In the corridor, he cupped Miranda’s elbow and escorted her, as though he were her swain.
Her protector.
The comparison made Miranda’s teeth itch. She focused on the click of his boots on the highly polished wood floor, to the gentle rustle of her skirts.
All the while, his touch burnt into her upper arm. To her dismay, heat flooded her lower belly, making her knees rubbery. She didn’t even want to acknowledge that slow, steady flow of wetness between her legs. She was also too aware of his body so close to hers. The aroma of his cologne carried to her, reminiscent of sun-warmed woods, with a hint of something crisp and cool.
So compelling was the scent, it evoked vivid memories of childhood walks in the woods on autumn days. She could almost imagine she walked there now, with him.
The direction of her thoughts disturbed her, and she gave herself an inward shake, forced herself to concentrate on the mahogany wainscoting, the brass lamps in their sconces on the walls. They neared a doorway in which stood a servant in rich claret-colored livery.
He opened the door, and Danvers canted his head in Cassandra’s direction. “Age before beauty,” he said, his voice deep yet hushed.
The cruel humor in his tone took something away from the beauty of that rich, masculine timber.
Aunt Cassandra preceded them, and he led Miranda to a chair and then saw to it that Aunt Cassandra was seated. He leaned against his desk, bracing his hands on either side of him. His coat fell away from his body, putting his cream-colored waistcoat on display. The satin clung to a flat midsection. Buff-colored wool trousers covered impossibly slim hips, the kind of masculine build that developed during hours of horsemanship.
What a pity he was such a bastard, for he undeniably possessed many fine qualities.
“Would you ladies like some tea and cakes?” His smile showed even white teeth and a squared yet elegant jaw. It put a sensual curve to his mouth.
Miranda’s stomach did another of those odd little flip-flops. And strangely, she was no longer hungry in the least.
Aunt Cassandra shot her a look that clearly said, remember to keep quiet.
“We’re quite fine,” Aunt Cassandra said.
“What brings you here today?” he asked, as though he did not know.
Miranda bit back the heated words that rushed to her tongue.
“My Lord Danvers, why have you decided to deny Miranda an invitation to your party?”
“No insult is intended, but I must keep a very exclusive guest list.”
“Miss Jones would make a lovely adornment to any gentleman’s party.”
Those gorgeous blue eyes focused on Miranda, narrowing slightly. “Stand for me, Miss Jones.”
Miranda’s mouth dropped open.
She was no slave on the block!
Aunt Cassandra cleared her throat.
Miranda jerked her gaze to her aunt’s.
Aunt Cassandra nodded, ever so slightly.
Miranda compressed her lips and tightened her fists, a silent protest.
Carrville couldn’t protect her now. She would have to do what she must to gain entry to all the best events. On her own. No matter the cost to her pride.
Anger shot through her as she rose.
Lord Danvers leisurely scanned her with his gaze, from the crown of her hair to her hemline.
He moved his head upwards slowly.
She lifted her chin even higher as his eyes met hers.
He immediately turned back to Cassandra. “There’s no denying she is a beauty.”
Aunt Cassandra’s mouth dropped open slightly. “No denying…” She sputtered, apparently shocked into stupefaction.
“There are many, many beautiful girls available in London.”
“My niece is not just any girl!” Aunt Cassandra lifted her hand and swept the length of Miranda’s body, the paste emerald accents at the sides of her wrist glinting like green fire. “Look at her breasts, her waist. Look at the way she carries herself, just as graceful as any duchess.”
“Graceful as a duchess, eh?” Cool amusement sounded in Danvers’ voice.
Aunt Cassandra paled. Then two spots of bright scarlet flared in her cheeks. “She is a diamond of the first order.”
Miranda’s ears burnt, not so much to hear her physical attributes discussed so openly. No, she’d become accustomed to the lack of modesty when her physical attributes were being discussed by Aunt Cassandra and her circle of older courtesans.
