Her Wicked Ways (43 page)

“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 means 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.”

Husband and father
. As Fox would have been. As he would still like to be. God, could she really just hand her child over to him? Would her father even let her? And why on earth, if she
was
pregnant, wouldn’t she just marry him, regardless of what her parents said?

“There you go again, Miranda. All sad-faced. I thought you loved Fox.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not marrying him.” Did she love him? She thought of his declaration of love that afternoon, how her heart had broken.

Beatrice frowned at her. “I’d begun to like you, Miranda, but I’m afraid I can’t abide you throwing Fox over. He may not be rich, but with your money, who cares? Perhaps his need for money and your overabundance of the same is simply happy coincidence. Makes your love story rather destined, don’t you think?”

“You’ve been reading too many novels.” Miranda had read those same novels, and once upon a time she’d wanted to find such a love. What if she’d missed the only opportunity she’d ever have?

Beatrice stood, her eyes blazing. “Fine, wallow in your self-pity! When you get back to London with your fancy friends and your empty life, mayhap you’ll realize what you’re giving up. Pity your parents have never allowed you to make your own decisions.”

“Yes, they do.”

But they didn’t. They dissected every decision she made and judged it poor and unworthy. Even her good work at the orphanage had been denigrated. And as soon as she returned to London, they would immerse her in her old life until her memories of Wiltshire were faded and worn, like an old pair of gloves. Until there was no way she would consider coming back here.