Lord of Ice (17 page)

He obeyed. “You realize, of course, that this is completely inappropriate.”

She passed a wary glance over his face. “No one has to know.”

He raised his eyebrow with a speculative look.

She shrugged. “Those people downstairs already think I am your mistress.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell them your name.”

“Is this too tight?” she asked, poised to tie off the bandage into a knot.

He glanced down at his arm and flexed his muscle to test it. She gasped at the sheer girth of his biceps and tore her wide-eyed stare away, blushing profusely.

She snapped her jaw shut. “Sorry.”

He let out a low, cocky laugh, looking altogether pleased with himself. “This will do fine.”

“Right.” She cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze. Her hands trembled slightly as she knotted the ends of the bandage. He murmured a low-toned thanks; she nodded, trailing a feverish glance over the hard, lean length of him as he walked away and slipped his loose white shirt back on. He left it unbuttoned, perhaps to indulge her.

Miranda was washing her hands, forbidding herself from gawking at him a second longer, when a knock at the door jarred her out of her daze. She hurried to answer it and admitted the maid, who wheeled in their dinner on a tea cart. Since there was only one chair, Damien slid the table over to the bed. Miranda kicked off her shoes and sat, cross-legged, on the mattress while they ate. The food and wine gave them something rather than each other to devour and helped disperse the lingering tension.

They ate at a leisurely pace, but by the time Damien opened the second bottle of red wine, Miranda’s mood had turned to one of frisky levity. She pulled the ivory combs from her hair, shaking it out to its full length, then reclined on her elbow on the bed and rested her crossed heels on Damien’s thigh. He did not seem to mind.

“So, my good Lord Winterley,” she said in saucy cheer, picking up the conversation precisely where they had left off earlier. “
Do
you have a mistress?”

“Miranda.” He looked at her flatly, then downed the rest of his wine.

“I only ask since everyone in this hotel thinks that I’m it.”

“You can’t ask me that.” He set his glass down.

“What, are you married?” she exclaimed.

“No, I’m not married!” he scoffed.

“Then answer the question. I told you about my cavalry boy, didn’t I?”

“I do not have a mistress.”

“No? No wife, no mistress? I say, what
do
you have, Damien?”

“Just a brat of a ward to marry off to the highest bidder.” He picked up the wine bottle and refilled his goblet. Reaching over their emptied plates, he topped off her wineglass, as well, then curled his hand around her ankle, stroking it with his fingertips through her white stockings.

“I see, so you mean to sell me?” she asked sagely. “How much am I worth on the marriage market, do you suppose?”

“All the gold of King Midas couldn’t measure your worth, Miss FitzHubert.” He lifted his glass to her and drank, then resumed eating.

“Well, that’s a good deal better than the three shillings a night I earned at the Pavilion,” she replied, pleased.

He pointed at her sternly with his fork. “You are not to breathe a word about any of that once we reach London, do you understand? Not to anybody.”

“Not even to my future husband?”

“Especially him.”

“But marriage is built on trust—”

“Rubbish, it’s built on gold and advancing one’s family.”

“Well, since I have neither fortune nor family, I don’t suppose anyone’s going to want me, then.”

“Yes, they will. You have something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Beauty.” He stared at her for a second. “You have beauty.” Studiously avoiding her gaze, he continued eating.

“I hope it’s enough.”

“You will also have the support of my family, and that is no small advantage. My eldest brother is the duke of Hawkscliffe. The youngest, Alec, is the current darling of fashionable society. He knows every eligible bachelor in London. By the way, don’t tell my family, either, about your career as Miss White. If it seems necessary for them to know, I’ll tell them when the time is right.”

“Very well. It’ll be our secret. Just like the fact that you propositioned me,” she added, poking him in his belly with the tip of her toe.

He rolled his eyes. “Must you keep bringing that up?”

She laughed with wicked merriment, taunting him. “Well, you did! What if I had said yes? I almost did, you know. You were very persuasive—I’m jesting!” she said hastily when he blanched at the mere suggestion. She couldn’t help but chuckle. “You are so amusing, Winterley. You needn’t blush so.”

“I do not blush.”

“Yes, you do, but there’s no need. You’re not the first man ever to make me an indecent offer, and I sincerely hope you won’t be the last.”

“Miranda!”

“What?” She batted him with her pillow.

“Hoyden! Are you drunk?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. They never gave us wine at Yardley. I feel happy.”

“Happy?” He grabbed a corner of the pillow as she whacked him again with it. “Stop it!”

“You’re too serious, Winterley!” She reached for another pillow. “I will beat you until you smile!”

He ducked out of his chair with a rakish grin as she swung at him, then tackled her flat on the soft bed, both of them laughing.

“You are . . . impossible,” he chided with a gentle sigh as he braced his elbows on either side of her head. He traced her cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.

“Difficult, but not impossible.” She wrapped her arms around him, relishing the weight of him atop her, the smoothness of his bare chest against her bodice. “It all depends on who’s trying.”

“That sounded distinctly like an invitation,” he murmured.

“Maybe it was,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “Are you going to accept?”

Her words made him go very still. His stare turned uncertain. “I don’t know.”

