Her Wicked Ways

by Darcy Burke

  Saxton’s eyes frosted nearly as cool as his father’s. It was a bit impressive, actually. “You don’t know that. Look at his books.”

  Fox appreciated Saxton’s interference, but thought it was likely pointless. If Fox had been a betting man, he’d wager Bassett Manor and Stipple’s End that the duke would look at his books on a cold day in hell.

  Holborn snorted. “As if I’d bother. This was a fool’s errand. Don’t know why I let you talk me into it.” He spared Fox a meager glance. “Foxcroft.” Then he turned and strode from the dining room.

  Saxton came toward him. He kept his voice low. “Couldn’t you have tried a bit harder? He’s going to forbid Miranda from marrying you, and I’d just as soon not explain why she must.”

  Fox ran a hand through his hair. He had tried. Could he help it if her parents were completely insufferable? “Get him to Stipple’s End tomorrow. Maybe I can change his mind.”

  Saxton shook his head. “I don’t see how.” Then he too quit the room.

  Fox cut his fist through the air as if he were punching that supercilious ass, Holborn, in the face. God, but he wished he didn’t want Miranda so badly. He’d tell the lot of them to go rot.

  Including Miranda?

  He plucked his brandy glass from the table and gulped down the sharp brew. The conversation he’d overheard in the drawing room filled his ears. Chances were, he wouldn’t have to turn her away. She’d leave of her own accord.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  FOX’S head hurt. Too much lousy French brandy. He only prayed today went better than last night. Miranda and her parents were due at Stipple’s End any moment.

  He peered up the ladder to watch Rob descend from the roof. “How does it look?” They’d just barely covered the gaping hole with the canvas following the collapse, but water had begun seeping into the hall again.

  His steward jumped to the ground. “Not too bad, just lost one corner and I re-nailed it. Your future in-laws here yet?”

  Tension throbbed along Fox’s shoulder blades. “No, but any moment. And they likely won’t be my in-laws.”

  Rob looked Fox up and down. “Such optimism. Shouldn’t you be inside getting ready?”

  Yes, he should. He owed it to Saxton—and Miranda if she was still remotely interested in having him. But therein lay the question. She’d never actually said yes to any of his proposals, had just gone along with her brother’s directive. Would changing his clothes make any difference?

  “Last night I wore my best clothes, served my best food and wine, and donned my best behavior—and I came up short.”

  “Hell, you didn’t give them that offensive brandy did you?”

  Fox arched a brow at him. “They asked for port.”

  Rob grinned. “No wonder they don’t like you.”

  Fox snorted. And then, though he tried to fight it, smiled. “You should have seen her mother. Well, I suppose you will, shortly.”

  A look of terror entered his friend’s eyes. “Oh no, must I?”

  Fox sighed. “Never mind. One can only hope they won’t visit often once we’re married.” A tremor of unease skittered along his spine. If they married.

  “Still can’t quite believe you pulled it all off. Norris facing charges of corruption, Stratham as well, betrothed to Lady Miranda…” Rob shook his head.

  But it wasn’t as tidy as that. “Betrothed” was a bit of a stretch at this point. “I’d better go in.” Fox strode toward the house.

  Rob called after him, “Might smile about it now and again!”

  He opened the door and stopped short. Miranda stood just inside. She looked refreshingly beautiful in a pale blue dress with tiny flowers and a pearl necklace. She’d started wearing jewelry after she’d returned from the house party. Today it accentuated the divide between them.

  “There you are,” she said. Her gaze flicked over his clothes.

  He stiffened. “We had to adjust the covering over the roof.”

  She walked to him. “Yes, I noticed the wet floor.”

  They stood there at the threshold of the back door. Her inside, him outside. A perfect visual representation of their differences. She, of the parties and balls and London Society, and he, of the outdoors and country—a match doomed in hell.

