not able to attend because of women and weddings and other such bloody rot.”
“Christ, don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with someone,” he guessed.
It was the only explanation that made sense. The brooding, the disappearances, the mysterious blonde woman.
“In love?” Richford choked, sputtering, a telltale red creeping along his cheekbones and up his throat. “Of course not. Don’t be daft.”
“You don’t dally, you’ve been chasing about a blonde, and you’re acting damned odd. But I’m to believe that nothing is amiss?”
“Yes, that is what you are to believe, Whit. Because that is what I bloody well told you.”
“I know that is what you told me, but I also happen to know it’s a lie. What I don’t know is why you’re so intent upon deceiving me.”
And he didn’t particularly like it either. The six friends had a pact, an understanding. They were the brothers each had never had. And they didn’t deceive one another.
Richford scowled. “You’re not my goddamned mother, Whit. Leave well enough alone.”
“That rather stings,” he admitted. “Fair enough. If you don’t want to tell me?—”
“I don’t,” Richford interrupted.
“—then I shall simply have to bide my time and discover what is going on myself,” he finished with a triumphant air.
Because they both knew he would. Rhys was nothing if not determined. He didn’t like secrets, and he didn’t like lies. His hideous childhood had been rife with both. And there was something Richford was keeping from him.
“Don’t pry where you aren’t wanted,” Richford said. “You may not like what you find.”
That was rather cryptic.
Rhys frowned at his friend. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I don’t want you interfering in my affairs,” his friend growled. “If there was something I wished to tell you, I would have done so by now.”
With that curt rejoinder, Richford stepped around him and stalked away.
Rhys stared after his departing back until he turned a corner, wondering just what his friend was hiding.
As she had the previous two nights, Miranda returned to her bedroom tired but pleased with how her creations had emerged from their ice caves.
Her feet ached, her back was equally sore, but she was eager to hear how the guests had enjoyed the Glace à la Dudley she had prepared.
She’d been especially happy with the presentation of the roses on the tops of her molds.
And like the night before, when she entered her room, Miranda was startled to find someone awaiting her. This time, it was an expectant Green, with a clawfoot tub prepared with steaming water at the center of the room.
“Mrs. Loveless,” Green greeted.
For a moment, Miranda wondered whom the lady’s maid was speaking to. Weary as she was from her exertions in the kitchens, she even briefly glanced over her shoulder. Until she recalled that Green didn’t know her true name, and she turned back to the servant with a guilty start.
“You’ve prepared a bath,” she said, her aching muscles all but clamoring for her to dip into that hot water and soak.
“As you requested, ma’am,” Green said, arranging an assortment of soaps and shampoos on a low table which had been laid by the tub, along with some towels and stoppered glass bottles.
She blinked. “Oh, but I didn’t request a bath.”
Now that it was here, she most certainly wouldn’t refuse it, however. She had been performing her ablutions with the pitcher and bowl and a small hip bath since her arrival. The oversized tub looked nothing short of heavenly.
“His Grace told me that you did.” Green frowned. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Do you wish it to be removed? I’ll send for the footmen who brought it here and filled it.”
“No,” she hastened to say, heat warming her cheeks at the revelation that Rhys had made such a personal request on her behalf. It was unseemly. As unseemly as sharing adjoining chambers. “That won’t be necessary, Green.”
Calling for the bath had been presumptuous of him. She ought to give him a proper tongue-lashing over his temerity when she saw him next. But for now, she was tired and her feet were sore and she would like nothing better than to settle into the warmth awaiting her in the tub.
“Would you care for my assistance, Mrs. Loveless?” Green asked next. “I could wash your hair for you. If you’d like, of course.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She summoned a smile for the lady’s maid’s benefit. “I will ring for you when I’ve finished.”
It had been nearly a year since she had settled into her own modest rooms following the divorce from Ammondale, when she had begun her life anew.
She had been without a lady’s maid for all that time, and Miranda had rather grown accustomed to looking after herself.
Besides, a foolish part of her hoped there was a hidden meaning in Rhys’s request for the bath, one that went beyond her mere comfort.
Green nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”