My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers
7
The crowded streets of London rolled past the window of the Cambourne coach as Miranda, her grandmother, and the Earl of Kilmaire slowly made their way to Gray Covington. Miranda willed the coach to move faster through the crowded streets.
Trapped.
Trapped with the austere Earl of Kilmaire in close quarters for the remainder of the day. Since arriving to escort her and Grandmother, Colin had assumed a cold demeanor. She could be a stick of furniture or a dressmaker’s dummy for all the attention Colin paid her. Unfortunately, while he seemed oblivious to her presence, it was difficult for Miranda to ignore him. Sprawled across the seat facing her Colin seemed to take up all the available space in the coach with his bloody long legs and broad shoulders.”
And he’s bloody ruining my joy at escaping to Gray Covington.
She sighed, clasping and unclasping her hands. Gray Covington was home. Not the Cambourne house in London. The estate outside London was Miranda’s favorite place in the world. She longed for the peace that being at Gray Covington brought her. Peace that had been in short supply since Colin had arrived in London.
Miranda had never been a typical debutante. Oh, she’d endured the multitude of fittings for new gowns, the constant shopping, the calls on various acquaintances every day. But it never made her happy. Rather, she mostly found herself wanting to scream for the absurdity of it.
All things being equal, she would always prefer the solitude of Gray Covington over everything that London had to offer.
The house itself was relatively new, having been built on the remains of the former manor house. As a young bride, the Dowager took one look at the outdated Tudor styled house and insisted immediately that something more modern be built.
One did not disappoint the Dowager, not even then.
The gray stone exterior was nearly hidden by the crawling ivy and wisteria that covered the walls, giving the impression of an overly large stone cottage. The gardens were enormous, winding about the grounds and filled with any manner of flowers and shrubs. The gardens were famous in London, for they contained a multitude of rare plants and were laid out in such a way that one never knew where the formal gardens ended and the rolling fields of Gray Covington took over.
The Gray Covington gardener, himself the descendent of the first gardener Grandmother had hired so long ago, was especially talented. Just before Miranda was born, the man teased a series of shrubs into topiaries. The topiaries were renowned among the ton, for the skill at which they were created and for the unusual animals they depicted. Three camels strode across the grass where a lion, a group of monkeys, and an elephant frolicked. As a child Miranda would climb inside those monkeys to hide from her mother’s wrath. Which was quite often.
I wonder if I can still fit inside them? Probably not. How unfortunate.
Miranda stole a glance at the source of her mounting anxiety.
Did he have to be so attractive? It was rather disappointing that Colin had not grown fat. Or bald. Or something.
Silver now threaded through the golden wave of hair that fell to his shoulders, but the locks were still thick. Tiny lines were etched around his eyes, and the full curve
of his lips as if he frowned often. And Colin was larger, the leaner form he’d once had thicker, his shoulders broader.
GRANDMOTHER, the other source of Miranda’s misery, snored softly on the leather seat beside her. Clutching a book of poetry in her gloved hands, the Dowager nodded off almost immediately after leaving Cambourne House and hadn’t stirred since.
The coach hitched to the side, skimming the side of a rut in the road, and Miranda fell against the coach window.
A polished boot tip, attached to a long, lean, muscled leg, slid under Miranda’s skirts as the coach rocked. The toe of that boot brushed intimately against her slipper, neatly trapping a swath of sprigged muslin skirts.
“Please remove your foot.” She ignored the delicious tingle that ran up her leg at even this minor touch.
The boot slid deliberately further into her skirts, ignoring her command.
“How do you find Lady Helen?” Eyes the color of hot chocolate regarded her politely, as if they were engaged in discussing the weather and his foot wasn’t lingering intimately against her ankle.
Spoiled. Selfish. With an odd fascination for birds. Except for her strange hobby she reminds me quite a bit of my mother.
Colin’s fingers brushed down his thighs, graceful and strong. He’d removed his gloves the moment the coach lurched forward, and the discarded bits of leather sat at his side. A callous dotted one elegant forefinger that held just a shadow of ink, as if he’d been working on the accounts of Runshaw Park.
She loved his hands. They were capable of all manner of wicked things.
“Lady Helen is lovely, of course. Blonde and delicate.” Heat was surging up her leg from the feel of his boot. “She’s as rich as Grandmother says. Her dowry is obscene.”
Colin’s brow wrinkled at the mention of Lady Helen’s dowry.
“There’s no need to frown, Lord Kilmaire. I believe that was one of your requirements was it not? A large dowry?” She lifted a brow.
“It is.” His eyes narrowed. “Please, do go on.”
“Lady Helen has a huge admiration for birds. I believe she is quite enamored of our feathered friends and is an avid birdwatcher. You will find yourself with quite an education on the various species that inhabit the woods around Gray Covington. Given that her father was a dairy farmer before becoming an earl, I would rather have thought her obsession would be more of the bovine persuasion.” She shrugged. “Her manners are a bit rough, but I’m sure that would not deter you from courting her.”
