Chapter 14 #2
She dipped into a hasty curtsy and left the room.
Once alone, Miranda wasted no time in removing her bodice and skirts, laying them out with care over the back of a chair.
Next came her petticoats, easily untied and draped along with her gown.
With that gone, she spun about, intending to remove her boots, when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
Good heavens, she had forgotten about her partially torn chemise. How fortunate that she had sent Green away. Surely the lady’s maid would have wondered how Miranda’s undergarment had been so badly ripped when the rest of her garments had remained intact.
Heat crept up her throat as her thoughts returned to what had happened that afternoon during the picnic lunch she had shared with Rhys. The both of them had been overcome. She had done damage to his clothing as well, she recalled with a hint of rising embarrassment at her actions.
It would seem she was every bit as wicked as the gossips had claimed.
Because surely no decent woman would lie with a man who was not her husband, in the midst of the day, on the grass where anyone could have come upon them.
And yet, another part of her, long suppressed and tamped down, thrilled at the memory. That part of her wanted more.
More adventure, more seduction, more forbidden pleasure.
She untied her boots and unlaced them, slipping her feet free of their stiff leather confines.
She was clad in her drawers, damaged chemise, and corset.
But instead of taking off the remainder of her garments and slipping into the bath, she was suddenly tempted to go to him instead.
To forget caution and ration and reason and seize what she wanted. What they both wanted.
Her body was instantly flooded with sensual awareness. But then she reminded herself sternly that here was her chance. She should cling to her defenses and refuse to surrender to her foolish desires. Twice had been enough. She needed to deny him. To deny herself.
But there was a poignant, persistent voice within her that emerged just then, one that wondered why.
Why must she deny herself? Had she not been putting everyone else first all her life?
Beginning with her parents and her duty to them, marrying as they had wanted.
Then to her husband, Ammondale, in a marriage that had only served to make her miserable.
And when she had finally escaped and found her freedom, she had become constrained by the need to restore the reputation that had been so thoroughly spoiled by her divorce.
The need to provide for herself so she would not go destitute or be forced to rely upon the charity of friends or distant family who might be willing to look the other way.
Why not take this for herself? Why not take Rhys?
She could have him. All of him to herself.
Could have his kisses and his wicked mouth, his outrageous teasing and his clever hands and even more cunning tongue.
Could have the pleasure he brought her, have his companionship.
She could have everything she had never dared could be hers but now hung within her tenuous grasp.
Do it , urged that inner voice.
If no one ever discovered the truth, what would be the harm?
One month of passion, and then a life afterward of penance.
It suddenly occurred to her that there was a way she could spend a month with him and still retain her pride.
Possibility rose inside her, joining hope for the first time in as long as she could recall.
And, that quickly, her decision was made.
She was going to seize this opportunity.
She was going to be the Duke of Whitby’s lover for the next month.
And strangely, the realization didn’t leave her feeling worried or fearful within.
Instead, it made her feel lighter than she had felt in years.
Not since well before she had walked through the church and committed herself to a lifetime of marriage with a man who had disdained her.
With purposeful strides, she crossed the room, stopping at the door that adjoined her chamber to Rhys’s and knocking. Hesitantly at first, and then with greater force as she took hold of this newfound freedom.
By the fourth knock, he was there, tearing the door open to tower over her as so few men did.
He was clad in a dressing gown of black silk, the contrast between the dark fabric and his golden hair making him look like some sort of wicked immortal.
His hair was damp at the ends, she noted, as if he, too, had been bathing.
His stormy-sky eyes met hers before flicking downward, to where her ripped chemise put her breasts on display above her corset.
Belatedly, she saw herself as he must, realizing that her nipples were almost showing. Her corset was loosened, her feet clad in embellished stockings peeping from beneath her drawers, the hem of her chemise stopping at her knees.
“Did you take your bath?” His voice was velvet and seduction.
