Miranda's Dilemma (7 page)

Under her gaze, his cock went hard as iron.

It grew thicker, longer. Straining against his fall. Aching. He suppressed a grimace.

She returned her gaze to his.

Cold, how could she possibly give such soul-freezing glares when her very presence lit his blood on fire?

“How old did you say you were, my lord?”

He was just short of turning twenty-nine, yet he saw no point in gratifying her by answering. Instead, he drew on his icy reserve, glaring down his nose at her. “Miss Jones, I would like to remind you that you are here solely because I allowed it.”

“Yes, I know. I was merely pointing out the hypocrisy in your reasoning.”

His jaw tensed and leaned down toward her, lowering his voice. “Miss Jones, do you realize that I could have you ejected from this gathering at any time?”

He had spoken tersely, more so than he liked.

She glared up at him, eyes flashing with heated anger.

He caught his breath. He had never seen anything so lovely as that heated anger, that flash of fire. “I mean it.”

She rolled one half-bared shoulder. “Do as you please. You noblemen always do.”

Something in her eyes, in her tone, the barest hint of vulnerability, made him pause. Made him soften, just a fraction. “Go on your way,” he said, far more gently. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, my lord, I shall leave you to your own enjoyments.” She cut a glance at his side. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Miss Garret, hugging her shoulders and looking confused.

When he turned back, he saw Miss Jones walking away.

He had an urge to lunge after her, to grasp her arm, to detain her. He resisted it. He forced himself to remain standing there, watching her leave the card room, his gaze drawn helplessly to the sway of her skirts.

When she had exited the doorway and was out of sight, he turned.

Miss Garret’s mouth was slightly parted, and her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes were huge, suspiciously glossy.

He reached out a hand. What he intended to do with it, he didn’t yet know. “Miss Garret…”

“Y-you…” She choked back a sob.

He took two steps forward and tried to take her hand.

She jerked it back to herself. “You-you—
Oh, God!
”

He frowned. “Miss Garret?”

“I have tried so hard…I really have. Since your wife… you have been so alone and I have wanted to…to… comfort you.”

“Oh, Miss Garret.” An odd sense of regret squeezed at his gut.

A fat tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away with a swipe of her hand that struck him as achingly, pathetically vulnerable.

He tried again to take her hand.

“You never notice me!”

“That’s not…”

“Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth then turned and ran.

He didn’t know if he ought to run after her.

Or let things be.

Miss Caster, who had been occupied with another gentleman, suddenly came rushing towards him. She stopped just short of him. Her normally mild hazel eyes burned into him.

He raised his brows. “Yes, Miss Caster?”

“For a grand nobleman and all your fancy Oxford education and your travels…” Her voice cracked, as though with nervousness.  She stood there, breathing quickly, her small breasts heaving, two bright spots of color on her cheeks.

“Yes?” He prompted.

“She is my dearest friend.”

“And?” he asked, trying not to show his growing impatience. Well, actually, he was surprised at his tolerance for this bit of dramatic nonsense.

But then again, he’d been acting out of character all evening.

“Well, she loves you.”

“
Loves
me?” he said, shocked.

“Yes, can’t you see it?”

“For a nobleman, you’re not…not…”

“Not what?”

“Not very wise.” Then her eyes went wider than ever, and she clamped her hand to her mouth, as though appalled to have so boldly confronted a mighty earl.

“Ah.” He replied for lack of any other ready reply.

“That’s all you have to say on the matter?” Miss Caster asked.

Flustered beyond his ability to respond, he jerked his body ramrod straight and hardened his expression, seeking refuge behind his aristocratic façade. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode towards the exit to the card room.

Tonight, he had misled Miss Garret about his interest in her. That deception, however spontaneous and unintentional, suddenly seemed a heinous act. He wished he could go to her and say…say what?

Something to smooth things over.

Something.

Yet, he knew enough of women to know that nothing he could say would ease this.

A gift.

Yes, definitely. Something expensive but not too expensive, he didn’t wish to mislead her further.

Then he paused.

What the devil was the matter with him?

Agonizing over the offended feelings of a night bird?

He compressed his lips, scanning the dimly lit withdrawing chamber as he entered. Bodies entwined on the various velvet-covered pieces of furniture. A beguilingly sensual tableau.

No sign of Miss Jones.

Had he expected her to drop herself onto a settee with a lover and lift her skirts so quickly?

Well, that all depended, didn’t it?

He knew how easily the most sensible-minded, particular woman could be turned flighty by strong sexual attraction.

Fatally flighty.

That didn’t bear thinking on, did it?

He continued his search of his house.

No sign of Miss Jones.

He stood on the balcony and frowned. Perhaps she had followed Froster’s example and left.

Suddenly, the temperature seemed to have dropped, the air was quite chilly.

Adrian finally spied Miss Jones, on the balcony, laughing and speaking with a group of young men. One of them was a particularly wealthy heir to a baronetcy, not even yet graduated from university.

His eyes narrowed.

Well, she was a true predator after all, wasn’t she?

No wonder she was unconcerned at Froster’s departure.

By God, he wouldn’t allow her to prey on a virtual innocent. Not under his roof. Not under his watch.

