A Less Than Perfect Lady. Elizabeth Beacon
him before this went much too far for both of them.
Then he plundered even deeper and his tongue danced with hers and her curiosity sparked dangerously to life as well. What would it be like to know the extremities of passion with such a man? Every instinct told her there would be nothing of compulsion or horror in such mutual need. From what seemed like a long distance she heard herself groan, not in disgust, but because she wanted more, closer, deeper. A hand she did not even know was free until then wandered round to the nape of his neck and rubbed at his silky curls, left just a little too long for the strict dictates of fashion. The scent of him, fresh air, good soap and aroused male, filled her lungs and she felt almost as if she was becoming part of him, as if fate had a hand in a joining far more intimate and just as inevitable.
‘No!’ she gasped as the prospect shook every resolution she had formed the day she finally got free of her husband.
Their gazes clashed as they took in what had happened, and what might have, if she hadn’t awoken to the possibility she was about to be made the Earl of Carnwood’s mistress. Oh, the humiliation that would have been, when passion was spent and both parties realised what they had done to satisfy it. All she had learnt from Nevin was that humiliation and much worse, not the jag and drag of frustration and regret not making love with Christopher Alstone had left her with.
‘No,’ he confirmed.
‘Then release me?’ she asked and let her eyes drift to where his long-fingered brown hand rested on the curve of her slender waist.
He dropped his hand as if she had burnt him, and hectic colour burnt along his high cheekbones as he stepped away. His dark gaze became guarded even as hers sought the reassurance that she rarely asked for nowadays. If she hadn’t seen those long, strong fingers shake just once before he clenched them into fists at his sides, she might have thought him as unaffected as he was suddenly trying to appear.
‘Please accept my apologies,’ he finally managed, although his voice sounded gruff and somewhat rusty.
Eyeing him as dubiously as he was watching her, Miranda dipped him a perfunctory curtsy and forced herself not to make an undignified bolt for freedom. Then she cursed herself for not escaping as his grip on her wrist stopped her in her tracks.
‘Have a care, Cousin Miranda,’ he warned in a deadly undertone, ‘if I hear gossip of this I’ll have you put out of the park gates, will or no will.’
‘How dare you?’ she whispered back fiercely, heartbeat racing at the angry mixture of excitement and fury his touch and those contrary words aroused.
‘I dare what I must to protect my own,’ he rasped. ‘Your sisters are in my care now, and you will behave yourself for their sake.’
She gave him a haughty glare and thought dark thoughts about his future well-being. Yet for some silly reason her mind kept presenting her with an image of him, eyes warm and hungry for her and everything about her, and she didn’t even like him, for heaven’s sake!
‘You don’t know me, sir, and you never will.’
‘Don’t underestimate me, Mrs Braxton. Force me to hold up your life to public scrutiny and you’ll very soon regret it.’
The unease that constantly stalked her pooled in her stomach and threatened to turn her physically sick, but she braved his flinty gaze again despite it, if only because she would not be stared at as if she was something unsavoury on his boots.
‘Do you make a habit of relying on second-hand judgements, my lord?’
‘No, I rely on experience,’ he told her with an impassive stare she flinched away from understanding.
Yet even while he was condemning her, his long fingers soothed her tense wrist and she was shaken by a tremor of forbidden excitement very different from the effect he was striving for. The memory of that kiss was not just in her reeling mind, it was imprinted on her body, spinning between one drunken sense and the next.
‘Behave yourself and you can have your week, my dear,’ he went on, ‘you can hardly wreak your usual havoc in so short a time.’
‘As Grandfather’s will insisted I was to be given houseroom before his estate was finally distributed, you must offer me welcome, my lord, and I am certainly not your dear.’
‘I always have a choice, madam.’
‘Choose to let me go and you might get your dinner on time, then.’
He dropped her hand with unflattering haste and thrust his own into his coat pocket as if she had scalded him, and she saw some of the vulnerability and driven passion he had shown in that kiss.
‘Go on, then,’ he rasped, almost as if he was in pain. ‘I dare say you plan your every entrance you make for maximum effect.’
‘I long ago made it a rule never to be predictable. A trait you might do well to mimic, my lord, if you plan to make a success of your new life.’
‘Nothing you do could surprise me, madam,’ he warned with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
Then he bowed a brief and not particularly polite farewell, before picking up one of the ledgers stacked on the nearby desk as if he had dismissed her from his thoughts.
Telling herself she was glad to forsake the company of so boorish and prejudiced a man, Miranda left the room without another word. If so small a piece of self-restraint was all it took to assure him of his own omnipotence, he was a man of straw after all. Outside the fine mahogany doors she blinked determinedly a few times, telling herself that the threat of tears stinging her eyes was purely the product of tiredness and ill temper. She would not let him spoil this brief homecoming, and even Christopher Alstone could not police her thoughts.
Chapter Three
Kit waited a few moments to make sure she had really gone before he threw down the ledger he had been staring at as if it was written in hieroglyphs and poured himself a brandy to brood over. He might have given vent to a grim laugh if he could indeed read Miranda’s mind. After all, he couldn’t govern his own dreams, let alone her thoughts. The last half-hour had proved that, when it came to Miranda Alstone, he had no sense at all.
Restless night-visions of her had haunted him for five long years, even when he managed to dismiss her from his waking thoughts. Indeed, they had an annoying habit of plaguing him with ridiculous fantasies about a woman he had encountered once and never managed to forget, try as he might. Well, now he had made bad worse, and how could he finally persuade her to take him to her bed and slake this ridiculous, ill-begotten, urgent need of her when she was a guest under his new roof?
The knowledge that she was totally oblivious to their one fateful meeting all those years ago made him want to throw something to vent his volcanic fury, lest it boil out at the most inappropriate moment and scald those who didn’t deserve it. He made himself lean back in his chair and reassemble the cool self-command he had learnt so painfully. Let one passion in and another might ruin all, he assured himself, and that kiss had nearly changed everything.
Yet he couldn’t help wondering how the Honourable Mrs Braxton would react if he stormed up to her room right now and took what should have been his five years ago. He smiled wryly as he anticipated the spirited refusal such tactics would meet with. A base part of him might be in thrall to the lovely witch, but wasn’t that very spirit the reason he wanted her so stubbornly? He had never forced a woman in his life and didn’t intend to start now, so he sat in the chair by the fire to remember her, standing proud and defiant in that stinking tavern on Bristol docks as if it was yesterday.
Five years ago Kit Stone had let his hair grow and forgot to shave now and again as he adopted the language and habits of the street. A man of his upbringing developed many unfair advantages over his competitors. Maybe he should be thankful for the years when he had to scavenge, beg and steal to feed and clothe himself and his sisters. Or maybe he should just carry on hating his noble relatives for leaving them all to go to the devil, along with the drunken gambler who had fathered them.
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