Miranda's Dilemma (9 page)

“I was about to depart.”

“So what happened?” He raked a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Miranda Jones is in your bed!”

“Where did you hear that?” he asked dumbly, as he tried to focus his still swirling thoughts. There was an adequate reply in this situation. He just needed to think of it.

She crinkled her nose. “You stink.” She cast a scathing glance over his wrinkled and stained shirt. “My God, I never thought to see you like this. Not after all these years of sobriety.”

What the devil was she still doing here? He had already sent a note to her chamber and told her that a crisis required his immediate and personal attention. Then he had made expressed clear that he wished her to embark for Mayfair before her presence at his party could compromise her. Then he had ordered her carriage readied.

On last report, he’d learned that her carriage stood ready and waiting.

“Have you come to bid me good bye, Dorothy?” he said, impatiently.

“I’d like to hear your explanation.” the two spots of color  highlighted her cheeks. “Why is Miss Miranda Jones still here? You tried to send me packing. So why not her?”

“This is my house. Why should I need to provide any explanations?”

“She’s in your bedchamber. In your bed.” Dorothy’s voice resounded with disgust.

“Where the devil did you hear that?”

“Oh, don’t bother to lie to me. I had it from a very trustworthy source and that look in your eyes confirms it!”

One of the servants had damned loose lips. Or she was paying someone to spy for her in his house. Which was an infuriating thought. What occurred at his hunting box was certainly none of her business. When he found out which servant had told her, he would dismiss him–or her. He frowned. “Miss Jones is ill.”

Not willing to confront Dorothy further on the matter of a spy, he made a promise to take the subject up with her later. Later when Miss Jones was recovered and he could breathe a little easier. He downed the remainder of his drink.

“Ill?” Dorothy placed one hand on her hip, leaning forward.

“Very ill.” He sat the empty glass down on his desk.

“But she’s in your
bed
.”

Too much brandy had made his wits slower. He was already becoming drunk. He held up both palms. “I have to watch over her.”

“You have to watch over her?” Dorothy asked, speaking as though he were a wanwit.

Why can’t you simply leave her to servants and the doctor?”

“It happened in my house. On my watch.”

“Some night bird becomes ill at your party, and somehow you’re personally responsible for her welfare?”

He frowned, more deeply. He certainly did not wish to tell Dorothy all the gory details of the morning’s events. He took his bottle and poured another brandy. “I am lord of this manor. So I am responsible.”

“You are ridiculous,” she said.

“You never talk to me like this.”

“You never drink like this, not anymore.”

“It is just a small drink.”

“Before dinner?”

“Dorothy, please, you’re making too much of everything.”

“You’re going to become like you were before.”

“No, I am not.”

She glared at him.

Who could blame her? He had once had a problem with drinking too much and, when he was drunk, he had not been the easiest person to cope with. This he freely admitted. And yet…

I just need a little pain relief today, that’s all, Dorothy.”

“Pain relief?” She scoffed.

She never scoffed.

“Why don’t you return to Mayfair?” he said. “I’ll see you when I return.”

“How soon do you plan to return?”

“Brentwood and Davey are coming here on Monday, and I plan to spend the week with them.” At the mention of his sons, he smiled briefly. “Davey is getting a new pony for his birthday.”

Davey was a favorite with her, and he had expected her to join him in a smile.

She didn’t.

It wasn’t like her to be a demanding lover. And what was all that business about the possibility that she would wed again? How often had they both gloated, privately to each other, about the privileged nature of their situation? He had his heir and his spare. She had her fat jointure. Neither of them need ever wed again.

He liked her. They understood each other’s needs and limits. He was comfortable with her. They were friends, and that friendship had seen him through some of the darkest days of his life.

Now she would try and bait him with talk of her remarrying?

Damn. He didn’t need this difficulty with her. Not today.

“Dorothy, I shall be home in Mayfair soon enough.”

She gave him a speculative, penetrating look. “You fancy her.”

He paused with the rim of his glass to his lips. “What?!” he said.

