Chapter 19
M iranda woke with a jolt, realizing she had fallen into a deep, sated slumber after making love with Rhys. The lamps were out, and the fire had burned to glowing coals in the grate, leaving the bedchamber darkened, nothing but the moonlight stealing in through the curtains for illumination.
What was the hour?
She sat up in bed, feeling about in the darkness for the pocket watch he kept on a bedside table to facilitate her returns home.
Miranda snatched it up, peering through the murky light to see the time.
In all the weeks of their clandestine meetings, she had never lingered so long at his house in St John’s Wood.
And the weeks had passed by in a flurry of heated kisses, sumptuous dinners, and decadent lovemaking.
Three days.
Impossible to believe that was all they had remaining.
Her heart stuttered at the reminder that their time together was rapidly dwindling, just like the night and its protective darkness likely were. The pocket watch slid from her grasp, falling to the Axminster with a muffled thump.
“Miranda?” Rhys’s deep voice cut through the silence from next to her in bed, slumberous and raspy. “What is it, darling?”
“I must have fallen asleep,” she explained. “I was trying to find the time, but I dropped your watch.”
His arm slid around her bare waist beneath the bedclothes, warm and possessive. “Don’t go.”
She was tempted to linger. He could never know how much she treasured these moments alone, when they were close in the aftermath of their shared passion, all seemingly right with the world. When their affair was over, she would return to these memories, she knew, again and again.
Hollow comfort.
“I must,” she told him softly, hating that she could not stay here with him, that she could not wake in his arms to the morning light.
That they could never acknowledge what they were to each other. But there was no future together. It was an inevitable truth she faced each morning that took her one day closer to what would be their last.
He pulled her gently against his chest, nuzzling her throat. “You are the stars in my night sky, glittering and mysterious. I want you all day long, and yet you leave me before the rising of the sun.”
His words were unexpectedly poetic, tinged by his flair for the melodramatic. So very Rhys.
Oh, how she loved this man. How she would miss him when they soon had to part.
Miranda sniffed, blinking furiously against impending tears.
Three more days , she told herself. It isn’t over yet.
“Such is the way of it for us,” she reminded him softly, caressing his forearm, which was still slung around her waist. “I need to return home whilst it’s yet dark.”
“Or you could stay here.” He cupped her breast, gently massaging. “Remaining would be far more pleasurable than leaving, I assure you.”
She smiled sadly, desire sparking back into flame despite the heavy emotion weighing on her heart. “You needn’t convince me of that. There is nothing I would like better than to stay in this bed with you all night and all day.”
“Mmm.” He pinched her nipple lightly, sending a twinge of desperate yearning to pool between her thighs. “Then why don’t you?”
“You know why.” She took his wrist in a firm grasp and plucked his hand from her breast. “Besides, I shall see you later tonight, won’t I?”
“Of course, but you don’t even have to go to your school today. Why not linger just a bit longer?”
“Because I cannot risk being seen returning to my home at dawn,” she countered. “Particularly not in a brougham that isn’t mine.”
“Blast.”
She slipped from the bed and retrieved his pocket watch from the floor, holding it up to the moonlight to discover that the hour was even later than she had supposed. “My goodness, it’s nearly dawn.”
Panic set over her, chasing any lingering desire.
“Bloody hell,” Rhys grumbled, rising as well. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll see to it that you’re safely returned to your home before the sun rises.”
By lamplight, they both hastened to dress, Rhys playing lady’s maid for her and helping her to fasten her corset and button her gown back into place before restoring her hair to its customary chignon.
He threw on his trousers and other garments with a swift agility that suggested this was not the first time he had dressed in a hurry.
She tried not to think about that as they dashed to his waiting brougham together.
And as the carriage bounded over the roads that would return her to her modest home, she tried not to think about the women who would, inevitably, take secret early-morning carriage rides with Rhys.
The women who would have the privilege of smoothing down his wayward golden waves, of lacing their fingers through his, and of leaning into the comforting strength of his solid frame.
By the time they reached the small house she shared with her maid of all work, the disapproving White, the sun was indeed rising in a leaden London sky. Dawn was painting gray light over the city that was bustling back to life. Securing her hat and veil, she began to descend from the carriage.
