This Rake of Mine (21 page)

Their appetites were the least of his worries; it was their curiosity that he wanted to blight.

Miranda had no choice but to follow the girls up and into the tower. Her protests about the dangers of such a climb were met with a bored look from Felicity.

What did she expect? The Langley sisters had crossed the Russian steppes in the dead of winter, braved the trip to and from India, and toured the bazaars of Constantinople.

Albin's Folly probably presented no more danger to the intrepid pair than an afternoon tea with one of the more exacting patronesses of Almack's.

Yet she couldn't let them go up there alone with Lord John, so there was no choice in the matter but to trail along behind.

Once inside, she found it wasn't quite as dark and dreary as one might have thought. Daylight stole in from the narrow slits in the stone, crisscrossing the rising stairs like mummers' ribbons.

The stairs curved around the walls, only wide enough for one person to traverse them. The higher they rose, the more dangerous it became, for there was no railing, only the occasional handhold.

Jack strode nimbly up the steps, and only when he was a quarter of the way up did he glance back to see how she was faring.

"Do you need a hand, Miss Porter?" He held his out for her.

"No," she told him, probably a little too sharply, for the idea of having to hold his hand startled her more than the idea of plummeting to her death.

She might be resolved not to trust him, but that didn't mean he still didn't have some influence over her—for even as she watched him climb before her, it was difficult not to give his athletic form a bit of scrutiny. Those broad shoulders, muscular legs encased in tight breeches, and his tight…

Miranda closed her eyes and chastised herself for even looking at his… his… oh, bother, his derrière.

There was no question now, this place was making her as addled as Mrs. Hibbert's second cousin. It was the only explanation as to her fascination with his charms… his kiss… and dare she admit it? His tight and well-shaped backside.

She shook her head. It was as if every lesson in modesty she'd ever taught had deserted her.

Luckily for her overwhelmed senses, he climbed up into the top of the tower and out of sight. So, she continued onward and upward, silently recounting every lesson she could recall on the evils of unrepentant rakes.

When she arrived, Jack and the girls stood by one of the large open windows.

Miranda came closer, until she looked out and realized just how far down it was to the waves below. Sited as it was at the edge of the cliff, and rising five stories above that, the top floor of the folly made her dizzy.

"Afraid of heights?" Jack asked as she took a hasty step back.

"Not in the least," she told him, steeling herself and returning to the window.

Below, the waves crashed into the shore, while before them, the Channel stretched for as far as the eye could see.

"Can you really see France from here, Jack?" Tally asked, obviously disappointed not to be able to see its foreign shores.

He nodded, and reached up onto a shelf, pulling down a looking glass for her. "See for yourself."

She held it up to her eye and peered through it for a few moments. Then a great smile spread across her face. "Look, Felicity, France!" the girl said excitedly, handing it over to her sister.

Felicity took her turn, then pointed the glass down toward the ground. "There's Pippin waving at us to come down for nuncheon." She handed the glass to Jack. "We'd best hurry or she'll have taken all the cakes for herself." She caught Tally's hand and all but towed her sister down the stairs, leaving Jack and Miranda completely alone.

"That was subtle," he said, smiling at the now empty space beside them.

"What do you mean?" Miranda asked, trying to feign innocence. The last thing she needed was for him to suspect their true reasons for being here.

"Their efforts at matchmaking," he said, circling around her, confirming her worst fears.

She turned slowly, watching him. "I don't think that's at all what they—"

He tipped his head at her as if he expected her to do better than that.

"Tis a ridiculous notion, sir," she told him, her hands going to her hips. "I have no desire to be 'matched.' "

"Then you had best make sure the Duchess knows of your wishes, or you will continue to find yourself alone with me." He eyed her again, then continued circling her like a tomcat.

Blessed saints, couldn't the man just stand still? What with the heights up here, and his spinning around her like a top, she was about to topple over.

