MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3

by Ayers, Kathleen

She loved his hands. They were capable of all manner of wicked things.

  “Lady Helen is lovely, of course. Blonde and delicate.” Heat was surging up her leg from the feel of his boot. “She’s as rich as Grandmother says. Her dowry is obscene.”

  Colin’s brow wrinkled at the mention of Lady Helen’s dowry.

  “There’s no need to frown, Lord Kilmaire. I believe that was one of your requirements was it not? A large dowry?” She lifted a brow.

  “It is.” His eyes narrowed. “Please, do go on.”

  “Lady Helen has a huge admiration for birds. I believe she is quite enamored of our feathered friends and is an avid birdwatcher. You will find yourself with quite an education on the various species that inhabit the woods around Gray Covington. Given that her father was a dairy farmer before becoming an earl, I would rather have thought her obsession would be more of the bovine persuasion.” She shrugged. “Her manners are a bit rough, but I’m sure that would not deter you from courting her.”

  The toe of his boot moved again, this time directly between her feet, or rather, her legs. Heat blossomed and rolled up the length of her body. If Colin chose to, he could easily trail his foot up her silk clad calf to the inside of her thigh. A bit of her skirt caught on the heel of his boot.

  “Have a care, Lord Kilmaire. You’ll ruin my dress.” The words rolled off her tongue without thinking, sounding more like an invitation than the chastisement she meant it to be.

  Heat flared between them. The dark gaze flickered over her breasts to trail down her stomach to her clasped hands.

  Miranda’s breath caught as her body responded to his gaze. Shamefully. Wantonly. Honey spooled between her legs and she shifted slightly, trying to assuage the sudden ache.

  One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

  Damn him.

  “I believe you’ve mentioned such a thing to me before.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper.

  Miranda spared a glance at her grandmother who continued to snore softly, oblivious to Colin’s flirtation.

  And he was flirting with her. Although she wasn’t sure why. Two days ago, in her grandmother’s sitting room, he’d been dreadful to her. Brutal.

  “That was a long time ago.” She paused pressing her lips together and watched as his gaze moved to her mouth. “Please, move your foot.”

  “Whatever happened to Lord St. Remy, I wonder?” His fingers drummed a bit on his thighs.

  Why must he move his fingers in such a way. It brought to mind a great many other things, none of which were appropriate.

  “You really should make more of an effort to wear gloves, Lord Kilmaire. You are no longer at Runshaw Park, but out in society.” Miranda dipped her head towards his bare hands.

  “I find I cannot grip things properly in gloves. Or,” he said in a softly teasing tone, “touch things in a manner I wish.”

  A slight tremor ran through her. Oh, yes. She remembered very well the way his big hands cupped her breasts. This was a rather tortuous game he played with her. Delicious and arousing but with a hint of bottled anger.

  “Will you answer me?” He said in a silky voice. “What became of St. Remy?”

  St. Remy? Miranda blinked. St. Remy. She searched her mind for the face of the man but found she could not. St. Remy was now the Duke of Langford. At her debut, Mother fancied a match between St. Remy and Miranda, but Miranda found him to be distasteful. He insulted Miranda for her love of books and declared, while they were dancing, that she would be a bore in other ways as well. The only one who seemed to truly like St. Remy was Miranda’s mother.

  “He is no longer Lord St. Remy, but the Duke of Langford.”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten he was the heir to a dukedom. And does he have a duchess?” His eyes narrowed, piercing her with an accusatory gaze.

  “I’ve no idea.” She hadn’t thought of St. Remy, or rather, the Duke of Langford, in years. She supposed he’d married as every duke needed an heir, though why Colin would care, she didn’t know. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted.”

  A small snort came from Colin. “We are not.”

  “Then why this sudden interest in the Duke of Langford?”

  Colin sat back against the squabs and drummed his fingers again, a rapid staccato that had her wanting to reach across the space between them and still his hand. He made as if to speak, then just as quickly pursed his lips as if he were fighting for control.

  Miranda looked down, pointedly, at his boot, nudging it with the toe of her slipper. Then she attempted to pull her skirt free and found she couldn’t. Not without tearing her dress.

  The boot did not move.

