Sitting with…Wylde turned his gaze toward Lady Arenson. A pretty blond gel in debutante white and pearls sat beside the lady, her gaze focused on the hands folded in her lap. “Forgive my ignorance, Arenson, but who is Miranda?”
“Rothgard’s daughter,” Arenson snapped. “As if you did not know. Rothgard loves his Shakespeare. Why else would he name his children Miranda and Alonso? From The Tempest.”
“And what am I supposed to have done?”
The earl’s face reddened. “You know damned well you swindled young Alonso out of thousands of pounds at Maynard’s card party the other night!”
“You are mistaken, Arenson. I do not attend Maynard’s gatherings.”
The earl sucked in a sharp breath, and for a moment Wylde was certain the old man would expire on the spot from sheer apoplexy. “The apple does not fall far from the tree, does it?” he spat. “You are indeed your father’s son.”
Wylde managed not to flinch, and fisted his hands at his sides. “Have Rothgard contact me so we may clear up this misunderstanding.”
“Oh, he will be contacting you. You are lucky he has chosen to keep the matter quiet.” The earl raked a contemptuous glare over him. “You are a disgrace to your title, Wyldehaven, even more so than your father. Rothgard will see to it you get your comeuppance.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.
Moments later Arenson and his wife and Rothgard’s daughter—Miranda—walked past him and took their leave of the Oakleys.
Wylde glanced over to where Miranda—his Miranda—had been standing talking to one of the guests. Just the sight of her soothed the sting left by Arenson’s contempt. The bloody imposter must have targeted Rothgard’s heir, and now restitution had to be made. His mischief was escalating from annoying debts and seducing women to fleecing young lordlings and generating events that cast a shadow on the Wyldehaven honor. Perhaps Rothgard would be willing to listen to reason.
His Miranda moved, her sapphire dress sweeping along with her graceful stride and distracting him again. He pushed the matter of Rothgard to the back of his mind and focused instead on Miranda’s enemy. That’s why he was there, wasn’t it? To keep her safe?
As he watched, she bent down behind the pianoforte, affording him a brief but memorable view of her posterior, and stood again, her reticule in her hand. Then she turned and left the room.
Was the woman feather-witted? She should not be going off alone. What if the madman struck while she was out of his sight? His blood surged with the scent of the chase, and he started after her.
As soon as he escaped the room, he caught sight of Miranda climbing the stairs to the second floor. He hurried after her and reached the landing of the next floor just in time to see her duck into a room down the hall and close the door quietly.
He followed her in. A fierce look sent the chamber maid scurrying from the room.
Miranda whirled around as he closed the door behind the servant, sealing them both alone in a small bedchamber. “For heaven’s sake, Wyldehaven, what are you doing?”
“You should not be going off alone. It is not safe.” He glanced at the bed that dominated the room, then back to her.
Her cheeks bloomed pink. “You are a danger all on your own, Wylde. Please leave. I came here for privacy.”
“You keep trying to shut me out of your life,” he said, approaching her. “Am I such a monster?”
“No, you are a rogue.”
“Untrue. I have always treated you with respect.” He stopped only inches away.
“Your definition of respect is different than mine. There were times when you treated me as if I would pilfer the silver.”
He gave a reluctant nod. “True. But now that I know better, you cannot have any complaint. I wish you would reconsider your decision.”
“I cannot.” She fixed her eyes on his chest. “It must be like this. I am sorry.”
“I will be happy to provide for James. See him educated.”
“Oh, unfair, Wyldehaven!” She jerked her gaze to his then, her own eyes glittering with emotion. “You want me in your bed, and you will say anything to get me there.”
He stiffened. “I am not some cad to force you, my dear. You want security for James, and I can provide that.”
“Certainly…if I share your bed. There is a name for women who agree to such a bargain, my dear duke, and I refuse to accept that designation. Now if you will excuse me…” She glanced at the Chinese screen in the corner, then raised her brows at him in expectation.
He frowned, nonplussed. How was a man supposed to charm a woman when the chamber pot beckoned? “I will wait outside this room, Miranda, and we will continue this discussion.”
She huffed a breath of frustration. “By God, Wyldehaven, you are a stubborn beast!”
He gave a little bow. “Agreed.”
She pointed at the door. “Leave.”
“I will be just outside,” he reminded her, smothering a chuckle with effort. By Zeus, she was charming even in her ire.
She folded her arms and waited until he opened the door. He gave her a little salute before stepping out into the hallway. As he turned to close the door behind him, he caught a flash of sapphire skirts as she ducked behind the screen.
He lingered in the hall, imagining her fumbling with her clothing. He thought about her small hands peeling aside each garment, revealing her beautiful flesh inch by inch. He’d undressed many women in his time, and had no problem visualizing what she might look like naked and warm in his bed, her thighs spread in welcome…
Voices distracted him. Three ladies came up the stairs—Ophelia Oakley and two other debutantes—chattering like magpies. They cast him questioning glances as they reached the landing. Not wanting to be thought a lech, he nodded to the ladies, then wandered away from the doorway and down the hallway. The girls glanced after him, giggling and whispering, then hurried into the same chamber from which Miranda had not yet emerged.