The toe of his boot moved again, this time directly between her feet, or rather, her legs. Heat blossomed and rolled up the length of her body. If Colin chose to, he could easily trail his foot up her silk clad calf to the inside of her thigh. A bit of her skirt caught on the heel of his boot.
“Have a care, Lord Kilmaire. You’ll ruin my dress.” The words rolled off her tongue without thinking, sounding more like an invitation than the chastisement she meant it to be.
Heat flared between them. The dark gaze flickered over her breasts to trail down her stomach to her clasped hands.
Miranda’s breath caught as her body responded to his gaze. Shamefully. Wantonly. Honey spooled between her legs and she shifted slightly, trying to assuage the sudden ache.
One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.
Damn him.
“I believe you’ve mentioned such a thing to me before.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper.
Miranda spared a glance at her grandmother who continued to snore softly, oblivious to Colin’s flirtation.
And he was flirting with her. Although she wasn’t sure why. Two days ago, in her grandmother’s sitting room, he’d been dreadful to her. Brutal.
“That was a long time ago.” She paused pressing her lips together and watched as his gaze moved to her mouth. “Please, move your foot.”
“Whatever happened to Lord St. Remy, I wonder?” His fingers drummed a bit on his thighs.
Why must he move his fingers in such a way. It brought to mind a great many other things, none of which were appropriate.
“You really should make more of an effort to wear gloves, Lord Kilmaire. You are no longer at Runshaw Park, but out in society.” Miranda dipped her head towards his bare hands.
“I find I cannot grip things properly in gloves. Or,” he said in a softly teasing tone, “touch things in a manner I wish.”
A slight tremor ran through her. Oh, yes. She remembered very well the way his big hands cupped her breasts. This was a rather tortuous game he played with her. Delicious and arousing but with a hint of bottled anger.
“Will you answer me?” He said in a silky voice. “What became of St. Remy?”
St. Remy? Miranda blinked. St. Remy. She searched her mind for the face of the man but found she could not. St. Remy was now the Duke of Langford. At her debut, Mother fancied a match between St. Remy and Miranda, but Miranda found him to be distasteful. He insulted Miranda for her love of books and declared, while they were dancing, that she would be a bore in other ways as well. The only one who seemed to truly like St. Remy was Miranda’s mother.
“He is no longer Lord St. Remy, but the Duke of Langford.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten he was the heir to a dukedom. And does he have a duchess?” His eyes narrowed, piercing her with an accusatory gaze.
“I’ve no idea.” She hadn’t thought of St. Remy, or rather, the Duke of Langford, in years. She supposed he’d married as every duke needed an heir, though why Colin would care, she didn’t know. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted.”
A small snort came from Colin. “We are not.”
“Then why this sudden interest in the Duke of Langford?”
Colin sat back against the squabs and drummed his fingers again, a rapid staccato that had her wanting to reach across the space between them and still his hand. He made as if to speak, then just as quickly pursed his lips as if he were fighting for control.
Miranda looked down, pointedly, at his boot, nudging it with the toe of her slipper. Then she attempted to pull her skirt free and found she couldn’t. Not without tearing her dress.
The boot did not move.
“I rather prefer Miss Lainscott.” Considering waves of heat were swirling up her legs Miranda thought she sounded rather calm. “She has a pleasant demeanor and a keen mind. Her dowry is far larger and Lady Dobson is in rather a rush to marry her off, though Miss Lainscott doesn’t possess the same sense of urgency. I’m sure you could win her over with your charm.”
Colin’s mouth hardened, pulling the scar tight.
“And what of Lord Hamill? I’m told he is one of your most ardent suitors.”
Ardent was not a word Miranda would use to describe Lord Hamill. The elderly lord’s pursuit of Miranda was more a business negotiation than a courtship. Not that she minded terribly, for at least Lord Hamill was honest.
“He is well-regarded in Parliament and while he is a bit older than I—”
“You consider thirty years or more to be a bit?”
Miranda did not back down. “Lord Hamill’s treatment of his first wife bodes well if I choose to marry him. He is a most suitable match. At any rate, I fail to see how my choice of husband is any of your business, Lord Kilmaire.”
Lord Hamill’s treatment of the former Lady Hamill had been cordial. Respectful. Their marriage was a partnership and they’d hosted countless dinners for the political elite of London. Miranda thought she’d enjoy playing hostess and involving herself in politics. Besides, Lord Hamill would allow no disparagement of Miranda’s character. Once Miranda was his wife, no one would dare whisper about the possibility that she’d shot Archie Runyon. At least, she hoped that would be the case.
“Lord Hamill is not your concern.”
“Old enough to be your father. Or is it your grandfather?” Colin gave her a carnal look, his implication clear. “I understand he wants an heir. Doesn’t care for his sister’s son, I believe. Tell me, Lady Miranda, have you taken that under consideration?”
An unwelcome flush crept into her cheeks. Of course, she’d considered it. She was still considering it. The biggest detriment to marrying Lord Hamill would be the actual bedding of Lord Hamill. He’d been very clear. While he would certainly appreciate her assistance with his political aspirations, Lord Hamill’s main reason for marrying Miranda was that he wished an heir.
