MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “One of these men has Miranda’s affection?” Colin bit out before he could think better of it.

  “Why yes, Lord Kilmaire, I do believe one of the men at this table is the man my granddaughter will marry. I thought for the longest time that she would become a spinster, but after the birth of her niece and nephew I believe she decided she would like a family of her own. Miranda is quite determined.”

  “I wonder then that she did not marry Lord St. Remy.” He hated that the words left his mouth with a jealous edge to them.

  “St. Remy?” The Dowager gave a short bark of laughter. “Why would you ever think she intended to marry Lord St. Remy, or rather the Duke of Langford? He’s inherited, you see. At any rate, Langford was never in contention for Miranda’s hand, except in her mother’s mind. Jeanette adored Langford.”

  He nearly told the Dowager that her granddaughter had intended to marry St. Remy, as she’d sent him a note. And returned his ring. But, just then, Ridley raised Miranda’s fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss upon her knuckles.

  Mine.

  “I do hope you enjoy dinner, Lord Kilmaire.” The Dowager bestowed a brilliant smile on him. She sounded amused.

  His assumption about his seat location had been correct. Lady Helen sat to his left, Lady Dobson on his right. Much to his dismay, Miranda faced him across the table, flanked by Ridley and Hamill.

  He couldn’t wait for this bloody meal to end and it hadn’t even begun.

  Colin unfolded his napkin with a flick of his hand and tried to stem the rise of possessiveness at the sight of another man pawing Miranda.

  Mine.

  Sitting in the darkness of his study at Runshaw Park, it was far easier to pretend he didn’t still want her. At Runshaw Park he couldn’t see the glossy black of her hair, nor hear the musical sound of her voice. Nor smell lavender and honey. Alone at his estate his heart didn’t feel as if it had cracked, bleeding feeling back into his body. For too many years Colin had pushed aside the depths of his feelings.

  Mine.

  Taking a deep breath, he motioned for the footman to bring him wine, wishing he could ask for whiskey. It would take a great deal of wine to blot out the sight of Ridley and Miranda before him.

  12

  How could she possibly eat with Colin sitting directly across from her?

  Miranda usually had the healthiest of appetites, a fact her mother had always found appalling. Little did Lady Jeanette know that the perfect way to destroy Miranda’s appetite would have been to watch Colin with another woman.

  Lady Helen sat preening like one of those bloody birds she adored, a gloved hand lingering a bit longer than necessary on Colin’s arm as she leaned in to ask him a question. Several feathers waved about in Lady Helen’s coiffure, one of which Miranda thought resembled that of a turkey. The stupid feather would stroke against Colin’s cheek as Lady Helen leaned in to murmur in his ear.

  Miranda did not care for Lady Helen when first they met earlier in the year and cared less for her now. Adorning oneself with enough feathers that you resembled a bird of plumage rather than a woman was absurd. She longed to pull the possible turkey feather from Lady Helen’s hair and swat her with it.

  “Perhaps a walk in the garden later, Lady Miranda?”

  Miranda nodded, caring little for anything Ridley said. Was it something about walking in the garden? When had she begun to find him so annoying? So predictable?

  I thought Ridley to be handsome and intelligent. Once.

  Her eyes slid to Colin, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his long, elegant fingers, the movement smooth and graceful. Exactly the way he’d once touched her.

  Candlelight caressed the high cheekbones and sculpted planes of his face, shadowing the scar that trailed down the left side of his cheek. His hair gleamed like dark gold where it brushed the edges of his collar. Colin was devoid of ornamentation save his signet ring which glittered dully in the light of the table. Dressed all in black except for the white of his shirt, he looked beautiful and damaged, like a fallen angel.

  It hurt, how beautiful he was. How he’d once belonged to her.

  Hunger flickered in the dark eyes as he watched her, the pads of his fingers lingering over the stem of his glass.

  Heat bubbled over Miranda’s skin as if a torch had been taken to it. The tips of her nipples tingled in the most pleasurable way. As she took a deep breath, her breasts pressed painfully against the confines of her bodice.

