Page 63 of My Wicked Earl
Miranda wondered if Lady Dobson and Lady Cottingham would go at each other like two dogs fighting over a scrap of meat, with the Earl of Kilmaire in the role of the scrap. She stood, rather abruptly, a faux pas at which her grandmother, as hostess, would likely chastise her for tomorrow. But, if she retired now, Miranda could avoid both Lord Ridley and Lord Hamill. The gentlemen would soon be joining the ladies in the drawing room and Miranda was certain she could not pretend interest in either man again.
“Pray excuse me.” She put a hand to her head as if she were about to faint. “Much like your husband, Lady Cottingham, I am prone to sickness after long carriage rides. I beg your forgiveness, but I must retire.”
“A wonder you did not succumb to this affliction earlier,” Grandmother murmured, one grey brow raised in question. The green eyes, shrewd and knowing, took in Miranda’s slightly flushed features. “You do look a bit ill, granddaughter. Alexandra and I will entertain our guests.”
Alex nodded. “Pray get some rest, dearest.”
Miranda nodded to the circle of ladies as she made her way from the room. At least the sickness was not completely feigned. The entire conversation had made Miranda sick to her stomach.
IT HAD BEENhours since Miranda fled the drawing room and the discussion of how best Lady Helen or Miss Lainscott could ensnare the Earl of Kilmaire. Upon arriving in her room, Miranda ordered a warm bath. A bath always soothed one’s nerves and aided in sleep.
Except that sleep did not come and her nerves were far from soothed.
“A book,” she murmured out loud as she hastily slid her arms through a robe left on the back of a chair. “Something dreadfully boring, may help me sleep. I think Sutton just received a package from Thrumbadges. There’s bound to be something tedious in there.” Mind made up, she left her bed.
Miranda’s dressing gown flowed about her ankles, tickling the tops of her bare feet. She probably should have put on slippers, but really, this was her home and surely no one would be about at this hour. Even the footman who always stood ready at the door had sought his bed.
Quietly, she opened the doors to the library, shutting them behind her with a soft click. This was her favorite room at Gray Covington. The library smelled of old leather, ink and paper. The lingering aroma of a cheroot touched her nostrils as did the smell of the fire, now banked. Her toes sunk into the thick rug covering the floor as she made her way toward the window. The package from Thrumbadge’s was bound to be on the long table that ran aside one tall bookcase.
Halfway across the room something stopped her. A sound, like someone taking a breath alerted her to another’s presence. She froze, praying that Lord Hamill wasn’t hidden in the dark somewhere drinking her brother’s brandy.
“I didn’t know, Miranda.” The words, soft like velvet, with just a slight lilt to them, flowed across the room to her.
Carefully, Miranda turned towards the fire and the pair of wing-backed chairs that flanked the hearth.
Two long legs, crossed at the ankle, stretched out from one chair. A hand dangled over the side clutching a glass of amber liquid.
Whiskey, probably.
Miranda walked towards the hearth and turned to face the chair. Firelight glinted off hair the color of faded gold, to frame a face all the more handsome for the damage done to it.
“What are you doing here?” She clutched her robe around her, suddenly feeling very small and vulnerable in front of the large male sprawled in the chair before her.
“Brooding.” He held up the crystal glass in his hand and gave her a crooked smile. “You always insisted that I liked to brood. I suppose you’re correct. Your brother’s excellent whiskey is assisting me in my melancholy. I’m grateful that Hamill prefers brandy else we’d be fighting over it. Did you know I found him asleep in that chair,” he pointed somewhere to the left, “before we’d even gone to dinner? You’d end up his nursemaid, feeding him gruel with a spoon.”
“You’re foxed.”
“A bit, perhaps.” He raised a golden brow at the dressing gown and her bare feet. “Are you having an assignation?” The words growled from between his lips before he took a large swallow of the whiskey and glared at her. “Have I interrupted?”
“No.” She shook her head. “And if I were it wouldn’t—”
“Matter? You’re mistaken on that point. It shall always matter.” His face softened a bit, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t lessen. “I would hear all of it, Miranda, for I didn’t know.” His voice lowered to a delicious whisper. “I would not have you think I baited you deliberately. I am not that cruel.”
He leaned forward and tried to catch her hand. Fingers brushed against hers as he tried to pull her to him. “Tell me. Of Helmsby Abbey and Archie Runyon.”
Miranda looked down, loving the feel of his skin against hers. She’d always adored his hands, for they were possessed of a certain masculine grace. Not soft, like so many gentleman’s hands, not like Ridley’s. Instead, Colin’s hands were rough, probably because he didn’t care for wearing gloves. “I don’t think now is the time, Colin.”
“There is no better time.” He pulled her down to him.
Surprised, Miranda didn’t object, but allowed herself to be drawn down next to Colin. She perched on the arm of the chair, her feet against his leg and her knees pressing against the upper part of Colin’s thighs. The heat of his body seeped through the dressing gown.
Colin did not release her hand. Instead his thumb moved back and forth over the base of her palm. It was an intimate gesture meant to comfort. Or possibly arouse. Miranda felt both emotions equally.
“Miranda,” he urged softly, looking up at her from beneath those ridiculously long lashes he sported.
He didn’t sound as if he were aroused. Or attempting to seduce her. Possibly he was trying to be her friend, something he had not been since arriving in London.
She took a long shuddering breath.
