“What on earth possessed you to wager a thousand pounds on Lord Dunbridge’s proposed nuptials?” Griff was astonished by the amount and by Jarrod’s uncharacteristic behavior.
“I’m acquainted with the young lady he hopes to marry.”
“And?” Griff prompted.
Colin snapped his fingers. “Eckersley. Wasn’t that the name of the young woman you danced with at Esme Harralson’s ball last season? The night I met Gillian?”
Jarrod didn’t answer.
Colin frowned. “Jarrod?”
“Yes,” Jarrod ground out. “And I can guarantee Dunbridge won’t win his wager. Because I won’t allow it.”
“How?” Jonathan inquired.
“I’m escorting her and her aunt to Lady Garrison’s tonight,” Jarrod said.
As if the outcome was already assured.
The other Free Fellows looked at one another. First they would find their missing colleague, then they would get to the bottom of Jarrod’s wager.
Chapter Eighteen
“Persuasion hung upon his lips.”
—Laurence Sterne, 1713–1768
Tristram Shandy
Miranda returned to the master bedchamber wearing a dark blue dress with a square décolletage that showed off her neck and shoulders and created a frame for her bosom. Daniel noticed that her skin was still a little pink and damp in places from her bath, and that she had piled her hair atop her head, confining it in a tight knot, but loose tendrils had escaped to curl around her face. She looked as lovely as Daniel had ever seen her look, and she smelled incredible.
He sighed and shifted his weight from one hip to the other before grabbing a pillow and placing it in his lap, doing everything in his power to keep from tenting the pink bed-sheets with his erection once again.
He’d spent the past three quarters of an hour listening to the sound of water splashing in the bath, and his imagination had run wild. He recognized the sound of water running off her as she rose from the bathwater. He imagined Miranda stepping out of the water and bending at the waist to dry her feet before running the towel up her shapely legs, over the soft skin of her stomach and between her thighs. He imagined droplets of bathwater clinging to her downy auburn triangle like the diamonds that had sparkled in her hair last night. And Daniel imagined tiny droplets of moisture secreted in her navel, decorating the slopes of her breasts and hiding in the valley between them.
“Enjoy your bath?” he asked.
“Very much,” she answered.
“Have you eaten yet?”
She nodded. “I ate in the kitchen and kept Ned company while I waited for the water to heat.”
“You seem rather close to your footman,” he ventured.
“I am,” Miranda told him. “We’re the same age. He grew up at Blackstone Abbey, our country house, and when we were in residence there, my father arranged for Ned to accompany me wherever I went. We became friends when we were small, and our friendship endures to this day.”
“I see.” Daniel glanced down at his plate. “I hoped you would reconsider and decide to keep me company while you ate.” He tried to keep the note of disappointment out of his voice and failed.
“I made a list of errands for Ned to run and sent him on his way to your tailor on Bond Street.”
“Then I shouldn’t complain at being left alone.”
“No, you shouldn’t, Your Grace, for I brought you something.” Miranda turned around, then bent and picked up a marble chessboard set with carved marble chessmen.
“A chessboard?” He leaned forward to get a closer look at the marble board and the exquisitely carved black and white marble pieces occupying the matching squares.
“Yes,” she said. “I saw it in the library downstairs.”