“My relationship with Lord Hamill is none of your concern, Lord Kilmaire. I find this conversation to be completely inappropriate.”
“As someone who is as a sister to me,” the words rolled off his tongue sarcastically, “my only wish is for you to be happy.”
“Yes, your concern for my welfare is glaringly apparent. I am comforted by it,” she snapped back.
“Tell me about Lord Ridley, then. I’m just curious, you see, to have you tell me what appeals to you about either man. What attributes Lord Ridley has that make him more appealing to you than say, Lord St. Remy.” The scar darkened a bit across his cheek.
“The Duke of Langford,” she automatically corrected, watching in satisfaction as his nostrils flared.
“If you will.”
“What is your interest in the Duke of Langford? I do not understand the direction of your conversation. You seem unable to speak plainly to me, Lord Kilmaire.”
The sharp planes of his face contorted into a mask of utter fury at her response. He looked as if he were about to commit murder.
“I think you know.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” And she didn’t. Not in the least. “Perhaps you’ll enlighten me?”
The fingers drummed again.
She raised a brow and waited. When he didn’t respond, Miranda continued.
“So I’m to guess at your motives. Well, I’ve no interest in doing such. So, let’s move on shall we, to your question about Lord Ridley. Lord Ridley and I have been acquainted for several years. He is a viscount, with a lovely estate in Surrey.”
Ridley was attractive with impeccable manners. He was a bit of a dandy and tended to dress somewhat flamboyantly but he insisted on being fashionable. Ridley could also be a bit pompous, but he did find Miranda lovely.
He also found Miranda to be a bit of a chatterbox. And since he openly equated chattering with a lack of intelligence, he mostly behaved as if Miranda could not grasp simple concepts. If she were honest, Ridley probably found her dowry as attractive as Miranda herself was, though she cared not to examine that last bit too closely.
A knowing smile crossed the firm lines of his mouth. “He’s managed to gamble away most of his inheritance, I’m told. The duns are beating at his door. Ridley is looking for an heiress.”
“Then you and he have much in common, Lord Kilmaire,” Miranda snapped back, stung at being reminded that Ridley did not want her for herself.
The scar tightened down the length of Colin’s face at her retort. His hands curled into fists on top of his thighs. A savage, freezing look shot from him.
Miranda didn’t care. Not a bit.
“Surely, Lord Kilmaire, my brother has relayed the reason why I have a rather limited field of suitors. Good God, the entire ton is rife with gossip concerning the incident. One would have to be deaf and dumb,” she gave him a pointed look, “not to have learned about it.” Leaning forward, she peered at him across the coach, no longer interested whether or not she woke her grandmother. “You speak in riddles. You accuse and glare at me as if I were guilty of some offense.” Miranda had spent several sleepless nights trying to determine the source of Colin’s anger towards her. If he thought she would tell Sutton, or anyone, of their previous affection for each other, he was mistaken. Perhaps he assumed she sought to ruin his chances with Lady Helen out of spite. Absurd. Her humiliation was so acute she had difficulty evening admitting to her childish adoration for him. “Do you fear that I would inform my brother of our previous relationship and thus put your relationship with him at risk? Or are you worried I would try to hinder your pursuit of either Lady Helen or Miss Lainscott out of malice?” She gave a short bark of laughter. “Out of nothing more than a regrettable indiscretion? I’m certain I am not the only woman to have experienced such. Besides, I would not wish to harm my own chances of a suitable match. Well not completely, she thought Ridley would likely marry her regardless.
A combative look came over his face. “A regrettable indiscretion?. As you wish.”
“No matter your feelings for me, Lord Kilmaire, I am still the sister of the Marquess of Cambourne, a powerful man and your friend. My father went out of his way years ago to assist you in some foolish venture.”
“I owe your father much. And, it was not foolish.”
“I don’t care what it was. Likely it was the only reason you lingered at Cambourne House so long ago. There was certainly no other compelling reason for you to lurk around London for so long. You’ve made your feelings on that matter abundantly clear.”
Miranda shrank back against the squabs and moved her feet to the wall of the coach, not even wincing as she heard the small sound of her skirts tearing where it caught on his boot.
“I will thank you not to insult me or plague me further with your veiled accusations. I can attend any event in London if I wish to be insulted and provoked. I’ll not endure it in the shelter of my family’s coach.” She shut her eyes, no longer wanting to look at his beautiful, damaged face. Was he so devoid of feeling for her that he found enjoyment in tormenting her?
“Miranda.” The low growl vibrated in the air of the coach. His elegant fingers fluttered against her knee.
She pulled back violently from his touch.
“Leave me be, Lord Kilmaire. I assure you, I am not your concern.”
Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she turned her attention to the passing countryside, forcing herself to focus on the beauty of the rolling hills. Gray Covington was a large estate. She could avoid Colin until this ill-advised house party was over. She had to, else she might not survive it.
