“Embalming techniques?”
She shrugged, and he could see she was embarrassed. Hastily, she put the book aside and covered it with her bonnet. “I suppose it’s a bit peculiar.”
He reached over and pushed her bonnet aside. “How often do you have the opportunity to discuss the ancient Egyptians at a ball? Between dances?”
“Stop. Now you’re just making fun of me.” She flushed a delightful pink and pushed her bonnet back on top of the book. “I know I’m odd.”
“No. Not odd.” His voice softened. “Unique. Think how boring the world would be if we were all the same. The only thing I do find odd, Lady Miranda, is that there is no one handy to practice embalming on. I do worry for some of your admirers. And I understand it’s an unpleasant business. Don’t they pull the brain out through the nose with knitting needles? Wouldn’t that create a mess if one is wearing a ball gown?” He could smell the scents of lavender and honey wafting from her hair.
She laughed, low and throaty, and a tremor of longing ran through Colin. Miranda was undoubtedly beautiful, though she had none of the artifice that beautiful women generally had. She seemed not to realize the effect she had on the male species, or at the very least, did not allow it to define her.
“It is incredibly messy. Though,” she continued excitedly, “the Egyptians did not have knitting needles. It was a rather long hook they shoved up the deceased’s nose.” She made an odd motion with her hands and his eyes followed the movement. Then a priest would move the needle about, mushing things up before pulling out the bits.” Her eyes widened to see if he was appropriately shocked. “I would definitely ruin my gown.”
“Do go on.” God, he wanted to touch her.
“I find it all quite fascinating. After they removed the brain, they would then make a small incision on the left side,” her hands brushed the spot just underneath her breasts and Colin’s breath caught, “to remove the other organs like the intestines and liver. They put them out to dry once they removed everything. Rather like making jerky. Do you know about jerky? I read something about the Americas and the natives there, Indians they are called. At any rate the Indians dry their meat in such a way, well really, they hang bits of it on a drying rack, and they call it jerky.” She shook her head, “I must apologize, Mr. Hartley, at times my thoughts wander. Mother says I’m a true featherwit as I cannot seem to hold together a conversation.”
“I disagree, Lady Miranda. Continue.” Lady Cambourne was a bitch who likely had never opened a book.
Miranda bestowed on him a dazzling smile.
“At any rate, I find the Egyptian version of the afterlife to be so colorful, if not a bit barbaric at times. They would sacrifice a person’s household with them, to serve them in the afterlife. I’m certain that Bevins would have an issue with that, his loyalty to my family notwithstanding.”
Colin couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “I’m certain of it.”
“My favorite is Anubis. Egyptian god, that is. Lady Sinclair has a statue of him that her husband purchased from an antiquities dealer. Most everyone finds the statue quite frightening, though I rather like it.”
Miranda’s lips were a delightful shade of red, reminiscent of a late summer raspberry.
“Anubis was the god of the underworld. Didn’t he have the head of a dog?”
“A jackal. Which I suppose is a bit like a dog. At any rate, whenever mother begins to remind me of my unladylike behavior, I slowly work embalming into our conversation. Or tell her about scarab beetles eating the mummies flesh away.” She leaned towards Colin, giving him a breathtaking view of the valley between her breasts. “It’s rather...gruesome.”
“I never realized how bloodthirsty you were, Lady Miranda. Had I known, I would have taken greater care at Gray Covington. I’m not sure I would have allowed you to bait your own fish hook. Although in retrospect, you did seem delighted at the time by the poor worm’s suffering.”
Colin wanted to kiss her. Touch the braid of her hair.
A very bad idea.
“Well.” A pink blush rose over her cheeks and she frowned, a worried look coming over her lovely face. She stopped speaking. Always an unusual occurrence with Miranda and always directly reflective of something troubling her. Idly she toyed with the strings of her bonnet.
“I suppose you should just go ahead and do it.” She nibbled a bit at her lower lip.
