Page 56 of My Wicked Earl
Sitting in the darkness of his study at Runshaw Park, it was far easier to pretend he didn’t still want her. At Runshaw Park he couldn’t see the glossy black of her hair, nor hear the musical sound of her voice. Nor smell lavender and honey. Alone at his estate his heart didn’t feel as if it had cracked, bleeding feeling back into his body. For too many years Colin had pushed aside the depths of his feelings.
Mine.
Taking a deep breath, he motioned for the footman to bring him wine, wishing he could ask for whiskey. It would take a great deal of wine to blot out the sight of Ridley and Miranda before him.
12
How could she possibly eat with Colin sitting directly across from her?
Miranda usually had the healthiest of appetites, a fact her mother had always found appalling. Little did Lady Jeanette know that the perfect way to destroy Miranda’s appetite would have been to watch Colin with another woman.
Lady Helen sat preening like one of those bloody birds she adored, a gloved hand lingering a bit longer than necessary on Colin’s arm as she leaned in to ask him a question. Several feathers waved about in Lady Helen’s coiffure, one of which Miranda thought resembled that of a turkey. The stupid feather would stroke against Colin’s cheek as Lady Helen leaned in to murmur in his ear.
Miranda did not care for Lady Helen when first they met earlier in the year and cared less for her now. Adorning oneself with enough feathers that you resembled a bird of plumage rather than a woman was absurd. She longed to pull the possible turkey feather from Lady Helen’s hair and swat her with it.
“Perhaps a walk in the garden later, Lady Miranda?”
Miranda nodded, caring little for anything Ridley said. Was it something about walking in the garden? When had she begun to find him so annoying? So predictable?
I thought Ridley to be handsome and intelligent. Once.
Her eyes slid to Colin, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his long, elegant fingers, the movement smooth and graceful. Exactly the way he’d once touched her.
Candlelight caressed the high cheekbones and sculpted planes of his face, shadowing the scar that trailed down the left side of his cheek. His hair gleamed like dark gold where it brushed the edges of his collar. Colin was devoid of ornamentation save his signet ring which glittered dully in the light of the table. Dressed all in black except for the white of his shirt, he looked beautiful and damaged, like a fallen angel.
It hurt, how beautiful he was. How he’d once belonged to her.
Hunger flickered in the dark eyes as he watched her, the pads of his fingers lingering over the stem of his glass.
Heat bubbled over Miranda’s skin as if a torch had been taken to it. The tips of her nipples tingled in the most pleasurable way. As she took a deep breath, her breasts pressed painfully against the confines of her bodice.
Colin’s lips twitched, his eyes no longer focused on her face.
Hamill droned on about some bill he would introduce in Parliament while Ridley regaled her with gossip from some trip he’d taken to Bath. She barely heard either one of them. Every particle of her body was focused on Colin.
Colin brought the glass of wine to his lips in a languid manner, his heavy lidded gaze catching hers, as if he were drinking her and not the wine. His tongue flicked out against the rim to lick off a drop of the dark purple liquid.
A rush of wetness slid between Miranda’s thighs and she shifted in her seat. The way he toyed with the wine glass reminded her of the stroke of his fingers inside-
“Lady Miranda?”
She turned, irritated that Ridley disturbed her from what was a rather delightful fantasy.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Ridley. I fear my mind wandered a bit. You were saying?” She squeezed her legs together. It was incredibly inappropriate to have one’s body throbbing while the soup course was being taken away.
Ridley shot her an indulgent look as if she were an errant puppy.
Miranda knew he thought her simple minded, which was odd given her reputation as a blue-stocking. Few men, it seemed, believed a woman intelligent, especially if a woman was remotely attractive and titled.
Miranda wished to ball up her napkin and toss it at his nose.
“I was asking how you enjoyed Lady Willingham’s fete last week?”
“Delightful.” Overblown and tedious, Lady Willingham’s fete had been many things but decidedlynotdelightful. She’d been grateful for the headache that erupted after an hour for it gave her an excuse to return home.
Lady Helen’s laughter trilled across the table.
Good Lord, she sounds like a wounded goose.