She almost smiled at his low question. Her hair was yet to be unbound, and she was wearing her undergarments. Did he truly think she had emerged thus from the water?
“Not yet,” she told him, a sudden fit of nerves making her hand tremble on the latch.
Could she do this?
“My God.” He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it charmingly ruffled in his wake, the lack of perfection so at odds with the handsome symmetry of his face.
“What a beast I am. I’ve torn your chemise.
I’ll buy you a new one. Two. Three. Half a dozen.
Hell, I’ll buy you a whole bloody chemise store. ”
A chuckle escaped her. “I fear there is no such thing as a chemise store.”
“Wherever a lady makes such purchases,” he elaborated. “I’ll buy you an entire new wardrobe to replace them, at the establishment of your choosing.”
It wasn’t new chemises she wanted from him, although she did appreciate the proposal. Nor was it the small fortune he had offered her to be his mistress for a month.
“That is kind of you, but I’m not concerned about the garment just now.” She stepped back. “Would you care to join me?”
“I thought you’d never ask, kitten.” He crossed the threshold.
His light, teasing tone vanquished some of her nervousness.
It wasn’t every day she propositioned a gentleman.
Indeed, she had never done so, not in truth.
The pretense of an affair with Waring had been his idea, the means of finally forcing Ammondale’s hand.
But they had never even shared a kiss. Their friendship was strictly platonic, and although she harbored a deep sense of gratitude for his intervention on her behalf, she had never been even slightly tempted to invite him into her bed.
“It was most considerate of you to arrange for a bath to be brought up for me,” she said, moving back across the room toward the steaming tub. “But unfortunately, I need someone to wash my hair, and Green wasn’t able to assist me this evening.”
That was because Miranda had sent her away. But tonight, she was challenging Rhys at his own game, which meant she wasn’t opposed to a bit of subterfuge. And he didn’t need to know the full truth. No, Miranda fully intended to taunt him and tease him as he did to her this night.
She stopped before the mirror and began to pluck the pins from her hair, leaving them on a small silver tray. Miranda felt him approach, a frisson of awareness traveling up her spine to make her skin prickle.
And then he stood behind her, tall and golden-haired, dropping a kiss on the nape of her neck. “I would be more than happy to play lady’s maid for you. It’s the least I can do as atonement for being a ravenous monster earlier and tearing your chemise.”
As he spoke, his hand settled on her chest, in the space between the rent ends of her undergarment, directly over her bare flesh, his fingers splaying above her madly thudding heart.
She swallowed hard at a rush of longing, allowing herself to lean into his solid frame.
The undeniable prod of his cock against her made an answering ache pulse to life deep within her.
If she had any lingering doubts, they were banished by the rightness she felt, his warmth and strength radiating into her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your assistance is most appreciated.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, his face buried in the side of her throat now as he inhaled deeply. “I love your scent.”
She smiled, thinking that although she had added some scent to her throat that morning, it had likely dissipated.
If she smelled of anything, it was likely the kitchens.
But she wouldn’t argue, because she liked the way his mouth felt on her skin, open and seeking, as if each part of her was a wonder that required exploration.
Feeling bold, she reached for him, sifting her fingers through his hair.
There was something intimate and deeply…
cozy about him in her chamber, both of them in varying states of undress, his face buried in her throat.
What a luxury it was, to have him here without allowing in any of the guilt that threatened, the worry, the fears.
“I have been thinking about your proposition,” she ventured, needing to get the words out before they proceeded.
He stilled, his head lifting though he remained as he was, one hand on her waist and the other flattened over her heart.
His gaze met hers in the looking glass, his fingers dipping ever so slightly to slide inside her corset and curve around the slope of one bare breast. He brushed the edge of her nipple lightly once, twice.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” She wetted her lips, unable to keep from arching into his touch. “I have.”
His hand slid deeper, his thumb strumming over the sensitive peak. “And I hope that you have reached the only conclusion there is for you to reach.”
“I don’t want to be your mistress,” she blurted.