“Do…what?” This was torturous and unfair. He wished to be nibbling at her lower lip.
A small non-committal shrug caused her breasts to move deliciously beneath the muslin. “Don’t make me say it. I’m quite embarrassed.” She plucked at her bonnet again. “It’s all rather awkward isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure,” he tore his gaze from her plump lower lip, “exactly what you mean.”
“Oh, very well, Colin.” Miranda dropped all pretense at formality with the use of his Christian name. An anguished look crossed her lovely face and she gave a great dramatic sigh. “You wish to apologize. For your behavior at the Dunbar Ball. For kissing me. There I’ve said it, and I’m horribly embarrassed. It was rather poor of you to make me say such a thing.”
“Hmm.” He could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“You didn’t know it was me or you never would have done so. Kiss me, I mean.”
“Possibly.” That was partially true. He would have taken greater care and not pounced on her like a madman, but Colin thought he still would have kissed her. The attraction to her was like nothing he’d ever felt in his life.
“You likely thought I was an…” she struggled to find the right word and her forehead wrinkled, “an associate of Nick’s.”
“That’s a rather polite way of putting things.” He leaned in, inhaling deeply of the lavender and honey smell that wafted off her skin. “Nick did mention he was going to introduce me to a nice widow.”
Miranda’s face fell. “I knew it. You would have never-” Her hands waved, and she looked at him, unable to say what she wished. The color of her cheeks deepened to dark rose.
“Kissed you.” God, she was adorable. All flustered and pink. Reading books on how to create a mummy and torturing her harridan of a mother with tales of flesh-eating beetles. The night of the Dunbar Ball he was sure he could not have wanted her more. He’d been wrong about that.
Very wrong.
“Yes, how horrified you must have been,” she said, biting her lip again. “Fat little Miranda, who you had to steal raisin cakes for because her mother wouldn’t allow her dessert.”
“I wasn’t horrified. You were chubby.”
“Irritating and annoying.”
“Persistent.” Did she still think of herself in such a way? Looking at the regret in her lovely face, he thought she did.
“You are no longer that little girl,” he said quietly. “Do not think of yourself as such. Yes, you were a bit,”he gave her a soft smile, “annoying. But only because you were so intelligent. You still are. Intelligent, I mean. You cannot allow your mother to dictate who you are. I know that better than anyone.”
She lay her hand on his and the touch of her skin warmed him as nothing else ever had.
“That is something we have in common, I think.”
Light filled in the hollow places of Colin’s soul at her touch, like the sunlight that streamed through the tree branches above their heads. Her words sent ripples of pleasure through his body.
“You were so kind to me when I was a child.” A wry smile crossed her lips. “I think I may have even made you a paper crown because you were my prince. Demanded that you marry me.” Shaking her head and waving her hands she said, “I should be apologizing to you. I’m so sorry I tricked you into kissing me.”
“Tricked me?” He curled his hand around so that that their fingers touched.
Miranda’s eyes darkened a shade, “I should have introduced myself immediately. I let you think I was someone else. It’s just that you looked at me as if I were . . .” She shook her head
in agitation.
“As if you were what?”
The sun flickered across her features, and her voice lowered, “You will find me ridiculous and forward I’m sure, but…I wanted you to kiss me, Colin. I can apologize but I am not sorry. I know that you probably regret the entire episode.”
Miranda was so adorably luscious, pattering on, her fingers keeping up with her words as if she were conducting an orchestra. Surely, no man had been tempted so much. Leaning over, he brushed his lips against hers, in a brief caress, reveling in the softness of her mouth.
And to stop her chattering.
A small, blissful gasp left her lips. Her hands floated up to flatten against his chest as she bent towards him until he could feel the press of her breasts.
“Colin.” It was an invitation.
He truly kissed her then, slanting his mouth over hers. He braced his hands on either side of her, afraid that if he touched Miranda he would combust. Urging her to respond, Colin teased her lower lip, imploring her to surrender to him, to open her mouth.
