He had not considered that idea with any other woman that he could remember. But when he thought of winning Miranda over and taking his pleasure in her, there was always the thought immediately after of what would happen when he tired of her and returned to Leona, as he knew he would. So he wound up, he thought, like a fool, wanting her and not having her, yet unable to completely give her up, either. There were times when he wondered if marriage had made his brain soft; he certainly was not acting like himself these days.
He told himself that the primary reason for this silly obsession with Miranda was boredom. There was almost nothing to do here at Darkwater except sit around and think. It was no wonder his thoughts turned so often to the lust Miranda incited in him, and the more he thought about her, the more serious the lust became. When he tried to take his mind off it by doing something, the something he wound up doing usually involved her, which did little to appease the desire coursing through him.
About a week after the wedding, his mother invited the vicar, his wife and the local doctor over for supper. In London his mother would have found such company as a doctor and a vicar poor pickings indeed, but in the country she had to make do. Devin was in a foul mood to begin with, and watching Miranda spend most of the evening in rapt conversation with Dr. Browning did little to make him happier.
Dr. Browning was the son of the doctor who had worked in the village when Devin was young. The old Dr. Browning had given his practice over to his son a few years ago and now spent most of his time tending his rose garden. The present Dr. Browning was about thirty years old and handsome in a sober way. He dressed without much regard to style; Devin knew his own valet would have blanched at the way the doctor's cravat was tied. He was a large man, and Devin assumed that some women found his blond-haired, blue-eyed, strong-jawed looks attractive. Certainly Miranda seemed to find nothing about him to displease her.
Dr. Browning was seated beside her at the dinner table, and they had begun to converse there. By the time dinner was over, they were so engrossed in their conversation that they continued it in the drawing room, where everyone retired after the meal.
Devin wondered what they could possibly be talking about that could interest Miranda so. It occurred to him that perhaps this doctor was exactly the sort of man Miranda would find attractive, a man who had dedicated his life to something, who was intelligent and well-read, who did something useful with this life. Dr. Browning obviously thought things, knew things, that she found fascinating. And his looks were above average. Nor would the fact that he was only a doctor, whereas she was now a countess, deter Miranda if she liked him. Like so many Americans, she really did not seem to understand class distinctions.
The doctor, in fact, might be exactly the sort of man Miranda would choose for one of those affairs that she seemed so set on having. Devin wondered if she was even now thinking the same thing. It seemed to him very wrong that a doctor should be either that young or that handsome.
Doctors should, by the very nature of things, be old men
—
well, at least middle-aged.
He glared balefully at them through much of the evening, then rose abruptly and left the room.
Miranda saw Devin leave the room, and she wondered why he had departed so suddenly without offering even a goodbye. She was growing weary of talking to Dr. Browning—or, rather, listening, as he was a long-winded sort—and she had hoped that Devin might liven things up by suggesting a card game or something else a little more exciting than Dr. Browning's description of his village practice. She had made the mistake of making polite conversation with him at dinner, asking about his career, and he had latched on to the topic, telling her all about growing up admiring his father, then his schooling, and now the many diseases and conditions he encountered in the village.
It was a great relief when the vicar's wife said that they must excuse themselves, as the vicar had a sermon to work on, and the doctor, fortunately, realized that he too, had been there long enough. Michael, who was leaving the next morning, decided that he should retire early, and nearly everyone else agreed that they should do the same—bored, Miranda assumed, into sleepiness.
She went up to her room and let her maid help her change into her nightgown. She started to lie down, but she knew that she could not possibly go to sleep this early. So she put on her dressing gown and slippers and, picking up an oil lamp, made her way downstairs to the library. As she walked toward the library, she noticed that me door to Devin's study stood open, light slanting out onto the hallway carpet. Curious, she turned toward it instead of the library.
Devin was seated at his desk, a bottle of whiskey and a glass in front of him. He had discarded his coat and cravat, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, the sleeves rolled up. He was idly tossing dice, first with one hand, then with the other. He took a healthy gulp from his glass while Miranda watched. Then he transferred the dice to the other hand and rolled.
"Damn," he muttered softly, glaring at his left hand. "You are a dead loss. A hundred and fifty yellow-boys behind already."
"Talking to yourself?" Miranda asked lightly, stepping into the room.
Devin glanced up, startled. "Miranda! What are you doing here?"
The sight of her standing there pierced him with a fresh, fierce lust. She wore a dressing gown, with the neck of her nightgown peeking above the lapels, white and softly feminine. Her hair was brushed out and lay tumbling down across her shoulders, long and silky, inviting his touch. He wanted her with a passion as hot as any he could remember.
"I just came down to the library to get a book," Miranda replied. "I saw your light was on, so I thought I would see what you were doing."
"Tossing one hand against the other. The left hand has abysmal luck." The way his eyes ran down her made Miranda suddenly aware of the fact that she wore only a dressing gown over her nightrail, a flimsy thing that the modiste in London had made for her honeymoon. "You are up late."
"Not so late. Everyone retired early, after the vicar and his wife left. The doctor, too, of course."
“I am sure you were reluctant to see the doctor go," Devin said sarcastically, downing the last of his drink and immediately reaching out to pour another one.
Miranda watched him pour. His hand was a trifle unsteady.
"Have you been sitting here drinking all this time?" she asked.
Devin shrugged. "More or less."
"Why? Why did you leave the party?"
"The party? Is that what you would call it? Seemed about as lively as an interment to me. Of course, I was not privy to the good doctor's fascinating conversation."