He would go to her and ask her to leave.

Immediately.

“Adrian?”

At the feminine whisper, he whirled to face a woman of middle height wearing a dark green mask that matched her gown and complemented her brown and eyes.

Shock jolted through him, and he grasped her by shoulders. “What the devil are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Is Froster here?” She frowned. “Or did he leave with her?”

“Good God.” He took her by the shoulders and pulled her with him into a nearby alcove. “Have you gone mad?”

“No one would ever guess who I am.” She laughed softly. “No one would ever believe such a meek and retiring  lady would ever show herself at such an event.”

“Dorothy…” He ran out of breath before more words came to his shocked brain. “Don’t you trust me to handle this situation?”

“I just had to know, that’s all.”

“Froster left earlier. Alone.”

Her expression relaxed. Her body went limp in his arms. ”Oh.”

He had not realized the extent of her concern with Froster. Now the depth of relief she expressed struck him as odd. He suppressed the concern and caressed her back. “See, I can handle the situation just fine, if you’ll only trust me.”

“Froster went back to Mayfair?”

“I am not certain. I do know that he plans an extended trip to Paris.”

“Paris?” Surprise sounded in her voice.

“Yes…” Adrian’s voice trailed off for she pressed herself into him whilst her hands caressed his shoulders.

At the familiar feel and scent of her, his body, still reeling from the twin stimulation of Miss Garret and Miss Caster, reacted, his erection rising quickly. He felt disconnected from the sensation, for his mind was beset with thoughts of confronting Miss Jones for her outrageous, predatory behavior with such a young, unwitting victim.

The woman in his arms wriggled against his rising erection. Lust reared within him, and he caught his breath.

It would be so easy to bed her, to find hasty relief for his body’s hunger.

But he did not want distraction at this moment. He had business to settle.

“Dorothy…” He reached for her hands and tried to pry her off. “Not now—”

“Why not now?” She tightened her grasp.

“Because I have a house filled with guests.”

“Most of whom are either getting steadily into their cups or are fornicating.”

“You should not be here,” he said firmly. “Let me call for your carriage to be readied.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly turn around yet. I need to rest.”

Dorothy was not a robust traveler. She would need to rest. It would be churlish to send her away tonight.

Yet he did not want her here.

He couldn’t say exactly why. Logic dictated that it was because of fear for her reputation should she be discovered.

But he knew it wasn’t that. It was something about having his lover and Miss Jones under the same roof that seemed somehow…unholy.

Unholy?

Good grief.

He was becoming ridiculous.

With a stout internal shake, he took a more firm hold of Dorothy’s wrists and pulled her away. Then he took her hand. “Come, upstairs where you may refresh yourself and rest. But you must leave by morning.”

Dorothy went  with him and Adrian left her to the care of his housekeeper. Then he went in search of Miss Jones, only now there was no sign of her.

She must have gone to someone’s private chamber. The knowing ate him alive inside.

* * * *

Quiet. Strange how such quiet sank into the bones even whilst one’s ears still vibrated from the boisterous piano playing and laughter of the night before. The early morning mist had faded, burnt away by the sunrise. Squinting against the painful onslaught from the ball of bright yellow on the horizon, Adrian leaned his arms over the iron railing, feeling the cold metal through his banyan sleeves. Cold from the wood floor also bled through to his stockinged feet. Autumn was coming. He cupped his hands about his teacup, enjoying the warmth against his bare hands and recalled those moments  with Dorothy last night, right before he’d taken her to his bed.

“What if this were the last time?” Dorothy had asked, pressing her body to his.

“Why should there ever be a last time?” he replied.

“I might get married.”

“You would never get married again. You said you would never marry again.”

“Women change their minds.”

He sagged more heavily against the railing. Every muscle in his body was limp. Wrung out. Spent. His balls were like leaden weights.

He ought have sent Dorothy to bed alone, so that she might have gone to sleep early enough to leave at dawn for her home. Instead, he had  crawled into the guest chamber bed and taken her several times over in a rare excess of lust.

He’d done it to seek relief from the ever-present ache for another.

Miss Miranda Jones.

Had that been fair to Dorothy?

No, it had not.

But just knowing that Miss Jones was sleeping here, in his house.

It had all driven him to prove to himself that one woman was as good as another.

Now that ache seemed centered in a slightly sick feeling in his stomach. An empty aching sensation in his chest. He couldn’t deny what that feeling was. It was self-disgust.

Regret.

He caught himself rubbing the center of his chest and, with a scowl, he forced himself to stop.

Alright, so he let his lust for that girl drive him in to a night of sexual excess. And the uncharacteristic carnal indulgence didn’t sit so well with his personal standards?

No matter.

He would call for a hot bath. Then he would soak away every last remnant of the night’s excesses, and, whilst he did, he would wash the bitter taste of self-disgust and regret down his gullet with a healthy portion of brandy.

Then he would sleep.

And think of all of this no more.

The bath did work.

His abused body relaxed and seemed to forgive him to some small degree, for he no longer felt as though he would collapse. Or that his stones would drop to the floor.

A wave of delicious fatigue passed through him. He looked forward to crawling under his covers, blessedly alone, and sleeping like the dead for many, many hours.