  Colin’s lips twitched, his eyes no longer focused on her face.

  Hamill droned on about some bill he would introduce in Parliament while Ridley regaled her with gossip from some trip he’d taken to Bath. She barely heard either one of them. Every particle of her body was focused on Colin.

  Colin brought the glass of wine to his lips in a languid manner, his heavy lidded gaze catching hers, as if he were drinking her and not the wine. His tongue flicked out against the rim to lick off a drop of the dark purple liquid.

  A rush of wetness slid between Miranda’s thighs and she shifted in her seat. The way he toyed with the wine glass reminded her of the stroke of his fingers inside-

  “Lady Miranda?”

  She turned, irritated that Ridley disturbed her from what was a rather delightful fantasy.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Ridley. I fear my mind wandered a bit. You were saying?” She squeezed her legs together. It was incredibly inappropriate to have one’s body throbbing while the soup course was being taken away.

  Ridley shot her an indulgent look as if she were an errant puppy.

  Miranda knew he thought her simple minded, which was odd given her reputation as a blue-stocking. Few men, it seemed, believed a woman intelligent, especially if a woman was remotely attractive and titled.

  Miranda wished to ball up her napkin and toss it at his nose.

  “I was asking how you enjoyed Lady Willingham’s fete last week?”

  “Delightful.” Overblown and tedious, Lady Willingham’s fete had been many things but decidedly not delightful. She’d been grateful for the headache that erupted after an hour for it gave her an excuse to return home.

  Lady Helen’s laughter trilled across the table.

  Good Lord, she sounds like a wounded goose.

  Shooting him a flirtatious stare from beneath her lashes, Lady Helen tilted her perfect blonde head towards Colin, leaning in such a way that a plump breast brushed against his arm.

  Colin spared Lady Helen a momentary glance, nodding at something she said.

  What a lovely couple they made. Both golden and beautiful. What perfect children they would have. Lady Helen would probably name their children after some species of bird. Lord Osprey Hartley and his sister Lady Wren.

  Miranda picked up her fork, stabbing with frustration at her turbot. This was really rather unseemly, to have to sit and watch the man she still—

  The fork hovered in the air, halfway between her mouth and the plate. She forced the turbot between her lips and chewed mechanically.

  Loved?

  The turbot tasted like shoe leather.

  With a sigh, Miranda carefully set down her fork next to her plate.

  Ridley continued to ramble on, sloshing his glass of wine a bit which earned him the annoyance of the footman who stood behind him.

  She should really give him all her attention. After all, she thought him the likely winner in the dubious contest for her hand. Pasting a look of interest on her face, she pretended to listen, watching Colin from beneath her lashes.

  Lady Helen spoke to Colin in a low voice, forcing him to bend closer to her. Lips pouted artfully as her fingers fluttered up to lightly touch the sleeve of his coat.

  Lady Helen’s behavior went unnoticed, for Colin wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to her. He was watching Miranda.

  Miranda stabbed another piece of turbot, swirling the fish about in the delicious wine sauce it floated in before bringing it to her lips. A bit of the white wine sauce covering the tur
bot landed at the corner of her mouth. She caught it with the flick of her tongue.

  Colin’s gaze fell immediately to her mouth.

  There was no mistaking the flaring hunger in his eyes this time. It was not for Lady Helen. It was for her.

  A delicious shiver ran down her body.

  Colin’s eyes slid to Ridley, who unbelievably continued to speak, as unaware as lady Helen it seemed. The big man across from her frowned slightly, the dark eyes nearly going black with dislike as he watched the viscount. Colin turned his gaze back to her then, and she saw clearly the wicked, erotic things dancing in the depth of his velvet eyes.

  A small gasp escaped her lips as her body arched slightly in his direction, her breasts suddenly heavy and full. Her lashes fluttered to fan against her cheeks.

  The dinner party faded until the other guests were only background noise, a distant hum that did nothing to sever the connection between Miranda and the beautiful, damaged man across the table.

