The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection 6

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  Miranda stared at him, so in love it was almost painful. She couldn’t quite understand all he was trying to tell her, but she sensed how important it was to both of them, poised as they were on the edge of something miraculous.

  So she responded the only way she could. She nodded, and kissed him. It was a long slow kiss which set him to groaning, and would have ended up the prelude to something even more torrid than that which he had done before had Sebastian not come looking for them prior to locking up.

  She hastily changed while George spoke with his friend outside in the corridor. Sebastian wisely insisted he had a few more things to do at the theatre and that George should take Miranda back to Fulham House on his own.

  George held her tightly against him as he escorted her home, but refused to come in.

  "Too much temptation," he admitted, caressing one breast lightly. "Soon, I promise. Just a few more weeks—"

  "Weeks?" Miranda gasped in horror. "I can’t even last five minutes when you touch me. What did you call it? Come? One touch and I—"

  He laughed shakily. "Glad to know I make you happy. There’s nothing wrong with it, and plenty more where that came from. But surely you can see that once we become lovers, there will be no going back. You’re not naive about consequences, I’m sure. And there’s more to this than—"

  A movement in the hall behind her caused her to start. "Good night, Miranda," he said, almost pushing her in the door before he spread her legs right on the stoop in front of the entire household.

  "Good night, George."

  She gave him a fleeting kiss and scurried inside. Only to face the gimlet stare of Viola.

  "You’d better not be leading him on," she said cattily, though she wished she could take back the words as soon as they flew from her lips.

  Miranda stiffened. "On the contrary. He’s been leading me on. But he wouldn’t come in. I suppose he had too much respect for all of you to want to do anything immoral under this roof. I’ll be moving out soon, I expect, since you seem to loathe me so much."

  "Miranda, no, wait!" Viola tried to apologise.

  But it was too late. Miranda had already started up the stairs, her back as rigid as a poker.

  Miranda got to the top of the stairs, and as soon as she was sure Viola could not see her, she slumped her shoulders. Damn. Viola was not going to give George up easily, was she? Well, neither was Miranda....

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The following day, George tried to avoid Miranda in rehearsals and at her sword practice with Oxnard and Bart. He wanted to give Miranda time to settle, so she could get used to the idea of this new phase of their relationship.

  But all of his good intentions flew right out the window when he came across her rehearsing and teaching again after dinner. It would only be a quick cuddle, but could certainly sustain him until the next time they could truly be alone together.

  His expression was bland and innocent as he asked, "Would you mind terribly coming into my office?"

  She looked at him curiously, but followed.

  As they walked, he commented, "I was glad to hear your ideas. I was thinking about my opening speech, how I can improve upon it. Like a man about Town about to die of ennui?"

  She nodded. "I think it would work well. Of course, mine is just one interpretation. But I doubt we're seeing real love at the start of play. It’s just a pose. He’s playing at love."

  "How can you be so sure?" he asked with interest.

  She shrugged. "How can anyone be sure? The proof is in the staying power, the fidelity. Besides, what reasons does he give in the play for loving her? She’s beautiful. So? Many women are. Or it is only because she is unavailable? He can't have her because she has sworn to remain in mourning for her father. The more Olivia says she won’t have him, the more he wants her."

  "True. I hadn’t thought of it that way."

  "It’s human nature. Especially when one is young."

  "So it isn’t real love?" he asked, an odd light in his eyes.

  She shook her head. "The Duke only thinks he’s in love with Olivia. It’s when he meets his match in Viola, then he knows its true meaning." She sighed inwardly, now reminded unpleasantly of the scene the night before with the bitter blonde George held in such high regard.

  She changed tactics slightly. "Similarly with Romeo. He thinks he loves Rosaline, but one glimpse of Juliet, one touch of her hand, and he’s completely lost. One ends happily, the other tragically. One gets to know his wife before he marries her. They’re friends. The other, well, it’s all a surging of the loins, and defiance in the face of their families."

  By this time they had reached his office. George held the door open for her, and she stepped inside and halted in front of the desk. He moved to sit behind it.

  She continued her discussion of her theory of the play. "Do people not often do things just because they are specifically told not to? The commandment regarding adultery, for example," she said softly, still thinking of Viola. "It certainly doesn’t stop many men. Or women. If you left a child alone in a room and said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t stick beans up your nose,’ you can guarantee that when you get back they will have done it."

  He laughed. "The power of suggestion, eh?"

  She nodded.

  "So what if I were to suggest you come sit on my lap?" he said with a barely supppressed grin.

  She looked surprised, but pleased. She gave a merry little smile. "Ah, then I would have to say no."

  "But if I said, whatever you do, don’t sit on my lap?"

  She came over, sat, and looped her arms around his neck. His arms came around her waist carefully, and he allowed himself the luxury of tracing her lower curves with his hands.