But having to stand here and be presented to this particular haughty, cold man, and to have Aunt Cassandra suddenly begin to sound like a dockside madam selling Miranda’s virtue to the highest bidder, was nearly too much to bear.
Danvers’ mouth twisted wryly. “If one fancies red hair.”
Miranda’s cheeks heated with anger.
Aunt Cassandra leapt to her feet and rushed closer to Miranda, clasping her waist. “She is the best damned bit of muslin that Mayfair has ever seen!”
As though seeking to emphasize her words, Aunt Cassandra gave Miranda a slight push in Danvers’ direction.
Miranda tripped on the edge of the carpet at her feet and clutched at thin air.
Danvers caught her by the shoulders as she fell forwards.
His grip was surprisingly strong. But then she knew him to be a consummate horseman.
Heat exploded within her. Delight. Anticipation. Shameful weakness to his appeal as a man.
His handsomeness.
Yet, she could sense how rigidly he held himself, as though her scent, her appearance, were so vile that it was repulsive to touch her like this.
She lifted her chin, regaining as much dignity as her near fall allowed and gazed coolly up at him.
His steely blue eyes stared back, emotionless.
Miranda instantly shoved herself away from him.
Aunt Cassandra took her by the shoulders. A cloud of roses and musk scent arose from the woman, a telling sign of her rising body temperature, presumably from vexation with Danvers. “Do you have any idea of the grand offers my niece is receiving?”
Miranda bristled. Not so much from Cassandra’s manner and handling. She was used to the woman’s less-than-modest ways when speaking of sexual matters. Aunt Cassandra was jaded from a lifetime of being kept by men and guiding younger women into doing the same. She meant the very best. Even her little ploy to make Miranda fall into Danvers, if it was a ploy and not a miscalculation, was well intended.
No, Miranda’s ire came from the way Danvers kept staring at her, as though he were tearing her apart bit by bit. As though he were looking for a reason to reject her.
He folded his arms over his chest, turning his attention to Cassandra. “She cannot be that good.”
“You have eyes, you can see for yourself that she is.”
The barest smile bent the corners of his mouth, such a smug expression, and it sent fresh bristles through Miranda.
“I don’t mean her appearance,” he said. “I mean in the bedchamber.”
A rage she thought herself long past swept through Miranda. The suggestion was far past impertinent, even to someone of her position. She wasn’t a streetwalker, or a woman in a lowly brothel. As much as she might despise her path, she was a mistress. How dare he pretend that the sole measure of her worth was vested in how well she jogged her hips for a man. Moreover, Danvers knew very well how the game was played. No, this felt personal.
The realization didn’t do anything to tamp down her outrage. Even the tips of her ears burnt with it.
He stood before her, regarding her with a speculative glint.
Ha! Let him speculate all he wanted. He would certainly never find out for himself!
Aunt Cassandra’s eyes appeared to bulge. “I beg your pardon, Lord Danvers, but there is more to being an excellent courtesan than how well one warms a gentleman’s bed.”
Again, that self-satisfied, amused, little smile curved his mouth. “True, however, she couldn’t have been all that good at the breakfast
or dinner table either.”
“What makes you say these things?”
“Carrville didn’t provide for her security.”
“Carrville was a man in his prime. He didn’t expect to die so soon. Perhaps he was careless in such a belief. Is that any reason to judge my niece so harshly, especially when everyone knows how happy she made him?”
“If she is all you say she is, she should have been able to work her way into his affections and secure her future.”
“He was mad for her.”
“He may have fancied her a little.”
“Fancied her a little? He had eyes for no one else.”
“He did not fancy her enough to leave her a townhouse and a fat account.”
“She was young, inexperienced. She didn’t understand how to best handle Carrville.
“Aren’t you women born knowing how to wheedle jewels from a man?”
“She was inexperienced in that way. Should there be a penalty attached to being young?”
“Ah, now we have reached the crux of the matter.”