  Nevertheless he ached for her. She stood so close, he could smell her citrus-spice scent, see the remarkable details of her beautiful skin. Faint shadows of purple colored the flesh beneath her eyes. Had she slept as little as he? If he took one step, he’d feel her breath, her heat...

  She tore her gaze from his and turned. “My parents are here. Last night didn’t go very well.”

  A colossal understatement. “No.”

  She turned back to face him, her forehead creased. “Fox, why didn’t you tell me about Bassett Manor? I might’ve prepared them—”

  “How? It’s not as if I could have refurbished the place.”

  “You can if we marry.” She eyed him uncertainly. “Turnbridge earns upwards of five thousand a year.”

  “Really?” Fox had no idea she had an estate worth so much money. That could mean the difference for him. For all of them.

  Her nostrils flared. “All you care about is my money. That’s the only reason you compromised me, isn’t it?”

  Unable to help himself, he did move closer then. “No.” He leaned in and whispered against her ear, felt her shiver beneath his lips. “And you know it isn’t.” He pushed past her and made his way to the hall where her parents waited with Mrs. Gates.

  “Good morning, Your Grace, Your Grace.” He bowed to them.

  “I begin to see why Bassett Manor looks as it does.” Holborn stood near the leak and appeared to be studying the damage. “I’ll give you the name of an architect in Town. You don’t want a country bumpkin bumbling through this.”

  Fox swallowed an acerbic retort. “I’ve already hired Bleeker and Dench. Representatives are due from London in two days’ time.”

  “Indeed?” The duke’s eyebrows raised. “An excellent firm. Used them myself when we added a conservatory to Holborn House.”

  “Would you care to see the rest of the building?” Fox asked.

  “I suppose. We came all this bloody way.”

  Fox bit his tongue lest he tell the duke to bugger off.

  Mrs. Gates went back to her duties, and Miranda led them on a tour of the downstairs. The duke commented on different aspects of the building and the duchess frowned without relief. In the library, Miranda showed her parents the girls’ needlework. “Some of them are quite accomplished.”

  “More accomplished than you, I see.” Miranda’s mother looked at a particularly elaborate piece Delia had stitched. “What else do these orphans do? Watercolors? Play the pianoforte?”

  Miranda stood near the fireplace, her hands clasped demurely before her. “I should like them to do both, but there hasn’t been money for paint and we don’t have a pianoforte.”

  We. Love warmed Fox’s chest, though he tried to suppress it. Why did he have to love her?

  Her mother inspected the room, her piercing gaze scrutinizing every detail. “So you’re a glorified governess here?”

  Fox hoped Her Grace tripped. Why would Miranda want to go back and live in London with these people? They had nothing pleasant to say about anything. Their disappointment and irritation couldn’t be more obvious.

  He studied Miranda closely, looking to see her reaction to her parents, but couldn’t detect anything beyond her serene expression. What happened to the passionate girl he fell in love with?

  “All of the children have benefited greatly from Miranda’s presence,” he said, aching to see something positive from her parents—for her. “Some of their backgrounds are quite tragic. She’s given them a sense of purpose and self-esteem most of them would never have known. In fact, if not for Miranda, I never would’ve realized anything was missing at Stipple’s End. It’s one thing to provide food, clothing, and shelter, but quite another to give these children the m
eans to really live.”

  Instead of praising their daughter or at least looking at her with something akin to admiration or approval, her parents glanced at each other and exchanged some sort of private communication. Miranda’s lips pursed, but Fox couldn’t determine if she was annoyed or hurt, or something else entirely.

  Fox had had enough of this farce. “I’ll leave you to complete your tour as I’ve things which require my attention.” He bowed and took himself into the corridor.

  He needed heavy work.

  After a good half-hour of trimming a hedge, his mood improved. Sweat and dirt clung to his shirt, but exhilaration thrummed through his body. Were Miranda and her parents still here? What would the duchess say when she saw him in this state? Perversely, he rather hoped he could find out.

  Detouring to the front of the house, he looked to see if their carriage remained. A tiny shard of disappointment pierced his chest when he saw the empty drive.