  "But I wouldn’t want to get my communications wrong. I need you to say yes if you mean yes, and no if you mean no. I would never presume to try to read your mind."

  She grinned at him. "Oh, I think what’s in my head now is pretty clear." She moved her head to kiss him.

  "Hmm, very clear," he said when she had lifted her lips. "But I mean in other instances. More intimate ones. I mean, the couple of times I’ve tiddled you, I’ve just grabbed selfishly. I feel very badly about it now. I mean, it was wonderful for me, but I’ve never asked—"

  "It was wonderful for me too. You have no need to reproach yourself. I could have stopped you."

  "Could you? I think of that man in the alley—"

  She shook her head. "You came along to rescue me, but my sister and her friends have—"

  George kissed her now, though he raised his hands off her waist and hips and up in the air so that he could not be construed as forcing her in any way. At length he had to draw his head back before the contact became too thrilling for him. Feasting on her mouth was all very fine, but they had a play to do, and he wanted so much more. Far more than quick, furtive fumblings in the tiring room and his office. He wanted her spread out in his bed, nothing hidden, her long fall of hair caressing him intimately, him tasting her banquet of delicacies, using her body as a trencher as he ate and drank from her lush...

  He shuddered at the thought and kissed her again, more forcefully this time, until at last she broke off the contact. It was wonderful, so poignant and stirring, but this new side of him was far too unfamiliar.

  And there was still Oxnard to consider. After all, his more and more generous gifts, his intense wooing were going to require an answer soon—

  If Miranda had no genuine interest in him she should not be wasting his time, she determined with a pang. Still, she was sure George’s heart was not quite his own. He had changed like the seasons, only from one day to the next instead of every three months. However much time he spent at Fulham House with her, which was increasing daily, she suspected that Viola Grant was the main attraction. Viola’s jealous reaction last night had been more than enough proof that something had been or was going on between them, though seemingly more on her side than his so far as she could see. She was nothing if not flir
tatious with him. Proprietorial. As if she owned him.

  They always looked so warm together, and always broke off their conversation as soon as she entered a room. Perhaps Alistair or Philip had told her who she was? And George too? Mayhap they were laughing at her? How she had come to the theatre, and was now playing dress-up like some little girl?

  But she was a good actress, damn it. Better than any she had ever seen. And she loved it so. Thought she loved George. But if he were mocking her— She would show them. Show them all.

  That thought was like a cold winter’s rain shower, and she stood abruptly.

  "I’m sorry. You’re quite right. We have work to do," George said reluctantly. He was too fearful of what was really going on in her head to ask her, for he has sensed an intense inner struggle.

  Her whole posture had changed. Whatever the thought had been it had not been pleasant, and it was too personal and private to ask her straight out.

  He had been doing nothing but patronising her, she decided. Blowing hot one minute and cold the next because he could not offer her any commitment, and did not want to lose her to another theatre. Because his heart was Viola’s. And whilst the other woman undoubtedly adored her husband Alistair, she was not averse to having another admirer trail after her like a lovesick pup.

  "Come to supper with me tonight," he blurted out as she pulled the door open. "Out on the Town. Not at The Three Bells."

  "Pardon?" she said, staring at him.

  "We’ll go—"

  She shook her head. "Pray don't trouble yourself on my account. The Three Bells is just fine for me."

  "Well, it isn’t for me," he growled. "I want to spend some time alone with you. Without a hundred people barging in, and the parlor filled with cigar smoke and loud, vulgar men."

  "You could come to Fulham House—"

  "And have the parlor full of well-meaning friends, and tea and crumpets."

  Miranda said with a wicked smile, "I thought most men adored crumpets. Nice and hot, with lots of butter."

  George groaned then, from deep in his belly as his loins flooded with fire. "Miranda, please, you’re driving me—"

  "Supper. Tonight. After the performance. Unless of course you want to have it at your flat a deux?"

  George’s eyes glittered with barely suppressed desire. "Do you have any idea what you’re suggesting?"

  She nodded ever so slowly. "I wouldn’t have said it otherwise."

  He sighed raggedly. He gave a single, almost pained nod. His voice came out as almost a croak. "Simpson’s in the Strand. Wear your best frock. But if you don’t mind stopping at my flat on the way back to Fulham House afterwards, I think we can satisfy every single one of our most urgent appetites."

  Miranda’s eyes glowed. She gave him a long, sizzling look that set him on fire. "I doubt that can happen in only one night. In fact, I’m told that things can only improve over time. That certain dishes become an acquired taste. Like oysters. And asparagus."

  The shy sidelong look she gave him told him she had learned a great deal living in The Three Bells and talking to her colleagues at The New Rose. He blushed profusely.