“The crux?” Aunt Cassandra gaped at him dumbly.
“Her age is probably the strongest mark against her. She would be the youngest girl at our gathering.”
Hot words rushed to Miranda’s tongue. She had to compress her lips and curl her fists at her side to hold back from speaking out of turn.
“She’s no girl. She is almost twenty-two.”
“Hmm…” He rubbed that squared, elegant chin a moment, a gesture of affected thoughtfulness. “There’s something about a courtesan who has reached thirty years of age and yet is younger than fifty. That’s a very fine age for a woman. Seasoned, ripe but not overly so.”
Again, Aunt Cassandra gaped at him. “What earthly purpose can it serve to reject her based on her age?”
“It takes more than youth and beauty to serve as a good companion to a gentleman.”
“Does it indeed, my lord?” Aunt Cassandra asked, her anger showing to a dangerous degree.
Danvers nodded, his expression astute, as though he were an older man than he was.
“These young, spoiled girls can be so emotional. So over-dramatic. They have squeamish and missish sensibilities that can quite ruin an otherwise lovely time. And some of my guests have sophisticated tastes. No gentleman wants to be reminded of the high-strung wife and female relations he’s left at home. My gathering is meant to provide my friends with a time of escape and release. I certainly do not wish to have any spoiled chits with sour faces, bewailing how neglected they are because of all the time the gentlemen are spending out hunting.”
“I hear and understand, all too well, what you are saying, my lord, but I assure you that Miss Jones is not that kind of young woman. She will cause you and your guests no trouble.”
Danvers lifted his hands in front of him, palms up, an eloquent gesture that drew Miranda’s attention to how long and large his hands were, how finely made yet masculine. He turned his attention from Aunt Cassandra back to Miranda.
“I am sorry, Miss Jones.” Those striking blue eyes bore into hers. “I am afraid I can’t take the risk of upsetting the harmony of my upcoming gathering. I must invite only the finest in female companionship.”
Chapter Four
She had quite ruined his morning.
Despite all the beauty of the sunny weather, Lord Danvers had ordered the closed carriage.
He needed privacy.
His blood seethed from memories that would not dissipate, no matter how he tried to push them aside.
Her body falling, her delicate perfume wafting over him as she fell into his hands. He could still feel the soft firmness of her shoulders as he gripped her.
She was no idle miss.
That had been a surprise, but he couldn’t deny it as he had felt her muscle development.
He had not wanted to let go.
But he could feel how much she disdained his touch, could see it in her cold gaze. In the way she lifted her chin.
She was a high flier. Even if she hated his touch, why would she let her emotions show? For a woman like her, wasn’t one nobleman as good as another?
Instead, she wanted to give herself to the likes of Froster. Froster was twenty years her senior and, God forgive him for saying it, the man didn’t have a single original thought. He would bed her with little creativity and…Adrian shoved aside the intimate visual.
Damn it. Why was it that every time he saw her he was unable to keep himself from touching her? How many more times must he make a fool of himself? She despised his touch.
So why couldn’t he wipe the memory of touching her from his mind? Lust had nettled him to such an extent that he had retired to his chamber, forced to seek relief from his need with his own hand.
Unthinkable.
He took a ragged breath, too aware of the rising bulge in his trousers.
She despised his touch. He despised her, all that she was. Yet, he couldn’t stop wanting her.
His cock throbbed painfully against the confines of his fall. He put his hand over the swelling and gave himself a squeeze, groaning softly.
Christ.
If he spent much more time alone, he’d find himself seeking a second release.
His pride wouldn’t bear that.
Nor would his patience hold up under his scheduled appointment with his tailor.
He’d have to cancel.
He released his straining erection then moved to knock on the forward wall of his carriage.
A short time later, he strode through the entrance to his club.
He had spied the Duke of Froster at his customary table in the corner, staring into his cup. His thinning, sandy-blond hair fell over his forehead limply. His cravat drooped. He looked quite downcast.
