Miranda's Dilemma

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “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.

  “Yes, you have. Don’t I deserve some defense in the face of such accusations, such hate?” She studied him thoughtfully. “I used to think you were arrogant and heartless. Now I don’t know what to think. You were kind to me this morning, though I know that you could not have found it easy to remain at my side during the doctor’s treatment.”

  Suddenly wariness filled him. He dropped his hands from her face. “I would have never allowed you to face that alone.”

  “My lord, I know what happened with your lady.”

  Adrian froze. He had assumed that Jane’s father had taken her secrets to his grave.

  Now Adrian wondered how much family business Carrville had confided in his lovely mistress.

  “She did not intend to poison herself.”

  “Yes, but it was no pure accident.”

  “It wasn’t her fault.” Renewed guilt over Jane’s death pierced him through, increasing his sense of wariness.

  “I know, my lord. Carrville told me.” She looked a little sick now.

  Had his condemnation had hurt her?

  Yes, it appeared it had. Deeply.

  He winced.

  But she had seemed so cold toward him. Yet perhaps she had never wanted to admit that he had the ability to hurt her before.

  Never allowed herself to admit it.

  Just as he had never allowed himself to admit that he was soft on her.

  Damned soft on her.

  This was more than mere lust. He should call it what it was― infatuation.

  She took a deep breath. “He told me all.”

  “Carrville had no place to tell you family business.”

  “I would never, ever betray his confidences, my lord. He knew that.”

  “I asked you to call me Adrian,” he said, stiffly.

  “You give me the intimacy to call you by your given name, yet you will not allow me to defend myself against your previous accusations.

  He held up a forestalling hand. “Stop.”

  “No, I cannot. I will not continue with you until you hear the truth of what drove Carrville to his death.” She began to speak quickly, as though she feared she would lose her nerve or perhaps she feared that he would attempt to silence her again.

  His new found compassion for her rode him hard. He sat there, wishing he might do anything to avoid a deep discussion of this matter yet resigned by his new found softness toward her to listen what she was driven to say.

  “Someone else knew the secret of your wife’s death. They demanded more and more payment from Carrville. Only payment would ensure their silence.”

  This time, his heart seemed to stop. “Someone else?”

  She nodded. “Carrville was being pressured to pay money for his silence. He was desperate to meet the increasing demands. He would do anything to protect his daughter, even when it was just protecting her memory.”

  Pain sliced through him like a knife to his guts. “Why?” He leapt to his feet and began to pace. “Why wouldn’t he come to me?”

  “How could he? He had accused you.”

  He stopped and whirled to
face her. “He was right to accuse me.”

  The words tore from the depths of him. Then he stared at her, aghast at having said them.

  He was weak to her. Far too weak.

  Infatuation or no infatuation, he was going to have to learn to resist the pull of her appeal. She seemed able to seduce him to say or do all manner of foolish things.

  He had also revealed himself because he was intoxicated― no,beyond intoxicated. He was completely foxed. A damned dangerous state to be in with this particular woman.

  And now the dryness in his throat demanded that he have another drink. He went to the side board, where he’d left his bottle, poured himself a glass and drank half down immediately.

  “I am so foxed,” he said.

  “I know, my lord.”

  “I have not allowed myself to become intoxicated since the night of Lady Danvers’ twenty-third birthday.” He took another drink, hearing this continued self-revelation with a sense of the same resignation that a condemned man would view a guillotine.

  “You don’t allow yourself to indulge in spirits. But today you needed a drink,” she said.

  The soft sympathy in her voice surrounded him, caressed him with a beguiling sort of comfort. The type of comfort that only the most warm-hearted, understanding woman could give.

  An irresistible sort of comfort.

  God help him.

  Miranda Jones, the haughtiest courtesan in London, the niece of the woman whose grasping geed had destroyed his father, was offering him compassion.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me.” He drained the glass then sat it down with a firm clunk.

  Chapter Ten

  Adrian stood there, frozen, with his own words echoing in his ears.

  The beautiful girl in his bed stared back at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. She hugged the sheet to her chest and sat up, her dark auburn hair falling in loose curls about her shoulders.

  Her understanding and sympathy were every bit as alluring and seductive as her sensuality and beauty.

  But then, that was a courtesan’s way, wasn’t it?

  She would have learned these manners from a master, from Cassandra Jones, the woman who had destroyed his own father with such wiles.

  A slight tightness in his throat made him pause. He poured another drink but limited himself to a sip.