“Alex.” Donata nodded her head to stop.
“I was lying in bed when the letter came,” Colin said in a low voice, perhaps more to himself that either Donata or Alex. “The surgeon was sewing up what remained of my cheek and I read her letter and…” A choking sound came from him.
“And you assumed the worst,” Donata added unnecessarily. “Had you been in your right mind, Colin, perhaps you would not have jumped to such a conclusion.”
“I have something I need to do.” His face offered no insight to his thoughts or emotions, for his features had become as smooth as glass, though Donata sensed the effort it took to hide his pain.
Making a short bow to both of them, and ignoring Alex’s poof of outrage at his dismissal, Colin stalked out of the room.
“I do not care for the Earl of Kilmaire just now, Grandmother. If I were Miranda, I’m not certain I’d forgive him. I’m not even certain he is going to Miranda. How can one know? What if he still marries Lady Helen?” Alex bit her lip. “What if it is too late? Miranda may have already betrothed herself to Ridley.”
“It is never too late, Alex.”
Donata prayed that it wasn’t.
21
Miranda sat before the fire, her much abused copy of Lord Thurston discarded on her lap. She’d tortured the poor book, tossing it across the room several times in her frustration and anger. A page was torn, and the fine leather scratched.
“He truly means to marry Lady Helen.” Staring at the bottle of whiskey stolen from Sutton’s study, she wondered if Sutton noticed her theft of his liquor yet. Even if he did notice that a bottle of his very finest whiskey had disappeared, Sutton would likely blame Ridley. Her future husband possessed not an ounce of decorum, assuming everything in Gray Covington belonged to him. Including Miranda.
I haven’t married him yet.
She’d almost taken some sherry but that seemed rather staid. Boring. Sherry was something the perfect Lady Helen would drink. Miranda equated whiskey with power. After all, her brother and his friends drank the amber liquid. So, had her father. Especially when faced with an unpleasant situation. Whiskey fortified you.
“God knows if anyone at Gray Covington deserves to get properly foxed it’s me. Trapped at this hideous house party, watching Lady Helen flutter her eyelashes and wear atrocious feathers in her hair. Panting after Colin in her breathless forward way. I am forced to watch this terrible play unfold while politely escaping the roving hands of Lord Hamill. I cannot believe I considered the old goat as a potential husband. In comparison Ridley comes out ahead, if one isn’t first greeted by one of his garishly designed waistcoats. Or minds that he makes no effort to hide the fact that he has a mistress. Well, I suppose he does, it’s not as if he’s brought her to Gray Covington. Lady Dobson just delights in informing me of such things for my own good.” Miranda ended her tirade with a large swallow of whiskey that left her coughing.
“I don’t care if Grandmother’s guests find me rude for staying in my rooms. Lady Dobson is already very clear in her opinion of the entire Cambourne family. The Cottinghams are barely presentable. Lord Cottingham addresses my breasts when he greets me, and Lady Cottingham is too busy being in awe of the great Satan Reynolds to watch her daughter launch herself at any man who will allow it.”
Miranda took a deep heaving breath, pausing for a moment to take another sip of whiskey. It felt good to unburden herself. Even if it was to an empty room.
“Lady Helen is a tart. Colin deserves to be burdened with her. She’ll probably decorate him with feathers.”
Just the thought of Lady Helen made her stomach roil.
After Miranda’s rather pathetic loss of control in the garden the other night, she’d hidden in her room. Ashamed and heartbroken, Miranda didn’t feel she was quite up to facing the house party again. Nor did she want to pretend false happiness when Colin’s betrothal to that twit was announced. She would tell her brother as soon as the guests left Gray Covington that Ridley would be her husband.
Miranda took another sip of whiskey and sighed. “I can’t come down for dinner because the thought of marrying Ridley makes my stomach hurt. Oh, dear, how shall I ever bed him?” She took another healthy swallow.
Ridley was really her only option. After witnessing Hamill’s drunken lechery, she found him a less than desirable candidate.