“Miranda, wait.”
Rhys’s soft call had her turning back to him.
“You forgot something.”
Her brow furrowed. “Oh?”
What could it be? She had everything she had brought with her the night before, down to her reticule and gloves.
“This.” He moved toward her swiftly, flipping back her veil and taking her lips in a kiss that left her breathless. “I’m going to call on you later today.”
“Rhys,” she protested. “You can’t.”
It was far too risky. Too obvious.
“Of course I can. Please, darling. For once, I want to call upon you like an ordinary suitor. We can have tea and be boring, and I won’t even talk about your nipples.”
She laughed, charmed in spite of herself. And tempted too.
“I don’t think it would be wise,” she hedged, worrying her lower lip.
Rhys kissed her again. “To the devil with wisdom. I want a normal afternoon with you. There is no school today to otherwise distract or keep you from me. Say yes.”
Miranda hesitated.
“Please.” The boyish smile of hope he gave her melted her heart.
“Very well,” she relented before she could think better of her capitulation. “Yes.”
“Thank you.” He kissed her once more. “Until later, kitten.”
As she turned to go a second time, still dazed, her heart beating far too fast, she thought she saw movement from the corner of her eye. But when she turned in that direction, there was no one there.
Perhaps it had been her veil, tricking her into thinking she had seen someone.
Yes, surely that must have been it.
The Earl of Ammondale’s pale gaze was as glacial as his demeanor.
“You’re certain of this?” he demanded, his voice resonating with quiet fury.
Viscount Roberts, whose broken nose had finally healed, smiled at his friend.
They were discreetly seated at a private table in their club, enjoying cigars.
“I’m certain. I have suspected the Duke of Whitby and the former countess were involved.
However, I’ve never been able to witness them together until this morning, just before dawn, when I was traversing her street on my way back home. ”
The sight of one Miss Miranda Lenox, former Countess of Ammondale, descending from an unmarked carriage at dawn and being soundly kissed by the Duke of Whitby had been just what Roberts had been waiting for.
Ever since his ignominious return to London, with a badly beaten face he’d needed to hide, thanks to the sin of meeting Miss Lenox in the gardens at Wingfield Hall, Roberts had been waiting.
Biding his time. Watching. And his patience had finally paid off that morning after several weeks of being thwarted by similar carriages and London traffic.
“I had hoped she would have seen the error of her grievous sins when the Marquess of Waring left for America and she remained here in London,” Ammondale said, his mien grim.
“I couldn’t have imagined that she would make herself a whore for another man so soon, particularly given that she began that disgusting little school of cookery.
I had hoped she might have a modicum of care for what remained of her reputation, in deference to the damage she has done to my good name. ”
“Regrettably, she does not,” Roberts said. “Or else she would not be cavorting with such a despicable rake.”
Ammondale eyed him. “What were you doing out at such an hour?”
“I was returning home from a call to Roberta,” he said, referring to his mistress.
Although, in truth, he had been waiting for the carriage he had seen Miss Lenox get into at her school to return with her in it. As it happened, the process had taken hours. She and Whitby had clearly been enjoying each other’s company.
Roberts had been anticipating his revenge ever since he had been unceremoniously removed from the Wicked Dukes Society. Ever since he had been attacked by Whitby, Kingham, Richford, and Riverdale. Yes, he would gain his revenge. One person at a time.
Miss Lenox was first, and she was about to learn that she had made a grievous error by whoring herself for the Duke of Whitby.
“Thank you for entrusting me with this information,” Ammondale said then. “She cannot be allowed to continue making a disgrace of herself.”
“What do you intend to do?” Roberts asked, hope rising.
Ammondale gave him a chilling smile. “I’m going to ruin the bitch.”
Miranda’s maid of all work greeted her with unsmiling solemnity that afternoon when she returned from a call to her friend Rosamund, the Duchess of Camden.
Rosamund was one of the few society ladies who had remained a true and loyal friend to her in the wake of her scandalous divorce from Ammondale, along with Lottie, the Duchess of Brandon.
“You have a guest awaiting you in your sitting room, madam,” White announced.