  He circled back to the rear entrance and went directly to the small washroom off the corridor. A basin of fresh water sat on the dresser in which he kept spare items of clothing. Tossing his soiled shirt onto the single chair, he grabbed a cloth from the top drawer and worked at getting himself clean. The icy water refreshed his heated flesh.

  As he finished, the door opened. Miranda stood on the threshold, her mouth open.

  Too aware of his shirtlessness and her proximity, his body flared into arousal. “You’re still here.”

  She stared at his bare flesh, her gaze traveling downward.

  Fox turned his back to her and opened a drawer to find a clean shirt. “I’m done here.”

  “I’m just fetching the lice combs.” Coming out in a rush, her words collided with his.

  “That time again, is it?” He pulled the ivory linen shirt over his head and faced her. She hadn’t moved. “Why didn’t you leave with your parents?”

  She shrugged. “They’re going to pack for London. They wish to be on the road first thing tomorrow.”

  He noticed she avoided answering his question about whether she planned to leave. “I see.”

  She stepped into the room. Light from the small window over the sink filtered across her face, illuminating the aqua of her eyes, the perfect slope of her cheekbones, the luscious pink of her lips.

  He had to know. “Are you going with them?”

  “I…yes.” She looked down.

  Unspoken questions and admonitions collected between them until the small, dim space overwhelmed his ability to think. He needed air.

  Fox made to leave, but as he drew near her, the need to touch her conquered all else. He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her against him, claimed her mouth in a blistering kiss. She angled her head and wrapped her arms around his neck. Standing on her toes, she pressed her body into his.

  Savage lust took hold of his senses. He reached out with his left hand and slammed the door shut. She opened her mouth, inviting his tongue inside, and arched her neck back. Fox accepted her offering, supporting her head with one hand and gliding the other down the side of her face. He traced his finger down her neck until it settled against the satiny flesh above the bodice of her gown.

  He closed his hand over the swell of her breast and she gasped into his mouth. Desperate to touch her, he unfastened the front of her gown. The bodice dropped down to her waist. He ran his thumb over the top of first one breast and then the other.

  Breaking the kiss, he pulled back. Their panting breaths filled the shadowed chamber. Fox guided her backward and lifted her onto the edge of the worktable.

  He gazed hungrily at the ivory softness of her breasts pressing above her stays. With each shallow breath, the tantalizing flesh rose and fell. He pulled the laces open and the globes of her breasts tumbled free. Pushing her clothing to the sides, he cupped her in his hands. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, small sounds of ecstasy escaping her lips.

  Her nipples pebbled, and he squeezed each one between his thumb and forefinger, pulling on their tips. She cried out and pulled his mouth to her chest. He suckled her with ravenous need. This was no time for gentleness. Not when emotion thundered through him, and he wanted to make love to her until she didn’t know her name.

  She spread her legs, and he stepped between them, never taking his mouth from her breast. She leaned back with the force of his hunger and he eagerly devoured the other breast. All the while, she tugged at his head, her fingers twining in his hair. She could pull all of it out and he wouldn’t care.

  He reached one hand down her leg and found the hem of her dress. He shoved it up, running his fingertips over her stocking-glad calves. His finger tripped over the garter and he pulled it against her flesh, eliciting a sharp gasp from her mouth. She gripped his head even harder and he nipped at her breast.

  Her breathing came even faster amidst her erotic cries. His cock raged in his breeches, screaming for its own release. Soon. But first, he would taste her, lick her, savor her.

  Dewy softness greeted his fingers when he at last settled between her thighs. He slid his finger over her clitoris and she bucked up from the table. He grinned against her breast. Gliding his finger up and down, he didn’t enter her. Her hips rotated, seeking his penetration.

  Fox pulled away from her breasts, reluctant to leave them but so eager for the feast that awaited him. He pushed her skirts up to her waist and knelt between her legs.

