Page 67 of The Major's Mistake
She went to fetch the roll of soft material, only to stop short at the sight of the neat arrangement of the Marquess’s things on the burled walnut top. There were the same two silver backed brushes she had seen every morning of her marriage. Such a trivial little thing, but it was that which was her undoing.
All at once her shoulders began to shake.
“Miranda?”
She refused to turn around.
“Miranda! Please, tell me what’s the matter!”
She fought down a rising wave of hysteria. How could she possibly explain?
Her hand brushed angrily at the trickle of tears. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
There was a thud as his feet hit the floor. He lurched forward, steadying himself on the back of the chair to keep from ending up in a heap at her feet.
“Julian! You mustn’t?—”
Then she was in his arms, her wet cheek pressed against his shoulder.
“There, you see, I won’t fall now,” he murmured in he ear. “I have you to support me.” He held her even tighter. “Won’t you tell me why you are crying?”
“It’s so ridiculous.” And in truth, she felt like an utter fool for having turned into the worst sort of watering pot over something so absurd. She tried to raise her head, but his hand prevented her from pulling away.
“Please. Tell me,” he urged.
“The brushes,” she said haltingly, her body going stiff with embarrassment. “It’s such a silly thing, I know. But?—”
Julian’s eyes filled with understanding. “We bought them on Bond Street. You had chosen a silver comb and cachepot for your earrings,” he whispered. “To tease you, I chose the most extravagant set of brushes I could find. The design is still as hideous as ever, is it not?”
Miranda wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying.
He lifted her chin and his lips came down upon hers.
The kiss fairly seared her senses. It was hard, possessive, full of need, and this time her response was more than fleeting. She opened her mouth to his demand and their tongues entwined.
A groan rumbled in his throat as he thrust in deeper, drinking in the taste of her. Their bodies arched closer together. Miranda could feel every taut muscle and plane of his body through the thin fabric of his nightshirt.
She gave a low cry as he released her mouth to trail a string of kisses along the line of her jaw. Her hands came up to tangle in his long raven locks as she sought out his lips once more.
“I thought the two of you might like some tea.” Sykes stepped through the half opened door with a silver tray in his hands. “Shall I—” The words died in his throat, a look of sheer mortification spreading across his leathery face. “Good Lord, I didn’t realize I was … interrupting …” He started to edge backwards.
Miranda gave a horrified gasp and tried to push away from Julian’s chest. “No! You are not interrupting—that is, it is not exactly what you might think,” she stammered. “His Lordship was attempting to walk and ...”
“And making great strides, it appears,” quipped Sykes, unable to repress a grin.
Miranda went scarlet and her head dropped in embarrassment.
The valet looked stricken on realizing what he had unwittingly done. “Please, milady, I shan’t forgive myself if I’ve gone and upset you.”
“The fault is not yours, it’s mine,” she said in a small voice.
Sykes shook his head. “As far as I can see, ma’am, there’s no fault at all. I daresay nothing in the least wrong has occurred. When two people?—”
“Everythingwrong has occurred,” she interrupted, her voice made shrill by overwrought emotions. “It’s wrong that I came to the Marquess’s residence. It’s wrong that I should be in his bedchamber, in his arms. And it’s most certainly wrong that I return his embraces?—”
Julian gently drew her back into his arms. “No, my love, it’s entirely right. A man may kiss his wife?—”
“But I amnotyour wife anymore.”
