Chapter 16
H ad he ever been happier?
If he had, Rhys couldn’t recall.
He was presently ensconced in the inviting warmth of his bath, Miranda on his lap, his half-hard cock pressing against her luscious arse.
His arms were wrapped around her waist, her head tucked against his chest, his chin resting atop her crown.
He never wanted to move from this bath, from this moment. Never wanted her to leave his arms.
Obsessed.
Yes, he was that. Unapologetically so. Obsessed with her, desperate for her, hopeless for her.
Miranda had entranced him. He had fallen beneath her spell, and he didn’t even give a damn about it.
The days of the house party had passed in a haze of desire and contentedness that no amount of good-natured mocking on the part of his friends had dispelled.
“It’s a pity we must return to London tomorrow,” she said into the quiet of the bedchamber. “I’ve rather grown fond of it here at Wingfield Hall.”
He inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of her damp hair and skin. “You’ve grown fond of this pile of stone, have you? Fonder than you are of me?”
Her dainty fingers were idly drawing patterns on his forearms. “You know what I meant.”
Of course he did, but he still wanted to hear her confess it aloud.
“I’m afraid I don’t, kitten. Tell me.”
She huffed a little sigh he found endearing. “I am fond of you as well.”
“Oh, how my queen wounds me,” he teased, shifting so that he could kiss the shell of her ear. “I should have thought you more than merely fond of me by now.”
“I am fonder of you than I ought to be,” she said archly, turning her head to give him a meaningful look. “By far.”
He kissed her, unable to help himself. Her lips clung, warm and silken and delicious. “I do believe I know the feeling,” he managed when he broke away at last.
“I shall miss this place,” she told him, turning her head and resting it against his chest again.
He would miss it as well. Not Wingfield Hall, but what had happened between them here.
Part of him feared returning to London would only further complicate their relationship.
He wanted to install her in his house in St John’s Wood, buy her dresses from Paris, cover her in diamonds and emeralds the color of her eyes.
He wanted every second of each minute of her day and all her nights too.
But she had denied his every request to gift her with anything, whether funds or necklaces or Worth gowns, and neither would she agree to moving in to St John’s Wood.
She would meet him there in an unmarked carriage, the better to keep their secret and preserve her reputation.
Rhys already hated it. But he would do anything he had to in exchange for more time with her.
“We need not leave,” he cajoled, thinking of how glorious it would be to frolic freely with her here for the next fortnight at least. Hell, perhaps even the whole bloody month. “Not yet.”
They could linger after the others had gone. The notion held untold appeal. The estate belonged to Brandon, after all, and the next house party was three months away.
“I haven’t even shown you the grotto yet,” he added, thinking of the cavernous room with its delightfully warm pool that the Wicked Dukes Society had made modern improvements to not long ago.
But Miranda shook her head. “I don’t dare. As it is, I’ve been gone from the school for too long. And if I were to linger, I would have no excuse for being here. We have managed to keep our liaison a secret from the servants, but what would they think if I were to remain here with you alone?”
“Perhaps they would think that I’ve kept you on to make your glorious desserts for me alone,” he tried hopefully.
“They’re already suspicious of me,” she said. “I can feel it when I’m in the kitchens.”
He stiffened, his protective instincts surging to the fore. “Did any of them dare to make even the slightest suggestion that you and I are lovers?”
“No,” she hastened to reassure him. “But I wouldn’t blame them if they had.”
“I would. No one causes problems for you without having to answer to me.” His words were vehement as they left him.
His protectiveness where she was concerned had not ended with the odious Lord Roberts.
As the week had progressed and they had become even closer, the way Rhys felt for her had only grown deeper and stronger.
He would use whatever means he had at his disposal to defend her and to keep scandal from her name.
“That is sweet of you, Rhys, but you cannot browbeat everyone into silence on my behalf.”
“The beating I have in mind has nothing to do with brows.”
“Rhys.” Water sloshed as she turned back toward him, her tone chastising.