  “Fox?” She sat up and looked down at him.

  His gaze connected with hers when he thrust his finger inside of her. She cried out. Immediately he replaced his finger with his mouth, licking the lips of her sex.

  She fell back against the table with a moan, pressing up against his mouth. He sucked at her and gave her one finger, then two until she arched off the table in a steady rhythm with his mouth and hand. She felt so close.

  So was he, but he would give this to her. He worked his fingers, feeling her muscles contract around him. She tightened, her hips lifted in sweet offering. For a breathless moment, he paused, delighting in her imminent release. And then he sucked hard on her clitoris, and she shattered against him. She shouted out, but then whimpered softly, as if she’d put her hand to her mouth.

  Fox worked to keep his own orgasm at bay. Christ, but he’d never been close to coming before penetration. After a moment her breathing slowed and he managed to check his lust. He got to his feet and looked down at Miranda, her dress bunched up and wrinkled, her swollen nipples gorgeous and dark as red roses atop the white silk of her breasts.

  She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Her face softened and relaxed with pleasure. Her eyes were dewy and dazed. She struggled to sit up. He took her hand and pulled. Facing him, her lips curved into a satisfied smile. She looked as if she might purr. “At least our marriage would have had that. I suppose that’s more than most people enjoy.”

  Would have had. There would be no marriage. Fox’s desire faded and was replaced with a frigid void. He could turn and walk away from her now, never see her again, but first he wanted to tell her what she was missing. What she denied them both. “I hoped we could have shared love. I love you, Miranda. I would have honored you and protected you. We could have built an incredible life together.”

  There were tears in her eyes, but she didn’t shed them. “My father never would have allowed it.”

  Her family would always stand between them. “And if there’s a child?” he asked.

  She swiped at her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want. All I ask is that if there is a child, and you still won’t marry me, you give it to me to raise.” His voice nearly broke, but he forced steel into his tone. He wouldn’t give her a choice in this at least.

  She raised her gaze to meet his. He saw fear and a torrent of other emotions. She didn’t—maybe couldn’t—respond. Time stretched and his heart crumbled.

  He turned his back to her. “You should go. To London. Send me a letter and tell me if you’re breeding.”


  He left without a backward glance, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THAT night after dinner, Miranda folded the last item of clothing from her dresser at Birch House and placed it into the trunk. She shook her head at how she performed this task instead of allowing the maid to do it for her. How far she had come.

  She looked down at her hands. She’d taken to wearing her nails short, but one of them had cracked. Her skin maintained its softness, but only because she applied lotion multiple times a day in an effort to keep it so. How long before they revealed her as a working woman?

  Beatrice pushed into her room. “You left the door ajar. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No, I’ve just finished packing.”

  Beatrice looked at the packed trunk and glanced about the room, now devoid of Miranda’s effects. Her forehead creased. “It doesn’t look as if you’re coming back.”

  No, it didn’t. Miranda had said tearful goodbyes to the children that afternoon but didn’t tell them she might not return. Suddenly the dam burst, and she sank to the bed. “Oh, Beatrice. I don’t know what to do!”

  Beatrice closed the door and sat beside Miranda. “Have you changed your mind about marrying Fox? And here I believed you’d made a love match.”

  She goggled at Beatrice in shock. “You did?”

  Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Why else would you marry him? His fabulous estate? His staggering income? The lure of running an orphanage?”

  “Beatrice, I never knew you to be so sarcastic.”

  “I’m sorry.” Beatrice patted Miranda’s hand. “It’s just that I’m worried about Donovan. I know he’s going to lose his seat. I only pray he doesn’t go to prison.”

  Miranda was glad to think of something else, if only for a moment. “You’re first-naming Stratham? He knows how you feel, then?”

  Beatrice nodded and a pretty pink colored her cheeks. “He’s asked to court me. And since Father’s tenure as MP may have been fraught with corruption, what could he say?” She smiled. “And unlike Father, I believe Donovan will be a good husband and father.”