by Henke, Shirl
“By dancing with you? No, darlin', that wasn't the reason your cheeks were pink...just as they're becoming once more.”
Before he could lead her further away from the crowd and create even more juicy gossip, she had to put a stop to his smooth manipulations. “Speak your piece, Major, and have done with it.” She planted her feet and stood her ground stubbornly at the edge of the steps leading down into the darkness of the garden.
“How about a small test? Hmmm, say another kiss, only this time you won't be able to run away and hide after it's done. Not with all the witnesses you'd have to pass on your way out.”
“You are despicable,” she hissed. “Of course I won't be lured into the darkness so you can do heaven knows what to me and everyone in the place will remark on our absence.” She found it difficult to speak when his thumb was teasing lazy circles around the sensitive skin inside her wrist. Even through their gloves, she could feel the heat of his touch and remember the slight abrasion of his callused fingertips when he had caressed her bare skin.
Brand could see she was weakening. He was taking a terrible gamble. Her own passion might frighten her away from him for good. But she'd never known passion before. By its very nature it would frighten her. There was nothing he could do but persist. “Then I'll just have to kiss you right here in front of everyone.” The dare sparkled in his eyes. He knew she craved that kiss as much as she feared it.
“If you do, I'll be forced to defend my honor by coshing you with that geranium pot,” she replied, reaching toward the small stone vase on the patio railing.
“You probably would.” He caught both of her hands in his and took a step backward down the stairs, pulling her with him. If she jerked one hand free, she'd have a perfect opportunity to brain him if she so chose.
Miranda knew he was gambling that she wouldn't do such an outrageous thing. And she admitted that she wanted him to kiss her again. “My heart will break when this is over.” The words came out in a low, desperate whisper before she could stop them. She was horrified to reveal her weakness so openly. As if allowing him to lead her here had not already done so.
“I would never hurt you, Miranda,” he vowed, pulling her into the darkness.
“You will whether you intend it or not,” she said breathlessly. A part of her—the sane part—screamed for her to break free of his grip and flee for her life. But she kept step with him until they were behind the deep shadows of a dense topiary hedge.
Brand made no reply, but rather took her in his arms and cradled her head in his hand as his lips brushed over her eyelids and rained soft kisses over her cheeks and circled her mouth. The gentle assault was not what she had been expecting. But when she opened it to gasp with pleasure, she did just what he had hoped. He centered his lips over hers and pressed them together, letting his tongue tease hers, darting and flicking, letting her follow suit as he'd taught her.
She responded naturally, with passion as well as with her own inbred cautiousness, touching the tip of her tongue to his, then withdrawing, melding her mouth against his even as their bodies pressed together. The kiss at the picnic had not prepared her for the feel of his body, so long and hard, so powerful. She remembered that day when he had thrown her to the ground and covered her...this was like that, only different. The danger here was to her heart and soul, not merely her physical well-being.
The combination of his feverish kisses and the gentle rhythm of his hips moving against hers made her blood sing. Just as he had known it would. Then why had she come out here? What self-punishing urge had led her to disregard duty and propriety, to risk her reputation? To forfeit a lifetime of struggling to succeed in business, just to meet the dare of this fascinating, dangerous man? It could only end badly, but right now she didn't care.
Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, and her breasts and hips pressed into the hardness of his body. Although her times in bed with Will had been very different, she knew enough of marital relations to be aware of what the decided bulge in his trousers meant. He did desire her, incredible as it seemed. And she? She felt a hot, raw ache deep in her belly, a wetness in her woman's place that had never lubricated itself when she had performed her wifely duties. Duty was the farthest thing from her mind right now. She wanted to bed this man!
“Ah, Miranda, my love,” he murmured against her hair. Brand fought the urge to pull it free as he'd done before, knowing there was no way she could return to the ballroom if he did. He could feel the painful heaviness in his groin and knew he had to stop soon. His point had been made. He dared not jeopardize everything by losing control now. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled back from her, planting light kisses along her jaw, cheeks and forehead.