“You are mine,” he said unapologetically. “Woe be to anyone who attempts to hurt you.”
Something in her face softened. “For the next month.”
Ha! He would not tire of her in the next month. If the last week had taught him anything, it was that every second spent with her only made him long for a thousand moments more. But he held his tongue about that for the moment, deciding to fight one battle at a time.
“We could spend the month here,” he tried again.
“To the demise of my reputation and my school both,” she countered, using that prim tone of hers that made him want to kiss her and then bed her until she was breathless.
He loved it when she disapproved of him. He was a perverse bastard, he knew. But then, he loved it when she was pleased and sated, when she was laughing at something ridiculous he’d said just to make her eyes twinkle. When she was moaning his name…
That last thought had his cock twitching to attention.
The look she gave him said she had felt it.
“Am I to be blamed?” he asked rhetorically, defending both himself and his wayward cock. “I can’t help myself where you are concerned. I’m selfish.”
“As much as I would love to do so, we cannot stay here together.”
He sighed, knowing she was right. “Very well. But I do hope that if I’m forced to return to London, you will at least pacify me with your delicious confections.”
She turned fully in the tub, retreating to the opposite end. “What did you think of this evening’s Ananas Glacé à la Redalia ?”
He grinned, thinking of the pineapple-flavored cream ice she had lovingly molded into the shape of real pineapples, complete with pistachio cream ice for the leaves.
“The pineapple was divine, but all I kept thinking about was how lovely it would be to swirl it over your pretty nipples and then lick it off.”
“Wicked man.” She splashed him lightly, but her words had no bite.
“Always.” His gaze dipped to the water, where said pretty nipples were pert and pink and begging to be sucked.
“If I behaved, I don’t think you would like me very much, darling.
I’d be dreadfully dull. Only think of how tiresome it would be if I wanted to recite sonnets all day or read theological texts or debate tedious subjects no one else cared about. ”
She bit her lower lip, clearly trying to stave off a smile of her own. “You are incorrigible.”
He winked. “I pride myself on it.”
Miranda’s countenance turned serious then. “You truly liked the Redalia Pineapple Ice?”
“God yes. I like everything you make. And I like you , full stop.” It was the closest he could bring himself to making an admission to her.
Hell, it was the closest he could bring himself to making an admission to himself. He wasn’t just obsessed with Miranda. He liked her. Too much.
“I like you too.” Her soft voice wrapped around his heart, squeezing it like a mighty fist.
But he didn’t want to wallow in complications like emotions. He wanted to plan the next month at least. To make certain that nothing changed between them after they returned to London.
Beneath the water, he found her foot and began gently massaging. She was ticklish, yes. But she adored having her feet rubbed. And he found he enjoyed making her feel good in whatever way he could.
“When do you typically end your classes in your school?” he asked.
“Late afternoon,” she answered, making a soft sigh of contentment that sounded rather like a cat trilling her delight. “No later than five o’clock, usually.”
Hmm. That was rather a bit later than he would have preferred, but he could still dine with her each evening. And he didn’t wish to interfere with her school, even though the selfish monster within him certainly would have liked to have her all to himself.
“I’ll send a carriage round every day at one quarter past five,” he said.
Her response was instant. “No.”
This was not what he had expected to hear.
He raised a brow. “No?”
She shook her head, and he was briefly mesmerized by the silken raven curls clinging damply to her breasts. “That is far too early.”
“How? You’ll have one quarter hour to do whatever you must after the last of your students disperses for the day.”
“Because there is a great deal more to my day than merely teaching my students. I need to balance the ledgers, make certain I have the next day’s lessons organized and that all the ingredients are purchased. I must see that the day’s fresh ingredients that have not been used won’t be wasted…”
“It sounds like rather a lot of work,” he mused and not without an edge of distaste.
Bad enough that she had been toiling in the kitchens this last week at Wingfield Hall. Even if she enjoyed her cream ice creations and her molds and perfecting her recipes, her work was not without suffering.