She tasted of tea and honey with just a bit of tart lemon.
Miranda moaned into his mouth as his tongue touched hers. Her fingers closed over the lapels of his coat, pulling him towards her as she fell back against the blanket.
Colin fell against her, adjusting so that his body was adjacent to hers, the generous curves of her body fitting into the hardness of his.
“Ouch.” Miranda giggled against his mouth.
Without breaking the kiss, Colin reached behind her and tossed aside Embalming Techniques of the Ancient Egyptians.
“I always preferred the Greeks.”
Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck, mimicking the movement of his mouth against hers. Tentatively she nipped his lower lip, sucking the bruised flesh into her mouth.
A low growl sounded in his throat. “Miranda.” His voice was hoarse and heavy.
“Colin,” she whispered against his mouth, “did I do that wrong? I thought that was – well you did it to me. Am I not supposed to? It’s just so…marvelous. So much better than the dry peck on the cheek I’ve seen some men bestow upon a woman. Do not think I’m some green girl because I have had a kiss stolen before and—”
He took her mouth again, cutting her off, firmly and possessively. Trailing his lips from the side of her mouth to her jaw, he made his way up the slender column of her neck, marveling at the feel of her skin.
“Oh, my.” She sounded blissful. “Do you feel that?”
He felt a great many things, most of which he wouldn’t repeat. “What?” He nipped at the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
Miranda immediately arched against him.
“Tell me.” He busied himself tracing the inside of her ear with his tongue. She made the most delightful little noises.
“When you work a puzzle, sometimes it will take days or even weeks to find the two pieces that fit together properly. Because they were made exactly to fit only each other. The pieces make a lovely clicking sound when they snap into place, so you know they fit.”
Miranda took his hand in hers. The green of her eyes was the same color as the grass surrounding the blanket on which they lay.
“The pieces fit exactly. No other piece will do, you see.”
Yes. He did see, because Colin felt the connection as well.
He pressed his forehead to hers cupping one side of her head, loving the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. How was it possible to want something so badly but be terrified all the same?
Nick’s widow friend did not exist. Of that, Colin was positive. It was rather annoying for Nick to be right once again.
“So, you do not regret kissing me,” she said softly, her breath wafting against his cheek.
“Miranda, there are many things I’ve done, and have yet to do that I may regret. But kissing you is not one of them.”
“That is a good thing, Colin, for I don’t wish you to brood about it.”
“I do not brood.”
“You do. You have for as long as I’ve known you, which is half my life. Just please, do not brood over kissing me. Or anything else.” Her voice lowered seductively.
“I do not brood.” He whispered before he kissed her again.
6
Cambourne House 1836
“Well that,” Colin muttered as he dodged the rain and hastened to his waiting carriage, “was bloody awful.” Frowning, he thumped back against the worn leather squabs, inhaling the familiar smell of old leather and poverty.
Tapping on the roof of the carriage he ordered curtly, “Momsby and Partners.” Immediately regretting his ill humor, Colin nearly apologized to the poor man sitting atop his coach in the pouring rain. But an earl did not apologize. And God help him, he was the Earl of Kilmaire.
The carriage creaked forward slowly, its springs so worn that Colin imagined he could feel every cobblestone. At least the horses were of good quality, his father having spent what was left in the Hartley coffers at Tattersalls. Whatever else you might say about the deceased Earl of Kilmaire, and there was quite a bit to say, he had known his horseflesh.
Colin’s finger itched at the grooved, puckered flesh that bisected his face. Miranda had appeared unmoved as she had examined it earlier. An unspoken question appeared in her eyes, but that was all.
“It doesn’t matter any longer,” he whispered to the moldering coach. The scar did not, but some things did. Miranda, for one.
I still want her.
Time had not healed the wound of losing Miranda. He doubted it ever would. How foolish he had been to think he could see her again and feel nothing.