What was it about women, he wondered, that made them travel in flocks like a gaggle of geese?
After what seemed an eternity, the door opened. Miranda emerged, her face pale, her green eyes wide with distress. She clutched her reticule with white-knuckled fingers.
He reached her in three long strides. “What is it? Did one of those chits treat you poorly?”
She only looked at him, her expression utterly lost. “No. They ignored my existence, as always.”
Regardless of the chance they might be seen, he took her chin in his hand, caressing her delicate skin with his thumb. “Then what has put this look on your face?”
“It is nothing.” She shook off his touch.
He let his hand fall away and took her arm instead. “I am not a fool. Something has happened.”
She tugged, but he would not release her. “Let it be, Wyldehaven. It is not your concern.”
“You are my concern, Miranda, whether you admit it or not.” He led her unwillingly down the hall and into an alcove he had spotted earlier. “Now, tell me what has put that look on your face.”
She looked at him for a long moment, until he wondered if she had truly closed him out. Then she gave a sigh and pulled her arm free so she might open her reticule. Every sense in his body jerked to alertness as she pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Another note?”
She nodded, her shoulders slumped with weary defeat. “How does he manage this?” she whispered. “We were in a room full of people.”
He took the paper from her, gently unwrapping her fingers from around it. Her hand trembled, and the sight of it cut him deeply. Miranda had never been afraid, not even when going toe-to-toe with him on behalf of James. He placed her hand back on his arm, and she clung as he slowly opened the paper.
DEATH AWAITS YOU IN LONDON.
LEAVE NOW OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES.
He arched a brow. “Rather dramatic,” he commented.
“Perhaps he felt as if he had not already made his point,” she managed, but the humor fell flat. “It wa
s in my reticule, Wylde. How could this be? We were all right there in the music room. We should have seen him.”
“You are correct, we should have. It could have been anyone. A servant, or even one of the guests. Unfortunately, I was not paying attention. I could not take my eyes from you.”
“Flatterer.” A wisp of a smile curved her lips.
“You have trapped me in your web of charms,” he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips.
“Do you never cease the seduction?” She no doubt meant the words as chiding, but instead they came out with the slightest undertone of longing.
“I am a stubborn beast,” he reminded her. “And I am going to insist you take your leave now. Someone here is your enemy.”
He saw the flash of rebellion in her eyes, but then she pressed her lips together and nodded. “I have finished the performance I agreed upon.”
“I shall see you home.” He held up a hand when she made to speak. “Not a word of argument.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she looked so endearing that his heart ached.
“I am not a fool, Wyldehaven. I admit I would feel safer if you followed me home.”
He extended his arm, and she tucked her hand into his elbow. “Generally a man dislikes being thought of as safe,” he drawled as he began to walk her back toward the staircase, “but in this case I am honored to be your champion.”
Miranda walked back into the music room with Wyldehaven as her shadow. She had insisted on disengaging from his hold and rejoining the crowd under her own power, even though someone in that room had probably slipped the threatening note into her reticule. She looked each of them in the eye, somehow thinking she would know who it was with just a glance. But no one sprouted devil’s horns or otherwise revealed themselves. She took her leave of her hosts, then walked alone to the foyer on the ground floor. A single footman manned the door, as the musicale was not scheduled to end for some hours yet. She requested that he summon her carriage.
He hurried to obey. As she waited, she could hear the murmur of conversation coming from upstairs, the plinking of keys as some neophyte plucked out a melody on the pianoforte. The foyer seemed huge and silent, despite the distant sounds of civilization. A chill danced over her skin, but not from cold.
Footsteps on the stairs behind her made her heart quicken. She glanced around, half afraid of whom she might see. But it was Wyldehaven.
Her heartbeat settled down into a calm, easy rhythm again.
He called an order to the servant, requesting his coach be brought around. Then he stood beside her, hands folded behind his back, studying an oil painting of a summer lake scene, acting as if they were barely acquainted.
But she knew better. It was all she could do to maintain her facade of indifference, to not to turn into his arms and let his comforting strength soothe her. Wyldehaven, with his inborn charm and subtle persistence, was proving to be a nearly irresistible oasis of sanity in a world of increasing madness.
Which was very dangerous in her current state of vulnerability. Someone wished her ill, and she had no idea who it might be. To her knowledge, she had wronged no one. But the threatening missives and the ruffian who had accosted her just the other day indicated differently. Someone wanted her gone from London.
Maybe she should oblige them.
The fees she would collect for her last two performances would go a long way toward providing for James, but it might be safer for both of them if she forgot about them and took what she had earned thus far and fled to the country. She could contact Thaddeus later for the rest of her mother’s money.
And yet how hard it would be to walk away from the man standing beside her.
Annie arrived, summoned from belowstairs with the news that her mistress was departing. She cast Miranda a look of puzzlement, but Wyldehaven shook his head just the barest bit. As Annie came forward, he bent his head to speak low and quickly near her ear. She nodded, her eyes troubled as she listened. Her gaze flicked to Miranda once, then twice. Fearful. Concerned.
