“For the sake of argument, let us say you are right, and you are not James’s father. Why did you do all this?” She gestured to the house. “For your grandmother?”
He stepped to the window, looked down at the street. “As I said, James’s father might well be my brother, however illegitimate. That makes James my nephew—my family. It is my duty to take care of my family.”
His voice caught, just a hint. He continued to stare at the street, but his hands, still clasped behind his back, revealed white knuckles for just a moment.
She could feel the distress coming off him like strong perfume. “Do you always protect the Mathertons, even if they are not trueborn?”
He nodded. Then cleared his throat and turned to face her. “As I said, my father’s indiscretions find their way to my doorstep on a regular basis. I have always provided my half siblings with a settlement to begin a life. After all, it was not their choice to be born. It was my father’s carelessness.”
She drifted closer to him, fascinated by the riot of sentiment she could see in his eyes. His voice was calm, his posture straight and correct, but she could sense the hot cauldron of emotion just waiting to boil over. “If you are determined to do right by James, why not just accept him into your household?”
“I cannot.”
She stopped an arm’s length away. She could not completely stifle the accusation in her tone. “Because he is not a trueborn Matherton?”
“No.” He clenched his jaw. “Because I could not bear it.”
The few curt words conveyed his pain as if he had shouted it.
“Many men are uncomfortable around children,” she said.
“That is not the reason.” He tried to smile, but his torment showed through. “I lost my own son, and I do not believe I could love another.”
“Of course you could. The heart is capable of all different kinds of love.”
He shook his head. “I am not like you. I cannot just reach out—” He extended his hand and cupped her cheek. “—and pull someone into my heart.”
She licked her dry lips, utterly conscious of his warm flesh against her face. Her instincts urged her to nuzzle his hand, to step closer, to curl into his embrace. But she resisted—barely. “You are afraid.”
“Leave it to a woman to say that.” He laughed and dropped his hand. “I failed to protect my unborn child. I will not take the chance of that happening again.”
“I am certain you will marry again, have more children.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I have been lonely for nearly two years, locked at my estate, lost in my music. Mourning the death of a dream I can never have.”
“Oh, Wyldehaven.” She could not stop herself and closed the distance between them, laying a hand on his arm. “Perhaps the dream is not dead—just delayed.”
He gave a reluctant chuckle and patted her hand. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am meant to be alone.”
“A person can be quite comfortable alone. No obligations, no one to act as judge. Quite freeing, actually.” She smiled at him. “But you do not want that, do you? You want a family. You should have what you want.”
“I know what I want.” He scooped up her fingers and entwined them with his. Their palms pressed against each other. No gloves, just warm flesh. His hand nearly swallowed hers.
“Wyldehaven—”
“I was not lying to you when I told you that you are the only woman I have noticed since the death of my wife,” he murmured, circling her waist with his other arm and tugging her against him. He pressed their clasped hands to his heart. “Everything about you captures my attention and will not let go.”
“Oh,” was all she could manage. She had fought off the drunken attentions of men in the past, utterly repulsed by their groping hands, but Wylde’s embrace was something entirely new. She could feel his heart pounding beneath their joined hands, the scent of him luring her closer instead of repelling her. He was so much bigger than she was, his body so dissimilar to hers. But not dangerous. Not threatening. Oh, no. The differences between them fascinated as much as it thrilled. Instincts she did not recognize flared to life within her, demanding she get closer to him.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “And spirited. You do not hesitate to tell me to go to the devil.”
“I am certain I never said that,” she managed.
“You have, just not with words. You say ‘Yes, Your Grace’ with your lips, and ‘To the devil with you’ with your eyes. It distracts me to no end.” His hand slid up her back and splayed between her shoulder blades.
“I shall endeavor to be more discreet.”
“Oh, no, do not do that.” He bent his head, nuzzled her neck beneath her ear. “I like knowing I have such an effect on you.”
The sweep of his lips along her neck sent sensations rioting throughout her body from head to toes and back again, like a ricocheting bullet. She gasped, her eyes closing as the delicious vibrations made her head spin. He kissed her neck—oh, scandal!—and then came the subtle scrape of his teeth against the sensitive flesh.
“Dear God,” she whispered.
“You are so soft,” he murmured. “So warm. You do not hide your emotions.”
He made his way down and around, licking her—licking her—at the base of her throat. So close to her bosom. What was wrong with her breasts? They swelled above the laces of her corset, as if pouting for him to touch them. Good heavens—she really did long for such a thing! She had seen men groping women’s bosoms at the tavern, but never had she imagined that the women enjoyed it!
He untangled their fingers and flattened her hand against his chest, then encircled her with both arms, pulling her fully against him.
Her body sang with joy, hunger surging up like a beast and demanding to be fed. She clung to his neck as he dipped his head down and strung kisses along the edge of her bodice. She heard a strange sound, like whimpering, then realized it was coming from her own throat. She clutched his neck with both hands, clinging to him as sensations stormed her body.
