Page 59 of My Wicked Earl
Miss Lainscott kept her gaze firmly on her plate, as if the peas rolling around were the most interesting thing she’d ever encountered. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks while Lady Dobson listed her niece’s most favorable attributes as if Miss Lainscott were a horse Colin was considering purchasing.
That was not the worst of it.
Theworstwas watching Ridley salivating over Miranda and her dowry while the elderly lecher to Miranda’s left, Hamill, eyed her bosom. Colin considered it an act of true discipline that he hadn’t murdered either man before the dessert course appeared.
He had spent the entire meal irritated with his dinner companions and wanting Miranda with a cockstand so fierce it could have toppled the table. That damned curl. Tempting him from its place between Miranda’s breasts. Begging for his touch. He was only human.
Damn it.
He saw the way she arched her back as if he were touching her, as if she could feel the stroke of his fingers deep inside her. He’d never known such passion. Such desire for anyone or anything.
Such longing.
I miss her so much.
A horrible cruel ache filled Colin. He forced himself to remember her duplicity and the return of his ring. And St. Remy.
I want her chattering at me like a crazed magpie. I want to hear her tell me to not tear her dress in my haste to touch her. I want her to tell me how to make a fucking mummy.
I just want her.
As the gentlemen withdrew to the library to enjoy their port and cigars, Colin found himself moving away from the group towards the enormous fireplace that took up one wall of the room. He slid into a secluded leather chair, craving a moment of solitude, his emotions unsure. This was not how he’d imagined things when he’d left Runshaw Park for London.
Cam, Welles, and Carstairs stood to one side of the room. Welles and Cam were engaged in a quiet discussion while Carstairs tried to follow. Based on the vacant look in the man’s eyes whatever Welles told Cam was beyond Carstairs’s limited comprehension.
“My lord?”
Colin waved away the port a servant attempted to press upon him.
“Whiskey, if you please.”
“Of course, my lord.” The servant scurried off with barely a second glance at the scar. Within moments, Colin held a glass of fine, smoky whiskey, the very same he and Cam indulged in earlier. Inhaling the welcome aroma, he took a sip and closed his eyes in satisfaction, allowing his body to sink back into the cushions of the chair. He willed his heart to slow and his mind to clear.
“I believe I’ll have one of those as well.” The scrunch of padded leather met his ears as a body settled into the chair next to him. “I’ve no liking for port either.”
Bloody Hell.
Was there no end to his torture this evening?
Ridley.The scent of his pomade wrinkled Colin’s nose. What man walked around smelling like the inside of a lady’s wardrobe? He opened his eyes only to be met with the sight of Ridley’s waistcoat. Horrifying. A ruby, probably quite valuable if it were real, glittered in the pin affixed to his lapel.
Probably paste.
“I hope, my lord, that you do not mind me joining you.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Since a reply was not required, Colin merely closed his fingers tighter around his glass.
The viscount sat back in the chair with a grunt of pleasure.
“Kilmaire.” Ridley nodded politely and he smoothed down the lines of the thin mustache that graced his upper lip.
Those same fingers had run down the length of Miranda’s back. Something dark and brutal curled in Colin’s belly. He embraced it. “Ridley.”
Silence descended upon he and Ridley, which was just as well for Colin didn’t trust himself to speak yet. A light drizzle pattered against the window panes, and the fire hissed and popped as rain found its way down the chimney.
He studied the viscount from beneath hooded eyes.
Weak chin. A slight paunch as if he ate to often and too richly. Brown hair artfully styled about his head to match the bit of hair above his upper lip. Expensive clothing. Gloves from the finest kid.