  “I rather prefer Miss Lainscott.” Considering waves of heat were swirling up her legs Miranda thought she sounded rather calm. “She has a pleasant demeanor and a keen mind. Her dowry is far larger and Lady Dobson is in rather a rush to marry her off, though Miss Lainscott doesn’t possess the same sense of urgency. I’m sure you could win her over with your charm.”

  Colin’s mouth hardened, pulling the scar tight.

  “And what of Lord Hamill? I’m told he is one of your most ardent suitors.”

  Ardent was not a word Miranda would use to describe Lord Hamill. The elderly lord’s pursuit of Miranda was more a business negotiation than a courtship. Not that she minded terribly, for at least Lord Hamill was honest.

  “He is well-regarded in Parliament and while he is a bit older than I—”

  “You consider thirty years or more to be a bit?”

  Miranda did not back down. “Lord Hamill’s treatment of his first wife bodes well if I choose to marry him. He is a most suitable match. At any rate, I fail to see how my choice of husband is any of your business, Lord Kilmaire.”

  Lord Hamill’s treatment of the former Lady Hamill had been cordial. Respectful. Their marriage was a partnership and they’d hosted countless dinners for the political elite of London. Miranda thought she’d enjoy playing hostess and involving herself in politics. Besides, Lord Hamill would allow no disparagement of Miranda’s character. Once Miranda was his wife, no one would dare whisper about the possibility that she’d shot Archie Runyon. At least, she hoped that would be the case.

  “Lord Hamill is not your concern.”

  “Old enough to be your father. Or is it your grandfather?” Colin gave her a carnal look, his implication clear. “I understand he wants an heir. Doesn’t care for his sister’s son, I believe. Tell me, Lady Miranda, have you taken that under consideration?”

  An unwelcome flush crept into her cheeks. Of course, she’d considered it. She was still considering it. The biggest detriment to marrying Lord Hamill would be the actual bedding of Lord Hamill. He’d been very clear. While he would certainly appreciate her assistance with his political aspirations, Lord Hamill’s main reason for marrying Miranda was that he wished an heir.

  “My relationship with Lord Hamill is none of your concern, Lord Kilmaire. I find this conversation to be completely inappropriate.”

  “As someone who is as a sister to me,” the words rolled off his tongue sarcastically, “my only wish is for you to be happy.”

  “Yes, your concern for my welfare is glaringly apparent. I am comforted by it,” she snapped back.

  “Tell me about Lord Ridley, then. I’m just curious, you see, to have you tell me what appeals to you about either man. What attributes Lord Ridley has that make him more appealing to you than say, Lord St. Remy.” The scar darkened a bit across his cheek.

  “The Duke of Langford,” she automatically corrected, watching in satisfaction as his nostrils flared.

  “If you will.”

  “What is your interest in the Duke of Langford? I do not understand the direction of your conversation. You seem unable to speak plainly to me, Lord Kilmaire.”

  The sharp planes of his face contorted into a mask of utter fury at her response. He looked as if he were about to commit murder.

  “I think you know.”

  “I haven’t th
e slightest idea.” And she didn’t. Not in the least. “Perhaps you’ll enlighten me?”

  The fingers drummed again.

  She raised a brow and waited. When he didn’t respond, Miranda continued.

  “So I’m to guess at your motives. Well, I’ve no interest in doing such. So, let’s move on shall we, to your question about Lord Ridley. Lord Ridley and I have been acquainted for several years. He is a viscount, with a lovely estate in Surrey.”

  Ridley was attractive with impeccable manners. He was a bit of a dandy and tended to dress somewhat flamboyantly but he insisted on being fashionable. Ridley could also be a bit pompous, but he did find Miranda lovely.

  He also found Miranda to be a bit of a chatterbox. And since he openly equated chattering with a lack of intelligence, he mostly behaved as if Miranda could not grasp simple concepts. If she were honest, Ridley probably found her dowry as attractive as Miranda herself was, though she cared not to examine that last bit too closely.

  A knowing smile crossed the firm lines of his mouth. “He’s managed to gamble away most of his inheritance, I’m told. The duns are beating at his door. Ridley is looking for an heiress.”