“Bloody Hell.”
His hand automatically went to his pocket, feeling the familiar weight of his grandmother’s claddagh ring. His talisman. The ring had been in his pocket for years, so much a part of his wardrobe that he sometimes forgot he carried it. He hadn’t consciously taken the ring from Runshaw Park when he left for London. Nor did he recall slipping it into his pocket as he left to call on the Dowager. Yet, here it was.
The claddagh, if the wearer committed oneself, was worn upside down on the ring finger. The Irish used the clauddagh as a token of betrothal. A promise.
Who gave Grandmother Cecily the clauddagh?
His grandparent’s marriage was for land and dowry, not love, though the pair got on well enough. After Colin’s grandfather died, Cecily took to wearing it around her neck, sometimes worrying it between her fingers while she looked at something only she could see. Love, she’d once told Colin before she passed away, was a rare gift, one worth all the jewels and gold in the world. The clauddagh disappeared after her death and Colin assumed she’d been buried with it, but then the ring appeared at Runshaw Park.
Uncle Gerald likely sent it to Colin’s mother as a remembrance.
The heirloom languished at Runshaw Park for many years, put away in a velvet box Colin’s mother kept in the library. Not valuable in a monetary sense, Colin’s father never bothered to try to sell it.
Sometimes he would take out the ring, wondering who gifted his grandmother with such a token, for it certainly hadn’t been his grandfather. When his father sold the library, the ring was discovered behind a stack of books on horse breeding.
He’d given the ring to the only woman he would ever love.
Six years was not enough time to make the bitterness and anger fade.
The ring arrived with the letter. As he lay in a haze of pain and shock after his mother’s attack with the left side of his face nothing but a mass of blood and bits of flesh, he’d eagerly opened the letter, desperate for Miranda, and the ring fell out. He would have stormed to London even with his face bleeding and in shreds, demanding she see him if it hadn’t been for that ring.
‘I’ve decided to accept the suit of Lord St. Remy.’
He shut his eyes against the words, as if he were reading Miranda’s words for the first time today and not six years ago. Every word, every curlicue and flourish of her handwrit
ing was ingrained in his mind.
The letter stayed in his pocket nestled against the ring for many years, to keep him from leaping atop a horse and riding to London. When he longed for Miranda, usually after the demands of Runshaw Park and his solitude caused him to drink a large quantity of whiskey, Colin would rub his fingers over the battered gold of the ring. He would re-read the words written across the creamy vellum of Miranda’s stationary. Cursing her in the darkness, he would want her, wishing she were not her mother’s daughter after all.
One day the letter simply fell apart in his hands, crumbling into so much dust.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside of a red brick building, lights glowing like beacons against the storm. The horses stamped their feet as the coachman swung down to open the door.
Colin pulled out the ring, rubbing the burnished gold between his fingers. The metal felt as though it were alive, warm from the heat of his body.
“My lord?” His coachman stood with an umbrella, rain dripping off of him as he waited for Colin to exit.
Taking a deep breath, Colin shook his head free of his imaginings. Stepping lightly to avoid a puddle he nodded to his coachman. “I’ll be only a short while.”
Why hadn’t she married St. Remy?
The question haunted him. On his return to London, he expected to find her a duchess, secure of her place in society. A woman who decided to chose title and security over Colin’s poverty and love.
How easy it would have been to continue to hate that woman.
Instead, he found Miranda a spinster, an unheard of state for the sister of a Marquess. Nearly on the shelf. Still lovely, but with a sadness in her eyes that bespoke of regret. He wanted to ask Cam, or even better, Nick, why Miranda hadn’t married, but there hadn’t seemed to be the right time. Had St. Remy broken the betrothal? That would explain the vague whispers he’d heard of Miranda’s unsuitability, most of which he’d ignored until today. Unfair or not, the woman was usually blamed for a broken engagement and suffered the results of such. The thought of her humiliation did not make him as happy as it should have.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 9