“Beautiful woman,” he murmured, cupping her breast in one hand. He rubbed his thumb against the hardened nipple through the thin cloth, and her hips jerked against him of their own accord, a keening cry coming from between her lips. He shifted and swallowed the sound into his own mouth.
His kiss blasted through any lingering rational thought. He cupped her breast, massaged it, even squeezed it as he coaxed her lips to open to him, teased her with his tongue. Her brain nearly exploded when he nipped her lower lip, then sucked on it.
Dear God…why had no one told her such pleasure was possible?
Coherence quickly faded as he touched her in places no one had ever touched her before. Her modest lace fichu fluttered helplessly to the floor as he slipped his hand into her bodice, past her chemise, tugging the material down to release her naked breasts to the morning sunshine. He backed her against the breakfast table, the edge pressing against her bottom and thighs. She opened her mouth to protest…to question…maybe to beg for more. Then his mouth closed over her aching nipple, and words fell away with the burst of bliss that rattled through her.
He lifted her to sit on the table, nudging aside a chair that nearly fell over in his enthusiasm. He switched his suckling to the other breast, kneading the first in his strong hand, thumb teasing her hard, peaking nipple. She could barely breathe, barely keep up with the jumble of sensations that scrambled her wits and enflamed her loins. Dear sweet God in heaven, she wanted…needed…. God help her, if this man did not do something to end this wicked torment…
He tugged at her skirts, easing them up. His hand slipped beneath, gliding along her stockings, then finding the vulnerable flesh of her thighs. Her breath caught. She opened her eyes, glanced down at him. His mouth worked first one nipple, then the other. Then he glanced up, met her gaze, held it as he eased his hand between her thighs.
The breath caught in her lungs. Surely her heart stopped. Then it pounded like thunder as he slid h
is finger along the most private part of her.
She shook like a newly born foal, arching toward him, parting her trembling legs to help him. All the while he watched her, teasing the sensitive folds with superb skill that melted her will like butter.
“There you are,” he murmured, gently stroking her. “Ah, Miranda. You are exquisite.” He brushed a kiss against her lips just as he flicked his thumb across her sensitive folds. She moaned, the sound caught in his mouth as he softly slid his finger inside her.
Her hips arched off the table; her eyes closed. He held her securely, teasing her with shallow dips of his finger between her legs. All the while his thumb danced, then rubbed against that one spot that made her see stars behind her closed lids. Sometimes he kissed her mouth. Sometimes he licked her breasts. She was lost now, so lost to the clamoring demands of this unfamiliar body that did not feel like her own and yet was.
Pressure, such incredible pressure. Everything throbbed, swelled. She was racing toward something, desperate. “Please,” she whispered. And again, “Please.” And again.
“Yes, sweet Miranda. Yes, this is what you want.”
Then he did something, a twist of his hand or a flick of a finger, and her body shattered into a million pieces right there in the breakfast room amid the teacups and china.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Good, good girl.”
For long moments she was lost, drifting, floating in the sea or the sky or somewhere. Eventually—minutes, hours?—the steady throbbing of her heartbeat brought her back to herself. She opened her eyes, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the breakfast room windows.
“You are so beautiful, Miranda.” He touched her hair, her cheek, trailed his fingers down her throat to her breasts, still bared to him. “You are truly magnificent in your passion, my sweet Amazon queen.”
“No one told me.” Her voice sounded hoarse, unused. She raised a trembling hand to touch his thick dark hair, as she had always wanted to. “No one told me it could be like that.”
“That and more.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “That was but a taste, my sweet. Just a brief glimpse into the passion that awaits you.”
“Did you…did we?” She struggled to lift up onto her elbows and glanced down, almost afraid of what she would see. But he was still fully dressed, though her own clothing was tugged and pulled and in total disarray. “You did not…?”
“Your virtue is intact.” He gave her that lopsided grin again, his dark eyes glinting with humor and still simmering with lust. “The breakfast room is no place for a lady to surrender her virtue. I endeavor toward a more romantic setting.”
“Oh, my God.” Surrender her virtue? What had she done? She struggled into a sitting position, and he, gentleman that he was, assisted her.
“This is only the beginning, my sweet. Now that you are here, we can have this and so much more, any time we want.”
His words sent dismay creeping through her. What had come over her? What had she been thinking? Had she been thinking at all?
She shoved her skirt down over her limbs, and he helped, spreading the creased muslin so it covered her completely. Leaving him to that, she urgently tugged up the edge of her chemise to the point of decency, then the bodice of her dress. Without the fichu, the garment exposed far too much of her bosom for the morning hours, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had already seen all she attempted to conceal.
Oh, God, dear sweet God in heaven. Thaddeus had been right. She was in danger of losing her heart—and more—to Wyldehaven.
She made to climb down from her perch, and he was there to help her, hooking her around the waist and lifting her off the table. The instant her feet touched the floor, he would have swept her into his arms, but she held out both hands, stopping him with her palms flat against his chest.
He grinned down at her, resting his hands on her waist. “Dizzy, are you?”
“Incensed,” she corrected, then gave a hard shove.
