My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers

 

23

Sunlight glared through the curtains and Miranda swatted at it. She gave a small groan as her muscles protested moving from the bed. Carefully opening her eyes, she took in the rumpled bed clothes and the fact that she was naked beneath them.

Goodness.

A persistent knock sounded at the door.

“A moment.” Her throat was dry as the desert. Temples aching, she wished desperately for a headache powder, but she supposed she would need to answer the knocking at her door first. Whiskey, she decided was not something one should overindulge in often.

Cautiously she turned her head, smiling at the indentation of a man’s head on the pillow next to hers.

Not a dream.

Another knock. “My lady?” Clara, her maid whispered through the door.

Quickly, she smoothed the bedclothes with her palm and reached down to the floor to grab her robe. With a roll, one that sent the room spinning, she managed to slip on the robe and tie the sash, even as her maid, Clara, cracked open the door.

Miranda slid back under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. Only an idiot would miss the smell of sex that permeated the room. Fortunately, Clara was known for doing hair, not being intelligent.

Clara bustled in with a breakfast tray, setting it on the bed. She efficiently poured out tea and placed a small plate of warm raisin cakes next to it.

“Cook made a fresh batch just for you. Just out of the oven. I do hope you’re well enough to eat.”

“How kind of her.” Miranda’s stomach grumbled. She was hungry. Ravenous in fact.

“Should I lay out your clothing?”

“Please.” Miranda couldn’t wait to leave her room.

The maid nodded and began to straighten the chamber and lay out Miranda’s gown for the day. Walking before the fire, she stooped to pick up the discarded Lord Thurston, carefully placing a slip of paper to mark Miranda’s place, before putting the book on the table.

Smearing freshly whipped butter on top of one of the raisin cakes, Miranda took a bite, relishing the taste of the fruit and butter. As she munched away, pausing only to take a sip of tea, her eyes fell to the spine of the Lord Thurston novel.

“My Marcella.”And what had he said the night in the garden? “I think of you when I write her.”

Surely not. The idea was absurd.

Or was it?

The author of Lord Thurston remained a mystery, the initial “J,” the only clue to his or her identity. Several things flashed through her mind at once. Colin’s forefinger often sported an ink stain. He was a gifted storyteller. He used to scribble away in a red leather journal her father gave him one Christmas. His middle name was James.

And my father was close friends with Lord Wently, who publishes Lord Thurston.

“You’ll wish to bathe, I imagine. Shall I draw you a bath?”

Miranda nodded mutely at Clara. It had been in front of her the entire time and she’d never noticed. This was the business venture her father had helped Colin with so long ago.

“It makes perfect sense,” she giggled. “Marcella. I do rather resemble her. Or she, me.”

Clara gave her and odd look and raised a brow.

Miranda waved her hand. “I’m muttering to myself, Clara. Pray ignore me.”

Clara moved into the dressing room and began to prepare Miranda’s bath. The aroma of lavender and honey filled the air in the bedroom as steam from the water rose in the air.

All she wished to do was see Colin. She needed to know that last night had been real.

“I must hurry, Clara. I need to speak to Lord Kilmaire. About a book,” she added. How rich that Colin was the author of Lord Thurston. Wait until she told Alex. Miranda pushed aside the tray and made her way to her dressing room where a steaming tub awaited her.

“Oh, my lady, I fear you’re too late.” Clara’s head popped through the doorway, her hands full of soap and towels. “Lord Kilmaire left for London early this morning, just before Lord and Lady Cottingham departed. One of the grooms saddled a horse for him. I’m not sure why he’d prefer to ride rather than enjoy the comforts of Lord Cottingham’s carriage.” Clara shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the bath.

Miranda froze, her toes curling into the patterned carpet that covered the floor of her room. Her fingers wiggled, begging for something to hold onto as her legs sagged, threatening to drop her to the floor. She backed up to clutch at the bedpost.

“Lord Kilmaire has left Gray Covington? With the Cottinghams? Why,” her voice cracked, “I did not have the chance to say goodbye. What a poor hostess I am.”

Forgive me.

“Lord Kilmaire was in quite a hurry to get to London. One of the footmen overheard him. Apparently Lord Kilmaire had an urgent matter that needed attended to immediately.” Clara blushed. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I shouldn’t like to gossip.”

“You aren’t. And the Cottinghams?” Miranda fell against the bed. The pain in her temples intensified.

“Lord Cottingham met with your brother in the study before he and Lady Cottingham departed for London. Lady Helen,” Clara lowered her voice to a whisper, “was discussing wedding gowns with her mother.”

“I see.” The raisin cakes threatened to leave her stomach.

Forgive me.

He’d whispered it into her hair. Repeated it to her the entire night. She’d been so absorbed in bedding Colin, so caught up in her desire for him, that she’d never asked him what brought him to her chamber.

I fell on him like some sex-starved widow.

“Clara, the washbasin please,” Miranda gestured wildly. How stupid I am. How utterly pathetic of me. He was begging my forgiveness for marrying Lady Helen.

The raisin cakes did not taste half as pleasant when they came back up.