“Think hard,” she breathed, but he offered no protest whatsoever as she slowly pulled his head down to her until their lips met. She cupped his cheek, begging him with her touch not to pull away. He did not.

She closed her eyes, breathless, savoring the satiny warmth of his mouth against hers, the hammering of his mighty heartbeat against her breasts. She felt the tremor that ran the length of his body, heard his breath catch in his throat like a trapped groan when she parted her lips and slid her tongue into his mouth.

Unleashing his agonized restraint, he responded with fierce passion, consuming her with a kiss full of wild, aching hunger. She surrendered blissfully, raking her fingers through his silky, black hair.
Yes.
Her spirit felt freed as her body arched beneath him. He groaned as her eager movement roused the full length of his hardness. Her skirts rustled as she spread her legs wider, letting his body settle more comfortably between them. She could feel his steely length throbbing against her pleasure center.

He clutched her breast almost frantically, dragging his thumb back and forth across her nipple, driving her wild. She could not get enough of him. Sliding her hand inside his shirt, she stroked his muscled back, glorying in his supple motion as he ground against her. She reached lower, grasping his compact buttock through his breeches.

“Oh, God, we have to stop,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away from hers, his breathing ragged. “This can’t happen.”

“It
is
happening, Damien. You can’t deny it,” she whispered, trying to hold him, but he pressed up from lying atop her and turned away.

He went to sit on the edge of the bed, dragging his hand through his hair. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Miranda. You’re very vulnerable right now. You’ve been through a lot these past few—” His words broke off as he noticed his open shirt. He hastily began buttoning it, cursing at himself under his breath. “We’ve both had a little too much to drink. It won’t happen again.”

She sat up with a twinge of resentful disappointment. She knew he was perfectly sober, but she supposed he had his reasons for stopping them. Still, she could not escape a vague, hurt sense of rejection.

Warily, he looked over his shoulder at her. She slid over to sit beside him. His expression was guarded, his lips still deliciously wet and pliant with her kisses, but she could see his longing for her in his eyes. They had turned the deep blue-gray of thunderclouds. Lowering his gaze, he reached for her hand and held it gently, studying her knuckles as he traced them with his fingertip.

“Why did you stop?”

“You’re my ward, Miranda.”

She paused. “So?”

He turned to her, looking into her eyes. “You’re a beautiful girl. But I want you to have choices. If we continue, I’m your only option.”

“There are worse fates,” she said guardedly.

“You don’t know me very well,” he said, then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Besides, your Uncle Jason would kill me.”

She gave a soft, rueful laugh.

He sent her a cautious smile askance. “I think I should go.”

“Where?”

“I’ll find a place to bed down in the barn—”

“Damien!”

He rose. “It’s no trouble. They probably have a hayloft where I can—”

“No!” She captured his wrist in both hands. “Stay! I’ll be good. I give you my word.”

He tilted his head, studying her with a hesitant smile. “I don’t know. . . .”

“You’re exhausted. You won’t get a proper night’s sleep in a stable. For shame! What kind of earl are you? Stay in here where it’s warm.
You
take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“Absolutely not. I am a gentleman,” he said vehemently.

“Ah—wait! I have the perfect plan.” She dashed off the bed abruptly and hurried over to the pile of luggage, retrieving the yet-unused length of cotton bandaging. She brought it over to the bed and unrolled it down the middle. “There. You can have that half of the bed, and I’ll take this half. Whoever crosses the lines does so at his peril.”

He looked skeptically at the bed, neatly divided down the middle, then at her. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“Of course. Why not? I have complete faith in your honor. Please don’t sleep in the stable, Damien,” she cajoled him. “I already feel guilty enough over your getting shot because of me. There, now, I will stay on my side, and you stay on yours. Good night.” Pulling back the coverlet, she slid down under the sheet, rested her head on the pillow, and closed her eyes determinedly.

For the next minute or two, she listened to him pacing about in the room as though he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to do. What a dear, absurd creature he was, she thought in fond amusement, holding very still so as not to scare him away. Just when she peeked with one eye to see what in the world he was about, he blew out the candle and took his place gingerly on the other side of the bed. He made a point of lying atop the coverlet rather than under it, where they might risk their bodies touching.

For a long moment, they lay together in the darkness, separated by the coverlet and the gauzy strip of cotton. Their intense physical awareness of each other thrummed in the air like violin strings tightened to the breaking point, but they were both perfectly silent. Blue-white moonlight streamed in through the large window.

“Stop fidgeting,” he grumbled after a moment, rolling onto his side to face the far wall.

“Sorry.” She looked at his broad back, then heaved an irked sigh because he was shivering. “I don’t mind if you get under the covers, Damien, as long as you stay on your side of the bed.”

“No,” he said stoically.

“Why ever not? I know you’re freezing cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking the whole bed with your shivering. What’s the matter? Are you worried I might cross the little boundary?” she asked in an impetuous surge of mischief, walking her fingers across the strip of cotton and up his side, tickling him.

“Behave yourself!” he scolded, trying to hold back a yelp of laughter, but when he glanced over his shoulder at her, he was smiling. “Good night, Miranda.”