Sutton would not be pleased. His opinion of Ridley was no secret, especially not to Ridley.
“I don’t bloody give a fig whether Sutton’s nose is out of joint or not. I’ve got to marry Ridley, not my brother. Besides, had Sutton not been Colin’s friend none of this would have happened. A toast,” she raised the glass of whiskey and noticed how little of the liquid remained.
“Oh dear, this will never do.” Pouring another finger of whiskey into the glass she held it up again. “A toast, to Edmund Ralst, Viscount Ridley and my future husband.” She frowned. “Goodness, it’s Edwin, isn’t it?”
Edward – no Edwin, she corrected herself, wasn’t really a terrible sort. True, he was mainly after her dowry, but that could work to her advantage. He’d probably allow her to retire to the country after they wed. She was reasonably sure he found her attractive and would give her children.
“I’ll raise them away from London, in a place where we can chase butterflies and catch frogs. Ridley is welcome to pursue his life uninterrupted. I shan’t bother him.” There was a certain amount of freedom in that.
She shook her head and looked down at Lord Thurston, noticing with dismay that a page was torn. Looking at the page the name Marcella stood out. There was something important about Marcella, but she couldn’t quite remember. Lord Thurston and Colin. Colin would make an excellent pirate.
“Damn. Why can’t I accept that we are not meant to be together?” She sipped her whiskey. “I was so sure, you see. Positive, in fact. I’ve been waiting all these years.” She took a deep breath to keep the tears at bay. “It’s all rather tragic, if I must say so.”
Miranda slung one leg over the side of her chair, shivering slightly. The room was cold, even though a fired blazed cheerfully in the hearth. Probably because she was wearing only a robe and nothing else. Proper ladies didn’t lounge about in a silk robe with one thigh exposed, and no undergarments. But Miranda wasn’t feeling especially proper. She’d brushed aside her maid, Clara, earlier that morning stating she’d spend the day in her robe.
Clara’s look of utter distress had been very gratifying.
Miranda wiggled her toes as she gave serious study to the flesh of her thighs. Taking another sip of the whiskey she turned her leg back and forth.
“Mother was right; my thighs are a bit plump. And these,” she looked down the top of the robe to the deep valley between her breasts, “are larger than they should be. Oh, I know that gentlemen seem to admire my breasts, for whatever reason,” she took another drink, “but I find them a bit of a bother. I wish they were less full. More like the drop of a pear. My bosom is a bit…overwhelming.”
Lady Helen’s breasts were just the right size.
This morning, as she bathed, Clara informed Miranda that the below stairs gossip involved the impending proposal of the Earl of Kilmaire to Lady Helen Cottingham.
Today was the day, Clara’s voice was wistful. He’s to propose to her after a walk in the woods.
Miranda swished the whiskey around her mouth, liking the way it made the flesh of her gums tingle. Grandmother would be shocked to find her drinking whiskey in the middle of the afternoon, in nothing but a robe.
She rather hoped Grandmother did find out. Or possibly Lady Dobson. That would give the old harridan something to gossip about.
A tray bearing a bowl of soup and tea sat beneath the window. When had that arrived? She stood a bit unsteadily and stuck her finger in the soup. Cold. And, Miranda didn’t especially care for pea soup. Especially cold pea soup.
She wandered back to her chair and sat down with an alarming thump. “Goodness, I’m feeling a bit,” she
put a finger to her lips, “airy.” Slinging her leg again over the arm of the chair once again, Miranda looked down the length of her thighs. “Good Lord.”
Whiskey, Miranda surmised as she pulled the decanter unsteadily off the side table, forcing her hand to remain steady as she poured it into her glass, made one positively euphoric. No wonder gentlemen retired to partake of spirits.
“They don’t wish us to be happy. That’s why women are relegated to ratafia and sherry. I shall demand whiskey on my wedding night to Edward. No Edwin.”
Miranda leaned her head back. “At least I know what to expect.”
Did she? While Miranda was certain the basic mechanics of the act remained the same, it would not be Colin in her bed, but Ridley.