  Colin’s eyes caressed her, dipping over the curves of her breasts and following the line of her throat. A wonderful fantasy filled her, one in which Colin swept the mound of dishes, along with Lady Helen and Lord Ridley, away from the table and took her right next to the roasted pheasant.

  When she found the courage to look up, Colin was conversing with Lady Helen, but one of his hands had reached to the middle of the table. Toward her.

  * * *

  Donata allowed the barest whisper of satisfaction to cross her lips. Ridley, that pompous, annoying ass, should not be counting on Miranda’s dowry to pay off his extensive debts. Lord Hamill, whose limp was likely due to falling off his horse drunk, would need to find another brood mare. Seating him on the other side of Miranda was a brilliant maneuver. The old codger was so hard of hearing that if Miranda spoke to him, he had to lean closer to her, giving the appearance that he was inspecting her bosom. Which he likely was.

  The Earl of Kilmaire looked torn between whom he should murder first, Hamill or Ridley.

  Lord Kilmaire was ensnared between the ambitious Lady Cottingham and the desperate Lady Dobson. Miss Lainscott, with her timid demeanor on full display, looked as if she wished to fade into the wall paper of the dining room. Well, possibly the girl wasn’t timid but bored. She made a mental note to engage the girl in conversation at another time and take her measure.

  Lady Helen was an embarrassment. Why in the world did her mother allow her daughter to go about garnishing herself with feathers that looked as if they’d been plucked from some farmer’s henhouse. The girl’s only redeeming attribute, in Donata’s mind, was that she was quite beautiful. Beautiful but with a vain personality that would grate on Miranda’s nerves. And Lady Helen was entirely lacking in decorum. She even ogled Lord Welles during dinner. Not that Welles didn’t enjoy being ogled, but that was hardly the point.

  Lady Helen had been an inspired choice for Lord Kilmaire.

  Miranda was miserable. She’d attacked her turbot as if the unfortunate fish had insulted her, stabbing at her portion until it resembled a pile of stones swimming in wine sauce, all while shooting Lady Helen looks of distaste.

  Alex, her adored granddaughter-in-law, had created the seating chart exactly as requested.

  A most successful evening.

  Donata took a small sip of her wine and wondered at Colin’s assertion that Miranda had been betrothed to St. Remy. Contrary to what both her granddaughter and Colin assumed, Donata had not been sleeping on the journey to Gray Covington. Well, at least not all of it for she’d heard every word uttered, some which made her blush a bit. Colin seemed very certain that Miranda had meant to marry St. Remy, which was preposterous. Miranda hadn’t cared for the future duke, only Jeanette had been in favor of the match.

  St. Remy. The crux, it appeared, of the situation.

  Donata drummed her fingertips against the fine linen that covered the table.

  “Rainha, what are you about?” Sutton, seated just to her left at the head of the table, leaned over and whispered. “I can almost hear your scheming.”

  “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” She wrinkled her brow as if confused by his statement and sliced the pheasant on her plate into tiny bite-sized portions. Donata found that as one got older it became increasingly easier to pretend one was addled. “And you must cease referring to me as Rainha. Our guests may not understand the Portuguese word for queen and will assume you are calling me an awful name in a foreign tongue. Some might think you are making fun of an old woman.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed her grandson’s lips. For a moment, he looked so much like his father, her beloved son Robert, that Donata’s breath caught. How fortunate that the Duke of Dunbar had assisted her in bringing Sutton back from Macao. If Sutton hadn’t returned…well it didn’t matter. Sutton had returned. And, now she had dear Alex and those adorable children. You would have scolded me for meddling as well, Robert, but you see, it has all worked out for the best.

  “Do not think I am ignorant of what goes on at my own estate, Rainha.”

  “Of course not, my lord,” she murmured, as she popped a piece of pheasant in her mouth.

  Dry. The pheasant was dry. Reminiscent of overly seasoned parchment.

  Sutton snorted in amusement, glancing down the length of the table to catch his wife’s eye. “Subservience does not suit you, nor is it believable.”

