Miles had been similarly indulged, though he liked to consider that his moral compass had been more finely tuned in the months since his brother’s death than Deveril’s would ever be. Surely this made him a more attractive proposition than Deveril?
And if the depth of desire had any bearing on the matter, he would freely acknowledge that he wanted Miss Mordaunt like he’d never wanted anything in his life. The need for her tormented his restless sleep; distracted him from his usual pursuits.
She’d asked him to orchestrate Deveril gaining an invitation to Griffith House for Yuletide and initially Miles had taken up the challenge. After all, anything that would give him an advantage in Miss Mordaunt’s opinion was worth pursuing.
Now, though, he realised such an undertaking would serve neither Miss Mordaunt nor Miles if Deveril weren’t going to find a way to secretly ensconce his mistress.
Better to dwell on the reasons for Miss Mordaunt’s request than its futility. Miles was sure it was a sign that indicated, however obscurely, that Miss Mordaunt wanted to find a way to be under the same roof as Miles. For although she remained firm in outwardly maintaining she wanted nothing
more to do with Miles following his unconscionable behaviour, how could she explain the kiss? Or rather, the passion that fed it? The way she’d melted in his embrace? The ardor that had so disconcerted her? Miles was certain he induced feelings in her breast that Deveril never had.
Unexpectedly, he found himself at the end of the performance in a group that included Miss Elizabeth and her godmother, Lady Greene. Miss Elizabeth was telling a young companion in excited tones that she’d seen a young woman at the theater earlier that evening wearing the most exquisite jeweled comb in her hair, and that she wished to procure one just the same.
Miles watched the pursed lips of the girl’s godmother pucker even more, and was amused by the evasiveness in her expression when Miss Elizabeth asked, “Who do you suppose she was, Lady Greene? She certainly was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Suddenly, he was ashamed of himself. Miss Elizabeth was just out of the schoolroom, and her vast fortune and family’s landholdings made her the ideal bride for a man like Deveril. She appeared sweet, ingenuous, and thoroughly good-natured. When Lady Greene had said, “Don’t you have enough baubles, Elizabeth? A girl like you mustn’t show herself to be greedy in front of others,” she’d smiled impishly and said, “I know; I’m like a blackbird, Deveril tells me. I like shiny things, but even if it were paste, I should still think it the design perfect. And those ostrich feathers were monstrously grand. Do you think I’m tall enough to wear feathers of such a height?”
“I think you should be more concerned with getting enough rest for your wedding day,” Lady Greene said reprovingly, “instead of talking of fripperies in front of gentlemen who can only roll their eyeballs with boredom, and wonder if there’s anything of substance in that silly head of yours.”
Miss Elizabeth looked hurt. “What can I talk about if people only ever talk to me about pelisses and Indian shawls and ostrich feathers? Papa doesn’t believe in education for girls, and whenever I tried to talk to him about the things I’d read in the books in his library, he grew angry.” She dropped her eyes then raised them, saying hopefully, “I’m very excited to be marrying Lord Deveril though. He’s very handsome and kind, and if he allows me to read all the books I like and sanction my choice of jeweled combs and ostrich feathers, I shall consider myself quite the luckiest bride in all of London.”
To his surprise, Miles felt his heart sink a little at this. Miss Elizabeth was such a naïve child on the eve of her nuptials. Perhaps she would progress quite happily either turning a blind eye to her husband’s peccadilloes, or she’d remain quite ignorant of them.
He was going to excuse himself when Lady Greene said, “I believe, Lord Ruthcot, you will spending Yuletide with Lord Griffith. You share a love of antiquities?”
“I inherited a great many antiquities collected by my father and brother,” Lord Ruthcot corrected her. “That’s why I received the invitation. I’m the first to confess I know nothing of such things, but am determined to remedy the situation before I risk embarrassment while at Griffith House.”
Miss Elizabeth gave an excited little jump. “I shall be there too, Lord Ruthcot. It will be my first engagement as a newlywed. I mean, spending a week as a guest at a house party. In the past, I’ve always been left at home in the schoolroom, but now I shall sit at table and have to make intelligent conversation.” She sent another impish grin in her godmother’s direction. “But what can I talk about other than ostrich feathers and jeweled combs? Perhaps I should cultivate an interest in antiquities too, and impress my husband and Lord Griffith. What do you think, Lord Ruthcot?”