  “Then you and he have much in common, Lord Kilmaire,” Miranda snapped back, stung at being reminded that Ridley did not want her for herself.

  The scar tightened down the length of Colin’s face at her retort. His hands curled into fists on top of his thighs. A savage, freezing look shot from him.

  Miranda didn’t care. Not a bit.

  “Surely, Lord Kilmaire, my brother has relayed the reason why I have a rather limited field of suitors. Good God, the entire ton is rife with gossip concerning the incident. One would have to be deaf and dumb,” she gave him a pointed look, “not to have learned about it.” Leaning forward, she peered at him across the coach, no longer interested whether or not she woke her grandmother. “You speak in riddles. You accuse and glare at me as if I were guilty of some offense.” Miranda had spent several sleepless nights trying to determine the source of Colin’s anger towards her. If he thought she would tell Sutton, or anyone, of their previous affection for each other, he was mistaken. Perhaps he assumed she sought to ruin his chances with Lady Helen out of spite. Absurd. Her humiliation was so acute she had difficulty evening admitting to her childish adoration for him. “Do you fear that I would inform my brother of our previous relationship and thus put your relationship with him at risk? Or are you worried I would try to hinder your pursuit of either Lady Helen or Miss Lainscott out of malice?” She gave a short bark of laughter. “Out of nothing more than a regrettable indiscretion? I’m certain I am not the only woman to have experienced such. Besides, I would not wish to harm my own chances of a suitable match. Well not completely, she thought Ridley would likely marry her regardless.

  A combative look came over his face. “A regrettable indiscretion?. As you wish.”

  “No matter your feelings for me, Lord Kilmaire, I am still the sister of the Marquess of Cambourne, a powerful man and your friend. My father went out of his way years ago to assist you in some foolish venture.”

  “I owe your father much. And, it was not foolish.”

  “I don’t care what it was. Likely it was the only reason you lingered at Cambourne House so long ago. There was certainly no other compelling reason for you to lurk around London for so long. You’ve made your feelings on that matter abundantly clear.”

  Miranda shrank back against the squabs and moved her feet to the wall of the coach, not even wincing as she heard the small sound of her skirts tearing where it caught on his boot.

  “I will thank you not to insult me or plague me further with your veiled accusations. I can attend any event in London if I wish to be insulted and provoked. I’ll not endure it in the shelter of my family’s coach.” She shut her eyes, no longer wanting to look at his beautiful, damaged face. Was he so devoid of feeling for her that he found enjoyment in tormenting her?

  “Miranda.” The low growl vibrated in the air of the coach. His elegant fingers fluttered against her knee.

  She pulled back violently from his touch.

  “Leave me be, Lord Kilmaire. I assure you, I am not your concern.”

  Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she turned her attention to the passing countryside, forcing herself to focus on the beauty of the rolling hills. Gray Covington was a large estate. She could avoid Colin until this ill-advised house party was over. She had to, else she might not survive it.

  8

  Cambourne House 1830

  Miranda giggled in the darkness, the sound echoing down the parquet floor hallway. She should be more careful, but the only witnesses to her laughter were the marbles that littered the hallway of her family’s London town home. Surely, the bust of a former Roman general would not complain.

  Mother often traveled abroad to Italy to visit her cousin, Mr. Runyon who lived in Tuscany. Whenever she was gone, various works of art, pottery, sculpture and the like, would arrive on the doorstep of Cambourne House. Sometimes Mother was gone for months.

  Father didn’t mind when Mother traveled, in fact Miranda thought he was relieved, although he detested Cousin Archie. In fact, her father barely tolerated her mother. Sutton hadn’t cared for Cousin Archie either.

  A small ache crossed her heart. She desperately missed Sutton.

  Mother’s Marbles, as Miranda liked to call the statues of Roman gods, and the odd bust of a bewigged gentleman, were exquisite though. Guests to Cambourne House raved about their beauty. Unfortunately, the statues held more warmth than Mother herself did.

  Miranda halted her thoughts of her mother and smiled up into the face she loved most in the world. Colin Hartley. She adored him. Worshipped him like the Romans did the statues sprinkled around the hallway. Colin rivaled the beauty of the marbles. The candlelight lovingly caressed the sculpted planes of his beautiful face, while his eyes, the color of a burnt piece of toffee cake that Cook once made for Miranda’s birthday, roamed over her in appreciation.