But before he could say anything more, a catty voice purred, “Why, I declare, what a charmin' surprise. The mother's steppin' right into the daughter's shoes. Or do they pinch a bit?” Reba sauntered around the hedge with a malicious smile on her face.
Brand could feel Miranda's whole body stiffen with anger. Whether it was at him or at the intruder's rudeness it was difficult to say.
“I've always been quite comfortable in my own shoes—and my own skin. Something a woman of your morals would know nothing about, I'm certain,” Miranda replied with icy disdain.
Seeing a real cat fight brewing as Reba's eyes slitted, Brand cut her off before she could reply, saying, “You always were a jealous vixen, Reba, but you used to be smart enough to know when it was time to give up and move on to the next man. You had no trouble back home when the Yankees were winning.”
“But you weren't a baron then, Brand, honey,” she said, licking her lips. “And I didn't have any money. Of course, I still don't have as much as Mrs. Auburn.”
“The difference between us is far greater than our financial worth, Mrs. Wilcox,” Miranda replied. “I earned my wealth by working in the iron and shipping industries, not on my back.”
Reba lunged forward with a venomous oath, but Brand quickly stepped between the two women, seizing her hands and pulling her away from Miranda, whom he told, “I think it might be wise if you rejoined the revelers while I dispose of this small problem.”
“Small problem? I’ll be a great big ole problem if you don't let me go this minute,” Reba hissed.
Utterly ignoring the American witch's outburst, Miranda gave a frosty nod to Brand. She could feel her cheeks burning with humiliation as she stalked silently back toward the house, head held high.
Brand watched her retreat, then muttered low in Reba's ear, “If you had as much grace and integrity in your whole body as Mrs. Auburn has in her little finger, I might've been willing to forgive you for Earl.”
“What do you see in that dried-up old hag—besides all her lovely money?” Reba said, twisting out of his grasp and massaging her wrists. She tried one of her winsome pouts, which used to bring every man in Fayette County to his knees. It didn't work on Brandon Caruthers, now Lord Rushcroft, damn his eyes. He looked at her with a weary sort of amazement, shaking his head at her as if she were a child having a tantrum—or worse yet, a recalcitrant horse he had to discipline.
“Everything in life always comes down to money with you, doesn't it, Reba? Well, as you've already told me, you have plenty now, so why don't you go and find yourself an earl or a marquess, even a royal duke, and see if you can charm him. I'm no prospect.”
“But you loved me once, quite desperately,” she whispered, moving closer. “Oh, I don't expect you'll want to marry me and have me holdin' the purse strings. I know you're too proud for that. It's why you broke off with that silly little blond child.”
“Miss Auburn is more mature than you could ever imagine, and it was she who cried off, not I.”
Reba smiled. “We both know better, Brand. But I don't care, as long as we can be together. I'll be your mistress, even if you marry that widow woman. You'll need some warmin' up after her cold bed. See how agreeable I've become?” she purred, raising her arms to encircle his neck.
; “I wouldn't bed you if you were the last woman between Leipzig and Lexington,” he said, taking her arms and shoving them back to her sides. “I'd rather sleep with a viper. In fact, there wouldn't be a hell of a lot of difference.” He took her shoulders in his hands and held her at arm's length, glaring into her eyes to deliver his parting sally. “If you ever utter so much as one syllable against Mrs. Auburn or her daughter, I'll scrub your filthy little mouth out with sheep dip. Do you understand?” He punctuated his question with a sharp shake that loosened the pins in her elaborate hairdo.
With smoldering fury in her eyes, Reba nodded, too furious to talk. She stood rooted to the ground, glaring daggers at his retreating back until his long strides took him out of her line of vision. Then she set to pinning her hair up. The wretched man had quite ruined it, and she had no maid to fix it for her! She stamped her foot with fury, only to send the yellow curls tumbling down in disarray once more. She stamped again and glared into the flickering lights in the direction which he had gone.
