Page 89 of My Wicked Earl
Clara’s look of utter distress had been very gratifying.
Miranda wiggled her toes as she gave serious study to the flesh of her thighs. Taking another sip of the whiskey she turned her leg back and forth.
“Mother was right; my thighs are a bit plump. And these,” she looked down the top of the robe to the deep valley between her breasts, “are larger than they should be. Oh, I know that gentlemen seem to admire my breasts, for whatever reason,” she took another drink, “but I find them a bit of a bother. I wish they were less full. More like the drop of a pear. My bosom is a bit…overwhelming.”
Lady Helen’s breasts were just the right size.
This morning, as she bathed, Clara informed Miranda that the below stairs gossip involved the impending proposal of the Earl of Kilmaire to Lady Helen Cottingham.
Today was the day,Clara’s voice was wistful.He’s to propose to her after a walk in the woods.
Miranda swished the whiskey around her mouth, liking the way it made the flesh of her gums tingle. Grandmother would be shocked to find her drinking whiskey in the middle of the afternoon, in nothing but a robe.
She rather hoped Grandmotherdidfind out. Or possibly Lady Dobson. That would give the old harridan something to gossip about.
A tray bearing a bowl of soup and tea sat beneath the window. When had that arrived? She stood a bit unsteadily and stuck her finger in the soup. Cold. And, Miranda didn’t especially care for pea soup. Especiallycoldpea soup.
She wandered back to her chair and sat down with an alarming thump. “Goodness, I’m feeling a bit,” she put a finger to her lips, “airy.” Slinging her leg again over the arm of the chair once again, Miranda looked down the length of her thighs. “Good Lord.”
Whiskey, Miranda surmised as she pulled the decanter unsteadily off the side table, forcing her hand to remain steady as she poured it into her glass, made one positivelyeuphoric.No wonder gentlemen retired to partake of spirits.
“They don’t wish us to be happy. That’s why women are relegated to ratafia and sherry. I shall demand whiskey on my wedding night to Edward. NoEdwin.”
Miranda leaned her head back. “At least I know what to expect.”
Did she? While Miranda was certain the basic mechanics of the act remained the same, it would not be Colin in her bed, but Ridley.
Edwinwould not cause her skin to tingle. She could not imagine his touch between her thighs.
She looked down and pulled the robe aside until she saw the dark thatch of hair that covered her mound. Colin had touched the core of her with his tongue. Tangled his beautiful fingers in the soft hair. Her hand slid down her thigh, pretending it was Colin’s hand and not her own.
A knock sounded on the door and she jerked, almost spilling the whiskey.
“Go away,” she said, holding the glass tight against her breasts. “I’m ill.”
Satisfied that whoever lurked in the hallway had departed, Miranda closed her eyes again. Colin. A guilty pleasure this was, to envision his naked body bathed in the light of the fire.
Another insistent knock.
Had she rung for her maid? Called for another tray? She didn’t think she had.
At the sound of the knob twisting she congratulated herself on remembering to lock it before indulging in the whiskey. “I’m terribly ill. The door is locked. Please, just go away.”
A series of clicks met her ears, followed by the sound of the door opening.
Miranda sat up, shocked that anyone would disturb her. Zander must have given her maid a key. Could she not have a moment of peace? Possibly it was the Dowager. Or Sutton. And here she was wearing nothing but her robe and drinking whiskey. And possibly foxed. No,definitelyfoxed.
The door shut with a discreet click.
She sat up and clutched her robe around her breasts, though she didn’t move her leg. It seemed like too much effort.
“My door was locked for a reason.” Relieved she didn’t hear the thump of a cane she continued, “I’m not sure, Clara, how you found a key to my room, but I do not wish to be disturbed, no matter what reason Lady Cambourne gave you.”
Footsteps sounded behind her, approaching the chair.
“Did you not remember my skill at picking locks?”
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