"Their efforts—if you insist on calling them that—will come to naught," she said. "And do stop moving about like that, you are making me dizzy."

"Perhaps it's your corset," he teased.

"My wh-what?" she stammered, feeling as if he'd just tugged her strings tighter.

"Your corset." He pointed at her gown, and she felt her nipples tighten as if he'd touched her there. "I would imagine you have it too tight."

And suddenly it felt too snug, for he was coming closer, closing the gap between them, and she was having trouble breathing.

He's a wretch. He's trying to distract you again
, she told herself. But her body wasn't listening. Her breasts felt heavy, her thighs ached, her mouth was dry. In a heartbeat, she was sixteen again, pressed against the wall of the Opera House, and his hands, his lips were upon her…

"Leave my corset out of this," she managed to say.

"It would be no trouble, Miss Porter," he said, coming to stand just behind her. "I have a knack for these things."

Oh, yes, well I know…

"My lord, if this is more of your infamous charm, I would like to point out that I'm—"

"I could loosen it for you," he offered, moving behind her.

She gasped.
Loosen her corset?

"So you wouldn't have so much trouble breathing," he said in a low, heated voice.

"I'm… not… having… any trouble… breathing," she wheezed.

"Ah, but I think you are," he whispered into her ear, his heated breath fanning across her shoulder, leaving her trembling, unable even to draw a breath.

Then, when she thought she couldn't take any more of this, he caught her in his arms and spun her around so that she faced him. His grasp was sure and commanding, his body hard against hers. That hardness was a shock in itself, for it frightened her and made her long for something she didn't understand.

"My lord—" she managed to whisper.

"Jack," he told her, his hand cupping her backside and tugging her up against him. Up against his masculine length.

"Oooh," she gasped, what sounded more like a moan than a protest. There was no denying that he had her spellbound and full of longing. Willing to give herself over to the inexplicable desires he brought boiling and tossing to the surface with only his touch.

She was lost already, and he hadn't even kissed her.

Jack had never taken a woman in anything other than mutual seduction, but he knew he was crossing the line with Miss Porter.

Damn the woman and her red hair. She had been a fixture in his dreams for months, and now with her at Thistleton Park, she was driving him mad.

Mad with desire. And that didn't even take into account her meddling ways and her persistent questions.

But she could only act so long, and he was about to test her resolve and see how far she would play this game of cat and mouse.

Staring down at her, he wondered which part in the contest he had. It hadn't taken but a moment of teasing, a second to haul her into his arms, and he'd gone hard with desire. It was instantaneous and downright painful the way this woman tempted him.

Not that he was the only one being affected. Her hips had met his with feline appreciation, rocking against him, tracing his hardness in heady exploration.

His hands roamed over her back, where he could feel the smooth line of her corset, which meant the strings were in the front. From the back of his throat, a growl came out, a male celebration at the idea of opening her corset from the front, of freeing her ripe, full breasts one at a time and taking one of her taut nipples in his mouth.

He nuzzled her neck and whispered into her ear, "Come now, Miss Porter, let me see all your secrets. Let me
taste
them."

She shivered, even as his hand cupped one of her breasts, found the nipple there, and rolled over it.

His hunger for her knew no bounds and so he sought her lips, sought her mouth so he could taste her, while his hand went to work on her knotted corset strings.

What sort of woman knotted her corset strings twice?

But before he could lower his lips to hers, before he could devour her with a kiss, mark her and make her his…

"Miss Porter? Miss Porter? Are you coming down?" Pippin called out from the stairs. "Mr. Birdwell says the picnic is ready."

The girl's words were enough to break Miss Porter out of the spell he'd cast.

"Goodness!" she gasped, pushing herself out of his arms. "Leave me be." Her cheeks flamed to a deep blush.

The panic in her words snapped something inside him and he released her instantly, stepping back from her and seeing all too clearly the truth.

