Page 11 of The Lost Lord
“If you want to tell him, go right ahead, Miriam. I do believe he would appreciate the company.” Lizzie turned to Spencer and kissed him. How long before word of her most recent dalliance got back to Arthur?
It wasn’t her affair. Miriam turned away from the sight and hurried away from the party. The whitewashed exterior glowed in the rising moonlight. Before she could second-guess herself, she gathered her skirts and bounded up the steps. She rapped loudly at the door. Footfalls on floorboards indicated someone was inside. Her heart leapt into her throat as the rough door scraped open.
“Hello, Miss Walsh.”
Miriam gulped. Lord Northcote had just finished shaving. She recognized the scent of his soap, besides which the man was naked to the waist, his shirt flung carelessly over a nearby chair. A single candle in a glass dome flickered next to the washstand.
“I—”
“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine? As you see, I am not quite ready for the evening’s entertainments.” His dark eyes dared her to wickedness. Lightheaded, Miriam held his gaze. He smirked and turned his back, giving her a full view of the play of his muscles and the indentation of his spine. Richard’s broad shoulders sloped into narrow hips and two tight rounds of buttocks. Miriam exhaled at the thought of grasping them with both hands as he…did ungentlemanly things between her thighs. The specifics of what he would do there remained vague in her imagination. Miriam had been horrified when Mrs. Kent had explained the mechanics of sexuality to her. Yet the idea of twining their bodies together held a sudden, visceral appeal.
Inside the little cabin, A bottle of wine sat on the table. There was only one glass, with a red ring in the bottom. Lord Richard poured water into the vessel, tossed it, and wiped the rim with a rag.
“Yes. Please.” Miriam needed the glass of wine, after the hot flush of desire that left her weak-kneed. She was deeply aware that she had broken every rule by coming here. “May I take it on the porch while you finish your preparations?”
“Of course. I admire your sense of propriety, Miss Walsh.” Richard returned and passed the glass through the door. Their fingertips brushed as she accepted the vessel. Another ripple of desire ran up her arm like a stone thrown into a pond at the light contact. “I was not sure whether I would be welcome at the party this evening.”
“You are. I have come to personally ask you to the dance.” Miriam thought her words came out smoothly considering the turmoil that made the red liquid in her cup tremble on account of weak fingers.
“Then I shall attend, Miss Walsh, on one condition. You must promise me a waltz.”
Miriam shivered. “Of course.”
She returned outside and held the wine glass unsteadily. Miriam could envision herself promising Lord Northcote anything he asked of her.
* * *
Richard keptsilent as they walked along the path. The sounds of merriment echoed into the night: barks of laughter, the ebb and flow of voices in conversation. Threaded through the sounds were strains of music.
Before anyone could spot them, Richard reached forward and tugged her hand. “Wait. You should go in first. I don’t need the guilt of taking a shine off your sterling reputation, Miss Walsh.”
“I confess myself touched at your concern for my welfare, Lord Northcote,” she responded breathlessly.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you?” Miriam asked, pressing closer to his strong body. The hard press of his thighs against her skirts sent a fluttery sensation through her midsection.
“Richard. In truth, I am called lord only by courtesy.” His arm braced at the small of her back. Too familiar but too delicious to make him stop. A warm summer breeze kissed her exposed skin at the neckline of her modest, girlish gown and her forearms, but it did little to cool the heat on her cheeks.
“What does that mean, precisely?” she asked.
“It means I am in no danger of inheriting a title. I am only styled lord because I had the very good fortune of being born to an earl,” he explained in a bored tone. Richard must have tried to explain this to many of her fellow countrymen.
“Then, why won’t you be an earl one day? Isn’t that how it works?” After the unthinkable happened. Miriam shuddered at the thought. This was not a night to summon death.
“Because there is only one earldom, and I have an older brother who has inherited it,” Richard replied patiently.
“Oh,” Miriam replied, feeling small. Of course, there would only be a single heir. Primogeniture wasn’t the law here as it was in England, but she had read about it.
“The only way I can become the earl is if my brother and his newborn son were to perish,” Richard continued. “I am not such a monster as to desire the death of a babe.” He paused. “Though undoubtedly some would describe me as such.”
“Why?” she asked. But he only cast her a sidelong glance and sighed.
Miriam felt as though she should offer him something in return for his rueful confession. “You can call me Miri if you like. Only my father and Lizzie do now. It sounds childish, though.”
“I disagree. It is beautiful, and perfectly suited to a goddess of the night.” He caressed her jaw with the back of one knuckle. She raised her face to his and found Richard staring at her with a hooded, unreadable gaze. Miriam glanced away.
“I never had a nickname.” His arm fell away from her waist, and they continued along the beach as though the intimate moment hadn’t happened. Miriam would have called his words sad, but the lament in his voice conveyed too much raw pain for such a tepid description.
