Page 25 of My Wicked Earl
5
CAMBOURNE HOUSE 1830
“Lord Cambourne has been detained, Mr. Hartley. Would you prefer to wait in the drawing room or perhaps the gardens?”
The Cambourne’s butler, a large, thin man who walked as if he had a stick up his bum moved towards the stairs and waited for Colin to respond. For the life of him, Colin couldn’t remember the man’s name, and the butler did not offer it, even though Colin had dined at Cambourne House at least four times in the last two weeks.
“The gardens I think.”
The day was bright without a hint of the dull, gray haze that usually colored the London sky. How anyone could live in a place where the sun rarely appeared mystified Colin. Trapped as he had been the last few months amongst the tall, smog-stained buildings and constant hum of thousands of people, he longed for the pure air of Ireland and Estervale. It felt as if he were slowly suffocating in London.
In truth, he could leave London if he wished to.
I don’t wish to.
Instead, Colin took the lease on a small but cozy set of rooms in a neighborhood peopled with shopkeepers and tradesmen. The partnership with Lord Wently was proving profitable and for the first time in his life, Colin had a bit of money in his pocket. Lord Wently assured him that more would be forthcoming.
Viscount Lindley was appalled at Colin’s accommodations. Repulsed might be a better word. The area, Nick claimed, was unfashionable.Tawdry. Colin didn’t even have a decent valet. And why, Nick questioned even though he surely knew the answer, did Colin insist on staying in London?
The butler strode towards a pair of French doors. “This way, Mr. Hartley.”
The house was still and quiet as Colin made his way inside, only the sound of his boots against the marble floor broke the silence.
A pair of maids came around the corner, bobbing in greeting as they passed, giggling softly into their hands as he smiled at them.
The butler halted slightly, brow raised in disapproval at the two women, and they scurried off, but not before shooting Colin another appreciative glance.
Bevers? Basin?He struggled to remember the butler’s name as the man lead him down the hall. The butler was a particular favorite of Miranda.
Ah,Miranda.
Just the thought of her shot a bolt of lust through him. He’d seen her only briefly last night at the ball hosted by the Earl and Countess of Braeburn. Sipping a horrible French wine, he’d never taken his eyes off her silk clad form as she spun about the dance floor with a young man Colin later learned was Lord St. Remy. St. Remy, Lady Cambourne had cheerfully informed Colin as she passed him on her way to the refreshment table, was the heir to the Duke of Langford. Colin’s eyes had lovingly traced every generous curve, wishing desperately it was his hands touching her waist instead of Lord St. Remy. Or any of the other overly pedigreed twits in the room , for Miranda was rarely without a partner.
She had probably danced until the wee hours and was still abed.
God. Miranda in bed. Preferably, his bed. He could see her in his mind’s eye, reclining back against a mountain of fluffy white pillows, her ebony locks trickling down her shoulders in wild disarray. He imagined lying next to her lush form. His fingers tugging at the silken bow on her chemise. The knot and the fabric would part to reveal her glorious breasts. He would—
“Mr. Hartley?” The butler raised a brow as Colin missed a step and nearly toppled a vase of moonlight roses.
Christ, this was madness.
Colin tried desperately to conjure up an image of Miranda as she had been, a chubby annoying child, with dirt on the hem of her dress as she chased frogs in the stream. But it was no use. All he could think of was the kiss they’d shared at the Dunbar Ball. The way Miranda’s body had curved into his. The way she breathed his name.
Nick, you miserable bastard. You sent Miranda to me. Deliberately.
Lord Cambourne had asked him to dine the previous night, and he’d only been able to smile stupidly at Miranda from across the table.
Miranda, for her part, never gave any indication that they’d shared a kiss. Or, that she’d allowed Colin to run his hands over her body.
Colin could still feel the swell of her breasts beneath his hand.
When she spoke, in the absurd circling way she favored, Miranda had the most endearing habit of using her hands, almost as if they were props in whatever story she related.
He couldn’t take his eyes off those lovely, slender hands. All he could think of was peeling back her gloves to see the swath of skin at her wrist. For Miranda’s fingers to slide down the length of his chest to the waistband of his trousers, touch the buttons—
He stumbled again, and this time Bevins sniffed the air, as if trying to ascertain whether Colin had been drinking.
The butler stopped at the end of the hall, swinging open a pair of French doors.