  He caught her around the waist, pressing her up against a small statue of a satyr. The marble was cool against her back.

  “You are forever pulling me into a dark corner, Mr. Hartley,” she laughed, nervous and exhilarated at the same time. The most delicious sensation rolled over her skin when Colin looked at her as he did now. “Although I don’t suppose he minds,” she nodded at the satyr who regarded them both with a lascivious grin.

  “I believe it is you who seek to pull me into darkened corners, Miranda.” Colin whispered against her ear. “Though, I don’t mind in the least.”

  Her pulse caught as his breath tickled the sensitive flesh beneath her ear. A whimper escaped her lips.

  It was constant torture to sit across the table when Colin came to dine, pretending that they were no more than old family friends. She would sit and allow Mother to discuss how she hoped for a match between Miranda and Lord St. Remy. She would nod her head and agree that St. Remy, or whomever Mother found suitable, was quite wonderful, all the while knowing that the only man she wanted sat across the table, his dark eyes lit with hunger as he watched her.

  Since that day, nearly a month ago, when Colin surprised her in the gardens, they had found every moment to be together. It was amazing how many dull, boring lectures the Royal Academy presented—lectures only Colin would escort her to. Then Colin would take her for a lemon ice and debate the merits of the lecture. Or discuss the building of the pyramids. Miranda found herself saving up little tidbits of the trials of being in her First Season if only to make him laugh.

  A warm finger teased her skin, slipping down the deep valley between her breasts.

  Her nipples pebbled, the sensitive tips pushing up against the constraints of her bodice. Every touch between them became more intimate, more heated. Sometimes at night she couldn’t sleep for thinking of the sensations Colin aroused.

  “This curl will be the death of me.” He wrapped a bit of her hair about his seeking finger. “It always
tempts me to come closer.”

  “Then come closer,” she breathed.

  Tugging the curl, Colin pulled Miranda close and nibbled against the line of her neck and jaw. His breath warmed her skin and set her pulse racing. “Such a tempting invitation.”

  Honey slid down her stomach to pool at the apex of her thighs as his mouth blazed a trail against her skin. Instinctively, her hips pushed against him. Her hands ran down his chest to wander beneath his coat, catching around his waist.

  A low, primitive sound came from deep in Colin’s throat.

  “We should go back. You are maddening,” the words trailed along her neck, “and I should leave. If I were smart, I would run from Cambourne House as if the devil himself were at my heels.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m the devil, Colin?”

  “You are.” His mouth brushed hers, nipping at her bottom lip. “Devilishly beautiful. Wonderful. Amazing. You make my heart stop.”

  Miranda pressed a kiss against his lips. “I shall start it once again. Contrary organ.”

  “And you are quite good at catching frogs.”

  Miranda laughed and brought her hands up, wrapping her arms about his neck.

  “You can’t leave yet. You promised me a walk in the gardens.”

  He shook his head. “We should not. You mother watches us like a hawk. She suspects, I think.”

  Miranda took him by the hand, lacing their fingers together, cursing the fact that she wore gloves, although he did not. He rarely did, which pleased her, for she loved the look of his hands. Large, but graceful, sometimes with a bit of ink staining his forefinger.

  “Father did not object, and my mother only suspects that I may be happy, and she does not wish me to be.”

  Her father, Lord Cambourne, barely looked up from the London Times as Miranda said she and Colin would take a turn about the garden before he took his leave. The Dowager was already asleep in her chair by the fire. Only Miranda’s mother raised a brow, her eyes narrowed with disdain for Colin.

  To be fair, her mother liked few people, and certainly not anyone that was acquainted with Sutton. Mother resented that Father’s first wife had borne the Cambourne heir and her resentment festered until she hated Sutton with her entire being. The dislike of her stepson extended to his friends. Mother detested Nick especially but dared not anger the heir to Dunbar. She referred to Colin as the “Irish pauper” telling Father that Colin would steal the silver if they looked the other way. Which was preposterous. Though he might steal a kiss from Miranda.