“You fancy her, admit it.”

“I fancy Miss Jones?”

“Yes, you do.” Her nostrils flared slightly. “You always did.”

He chuckled softly, to cover his increasing sense of discomfort. “You’re losing your perspective, my dear.”

“Am I?”

“Indeed. Go home. I shall see you soon.”

“You intend to bed her!” Dorothy accused.

Under the heat of her blistering glare, he blinked. “You cannot honestly believe that I have any intentions of taking that chit to my bed!”

Even as he spoke, the image those words created sent a jolt of lust through him.

“I think the day you begin turning toward a woman like Miranda Jones is the day I should consider a remarriage more seriously.”

He paused. Was that a threat? He regarded Dorothy sternly. “Go home. Get some rest. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I have been a tolerant mistress.”

He raised his brows. “Mistress? Since when have you given me the kind of  fidelity and constant attention that a man enjoys from a mistress?”

Her eyes flashed with rare ire. “I have given you more than my sister ever did.”

Her words sliced into him. He paused for a moment, frozen. What was going on here? Why was she so determined to lash out at him, on this of all days? He glowered at her. “That was uncalled for. You will not speak ill of Jane.”

“I will not tolerate Miss Jones.”

“I will not be dictated to. By anyone,” he said.

“That is your final word?”

“Yes.”

“If I leave with this matter unsettled between us, I shan’t welcome you back in Mayfair.”

“That’s your decision.” Dorothy gaped at him. “I cannot believe I am to be cast aside for the likes of Miranda Jones.”

****

Two hours and several more brandies later, Adrian sat beside his bed, his mind still beset with images of Jane and her death.

Images that became blurred and confused with images from last night. Dorothy’s parting words rang in his ears. She was wrong. His concern was solely because of what had happened to Miss Jones whilst under his roof.

Under his protection.

The girl in his bed moaned, softly, drawing his attention. God, she was so pale. She had suffered so greatly. He had felt her pain and fear as though he had gone through it himself.

She had suffered nearly as deeply as Jane. It was not an easy procedure.

Compassion encompassed his heart.

Even after all of her travails, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She possessed the kind of beauty that went bone deep, every line and angle was symmetric and perfect. He placed the back of his palm against her forehead. The feel of her skin, warm, satiny, against his flesh, sent a wave of shock through him.

He had not intended to touch her.

Not again.

Surely he could control himself better than he had this morning when he had kissed her forehead?

He could still feel the softness of her skin against his lips.

“They asked me…” Her voice was horse. Adrian picked up the wine glass on the night table, then brought it to her. “You must drink, Miss Jones.”

“They seemed like nice boys. Kind.”

“Here,” he said, placing a hand under her head and lifting her gently. “Drink.”

She opened her eyes.

He put the glass to her lips, and she took a slow, gingerly sip.

Then she pushed it away. “They asked me…please share a drink with them.”

“I know.”

“It seemed harmless. They’re just boys.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes, beautiful opalescent green, were glazed with unshed tears.

The sight caused a sort of tearing sensation in his chest.

“They are gone. You’re quite safe here.”

She looked around. “Where am I?”

“This is my chamber.”

Her eyes widened. “This is your bed?”

He nodded. “You need to drink more.”

“I don’t think I shall fancy a drink for the remainder of my life,” she said.

Her attempt at a wry expression belied the haunted shadow in her eyes and he had to suppress a wince.

“It was necessary to purge you. There was some drug in that wine the boys gave to you. They couldn’t tell me what it was, and the doctor said we couldn’t take any chances. You were slipping into a state of shock.”

If she had been pale a moment before, now she turned downright grayish. “I see.”

He could see how hard she worked to keep her composure. But fear flickered in her eyes. Her mouth turned downward, her face crumpling just a slight bit.

But he knew she’d probably rather die than show such weakness. Knowing what it cost her, the sight of that brief loss of control on her part twisted like a knife in his belly.

She did not like his touch.

He knew that.

Yet, he couldn’t help but go sit beside her in the bed and wrap his arms about her. Her body weighted but a feather . She seemed so fragile. Vulnerable.