How often had Father looked up at him with just such a lost expression? A pang of sympathy stabbed and, despite his better judgment, he crossed to Froster’s table.
“Good morning, Froster.”
The older man looked up, eyes as pale and dingy gray as a pair of worn flannel drawers, and stared back blankly. He sucked in his cheeks, giving his broad, homely face a forlorn look.
The scent of onions and savory spices filled Adrian’s senses. His empty stomach growled, and he glanced at the table.
A plate piled high with roast beef, carrots, and turnips had been left to congeal.
Adrian lowered himself into the seat opposite the older man and ordered a plate of vegetables and beef, then eased his unsuspecting companion into a confession of what was ailing him.
And of course the matter was Miss Jones.
“I am ill-experienced with her caliber of lady.” Froster sighed.
The sound held an uncomfortable echo of his father’s never-ending angst. The same frustration he’d experienced.
But despair?
God, despair. Dry, acrid, like a gasping, dying breath. Once a man had smelt it, like he had smelt it on his father, one never forgot.
And that scent covered Froster.
Adrian’s stomach twisted.
No, he would never despair over Miss Jones.
“Her caliber of lady, eh?” Adrian feigned a chuckle. “You mean woman, surely.”
The Duke of Froster’s eyes widened. “Do I?”
“Yes, indeed you do. To noblemen like us, she’s no lady. She’s just a courtesan.”
“I don’t know about that.” Froster looked a bit aghast. “She is so elegant, so graceful.”
“She intimidates you?”
Froster’s gaze shifted away. “I suppose she does.”
“She’s just a bit of muslin. Common born. Dare I say, ill-educated? She’s not a lady of our own class.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Froster frowned for a moment. “I know that you are correct.””
“Then don’t allow her to intimidate or manipulate you.”
“But she is so utterly beautiful. Frightfully so.”
Adrian shook his head. “No, measure for measure
, she’s the same as any other woman available in Mayfair. You’ve built the whole matter up in your mind.”
Froster jerked his head up and gaped. “I think you need your eyes examined, Danvers.”
What a fool Froster was!
Adrian shook his head. “No, she only appears more beautiful. These high fliers have their tricks of the trade, ways of making themselves look more beautiful than any woman can really be. They also use tricks of emotional manipulation.”
“They do like to tease.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Froster’s tone.
Now they were getting somewhere.
“She’s teasing you then? Promising you pleasures she refuses to make good on?”
“Aye,” Froster breathed, exasperated as he lifted his cup to his lips. He took a drink.
Pleasure spread through Adrian’s blood. So Froster had been thwarted last night by Miss Miranda Jones. That wasn’t a very charitable feeling to have about Froster’s misfortune, was it?
Adrian couldn’t help it. He was damned glad of it. And why not? He intended to encourage his friend to forget about the predatory courtesan and settle his attentions elsewhere. For the sake of his friend’s long-term well-being, of course.
Adrian drummed his fingers on the table. “What did she promise you that she failed to deliver?”
Froster’s mouth turned downwards as he placed his cup on the table. “It was not so much an outright promise as implied.”
“Implied, eh?” Adrian asked.
“I’ve spent significant time and money on her.”
Froster sounded so much like a petulant boy that Adrian couldn’t resist a slight smile.
“You believe there’s a connection between how much time and money a man spends on a ladybird like Miss Jones and her willingness to submit herself for his pleasure?”
“Isn’t there?” Froster asked, his brows lifted high and his eyes wide.
“No,” Adrian replied, shaking his head. “There most certainly is not.”
Froster gaped at him, dumbfounded.
“Women like Miss Jones will not submit until their demands have been met in full.”
“Their demands?” Froster sounded shaky. “You make their terms sound very dear indeed.”
“They can be. Some of these high fliers’ demands are so great that they can never be fully satisfied.”
Miranda's Dilemma Page 4