Edwin would not cause her skin to tingle. She could not imagine his touch between her thighs.
She looked down and pulled the robe aside until she saw the dark thatch of hair that covered her mound. Colin had touched the core of her with his tongue. Tangled his beautiful fingers in the soft hair. Her hand slid down her thigh, pretending it was Colin’s hand and not her own.
A knock sounded on the door and she jerked, almost spilling the whiskey.
“Go away,” she said, holding the glass tight against her breasts. “I’m ill.”
Satisfied that whoever lurked in the hallway had departed, Miranda closed her eyes again. Colin. A guilty pleasure this was, to envision his naked body bathed in the light of the fire.
Another insistent knock.
Had she rung for her maid? Called for another tray? She didn’t think she had.
At the sound of the knob twisting she congratulated herself on remembering to lock it before indulging in the whiskey. “I’m terribly ill. The door is locked. Please, just go away.”
A series of clicks met her ears, followed by the sound of the door opening.
Miranda sat up, shocked that anyone would disturb her. Zander must have given her maid a key. Could she not have a moment of peace? Possibly it was the Dowager. Or Sutton. And here she was wearing nothing but her robe and drinking whiskey. And possibly foxed. No, definitely foxed.
The door shut with a discreet click.
She sat up and clutched her robe around her breasts, though she didn’t move her leg. It seemed like too much effort.
“My door was locked for a reason.” Relieved she didn’t hear the thump of a cane she continued, “I’m not sure, Clara, how you found a key to my room, but I do not wish to be disturbed, no matter what reason Lady Cambourne gave you.”
Footsteps sounded behind her, approaching the chair.
“Did you not remember my skill at picking locks?”
22
Christ.
Colin expected to find Miranda sipping tea and calmly reading a book before the fire.
Well, at least she was in a chair before the fire, though the book she’d been reading, probably Lord Thurston, lay on the floor. And she wasn’t sipping tea, but whiskey.
One gorgeous leg hooked over the arm of the chair, the robe she wore, a frothy peach confection, split open to expose the creamy skin of one thigh. He could just make out the shadow of her mound in the firelight.
Christ.
Inky black locks spilled over the tops of her shoulders to slide down over the peaks of her magnificent breasts. Which were barely covered by the robe. He could see the tiny mountains of her nipples beneath the silk.
Her eyes widened. “Bloody hell.”
The scent of Sutton’s fine Irish whiskey rose in the air.
She stood, clutching the arm of the chair to steady herself. Her breasts rippled beneath the silk, and the robe opened to display another flash of her legs.
Colin’s mouth went dry. Everything he’d planned to say to her as he made his way upstairs immediately fled from his mind. The letter, still clutched in his hand, fell to the floor. Lust slammed into him.
“What are you doing here?” She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she was half naked. “Shouldn’t you be traipsing about the woods with Lady Helen looking for some stupid bird?” Miranda waved the glass of whiskey at him. “Did she accept your generous offer to become the Countess of Kilmaire?” Miranda lifted her chin defiantly. “Well, I don’t bloody care. I’m marrying Ridley. You may,” her body swayed a bit, “call me Lady Ridley.”
The dusky circles of her nipples shown beneath the robe as she came closer. Her hair, the color of a raven’s wing, hung in spill of curls to her waist, begging him to plunge his fingers through the heavy mass.
She raised one dark brow at him, waiting for him to speak.
Instead, one arm reached out to snake around her waist, pulling her lush body against his own. The warmth of Miranda flamed beneath the thin silk of the robe and sent a rolling wave of heat down to the toes of his boots.
Miranda gave an angry gasp, and the glass she held tilted dangerously.
Gently, he took the whiskey from her and swallowed the remainder of the liquid before setting the empty glass on the table. His eyes closed, inhaling the scent of lavender and honey while his lips sought out the nape of her neck. Miranda’s scent enticed him, tempting him press his mouth against the scented flesh.
Miranda put up no resistance. Her head fell to the side with a soft whimper. She pressed herself against him even as her hands reached up to thread through his hair.