That tearing sensation increased.

“I don’t understand…” Her voice broke on a sob. “We were sharing wine on the terrace. And then...s-suddenly we were in the woods, and they…they…” A tear dropped from her eye.

He watched it roll down her cheek, and the tearing sensation became unbearable. “My darling…” The endearment rolled from his tongue before he could stop it. He fished in his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. He dabbed at her cheek. “My darling.”

He couldn’t stop the words of endearment and comfort.

He hugged her close and rocked her.

And she clung to him, clutching a fistful of his banyan sleeve, pressing her face into his chest, crying.

He felt so protective.

And she needed a protector. Her profession was a more dangerous one than he had previously given it credit for being.

Things like this might keep happening.

And he had just sent Froster to the continent to sow his wild oats. If those boys hadn’t seen Froster give her a direct cut and then go to his bedchamber alone, they might not have risked tonight’s attack.

“I miss Carrville,” she gulped. “I miss him so!”

“Of course you do.” Somehow, his hand had found the tangled mass of curls at her nape. How soft. How silken.

“Aunt Cassandra says I must stop indulging such thoughts. She says a young courtesan cannot afford such a luxury as grief for a deceased protector.”

“You loved him?”

“I was not
in
love with him, no.”

“But you were friends?”

“Yes, he was my dear, dear…” She gulped for a breath. “Dearest friend in all the world. He kept me safe. He took care of me.” She sniffled.

Her voice rang with sincerity.

Christ.

He tried to take a deep breath but found his chest constricted.

He’d wronged her.

Deeply wronged her.

“Aunt Cassandra said three months was more than enough time.” Her voice grew weaker.

“Hush.” He tightened his arms about her.

“But it wasn’t enough time.”

“Hush,” he repeated, before touching his lips to her cheek.

Chapter Nine

At the warmth of Adrian’s lips against her cheek, Miranda caught her breath. The caress felt so-so…
familiar
.

She froze. Not knowing how to respond. Her heart thumped hard.

She was in the Earl of Danvers' bed, being kissed on the cheek by him.

Was she dreaming?

Vague snatches of memory came to her.

Yes, he had kissed her earlier, when she had been semi-conscious, lost in delirium and fear.

Her mouth went dry. How should she respond to this situation?

Once she could have been haughty towards him. But, after this morning, no, she couldn’t be so callous. So she affected a light laugh and attempted to push him away. “I must smell appalling.”

“You do,” he said, ardent emotion sounding in his voice. He firmed his hold, pressing his mouth to her warm flesh again. His fierce grip on her shoulders alarmed her. She remembered the boys, grabbing and grasping at her. And before that, Froster, attempting to push her to her knees and force that vile act upon her.

She opened an eye and gazed at him.

God, he was handsome.

Sinfully handsome.

His eyes were closed, his clean-shaven jaw relaxed. He looked so young. Of course he was a relatively young man, not yet even thirty. She had tended to forget that about him when dealing with his absolute arrogance.

Could she admit that she had lusted, quite shamelessly, all along for this gentleman?

Ha! Not easily.

It had not been a comfortable thing, to lust for him when she had thought that all there was to the man, was impossible arrogance and a sense of aristocratic entitlement.

Now she had glimpsed a man capable of such tenderness it put her in danger of melting into him. The sensation of being in his arms and seeing this side of him made her feel…it was just too much to sort out.

“My lord…”

“Adrian.” His voice was strong and steady, despite slight slurring to his words.

He was foxed. Her heart contracted. She knew too much of his history. She well knew why he might have sought liquid comfort today.

Despite her wariness, sympathy softened her.

“A-adrian.” She stumbled over his given name, tasting the intimacy of it on her tongue. An unusual name but one that suited his elegant looks and bearing. One that left open the possibility of a more sensitive nature beneath his hard exterior, a sensitive nature she had caught sight of for the first time this morning.