Outside, Miranda’s carriage arrived, distracting the footman at the door.
Wylde looked at her. “You will ride in my carriage with me,” he murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “We will send yours on ahead and hopefully distract anyone who might seek to follow you. Give Annie your cloak.”
The quiet command in his voice made something deep inside her soften. She had always noticed that while he was never cruel to any of the servants, no one ever doubted who was in charge of matters. Before, that authoritative tone would have gotten her back up. But now…
Now it just made her feel safe.
Wordlessly, she slipped off her cloak and passed it to Annie. The maid handed Miranda her own worn garment in exchange, and Miranda gratefully donned it. Both of them pulled the hoods up to hide their identities as Wylde whispered further instructions.
When the footman looked back at them, the deception was complete.
“Allow me to escort you to your carriage, Contessa,” Wylde said, offering Annie his arm. She nodded, silent, and let him lead her forward. Miranda hurried after them, a servant, an afterthought.
She lingered in the shadows as Wylde made a show of helping Annie into the carriage. Then, as John the coachman coaxed the team into motion, Wylde gestured to her. She hurried forward, grasping his outstretched hand as he strode to his own coach, his coat of arms on the open door. With a strong tug, he nearly heaved her into the carriage, moving quickly to urge her inside as he scrambled into the vehicle himself.
She landed on the seat across from him, her heart pounding and her breath coming in pants. The door snapped closed, and he tapped on the roof of the coach with his knuckles. The well-sprung equipage surged forward.
They were safe.
“Hopefully that will be enough to confuse your enemies,” he said, his voice warm and soothing in the dimly lit coach. She caught a glimpse of his teeth as he flashed a smile.
In this insecure world, he was the only certainty. A man whom she at first believed a cad, but had proven himself a gentleman of honor and compassion. He would protect her if she allowed it, wrap her in soft silks and keep her safe in a comfortable home. She would want for nothing.
Except the permanence she could never have.
But still, she was moved to act on her feelings, to show him her gratitude, that she did not dismiss him as lightly as he believed. So she shifted forward to the seat beside him. And when he looked at her in inquiry, she leaned up and kissed him.
Chapter 15
Her innocent kiss sparked an inferno.
He hauled her into his lap, his mouth hungry. Demanding. She closed her eyes and released her defenses. She needed him to hold her, to touch her with those talented hands. Just once more she wanted to relish these swirling, delicious emotions. She already knew she was in love with him. It didn’t seem so wrong to steal just a few moments of pleasure in the face of a lifetime of living without him.
He clenched his hands in her skirts, edging them up enough to slide his hand beneath them, along her stocking-clad leg. Everything inside her urged her to lay back, open to him, give him all that she was.
The street lamps flashed briefly through the windows of the carriage, casting an odd veil of unreality over them. His mouth on her throat, his teeth nipping just enough to make her insides bubble. His hand on her breast through her clothing. His other hand inching up beyond her garter to the sensitive, naked flesh of her upper thigh.
She did not hold back either, boldly meeting his tongue with her own. She slid her hands over those strong, broad shoulders, reveling in his male body. When he flicked his thumb over her surging nipple, she gasped, and he caught the sound in his mouth.
How she longed to once and for all give herself over to him. Would it be so wrong? She loved him. Surely that must make it right.
His hand edged higher beneath her skirts, brushed her inner thigh.
She ached. Just once she wanted to cross that bridge between
them, go with him to a place where they could enjoy each other and just be.
They reached their destination far too soon.
Dimly, she was aware of the coach slowing, for he gradually pulled away from their kiss and cupped her face in his hands, resting his forehead against hers. “We have arrived.”
She wanted to cry. Too soon. She wanted more, needed more. But perhaps this was for the best. In another moment she would have tossed all her principles into the Thames in order to have just a few more moments in his arms. She nuzzled her cheek into his hand. “Thank you for seeing me home.”
“It is not—”
The coach door opened and Miranda quickly slid out of his lap onto the seat beside him. A footman in the Wyldehaven livery peered into the vehicle, his expression impassive. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“And to you, Benjamin.” Wylde got up and moved into the doorway.
Stunned to realize they had arrived at Matherton House rather than her own, she could do no more than yank the hood of her cloak back over her head to hide her identity. Why were they here? What was he doing?
He stepped down to the ground and turned to hold out his hand to her. She hesitated, seriously considering the ramifications of staying where she was and demanding to be taken home. Should she give the servants something to gossip about with such a scene? He waited patiently while she wrestled with the notion, and in the end she decided to handle the matter between them alone. The staff did not need any drama for their entertainment.
She took his hand, dutifully ignoring the sweet thrill that curled in her belly at the mere idea of spending more time with him. He helped her from the carriage, then led her briskly up the steps where the butler stood holding open the door of the house.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening.” Wyldehaven removed his hat and handed it to the balding man. “Dismiss the servants for the evening, Travers. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
To Ruin the Duke Page 18