Miranda stared at him in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"The doctor. I didn't have the pleasure of talking to him all evening as you did."
"It was scarcely a pleasure," Miranda began, ready to vent her true feelings, but Devin's next words stopped her.
"It certainly seemed as if it was a pleasure." He looked at her, a fierce bright anger burning clearly in his eyes. "You were hanging on every word he said."
Miranda's brows vaulted upward, but she said nothing to contradict him. Devin sounded jealous, and she found the idea not at all displeasing.
"He was telling me about his cases," she said, carefully telling the truth.
"Was that it? I thought perhaps you were making an assignation."
"What? Now, really, Dev, that is going too far."
"Oh, I don't think I have gone nearly far enough," Devin said in a silky voice that was somehow frightening. He rose slowly and leaned forward across his desk, bracing himself with his fists. "Tell me, is he to be your first fling? I must say, I would think the local doctor a trifle too close to home. Wouldn't you?"
"I hadn't really thought about it," Miranda returned truthfully.
"Is he what you like, Miranda?" he went on in the same quiet, deadly voice. He pushed his chair back and came out from behind his desk. "A sober, industrious citizen? Someone who can fascinate you with tales of his good deeds?"
"He does spend his days in more fruitful pursuits than drinking and casting dice," Miranda retorted with some asperity. His closeness made her a little breathless, but she wasn't about to let him know that.
Devin chuckled without humor, "Ah, my dear wife. So you
have
chosen him for your first foray outside the marriage. Well, good luck with him. I'll lay you odds that he is as dull a stick in bed as he is out of it."
"Indeed? Well, I suppose I shall find out, won't I?"
His hand lashed out and grasped her arm, digging in painfully. "No, you won't, my lady!"
"I beg your pardon? Are you telling me who I can and cannot see?"
"I am telling you that you will not bed down with that lump of a fellow right in front of me." His eyes flashed, bright green in their fury. "I will not be made a mockery of, madam. You may think you call the tune because of your fat purse, but I can tell you, you will
not
do this."
Miranda could not help but thrill to the hot emotion in his eyes, even though she might bridle at his commanding tone. She had no intention, of course, of doing anything with Dr. Browning except fleeing to escape his conversation the next time she saw him, but she did not intend to let Devin know that
"You are ordering me?"
"I am ordering you," Devin replied, reaching out and placing his hand across her throat. Her flesh was soft and silken beneath his palm, and the intensity of his lust shook him. "I will not let him touch you. Do you understand?"
Miranda's breath was ragged, her thoughts scattered. All her awareness was centered in that span of flesh where his hand lay, burning her with his intensity. "I understand that you are breaking our agreement."
"To hell with our agreement! Did you actually think I would allow you to sleep with other men? Did you think I was that low? That weak?"
"What am I supposed to do, then?" Miranda asked calmly.
"This," he answered, as his hand stole beneath the neck of her gown, and his mouth came down on hers.
Chapter 14
His mouth was hot and hungry on hers, and his hand burned her skin as it grazed the top of her breast. The neckline of the gown impeded his progress. He curled his fingers around it and jerked down, and the flimsy material gave beneath him with a rending sound. He cupped her breast, exposed by the tear, and a soft groan escaped his lips. He changed the slant of his mouth on hers, burying his lips deeper into hers, his tongue taking her mouth. With a gentleness at odds with the fierce way his lips consumed her, he caressed her breast with his fingers, kneading and stroking, finding the bud of her nipple and teasing it with his fingertips until it hardened.
"Miranda..." He breathed her name as his lips left hers and began to trail across her cheek to her earlobe. "Let me...please, I can show you how good it could be." He took the lobe between his teeth and worried it, sending darts of heat shooting through her.
His mouth moved downward, and everywhere he touched her skin it was like fire. Miranda trembled, sagging against the support of his arm, hard as iron around her back. "Dev..."
Hearing his nickname in her mouth sent a tremor of desire through him. There was an intimacy there, a liking, that he had never believed Miranda felt for him. He untied the sash of her dressing gown and opened it, sliding his hands in underneath it, pulling her up into him. She was soft against him, her nipples hard points of desire. He ran his hands over her back and hips, digging this fingertips into her buttocks and pressing her up against his engorged staff.
Fire licked along their veins, radiating heat through them. Miranda moved her hips against him, aware only of a deep, primitive need to do so. His breath came out in a shudder, and he nipped gently at the juncture of her neck and shoulders, teasing with the sharpness, then laving it with his tongue.
He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and turning to carry her back to his desk. Instinctively, Miranda clamped her legs around him. He set her down on the desk, sweeping off the other contents onto the floor and bearing her back down on it. His body was deliriously hard and heavy on hers, the imprint of his passion burning into her abdomen. He curved his hands around her breasts, his thumbs caressing her nipples. He looked down at her face for a moment, taking in the way her eyes darkened with passion and her face turned soft and sweet as his hands caressed her.
Dev bent and kissed the nipple of one breast, men curled his tongue around it in a lazy, teasing circle. She arched up against him, moaning, and it shook his control almost to the breaking point. He paused for a moment, fighting back the rush of lust.
Looking straight into her eyes, he said, "Isn't this what you want? Isn't this enough for you?"
At this moment, it was, Miranda knew, but she managed to pull the scraps of her self-control together enough to answer, "Is it enough for you?"
He stiffened, his eyes still boring holes in her. "What?"
"Are you saying you want to be my husband in reality?"
"Yes."
"Both of us entirely faithful to each other?"
He almost said yes, but he thought of Leona, and his face changed subtly. Miranda let out her breath in a sigh.