But if that was true, then the manner of his wife’s death would have made this morning a hell for him. Carrville had related all the details of his daughter’s death. She chewed her lip, hesitating. Then she plunged ahead, for a good courtesan could be bold when the occasion called for it. “This morning could not have been easy for you,” she said.

An  uneasy sensation centered in her belly, for it wasn’t easy to mention such things to him.

“Hush,” he said, as he threaded his fingers into her hair.

She bit her lip, wanting to say more.

His lips touched the corner of her mouth, and her heart fluttered.

His fingertips brushed her nape. His mouth closed over hers. Warm and firm.

His scent, musky male sweat, mixed with citrus, woodsy cologne and brandy, filled her senses.

She closed her eyes

She slid her hands up, stroking along his sleeves, feeling the hardness of his muscles beneath.

He kissed her more firmly. She clutched his shoulders.

He moved his hand to cup her jaw. Then he ran his tongue over the seam of her lips, lightly, teasingly, giving her the chance to accept or deny.

She opened to him.

He flicked his tongue against hers. As fire raced through her, she shivered and gave him a flick of her tongue.

He groaned, then tightened his hold on her jaw.

A thrill raced through her at the possessive gesture. He deepened his kiss and then shifted his position until he was halfway atop her, his hard body pressing against her.

Another thrill raced through her.

He put his hand to the curve of her waist and slid upwards. Sparks of delightful anticipation followed his touch.

He reached the underside of her breast, and  the he froze and lifted his mouth from hers. He stared down at her, his expression enigmatic.

Don’t stop.

She clamped her jaw to keep from speaking the words aloud.

His hand remained poised on that crease where her ribs met the curve of her breast. His pupils were dilated, making his normally brilliant blue eyes look as dark as night. He seemed to be breathing faster by the moment. She could sense the energy of his holding back.

“I am a courtesan.” The huskiness of her voice shocked her.

“You’ve been very ill.” His voice was terse, and he held his jaw rigid.

He rolled away.

With a sinking disappointment, a sense of loss, she held her breath, bracing herself for his withdrawal. Expecting only that he would assume his former icy, arrogant manner and leave.

He stretched his body beside her, making her aware as never before of how tall and powerful his body truly was.

In the large bed, he lay just six inches from her. She felt the separation of every single inch as she watched him, waiting to see what he would do.

He was staring at her breasts.

She knew he saw the tightness of her nipples, pressing against the linen sheet.

It was all very good and well for her to remind him that she was a courtesan. But had
she
forgotten that as well?

Apparently she had. What woman wouldn’t be dazzled out of her wits by his handsomeness, by the unexpected change in his frosty demeanor?

It was time, however, to take charge of the situation and treat him no differently than she would have Carrville or Froster.

She slowly pulled the sheet down, baring her breasts.

He a sharp breath.

Then she cupped her breasts, lifting them slightly. She allowed a small smile.

“Don’t,” he warned. She froze.

“My lord?”

“Don’t play the teasing courtesan. Not here. Not with me.”
“But I
am
a courtesan.”

“So you are.” His look turned to stone.

Her heart beat with alarm. She was losing him. She didn’t even understand why. Wasn’t she indicating her willingness to please him?

He didn’t even appreciate it!

Men demanded such service. Did they ever truly appreciate it? No, they accepted it as their due.

But what about that would please her?

She reached out, grasped his hand and pulled it to her breast. The warmth of his large hand splayed over her flesh.

His eyes burned with desire. But he held his jaw tense. “Miss Jones,” he said, his voice as cold as it had been the night of the courtesan’s ball.

Now she knew his withdrawal was certain.

But she pressed his hand. “Touch me…” She swallowed back the cracking in her voice.

“God.” His voice held both disbelief and a pained desire.

“Touch me, please.” She moved his hand in a circle. The slight calloused texture of his palm grazed her nipple. An electric-like jolt of delight raced down through her, deep in her belly. She arched her back and pressed his hand harder.

His brows drew together sharply, the skin growing taut over his cheekbones, giving him a fierce look, wiping away the elegance of his features.

