Emily Thornton came to her feet. “Snowball. Snow is what makes all of nature appear to have one face—a white one. A ball is filled with music and beauty and grace. And the whole can be thrown at someone’s head. Is that correct?”
Emily’s answer stole the attention from Roger, who had calmed and accepted a tumbler of spirits from a servant. Mary had made her way across the room to see to his welfare, and Miranda nearly forgot to respond as she watched him nod and murmur something she could not hear—some form of reassurance most like.
“Yes,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “You are correct, Miss Thornton.”
Emily offered a smile that seemed poignant with gratitude, accepting the book. As Miranda returned to her seat, her eyes strayed once more to Roger, who remained on the edge of the gathering, eyes lowered. The redness in his face had faded now that he’d stopped coughing, and he was his composed self once more.
The game went on for several more hours, with Miranda unable to help periodically searching over her shoulder for glimpses of Roger. He remained where he stood, nursing his spirits and avoiding eye contact with anyone, including her.
Chapter 5
The hour was scandalously late when Roger slipped into the drawing room that Miranda’s note had directed him to. Having never participated in such a liaison, he was uncertain whether drawing rooms specified for late-night meetings were par for the course. Therefore, he was in no position to ask questions. His hands were unsteady as he let himself into the room to find Miranda had yet to arrive. Lady Rodingham’s staff must have been tasked with preparing this room for its occupants, as a fire blazed in the hearth and a filled decanter awaited with two glasses.
Roger filled one of the tumblers and took a healthy swallow, hoping to strengthen his nerves before Miranda entered the room. Though it had been hours, he was still rattled by his misstep during the charades game. He had survived amongst the cream of high society his entire life by making himself nearly invisible. Most people of his brother’s circles knew who he was, and while none could claim to dislike him, neither could many of them call him friend. It was by design that he was mostly left to his own devices at functions such as these. He served his purpose as a male to round out the numbers. He was polite enough not to be thought odd, but still quiet and reserved. He could dance and often partnered the daughters and sisters of his acquaintances. He enjoyed cards and could round out a game without feeling the need to contribute to too much conversation. As a result, no one ever pushed their daughters in his path or begged his presence at any affair where his brother wouldn’t be in attendance.
It had never bothered him, as solitude and time spent with his family meant no one outside his household would be privy to his secret. It was why, whenever games such as tonight’s round of charades were being played, Roger tended to act as a silent observer. Even though he loved figuring out riddles and always bested his siblings when they played charades at home. There were many things he refused to take part in while in polite company—including spirited conversations about subjects in which he held an interest. At times it physically pained him to keep quiet and only offer the occasional agreement to some point or another. However, he knew very well why it was necessary. If he grew over-excited about astronomy, literature, or philosophy, his mouth might run away with him. He might begin talking too fast and bumbling his words. He’d make himself look like an idiot in front of everyone who was anyone. Word would spread that the brother of the Viscount Thornton was an imbecile, and it would reflect poorly on Angus and Emily. People would speculate that such flaws ran in the Thornton family blood. Who would want to marry Emily if they thought she’d produce a child who couldn’t speak properly?
Roger felt ill at the very thought. Sinking into an armchair, he took another sip of his drink and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out on a long, slow exhale. He’d forgotten himself tonight. Miranda’s sly smile after he’d given her the answer to Angus’s riddle had tied his stomach in knots. A dimple had appeared in one of her cheeks, and he’d been struck with the notion that he would very much like to kiss right where that adorable little divot accentuated her cheek. Then, he’d press short, soft kisses toward her berry-ripe mouth and discover how she tasted. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt strong physical desire, but it was certainly the only time he could recall being overwhelmed by nothing more than a smile. Lady Miranda Hughes was a force of nature—one that could prove dangerous to a man like him. He had to proceed with caution going forward—remaining calm and in control at all times. He had managed to cover his stuttering on the word ‘snowball’ by faking a coughing fit, but it had been a near thing.
Roger could do this. He knew what words to avoid and how to modulate the rhythm of his voice to keep from stammering. He knew how to carry on a conversation to the best of his ability, without giving himself away. When excitement took hold of him, he would simply keep his mouth shut and hope his and Miranda’s bodies did all the talking. As long as he could avoid letting desire get the best of him, Roger could do this.
Everything would be all right.
By the time the door swung open to admit Miranda, Roger had drained his tumbler. He came to his feet, swallowing a knot of anxiety before offering her a bow.
“My lady.”
She smiled, and her dimple made another appearance. He bit his lip as she came closer and he realized both cheeks were graced with the sweet little clefts.
“Surely we can dispense with formalities when we are alone. You should call me Miranda.”
His throat constricted, though it shouldn’t have surprised him that she would make such an offer. Their attachment was to be quite personal. However, words starting with certain consonants were like minefields sprinkled across the English language. He tended to avoid them unless absolutely necessary. The letter ‘m’ was one of his fiercest foes.
“Then you will call me Roger,” he replied, hoping she wouldn’t notice if he didn’t use her Christian name right away. He would want to practice it alone first, to ensure it rolled easily off his tongue.