What the devil had he been thinking? This was no seductive spy sent to ferret out the secrets of Thistleton Park. One look into her eyes, at the mixture of fear and desire that had driven her into flight, and he knew the truth. She was no more than a spinster.

A passionate one, but from the color of her cheeks, more innocent than not.

And he, a lonely man with obligations that weighed so heavily on his heart and soul that he'd wanted to believe something of her that wasn't true.

And in the process, he'd made a fool of himself.

"I… I…" he stammered.

"You, sir, are no gentleman," she whispered.

Jack's guilt melted slightly. It wasn't as if he was the only one up here still filled with desire. Her nipples poked out from her bodice, and he had to imagine she was as wet as she was hopping mad. "And you are no lady."

"How dare you!" she sputtered as she snapped up her shawl and wound it back around her shoulders. "And I suppose you are going to claim I encouraged you."

"You didn't protest when your scheming little charges left us up here alone." She sputtered again, but he didn't let her have a chance to get a word in. "Then again I suppose those girls see what neither of us is willing to admit, Miss Porter," he told her.

"And what would that be?"

"We're well matched." With that, he winked at her and left her stammering and sputtering after him as he made his way down the stairs.

Well matched! And he didn't mean in the marital sense, she had to imagine. The odious man. Miranda paced about the top floor of the tower, struggling to compose herself.

How had he overcome her so easily? She paused for a second, feeling foolish. That wasn't so difficult to answer, given the way her heart still pounded furiously in her chest, the ache of longing between her legs—slick and hot and tight from having had his rock-hard manhood thrust up against her.

She was trying with all her might to ignore the fact that her hips had rocked rebelliously against him. Ignore the desire to touch herself there and finish what he'd started.

Oh, if Jack was right about anything, she was no lady. For what kind of woman found herself standing in an empty tower, panting and longing for a man who was the worst sort of rake?

A man capable of almost anything.

Almost anything
… He had let her go when she had protested. If he hadn't, if he'd continued his determined seduction, managed to gain her mouth, kiss her protests away, she didn't trust that her "no's" wouldn't have turned to sighs of
Please, Jack. Please!

Cut my corset strings. Strip me of this proper gown. Torment my dreams no longer.

Miranda went to the open window and took a deep breath of the bracing, salty air rising from the crashing waves below. Then another and then as many as it took to clear her thoughts.

She turned from the window and sat down on the only thing in the room, a sturdy sea chest. However was she going to escape him for the next fourteen hours? Until the sun rose again and she could hightail it away from Thistleton Park to her nice, safe house on the far side of Kent?

She rocked back and forth, her knees curled up to her chest, as she considered her choices. Seeking shelter at Sir Norris's was one option, but as improper as Jack may be, Sir Norris was… well, Miranda shuddered and dismissed the man from her thoughts.

Her hand dropped absently to the side of the chest and her fingers curved around a thick padlock.

A lock?

This stopped her musings in their tracks and brought forth her natural curiosity. Whatever would one keep up here that required such a sturdy lock? She got up from her perch and stared down at the chest. She couldn't imagine how it had been hauled up here, but in the next instant, she had to wonder what was in the box that had been deemed so important it had been carried up five floors.

She glanced over her shoulder at the opening in the floor where Jack had disappeared. The echo of his tromping footsteps had long since faded away, so he was well and gone.

So she looked back at the chest again.

No, you shouldn't
, she tried telling herself,
'Tis improper to snoop.

Then again, as he'd said to her last night, she'd left proper behind when she'd arrived at his house.

Besides, the lock was fast, so there really wasn't any chance of opening the thing… unless the key could be found.

She straightened and looked around the room slowly, her eyes narrowing as she made her sweeping inspection.

If he had taken to a life of crime, say like smuggling, to support himself, then she felt a measure of guilt over the situation.

You are responsible for his fall
, she told herself.
If Father hadn't lied about me being dead and Jack had been able to make an honorable offer for me (which I would have refused without question), he might have led a respectable life
.