Page 26 of My Wicked Earl
The smell of flowers and wet earth met Colin’s nostrils and he took a deep breath of the familiar aroma.
Bevins shot him a suspicious look. He’d probably count the silver once Colin left.
Nodding politely to the butler, Colin stepped onto the flagstone path and made his way into the gorgeous gardens of Cambourne House.
Stopping before a large rosebush, Colin attempted to think of something else besides the desire to bed Miranda. If he cleared his mind perhaps the raging erection straining against his trousers would abate. This was madness, this obsession with Miranda. It could not end well.
He took a deep breath, focusing on a yellow butterfly flitting around the rose buds. The butterfly, as beautiful as it was, had once been nothing more than a plump, annoying caterpillar before undergoing a metamorphosis, much like Miranda.
“Bloody butterfly,” he hissed, taking out his annoyance on the insect.
“Are you cursing at the butterfly, Mr. Hartley? Whatever has it done to you?”
Anticipation coursed through him, and his heart thudded almost painfully in his chest.
Miranda.
Damn it.
They had not been alone in each other’s company since the Dunbar Ball. If he visited her father, Miranda was a wisp of silk that floated by the study doors. She would greet him warmly, as one did a friend of the family. At a ball or fete, the few that Colin attended, Miranda was always surrounded by admirers, her mother hovering nearby to ensure the suitability of the gentlemen who paid her daughter court.
Colin was not considered even remotely suitable.
He turned towards her voice and found Miranda no more than ten feet from him, hidden beneath the branches of a willow tree. She was sitting on a worn patchwork blanket, her bonnet tossed to the side, a large book propped up on a pillow next to her. The title was stamped in gold across the front and on the spine -Ancient Embalming Techniques of the Egyptians.A small tray in front of her held slices of apple and several raisin cakes.
Colin’s heart seemed to lift out of his chest to race towards her.
“Good Morning, Lady Miranda.” He bowed slightly, begging his lower body to not tighten anew at the sight of her.
An impish smiled crossed her lips in greeting.
She looked impossibly beautiful. A thick braid of inky black hung over her shoulder, tiny wisps curling about her temples. She wore a simple muslin gown covered with embroidered flowers. The sheen of grass stains dotted her skirts, probably from laying out the blanket.
Or catching frogs.
Her deep green eyes sparkled in the late morning sun as she looked up at him.
“Good Morning, Mr. Hartley. What brings you to my garden? I’m sure it’s not just to curse at the butterflies.”
Miranda’s skin was luminous, with the glow of a fresh peach. Her cheekbones were dappled with light and shadow where the sunlight filtered down through the leaves above her head. Bees hummed and buzzed through the roses in the garden and several birds fluttered off at his approach.
Colin imagined this was what heaven would be like, at leasthisversion of heaven.
“I had an appointment with Lord Cambourne this morning, but he’s been detained. I thought to await him in the gardens, it being such a beautiful day. I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Oh, yes. That mysterious project my father is assisting you with. The one he won’t discuss withme.” Miranda pouted a bit but her eyes sparkled. “Perhaps you’ll tell me one day.”
It was oddly gratifying to know she’d inquired.
“Not mysterious. It has not yet come to fruition though, and so I don’t wish to make more of it than I should.” Colin liked the thought of telling Miranda, she who’d adored his stories at Gray Covington. “If it does, I promise to let you in on my secret.”
“I find myself incredibly intrigued, Mr. Hartley. I should adore being part of your project.”
She already was, though she didn’t realize it.
Miranda patted a spot on the blanket in invitation. “Sit with me. Father was called to his solicitor’s. He’ll be gone for a bit, I imagine. Mr. Chartwick, though a delightful man, can be quite talkative.” She giggled. “Oh, I suppose that’s the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”
Christ, I want her.