He stumbled a step backward, releasing her. “What madness is this?”
“This was the madness,” she corrected, sweeping a hand toward the table. “I told you I will not share your bed, Wyldehaven, and I meant it.”
His eyes narrowed. “More games from you, Miranda?”
“No games.” She crossed her arms over her partially exposed bosom, feeling naked in the bright light of the morning sun despite being fully dressed. “I told you there is a boundary I will not cross. I came very close to crossing it this morning. Thank goodness I regained my wits.”
“Is that how you see it?” She had expected anger, but instead he smiled, a dark, predatory, male smile that both thrilled and threatened at the same time. “I could have taken your maidenhead right here, Miranda darling. And you would have welcomed it.”
Her face heated, but she did not relax her stance. “I would have fought you.”
He gave a rich chuckle. “You would have welcomed me. Face the truth, Miranda. You would have given yourself to me right there on the breakfast table.”
He was right, curse him, but she had nothing left but her stubborn nature with which to protect herself. “You are entitled to your opinion, but rest assured that such an opportunity will not come again. I will see to it.”
“Believe that if it helps you to sleep at night, my sweet girl, but we both know the truth of what happened here.”
She swallowed hard. “Please leave.”
“As you wish.” He executed an elegant bow, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his cravat. His unmussed elegance only added fuel to her ire.
She jabbed a finger at him. “And I will have you know that I will continue to perform as the contessa, Wyldehaven. You will not interfere.”
He arched his brows at her as he straightened. “So fierce, Boadicea. Very well, continue to sing if you wish it. But do not think you can find a rich protector that way. Be warned I will send James to an orphanage the instant I discover such a liaison.”
“I want no rich protector,” she snapped. “And you are vile to threaten me.”
“Like it or not, you have a protector now.” He took her by the chin and pressed a hard kiss to her lips. “See that you remember what happened here, my sweet, for we are far from finished.”
He turned on his heel and quit the room, leaving her disheveled and confused and still wanting him, curse his highborn hide.
She caught a glimpse of her fichu on the floor beneath the table and bent to retrieve it, tucking the lace back into place to preserve her modesty—late as it was for that. Casting a long look over the breakfast table—the dishes had been shoved aside but not broken, thank heavens—she pondered what had happened here…and what had almost happened.
She would summon Thaddeus. She needed more work, more money to free herself from this precarious situation. She had sworn she would not be Wyldehaven’s mistress, and so she would not. Thaddeus could invest her money for her, as well as help her find more opportunities to perform. Then she would be free of Wyldehaven and his arrogant demands. She would still need to find a way to keep her promise to Lettie, but it would be on her terms.
But as she left the breakfast room and headed up to her bedchamber to restore her appearance, every muscle and nerve ending in her body still sang from his touch. She couldn’t help wondering—in a strictly educational sense, of course—what other possible pleasures might lie beyond what he had shown her.
Just the thought sent another shiver through her, and she shoved the scandalous thought aside. It mattered not what other delights he might plan to share with her; she had no intention of surrendering to his will. But when she caught sight of her flushed cheeks and tousled hair in her looking glass, she experienced a moment of panic.
Did she truly have the fortitude to resist him? Or would she end up just one more woman discarded from a rich man’s bed?
Chapter 11
By afternoon Miranda had decided two things.
First, she would never let thing
s get so out of hand with Wyldehaven ever again. She would be strong and resist his advances. Now that she knew what sensual dangers lay in his repertoire, she believed herself less likely to fall under his spell. Never mind that just the memory of that mad interlude in the breakfast room tempted her to cast aside what meager respectability she had managed to attain in favor of a whirlwind affair of romance and danger. She was forewarned now. Forearmed.
And more curious than ever.
But still, she had escaped the encounter with her virtue intact; therefore it was time to fortify her defenses and prepare for siege. And she would emerge victorious.
Second, she decided that Wyldehaven had probably not sent the threatening note she received. He was not the type to creep about in shadows scaring women with pieces of paper. If he wanted to, he could cast her out of London with little effort, but he was the sort of man who confronted a body face-to-face with little pretense. With Wyldehaven, you always knew who took issue with you and why.
Which meant there was someone else in London who wanted her dead.
Struggling to ignore the panic skittering along her nerves, she forced herself to ponder the matter rationally that afternoon over a cup of tea in the parlor. Being an intelligent woman, she was naturally concerned for her own safety. Having a mysterious enemy who might pop out of the shadows at any moment wreaked havoc with one’s nerves. She briefly considered going to Thaddeus about the matter, but then reconsidered when it occurred to her that he might somehow be connected to the threat. The fact that he numbered among his acquaintances a ruthless moneylender and those menacing collection agents made her hesitate to look to him as a protector.
And Wyldehaven? She would sooner become a beggar in the streets before she placed herself in a position of vulnerability with him. No doubt he would seize the opportunity to “protect” her by making her stop performing—and that she could not afford to do. Not when it meant the difference between surviving and starvation for her and the baby, should Wyldehaven decide he had tired of them.
To Ruin the Duke Page 13