If looks could kill, Brandon Caruthers, the tenth Lord Rushcroft, would be a dead man.
* * * *
Brand searched the room for Miranda without luck. When he saw Lorilee, he quickly approached her to see if she knew where her mother had gone.
“I'm afraid she pleaded a headache and made her excuses. She just departed, leaving me under the watchful eye of Mrs. Horton, who will see me home,” Lori answered, a smile bowing her lips. “You must've made quite an impression out in the garden if her flaming cheeks were any indicator.”
“I'm afraid it was Reba Wilcox who can claim the credit, at least for part of it,” he said grimly.
“Oh, dear! You mean she had the temerity to go snooping after you and create a scene?”
“That's what Reba does best,” he replied with a sigh.
“Well, the ball's just begun and supper won't be served until midnight. So, if you were to go after mother, just to check on her well-being, you understand...” Lori let her words trail away suggestively. “Oh, yes, and Mr. St. John assured Tilda they couldn't possibly be home before midnight either.”
He grinned at her in spite of himself. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Lorilee. You'd put Machiavelli in the shade. Perhaps I should introduce you to some of my friends in Parliament so you could give them lessons on how to outmaneuver the opposition.”
“Mother would flay me if I helped the Conservatives,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘‘Now do hurry along and you might just catch up with her coach before she can barricade herself inside our city house.”
* * * *
Miranda huddled against the heavy velvet squabs in her carriage, massaging her aching head as she tried not to think about what had just transpired in the garden. The scene with that Wilcox tramp was mortifying in the extreme, but the woman's behavior was no worse than she expected of a woman of her character. It was how she herself had behaved that truly appalled her.
“How could I have followed him out into the darkness like some witless debutante and then...” She shuddered. If they had not been interrupted—indeed, if he had not had the sense to end that brief charge of passion—she would’ve done anything he wished, even fallen to the ground right there in the Falconridge gardens and let him take her!
But that had not happened. He'd regained control of his wits and broken the spell. Brandon had exercised restraint while she had not. The very worst of it was that she still wanted him! Miranda hugged herself and felt the bitter sting of tears caught in her lashes. What a fool she was to hope for such uncontrolled youthful passion. For romantic love at her age. Absurd.
That part of her life had passed by, and she had never had the opportunity to experience physical pleasure...if, indeed, there was any for a woman of decency. According to Queen Victoria and all that Miranda had read, the lot of a respectable wife and mother was to endure her husband's touch as a duty. But she burned and ached in ways that she had never imagined before Brandon came into her life.
Brash, reckless foreigner, Rebel Baron from across the Atlantic, he had awakened a side of her that had lain dormant since her seventeenth birthday...the day she was affianced to Will Auburn. She'd spent the years after that repressing the embers of her youthful curiosity. But Brand had fanned them into a raging fire with the intensity of his tiger-eyed gaze, his callused hands, his searing kisses.
She should be ashamed, but all she could feel was bitter regret for all she would never know...could never know, if she wanted to retain any vestige of self-respect. “But I don't care. I don't care anymore,” she whispered brokenly, hugging herself, not quite certain what it was she did not care about. Her respectability?
Or the shame that would come after a night with the Rebel Baron? She blinked back tears. He'd been the one to come to his senses. There would be no night together for them. Whom was she deceiving? Only herself.
The silence inside her spacious carriage was broken by the soft clip-clop of the horses' hooves and the creak of heavy leather harnesses as the driver took her home. Home to that great ugly mausoleum, paean to wealth and influence. It would be cold and deserted. She'd given the servants the night off. Even Tilda had surprisingly accepted Mr. St. John's offer to attend a theater performance.
Steeling herself to enter the empty house, she rapped on the roof as the driver approached it. When he opened the trap, she said, “Just take the carriage around to the mews after you let me off by the porte cochere. You needn't wait, Ralph.” She did not want him to see that she'd been crying. Servants did gossip, and she wanted no curiosity...or pity.