“You are bloody well not marrying that imbecile Ridley,” he murmured harshly against the column of her throat. “Nor Hamill, nor any other idiot who comes calling.” The words of apology he’d meant to utter, the admittance of what an ass he’d been stuck in his throat. He meant to claim her. Finally.
“Forgive me,” he whispered against her hair as his lips found hers. “Forgive me, Miranda. Please.”
* * *
Well, this was rather unexpected.
Miranda thought at first it was the whiskey. Alcohol gave one delusions. Hallucinations. At least, she’d read that once in a book, or, maybe Grandmother mentioned it.
If this is an illusion, it’s remarkably realistic. The hard length of Colin swelling against her thigh did not feel as if it were a figment of her imagination. Figments didn’t feel hot and warm and press between one’s thighs.
A delicious vibration slid across her skin as he drew her more firmly against his chest. Her curves molded perfectly to the hard lines of his body, knowing instinctively where they fit together.
Dreams did not smell this amazing either. Leather and the citrus soap he’d used that morning filled her nostrils. His presence gave her the same euphoric feel as the whiskey, only she wished to drink more deeply of Colin.
I should probably demand to know what he is doing in my room.
If anyone found him there, even Ridley would find her unsuitable. Miranda didn’t find that thought as terrible as she should have.
His lips were moving along her throat, his breath tickling the inside of her ear. Teeth nipped the sensitive lobe and she immediately sank more fully into his chest.
Colin’s mouth left her neck to move against the line of her jaw. When he reached her plump lower lip, his tongue ran over the crease, then he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, coaxing her to kiss him.
Miranda’s fingers flowed through the honeyed strands of his hair, loving the feel of his skull beneath her fingers. She dragged his mouth down to hers, pent up longing surging through her. The silk of the robe chafed against her nipples, and the small peaks tightened, waiting for his touch.
They tasted each other, testing, asking, remembering. No kiss, especially in recent memory had ever stirred Miranda so. She surrendered so completely to Colin that she clung to him, her mouth opening as his tongue twined around hers.
One big hand cupped her behind, pulling her up against the solid length of him.
The back of her legs bumped against the side of the bed. Her fingers flew to his shoulders, trying to push off the coat he wore.
He broke the kiss, his breathing heavy and ragged against her ear.
“Wait.” Then he gave a sigh of resignation. “I can’t help myself around you. I never could. I meant for us to speak first.” The cool patrician accent he usually affected had completely disappeared, and Miranda allowed the Irish lilt to wash over her already aroused body.
“Forgive me.” He brushed his lips against hers slowly, dragging out the sensation until she reached for him again.
“No,” he caught her hands and drew them down to her sides. “I’ve waited what feels like a lifetime.”
The robe fell from her shoulders, sliding down her already heated skin in a sensual caress to pool at her feet.
Miranda stood naked before him, her nipples peeking through the dark locks of her hair. Immediately, she put a protective hand over the small bump of her stomach, wishing she could hide her thighs as well.
He raised a brow in question, the chocolate of his eyes dark and unfathomable.
“I’m not as slender as I once was, Colin.” Miranda bit her lip and looked away. Would he find her wanting?
Reverently, Colin ran a fingertip along the line of her jaw, moving to slide along the delicate rise of her collarbone.
“Shush, Miranda. Just this once.”
His hand opened, the palm resting on the rise of her breasts before moving to cup the underside, as if testing the weight. With a graceful slide, his hand splayed against her stomach, before possessively cupping her mound.
“I’d forgotten,” the deep tenor grew rough with longing, “how beautiful you are. All of you.” His fingers threaded down into the heat of her, sliding through the slick, wet flesh. Rubbing back and forth until Miranda arched her back and thrust her hips forward.
“Mine.”
“Yes,” she moaned as he teased his finger between the folds.
“You’re very wet, Miranda,” he whispered. “I want you so very much.”
He was torturing her, his fingers gliding back and forth sending ripples of sensation across her skin.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 26