“Good,” she said, moving toward the table holding the decanter and the second glass. “I quite enjoyed the charades game, didn’t you?”
“It was diverting.”
She turned back to him, the glass held to her lips. “You are quite good at it, I noticed. Yet you choose not to call out your answers. Are you bashful or simply unwilling to risk your answers being wrong? It cannot be that, for you were correct. You have an uncanny skill for riddles, it seems.”
The teasing tone in her voice made his lips quiver with an approaching smile. “It would be gauche to dominate the game by guessing every riddle. No one else would stand a chance.”
Miranda laughed, sinking into a chair across from his and then taking a sip of her drink. “So, humility is what motivated your actions?”
“I suppose so.”
“That is quite admirable. Most men would revel in the chance to flaunt their intelligence to a room full of people.”
Roger thought of Angus, who was oblivious to when he was making a fool of himself. “I do not enjoy calling attention to myself.”
She inclined her head, studying him as if trying to solve some great mystery. “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Six-and-thirty.”
“Six years my senior.”
Roger tensed at the pensive, downright questioning tone to her words. He knew what she was thinking without her having to express her disbelief that a man of his age had never taken a woman to bed.
“It is interesting to know that Viscount Thornton is the eldest brother. I would never have pegged you as the younger.”
He shrugged. “If not for his title, most would think the same. He is one year my elder.”
Angus certainly didn’t act like it, which was why Roger was in this position in the first place. Peering into his tumbler, he found it empty and debated refilling it. Conversation between him and Miranda flowed easier now,
though he couldn’t attribute the phenomenon to spirits alone. The woman had an ease about her—something that worked to make another person feel comfortable in her presence. Roger decided to forgo the drink and allow natural chemistry to take its course. If he and Miranda were to consummate their arrangement tonight, he didn’t want liquor to get the best of him. He was anxious enough without adding fuel to the fire.
“I found your sister to be quite lovely,” she said with a soft smile. “She seems so much younger than you.”
“She was a surprise to our family. Mother did not think she could conceive again. Then came Emily.”
Miranda’s brow furrowed, and she leaned forward slightly in her chair. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Forgive me for mentioning it.”
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Think nothing of it.”
“I am new to this sort of thing, you know,” she said, lowering her eyes as a becoming pink blush kissed her cheeks. “I was married to Lord Hughes for nearly ten years, and there was no one before him. I hoped that if we spoke of innocuous things, we might come to feel more at ease with one another. Is it working?”
She peered at him from beneath the fan of her lashes and gave him a coy, shy smile. Roger’s heart heaved against his breastbone, his own lips following suit of his own accord. It wasn’t a full-fledged smile, but it was the closest to the real thing he’d come in quite some time.
“It is,” he admitted, sinking down into his chair a bit. “And, I must confess … I have never done this before, either.”
Miranda issued a little snort of laughter and shook her head as if in disbelief. “I find it difficult to believe. I … you seem like the kind of man who … well …”
Jerking her gaze from his, she flushed an even deeper shade of pink and cleared her throat. Roger raised his eyebrows in anticipation of what she might say.
“When I was a debutante, I knew a number of young ladies who would have clawed one another’s eyes out to gain the attention of a man who looks like you, and is intelligent to boot. I do not know you very well yet, but the way you puzzled out those riddles speaks to a keen mind. And your willingness to allow others to take credit for your answers proves you aren’t as pompous as many other men of the ton. You seem like quite a catch.”
Roger wanted to be flattered by such assertions, but they were difficult to stomach when he thought of why he wasn’t an ideal candidate to become anyone’s husband. Perhaps his speech impediment wouldn’t matter to a woman who only wished him to warm her bed. There was no need for Miranda to worry about him embarrassing her in public or afflicting her with children who couldn’t form complete sentences.
Still, he would take no chances. Emily’s future was riding on his ability to please this woman, and that meant keeping a clear head and a steady tongue.
“You are kind to say so,” he hedged.
Biting her lip, she stared at him in clear befuddlement. “Haven’t you ever wished to marry?”
Before Roger could form a reply, she sucked in a sharp breath and placed a hand over her lips.
“Oh … I’m sorry. Perhaps that question was too personal.”
“No, it’s all right.”
“You are not obligated to answer,” she insisted, reaching across the space between them to place a hand on his knee.
Roger felt the warmth of her through his breeches, and the inevitable response stirred in his groin. Her scent wafted up his nostrils, awakening the potent need that had struck him when they’d been alone in the garden. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower—along her neck and then coming to rest on the swell of a spectacular bosom displayed by the low cut of her evening gown.
“I think there is another question you wished to ask me,” he said after swallowing and catching his breath. He forced himself to meet her gaze again, allowing her to register the challenge in his eyes. The elephant in the room would need to be addressed sooner or later, and Roger would rather have done with it.
She winced. “Was I that obvious?”
Roger shrugged. “Your curiosity is natural.”
“Still, it really isn’t any of my concern—”
“It’s all right,” he insisted, laying his hand atop hers.