The sight made her mouth go dry and sent waves of tingles through her stomach. She let her hand fall away from his.

He moved his hand slowly in a circle, his palm stimulating her nipple.

Waves and waves of tingles shot through her, until she was tingling from head to foot.

“God.” He cupped both of her breasts. “You have the most beautiful breasts I have ever seen.” He looked as fierce as ever. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

“I like to hear you say it.” He cupped her breasts more firmly, sending a firestorm of tingles through her, making her shudder. “I
love
to hear you say it,” she added, reverently.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

He bent and pressed his cheek to her flesh. She put her hand to his head. His hair was smooth, silken. He pressed his lips to her, teasing and light. She gasped and threaded her fingers into his hair.

She took a shuddering breath as his lips moved closer and closer to her straining nipple.

Adrian rolled his tongue against her nipple. God. Her firm, pink nipple. She tasted sweeter than any summer fruit. Despite his attempts to deny it, he had longed to touch her beautiful breasts.

He had vowed, not so long ago, that he wouldn’t touch her again. But the combination of being intoxicated and of feeling so compassionate towards her had softened his previous hardened stance toward her. It had conspired to wear down his resistance to his own lust.

However he was not simply touching her lovely breasts.

She had asked,
pleaded
with him to touch them.

She was giving herself so freely. Being so open about her need.

His own need, that he might have proved able to resist.

But how was he to possibly ignore her need?

Desire pounded through him. He suckled her, and she writhed beneath him, clutching at his hair. “My lord, my lord…” Her voice was soft, pleading.

Passionate.

He had never guessed she could be so passionate.

How deep could her desires run?

Damn the timing!

He worked to pleasure her a few more moments, but he knew his own control was slipping away fast.

He couldn’t possibly finish this business between them. Not just yet.

She’d been ill.

He wasn’t such a monster that he would take a woman who was recovering, especially from the attack she’d had last evening.

But he had enjoyed giving her this pleasure. He lifted his head.

They stared at each other. He knew her dazed, hungry eyes mirrored his own.

She grasped at his hair, clasping at his head. “Don’t stop.”

“I must.” He cupped her face. “You need to recover.”

“I feel good.” A soft flush suffused her face. “I want to go on feeling this good.”
“Later.”
“What if there
is
no later?”

“What do you mean?”

“It is no secret you bear no liking for me.”
Christ. He winced. He put his fingers to her lips. “Hush.”

“There may never be another time.”

He laughed, softly. “There will definitely be another time. A better time for you will be when you are more fit.”

“I am fit now.”

He laughed, more soundly. “For what have I to give you? No, my darling, you are nowhere near fit for it.”
At the widening of her eyes, he laughed again, cupping her face with both hands. He leaned forward and put his mouth to hers and kissed her briefly. Then he raised his head.

Her pale green eyes glittered with desire.

She was so damned beautiful. Extravagantly so.

Yes, of course he was going to bed this girl.

“You promise there will be another time?” she asked, as though she could read his thoughts.

“I am damned certain of it.”

He wanted to take her hand and lead it to his throbbing erection, but he didn’t trust his ability to control his reactions if he did.

“One of us might say the wrong thing.” She drew her elegantly arched brows together. “We might begin to dislike each other all over again.”

He grasped her hand, pulled it to his lips and gave it a quick kiss. “I do not dislike you.”

He had tried to hate her.

Tried very hard.

But now he knew the truth.

His overwhelming desire for her made it impossible for him to hate her, no matter what she was.

“You think I hounded Carrville to his death,” she said. “You think that I am a grasping whore.”

Now compassion had melted away the last of his resistance and made him want to see only the good in her.

At least for these moments.

He pressed his lips to her hand more ardently. “Let’s not speak of that. Not now.”

“We must, my lord.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “I have found your condemnation high-handed and short-sighted. I am tired of being of held accused. I am a whore. But I am not the kind of woman who would hound her lover to death. I know that you have not only blamed me for Carrville’s death but you have hated me for it.”

“I have not hated you.” But he had accused her, both in his own thoughts and to her face.