  "So Simpson’s for supper, and your house for dessert."

  George shivered long and hard. "I shall look forward to partaking of something delectably sweet and honeyed then."

  "As will I." She winked and swept out, leaving George in desperate need of another cold bath.

  To calm himself somewhat he trailed down to the end of the corridor, and saw her dressing room door stood open as it almost always did. He peeped in, and when he was sure no one saw him, went in and shut the door. He went over to her gown as Cleopatra hanging on the hook, and buried his face in its soft folds. He moved onto the frock she wore as the shipwrecked Viola. He fingered the neckline, and decided he needed to buy her more jewels. A wedding set. Bracelets. He would smother her with presents.

  He looked on her dressing table at the roses, the fan, the carved ivory box. A shrine to her delicate beauty. And a testament to how much his gifts meant to her? She never said, but...

  Then he paused. Perhaps it had been too much. Had he been a hypocrite? Telling her he wanted nothing overtly commercial between anyone in the theatre and their lovers, yet giving her so many material things. And now to be contemplating wedding jewels?

  But it was tradition. It was expected. And he wanted to treat her like a fairy princess. Show her how special she was to him. Surely there was nothing wrong with a gift of the heart?

  He patted his pockets to make sure he had his billfold, strode out of the theatre, found a cab, and headed into town. Once at the jeweller’s, he was sorely tempted by a sapphire and diamond collar so brilliant it almost hurt his eyes to look at it. But they could not match the colour of her eyes, though they were fairly close. He was naturally drawn to the most exquisite pieces, yet halted at the final hurdle.

  No, this was not what Miranda would want, not at all, he decided in the end. A simple gift from the heart was worth more to her than one designed to impress.

  He started again, with a charming gold and coral heart-shaped brooch. Next came a splendid jet collar with matching bracelets and earbobs. The wedding ring was embossed with roses, and the diamond of good quality but not enormous, a perfect one carat marquise. Some mother of pearl combs and a small enamelled pocket watch completed his purchases.

  He would ask her tonight....

  Did he dare?

  He pocketed the wedding set and asked, "Can you please have the rest of these sent to me care of Fulham House?"

  The jeweller was happy to comply.

  He headed home and changed into his evening suit and the finest waistcoat he possessed, black silk heavy with silver embroidery. He looked in the mirror, pleased. He might not be in the first blush of youth any more, but he was still a fine figure of a man, and what he might lack in vigour he could more than make up for in terms of experience and enthusiasm. Hell, if he had any more vigour he’d have had her the first night they met. If this wasn’t real love, then that emotion wasn’t worth a damn.

  He sought out Sebastian a short time later, locating him at The Three Bells having a late dinner. "I’m going to do it tonight, ask her to marry me," he blurted out as excitedly as a child.

  "Oh, my. Are you sure?" Sebastian asked. "It’s a big step and—"

  George stared. "You’re actually jealous, aren’t you!" he accused.

  Sebastian looked aggrieved. "I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be. I’d give anything in the world not to hurt you. But she’s, well, the best woman I’ve ever known. If it didn’t sound so unflattering to all concerned, I’d say she reminded me of my mother."

  George guffawed. "She certainly doesn’t remind me of mine. I’ve burnt for her since the first night I peeped at her from behind the curtain and saw her selling oranges. And it is unflattering. Viola is a good woman."

  "Yes, but she’s well, a bit embittered by our loss. Miranda has evidently suffered a huge reversal of her fortune to be with you at the theatre, yet she never fusses or complains."

  "She’s one in a million. But now I must be off. Play first, and then I’m taking her to supper to ask her."

  Sebastian gave a wan smile. "Good luck."

  "Cheer up, old man. Your turn will come."

  He sighed. "It’s too late for me. And besides, how could I ever make a woman happy when I can’t stand being, well, confined? Touched."

  "We’ve had this conversation before. There is a big difference between being touched with lust, and with love. I just pray to God I can manage the one and avoid the other until we’re safely knit. You’ll be fine, Sebastian. I promise."

  He didn't look convinced, but nodded all the same. "Thanks. Take care. And I’ll see you soon."

  As he was leaving The Three Bells he ran into Lawrence.

  "What, not even stopping in to say hello to us?" Lawrence said in a gruff tone.

  "Lawrence! Good to see you. I didn’t know you were here." He offered his hand for
a hearty shake.

  "Aye, Emma has me doing some of the rooms for the girls and some fabric for frocks. We’re going to have this place converted into a tea house and modest, respectable hotel in no time."

  George was delighted. "If that’s what the ladies and gents want, it suits me just fine."

  "Are you in a hurry, or can you stop for tea?"

  George shook his head. "We have a performance tonight. Then a special occasion. I’m taking Miranda to Simpson’s to ask her to marry me."