Miles didn’t know what to say. Miss Elizabeth was powered by zealous enthusiasm to please her new husband; at a house party where Miles had been asked by Deveril’s mistress to assist in a clandestine operation to bring her under the same roof. It would be tempting fate to push for such a thing, and quite possibly shatter the illusions of the young lady before him should something go amiss, and Miss Mordaunt’s real role as Deveril’s mistress be revealed.
“A little education on antiquities couldn’t go amiss,” he said cautiously. “It’s what I intend doing. Learning, that is. My brother was the expert, but to do justice to his memory, I intend starting from the beginning.”
“As shall I.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve heard about this Rosetta Stone that’s been brought to the British Museum. That’s as good a place to start as any, and will ensure that I have at least something to say in conversation that isn’t about…fripperies.”
Miles excused himself, and spent another restless half an hour wandering the Haymarket, but soon grew tired of the number of propositions he received from the lightskirts that frequented the area at that time of night. Whether by accident or unconscious design, he found himself on the very street where Jemima lived when she wasn’t at Deveril’s townhouse.
Surely she would be alone? After the events of this evening, he imagined Deveril wouldn’t wish to linger in his mistress’s arms, much less have her in his townhouse at such a delicate time. The idea of Miss Mordaunt languishing in Deveril’s arms made Miles feel a little sick. Far better to think about her languishing in his arms. But when he did, his temperature soared, and his breathing became ragged as his loins pulsed with desire.
He couldn’t help himself. In the moonlight, he must have appeared like some moonstruck green boy as he gazed up at her darkened window. He bought matches from a child huddled in a doorway across the street, and asked her if she’d seen any activity at the house. She said a fine carriage had dropped off a lady wearing ostrich feathers and a beautiful cloak trimmed with fur and yes, she had gone alone into the house.
Impulsively, Miles gave her two shillings for the information and, emboldened by the knowledge Miss Mordaunt was alone, found a small stone which he tossed at the window he imagined most likely to be her bedchamber. It took him three attempts, but then the curtain was drawn aside and Miss Mordaunt’s fair face, backlit by soft candlelight, regarded him through the windowpane.
She showed no emotion, he was somewhat deflated to notice. After a hesitation, she simply shook her head reprovingly, then closed the curtains. Was she coming down perhaps? But after five minutes of patient waiting, he realized she wasn’t.
He wouldn’t give up. His life felt empty without her. Even if he merely held her in his arms it would be enough. For now.
Her reaction was more robust when he beat upon the door knocker. In fact, she came flying down the stairs and opened the door angrily. “You have no idea what danger you are courting!” she hissed. “Enough, Lord Ruthcot! Go home to your bed.”
“Please may I come in?” he begged. “Just for a moment?” Her bare feet and ankles peeking from beneath her night-rail were the most erotic sight he thought he’d ever seen. Desperately he scanned her face for some sign of softening or pleasure in his company.
Instead, she hustled him through the door, adding, “Only so that you don’t make a scene on the street.” Stepping back from him, she nibbled at her lip, staring anxiously at the sleepy housemaid who appeared from the shadows behind her. “Mary, Lord Ruthcot was making a din fit to wake the street, and I’m sorry for it. He shall be dispatched shortly. I’m sorry he woke you, but you can go back to bed now.”
The thought of being despatched like an errant school boy or moon calf made his insides churn. “My apologies, Miss Mordaunt, if my presence displeases you. I had to come. I saw you at the theater. In fact, I was about to address you when Miss Elizabeth stopped you on the stairs, which is why I presume Deveril ushered you out of there so quickly.”
“Miss Elizabeth?”
“The young lady who complimented you on your diamond comb. It is indeed very beautiful, though not nearly as beautiful as you.” He put his hand out to touch her hair, which cascaded in ripples down her back. She’d obviously rushed in some haste from her bedchamber, for she was barefoot and her shawl had slipped off one shoulder. Showing beneath the fine cambric nightgown, he could see the faintest pin