His fingertips stroked along the back of her hand as he marveled at the softness of her skin. She felt like satin, and Roger couldn’t help but imagine every inch of her bare skin feeling as perfect.
“I do have some experience,” he said, staring down at Miranda’s hand as she turned it over, revealing the skin of her inner wrist. Delicate blue veins showed, and Roger traced them with languid movements, bolstered by the hitch in her breath and the gooseflesh appearing along her arm. “I simply haven’t … completed the act.”
“I see,” she murmured, her voice low and breathless. “Did you wish to? Finish it, I mean?”
“Yes,” he rasped, a shudder racing through him as he stroked along her arm, noting the way she squirmed in her chair. Her response to his touch proved a thrilled beyond what he’d imagined. “I did, but …”
They were leaning into one another now, Roger’s rump poised on the very edge of his chair. Miranda’s breasts heaved with every breath, her eyes wide and fixed on him as he inched closer and closer—so close he could make out the darker swirls of brown in her liquid-honey irises.
“Yes?” she prodded, tipping her head back as his hand made its way up her arm to cup her neck.
Her breath tickled his cheek, and the scent of the spirits on her breath made his belly quiver. “I suppose I was waiting.”
Miranda’s eyelashes fluttered closed, and she eased into his hold, lips parting in an enticing and welcoming display. “For what?”
“The right woman.”
Their lips met in a tentative press and tangle of short, panting breaths. A heady tingle spread from the point of contact, suffusing over Roger’s face and down his throat. Heat flared under his collar, and his limbs went pliant as they parted, then came together again with firmer pressure. Miranda released a soft sigh, her lips opening at the demand of his. He coaxed her to accept his tongue, first swiping it slowly along her lower lip, then probing into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. His grip tightened on the back of her neck, fingers tangling with silken strands of loose hair. Her head fell into the cradle of his hold, both her hands coming to rest on his thighs.
Roger stiffened at the gentle touch, his muscles going rock hard as his cock pulsed and began to swell. He fought the urge to move, to guide her hands higher so she was touching him where he wanted it most. If he didn’t get a hold of himself, and quickly, he would finish before she even got him out of his breeches. His heart galloped at a mad cadence, and his belly quivered and squeezed at each stroke of her tongue against his, bold and exploring.
The kiss deepened when they both surged closer at once, Roger’s free hand joining the other to cup her face, Miranda’s fingers digging into his thighs as she seemed to fight for purchase. The pinpricks of her fingernails sent another bolt of lightning straight through him, and his erection grew painful in its insistence. His head spun as he wondered if it might happen right here in this room—if he would take Miranda down to the floor, lift her skirts and finally discover what it was like to be buried inside a warm, willing woman.
He had wanted it for some time now, but the intensity of such longing seemed exacerbated now. Roger didn’t know if it was the strength of their attraction, or a simple matter of how long he had waited to have done with this. Regardless, nothing could have stopped him from following her lead when she sank to the floor and reached up to take hold of his shoulders. He fell to his knees, then stretched out over Miranda as she lay back and guided him along.
Trapping her legs between his, he braced both hands on either side of her head and stared down at her, thoroughly captivated. Her coiffure had begun to unravel, leaving coils of mahogany gracing the rug in intriguing swirls. Her eyes were wide and glistening as she stared up at him, her lips parted and reddened from his kisses.
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br /> A low groan fell from Roger’s lips as he fell on her, seeking out more of her sweet taste. She tangled her fingers in his hair, arching her back so her breasts pressed into the flat plane of his chest. He trembled as her nails tickled the back of his neck and sent a spark shooting down his spine. It made heat suffuse through his groin, prompting his hips to press tighter against hers, seeking out the warm haven between her thighs.
Roger pulled away from her as if ascending from the depths of the ocean, sucking in labored breaths and fighting to regain control of himself. He didn’t think Miranda would appreciate him rutting on her on the drawing room floor and spending within half a minute. Roger wanted to take his time with her, learn how to apply the intimacies he had learned about through reading to a flesh and blood woman—one who could tell him what she wanted, what she liked.
A gentle smile pulled at her lips as she stared at him, lifting one hand to cup his cheek. “Why did you stop? I was enjoying myself immensely.”
He returned her smile, his eyes heavy-lidded and his limbs heavy as if he’d been drugged. Stroking the line of her jaw, he pressed another soft kiss to her beckoning mouth.
“I-I-I …w-want … c-can’t … oh, f-fucking hell!”
His insides went frigid as if an icicle had been lodged in his chest, and he pushed off her so swiftly that he stumbled and landed on his buttocks. A string of epithets sat on the tip of his tongue, but his clenched throat wouldn’t allow him the air to speak them.
Miranda’s brow furrowed in concern as she sat up, pushing her skirts down her legs. Roger tore his gaze away, but not before getting an eyeful of bared legs encased in silk stockings. Despite his embarrassment, his arousal didn’t diminish. If anything, it grew stronger at the evidence of how close he’d come to pushing those skirts farther up and seating himself within her. That would not be happening now he’d forgotten his plan of silence once they became physical. He’d forgotten himself and exposed his secret.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 147
