Page 12 of My Wicked Earl
Why hadn’t she married St. Remy? After all, that had been her plan six years ago. To marry the heir to a duchy. Become a duchess. Stroll about uselessly like every other titled lady of theton. Spend her days deciding on which gown to wear to some ridiculous ball.
Indeed, why hadn’t she married at all?
Colin had done a wonderful job of steering clear of London and in doing so, avoidingher.But as luck would have it, his first night in London, she appeared in the Dunbar town house. In the confusion of the disappearance of Nick’s betrothed and his sister, Arabella’s role in the kidnapping, Colin found himself face to face with the one thing he’d been desperately trying to escape for so many years.
Miranda.
The bitterness rose up again at what she’d done. He didn’t wish to see her. Or speak to her.
He turned, meaning to leave and call on the Dowager another day.
A giggle sounded from the couch, halting his movement toward the door, as potent as a siren’s song.
It wouldn’t hurt just to look at her.
Unlike so many ladies of thetonwho eschewed books as if they were the plague, Miranda was reading. A pillow embroidered with a spray of butterflies lay across her stomach, a book propped up against it. A pair of discarded slippers lay on the floor beside the couch, as if she’d just kicked them off. Her stockinged toes wiggled as she read, sliding over the couch and into the space between the cushions in a sensuous motion.
A gentle flip of his stomach at the sight of her filled him with the most intense longing, a not so subtle reminder that time didnotheal all wounds.
There was not a bit of Miranda that did not call to Colin, beckoning his mind and his body. The fluttering of her hands, waving them about in excitement as she told him of a lecture on ancient Greece. The way she spoke, her topics and words winding into each other in such a way that one must pay close attention or be confused. The way she breathed his name in a litany as she came apart in his arms.
The delicate, feminine hand in which she wrote the words that destroyed him.
‘While I’ve enjoyed our flirtation, Colin, we both knew this would end. I find that while I bear you no small amount of affection I am ill-prepared to become only Mrs. Hartley. The daughter of a Marchioness cannot possibly marry a third son with no prospects. I’ve decided to accept the suit of Lord St. Remy at my mother’s urging. He’s to be a duke one day and I shall be a duchess.”
Colin swallowed, his eyes still on her dark cloud of hair, remembering the shock as his grandmother’s ring, the one he’d left for her, rolled out of the envelope and into his palm.
Miranda was so absorbed in her book that she still hadn’t sensed his presence. What in the world was she reading that held her interest? He told himself he was only curious about the book she held. After all, he considered it research of sorts.
Colin stepped carefully across the sitting room’s plush rug until he stood directly behind her. The vantage point gave him an exceptional view of her bodice and the crevice between the mounds of her breasts. He narrowed his eyes, at a disadvantage without the glasses he sometimes used.
Miranda was reading the latest Lord Thurston novel.
Colin had to bite his lip from laughing. How delightfully ironic.
She giggled again, a light musical sound, and snuggled deeper into the couch.
What in the world could she find so amusing about Lord Thurston? The tales of a disinherited earl turned pirate and his ladylove were thrilling. Romantic. Some would say slightly lurid. But, certainly not amusing.
Tempting fate and himself, Colin leaned over Miranda, watching in fascination as the dark blonde tips of his hair mingled against the ebony curls. Closing his eyes, he took a deep silent breath, allowing her scent to permeate his senses. He knew men who had an addiction to opium or drink. It must feel like this. The almost insane need for the very thing that would destroy you. He should never have asked the Dowager’s help, nor come to Cambourne House. A dreadful miscalculation on his part.
Opening his eyes, he bent down to whisper in her ear, loving the way her hair tickled his nose.
“Lord Thurston? How scandalous, Lady Miranda.”
3
“Marcella!”
Marcella tried to wrench her arm away from the pirate captain but succeeded only in tearing the sleeve of her dress. A feeling of desperation filled her as she realized that Captain Mohab might well use her as he had the poor women now cowering in the ship’s hold.
Captain Mohab leered at her while she fought back his advances. She looked up into the rigging hoping for a glimpse of the one man who would be her salvation.
Lord Thurston.
She had not seen him in several days, not since Captain Mohab had taken her captive in Jamaica. Lord Thurston had danced with her at the Governor’s Ball, then disappeared into the night mist as if he’d never been there. Captain Mohab and his crew snatched her from her father’s carriage as she made her way home.
But she knew Lord Thurston would come for her. He had to. He was her only hope.