  Alex was holding court at the other end of the table, laughing as Lord Welles entertained her. Carstairs was dutifully chewing his food and nodding as Welles spoke. The poor boy looked completely lost.

  Not an intelligent thought in his head. Just like his mother.

  Alex’s eyes caught Donata’s, and she tilted her head slightly before turning her attention to back to Lord Welles.

  “And you’ve involved Alex,” Sutton hissed under his breath while waving for more wine.

  “Goodness, my lord, you make me sound rather Machiavellian. I assure you that all I have done is arrange a house party so that your sister and your dearest friend may make suitable matches.” Donata took the opportunity to glance down the length of the table.

  Colin appeared to be strangling his napkin while glaring at Lord Ridley, probably imagining the napkin was the viscount’s neck.

  Splendid.

  Donata did wonder if she should worry over Ridley’s welfare as the Earl of Kilmaire looked quite intent on doing the viscount bodily harm. There was also the matter of a rather large blade Donata knew Colin carried on his person. He never went anywhere without the weapon. Ironic considering what a knife had done to his face. Ridley would do well to give the Earl of Kilmaire a wide berth.

  Or not. I cannot wait until that man has served his purpose and we can be rid of his presence. Donata speared another piece of pheasant.

  Ridley had been assessing the value of Gray Covington and its contents from the moment he arrived. Just before dinner, she could see the greed gleaming from his eyes as he mentally tallied up the wealth he assumed he would soon have access too. Donata had the inclination to hide some of the more valuable works of art least Ridley try to abscond with them in his saddlebags when he departed. She would need to have Zander watch Ridley very carefully, for the young man was desperate. That much was apparent.

  Hamill looked in vain amongst the ton for a brood mare. The former rake had affairs with many of the older ladies whose daughters he now attempted to court. Hamill was politely refused by them all. Then Miranda, with her unsuitability, landed in his lap. Donata had no doubt Hamill would use his influence at Parliament to staunch some of the gossip concerning her granddaughter, but she doubted he would stop the flow altogether. Certainly not enough to merit wedding him.

  Lady Cottingham was terribly uninteresting. Donata continued to ignore the prattling woman on her right who would do better to rein in her daughter than bore Donata.

  She placed her fork down. Atrocious. Zander must be told about dinner. Mushy, overcooked potatoes. Dry pheasant. Only the sauce for the turbot had been a
cceptable. The meal was well below the usual standards of Gray Covington.

  She doubted anyone invited to this house party, save Lady Dobson, would realize such.

  Donata found the whole of it very satisfactory.

  “Lord Ridley,” she said down the table to the dandy, I’m so happy you could join us.”

  13

  Dinner, thankfully, was finally over.

  Colin now knew the meaning of Hell. Hell was listening to Lady Helen drone on about the specific migration habits of something called a blue cockerel all the while batting him in the face with a feather she’d decorated herself with. He was so annoyed that he said nothing when the tip of the feather skimmed across the top of her soup.

  The Dowager regarded Lady Cottingham with dismay, her lips pursed as if she were sucking on a lemon.

  The Harpy, whom most of the ton referred to as Lady Dobson, recited all of Miss Lainscott’s accomplishments to Colin, pausing only to sip her wine with delicate precision. She had waved her fork around in circles, thrusting it towards Colin when she felt the need to emphasize her point. Which was often. He should be grateful she hadn’t carved up his other cheek.

  Miss Lainscott kept her gaze firmly on her plate, as if the peas rolling around were the most interesting thing she’d ever encountered. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks while Lady Dobson listed her niece’s most favorable attributes as if Miss Lainscott were a horse Colin was considering purchasing.

  That was not the worst of it.

  The worst was watching Ridley salivating over Miranda and her dowry while the elderly lecher to Miranda’s left, Hamill, eyed her bosom. Colin considered it an act of true discipline that he hadn’t murdered either man before the dessert course appeared.

  He had spent the entire meal irritated with his dinner companions and wanting Miranda with a cockstand so fierce it could have toppled the table. That damned curl. Tempting him from its place between Miranda’s breasts. Begging for his touch. He was only human.