My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers

 

21

Miranda sat before the fire, her much abused copy of Lord Thurston discarded on her lap. She’d tortured the poor book, tossing it across the room several times in her frustration and anger. A page was torn, and the fine leather scratched.

“He truly means to marry Lady Helen.” Staring at the bottle of whiskey stolen from Sutton’s study, she wondered if Sutton noticed her theft of his liquor yet. Even if he did notice that a bottle of his very finest whiskey had disappeared, Sutton would likely blame Ridley. Her future husband possessed not an ounce of decorum, assuming everything in Gray Covington belonged to him. Including Miranda.

I haven’t married him yet.

She’d almost taken some sherry but that seemed rather staid. Boring. Sherry was something the perfect Lady Helen would drink. Miranda equated whiskey with power. After all, her brother and his friends drank the amber liquid. So, had her father. Especially when faced with an unpleasant situation. Whiskey fortified you.

“God knows if anyone at Gray Covington deserves to get properly foxed it’s me. Trapped at this hideous house party, watching Lady Helen flutter her eyelashes and wear atrocious feathers in her hair. Panting after Colin in her breathless forward way. I am forced to watch this terrible play unfold while politely escaping the roving hands of Lord Hamill. I cannot believe I considered the old goat as a potential husband. In comparison Ridley comes out ahead, if one isn’t first greeted by one of his garishly designed waistcoats. Or minds that he makes no effort to hide the fact that he has a mistress. Well, I suppose he does, it’s not as if he’s brought her to Gray Covington. Lady Dobson just delights in informing me of such things for my own good.” Miranda ended her tirade with a large swallow of whiskey that left her coughing.

“I don’t care if Grandmother’s guests find me rude for staying in my rooms. Lady Dobson is already very clear in her opinion of the entire Cambourne family. The Cottinghams are barely presentable. Lord Cottingham addresses my breasts when he greets me, and Lady Cottingham is too busy being in awe of the great Satan Reynolds to watch her daughter launch herself at any man who will allow it.”

Miranda took a deep heaving breath, pausing for a moment to take another sip of whiskey. It felt good to unburden herself. Even if it was to an empty room.

“Lady Helen is a tart. Colin deserves to be burdened with her. She’ll probably decorate him with feathers.”

Just the thought of Lady Helen made her stomach roil.

After Miranda’s rather pathetic loss of control in the garden the other night, she’d hidden in her room. Ashamed and heartbroken, Miranda didn’t feel she was quite up to facing the house party again. Nor did she want to pretend false happiness when Colin’s betrothal to that twit was announced. She would tell her brother as soon as the guests left Gray Covington that Ridley would be her husband.

Miranda took another sip of whiskey and sighed. “I can’t come down for dinner because the thought of marrying Ridley makes my stomach hurt. Oh, dear, how shall I ever bed him?” She took another healthy swallow.

Ridley was really her only option. After witnessing Hamill’s drunken lechery, she found him a less than desirable candidate.

Sutton would not be pleased. His opinion of Ridley was no secret, especially not to Ridley.

“I don’t bloody give a fig whether Sutton’s nose is out of joint or not. I’ve got to marry Ridley, not my brother. Besides, had Sutton not been Colin’s friend none of this would have happened. A toast,” she raised the glass of whiskey and noticed how little of the liquid remained.

“Oh dear, this will never do.” Pouring another finger of whiskey into the glass she held it up again. “A toast, to Edmund Ralst, Viscount Ridley and my future husband.” She frowned. “Goodness, it’s Edwin, isn’t it?”

Edward – no Edwin, she corrected herself, wasn’t really a terrible sort. True, he was mainly after her dowry, but that could work to her advantage. He’d probably allow her to retire to the country after they wed. She was reasonably sure he found her attractive and would give her children.

“I’ll raise them away from London, in a place where we can chase butterflies and catch frogs. Ridley is welcome to pursue his life uninterrupted. I shan’t bother him.” There was a certain amount of freedom in that.

She shook her head and looked down at Lord Thurston, noticing with dismay that a page was torn. Looking at the page the name Marcella stood out. There was something important about Marcella, but she couldn’t quite remember. Lord Thurston and Colin. Colin would make an excellent pirate.

“Damn. Why can’t I accept that we are not meant to be together?” She sipped her whiskey. “I was so sure, you see. Positive, in fact. I’ve been waiting all these years.” She took a deep breath to keep the tears at bay. “It’s all rather tragic, if I must say so.”

Miranda slung one leg over the side of her chair, shivering slightly. The room was cold, even though a fired blazed cheerfully in the hearth. Probably because she was wearing only a robe and nothing else. Proper ladies didn’t lounge about in a silk robe with one thigh exposed, and no undergarments. But Miranda wasn’t feeling especially proper. She’d brushed aside her maid, Clara, earlier that morning stating she’d spend the day in her robe.

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 Grandmother did find 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. Especially cold pea 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 positively euphoric. 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. No Edwin.”

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, definitely foxed.

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?”