“Very good, ma'am,” he replied as she closed the trap.
She alighted and stood for a moment as her carriage clattered down the cobblestones toward their mews off the back alley, putting off entering the desolate place where she lived. Then she heard the loud sound of another carriage approaching at a very swift pace. Turning, she was startled and somewhat alarmed when it swung into her drive and the coachman reined in. The major had warned her never to be out alone like this. But she'd been too upset to think of her own safety.
She was all alone in the shadows beneath the porte cochere, one foot poised upon the first step. Her latchkey was buried inside the foolish little beaded reticule she'd carried to the ball. She was so used to servants opening the doors for her that she'd not even bothered to take it out before dismissing the coachman. Frantically she began to dig to the bottom of the bag, fumbling in the darkness.
Then suddenly the coach pulled away. Miranda blinked and peered through the leafy darkness of the shrubbery as she grasped the key and extracted it from its hiding place beneath a silk handkerchief. That was when she saw his silhouette, tall and slim, a man dressed in formal evening attire but without a top hat. Even before he began walking toward her, she recognized him.
He moved with elegant grace, studying the pools of darkness behind the windows, searching the grounds, as if hoping she was still outside. He did not see her. She could slip to the side door and unlock it before he found her hiding place...if she chose.
Miranda stood rooted to the steps, the key digging into her fingers as she clutched it like a talisman. All she need do was will her feet to climb the stairs. Three more short steps. Then she heard his voice, soft on the warm summer air, drawling and sultry as the hot land from which he had come.
“Miranda, darlin', I know you're there.”
And then he began walking straight toward her.
She stood perfectly still, not daring to breathe as he drew nearer. When he stood directly in front of her, she could make out the glow of his eyes, at the same level as hers since she was standing on the first step. “How did you know I was here?” The question sounded idiotic the moment she asked it. What did that matter now that she'd let him catch her?
“Your scent, darlin'.”
“D-don't call me darling,” she said, struggling to regulate her breathing. And failing utterly.
He ignored her admonition and took h
er by the shoulders, saying, “I've warned you about risking your life this way. What were you thinking, pulling a fool stunt like running off from the ball and dismissing your coachman before you were safely in the house—a deserted house at that?”
His tone was angry and his hands dug into her soft skin through her thin cloak. “Your concern for my safety is touching,” she said, swallowing the bitter gall of disappointment. He'd come only to see that whoever had been attempting to kill her was not lurking about. Not for the reason she'd hoped. No fool like an old fool.
Miranda had almost said it aloud. Instead she added, “I've managed to take care of myself quite handily ever since my husband died. I shall do famously now as well.”
When she turned sharply on her heel and broke free of his grasp, scurrying up the stairs, he followed in two long strides, cutting her off at the doorway. His tall frame filled it, blocking her entry. Before she knew it, she was in his arms and his mouth was crushing hers in a fierce, angry kiss.
The key clattered from her fingers as she clutched his broad shoulders and clung to him, letting him work the blistering magic his lips always conjured when they touched her flesh. He murmured something she couldn't make out, an oath of some sort, desperate and hungry as his kisses, which smothered the sound of his voice. The rapaciousness of his plundering gentled to slow, sweetly drugging caresses. His mouth moved over her lips, his tongue inviting hers to come out and play.
Miranda felt the world spinning and would have fallen to her knees if not for the strength of his embrace. Burying his face against her throat, he whispered softly between nibbling kisses, “Will you let me love you?”
It was up to her to decide...
Chapter Seventeen
She held him fast, her mind fuzzy with warmth, her body giddy with forbidden pleasure. Why should she not have this for one night? Perhaps it would not be any better than it had been...her mind drifted away from thoughts of Will Auburn's brief and infrequent beddings when Brand began an exploration of her breasts, opening her cape and letting his fingers skim over the soft mounds, rimming the low décolletage of her gown until her nipples tightened and ached almost painfully. She gasped.
