My Lord Hercules (6 page)

His sensual assault only intensified.
He sucked her lower lip; he touched his tongue to hers; he pulled
her closer and closer to him, until she was nearly on his lap. His
lips trailed to her jaw and then down the side of her neck,
eliciting tingles and heat everywhere he touched her.

Miranda’s nipples peaked against her
soft chemise and she wished he would touch her there, but his
muscled arms wrapped more tightly around her until her breasts were
flush against the hard wall of his chest. She trailed her hands up
his arms, finally settling them on the broad expanse of his
shoulders.

“
If you want to be ruined,
Miranda,” he rasped in her ear before nibbling on her neck, “you
need only ask.”

As though he’d doused her with icy
water, Miranda’s flame was instantly snuffed out. He was still
outwitting her, trying to teach her whatever lesson he thought she
needed to learn about rakes and dangerous men. And his lesson had
been apt. She pushed with all her strength against his chest until
he released her.

“
Take me home,” she ordered
in her most haughty voice as she held back the tears that
threatened to spill down her cheeks. But she wouldn’t give Harrison
Casemore the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Even the murderous glare she cast him
and no effect on Harry’s ardor. He’d give nearly everything he
owned to pull her back into his arms caress every inch of her. But
this was hardly the time or the place. Besides, there was that
murderous glare of hers. She probably wouldn’t be amendable to
allowing him any more liberties.

On second thought, he probably
shouldn’t have said that last bit, but the thought that she wanted
Woodsworth drove him a little mad. Whatever she saw in the
profligate was not in her best interests, even if she didn’t
realize that. Woodsworth was capable of ruining her without
thought, without warning, if she got close enough to him. And Harry
didn’t doubt, with her proclivity for ending up in places she
shouldn’t be, that she’d find herself in the marquess’s presence
sooner rather than later. He’d never met a more determined girl.
But now, maybe, she’d think twice about getting herself in an
unfortunate position with Woodsworth.

“
I said,” she bit out, “take
me home.”

Harry unhooked the driving reins and
urged his bays forward, back toward the more populated area of the
park. “Miranda,” he began after a moment.

“
Don’t say another word to
me.” Her voice quivered slightly, and Harry’s heart ached. She
sounded as though she’d been just as affected as he was, but now
she hated him.

He chanced a glance in her direction,
but she refused to meet his eyes, instead she sat bolt upright, her
arms folded across her middle like the strictest of governesses,
staring out in front of them as though daring anyone to defy her.
Yes, it was rather obvious that she hated him. Damn it all to hell.
That hadn’t been his intent at all.

Harry threw a left then a right when
the punch bag swung back toward him. There was nothing quite so
satisfying as the release of pressure as he pounded the target once
more, the weight of the bag against his knuckles, the dull thudding
sound that reverberated off the walls.

Left, left, right.

A primitive growl escaped
him.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with
his left arm, then jabbed with his right. Woodsworth was fortunate
he never stepped foot inside Gentleman Jackson’s, or Harry might be
tempted to practice his punches on the marquess instead of the
punch bag. Until today, he’d have never considered pummeling the
ne’er-do-well, but at the moment, the thought did have a certain
appeal.

Left, left, left.

His conversation with Miranda still
rang in his ears, and one thing had become amazingly clear after he
returned her to Marston House. Miranda Bartlett had gone to Gioco’s
to meet Woodsworth. It all made complete sense now that he thought
about it. She’d entered the hell only a few moments behind the
wayward marquess, and her hazel eyes had lit with interest when the
man’s name was mentioned today.

But why?

Right, right, left.

Why Woodsworth? Why should she care a
thing for him? No one ever wanted an introduction to Woodsworth. He
was inconsequential on his best days and downright destructive on
his worst. No decent girl would pay him any attention. No decent
girl would beg an introduction to such a man. No decent girl would
dress like a dandy and enter a gaming hell just to stumble across
the likes of Woodsworth.

Right, right, right.

Harry should wash his hands of her and
be done. But that kiss still lingered on the fringes of his mind.
Bloody hell. He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her right in the middle
of Hyde Park, for God’s sake. No matter how he tried or how many
punches he threw, he’d never forget that kiss. He’d never forget
her sweet lilac scent, the tentative way her tongue had met his,
the way she fit in his arms.

“
You trying to break that
thing?” came the irritatingly familiar drawl of his
brother-in-law.

Woodsworth wasn’t around to pummel,
but Harry wouldn’t mind taking a few swings at St. Austell instead.
He turned his head to glare at his sister’s disreputable husband.
“I’d much rather break you, since you’re around.”

St. Austell grinned as he shook his
head. The man was either quite brave or quite stupid. Harry was
inclined to believe it was the latter, as thinking of St. Austell
as brave went against his very nature. “And what would that get
you?” his brother-in-law asked.

Tossed in Newgate while he awaited
trial for murdering the libertine? Harry shrugged. “Pippa would
forgive me in time.”

St. Austell laughed. “Eventually we’ll
have to get along, you know.”

“
Is that decreed
somewhere?”

It was the earl’s turn to shrug.
“You’ll be an uncle to my babes. Someday you’ll have little
pugilists of your own. We really should set good examples for the
children.”

The yet-to-exist children? Was that
the best the blackguard could do? St. Austell was clearly after
something. “What do you want?” Harry growled, turning his attention
back to the punch bag.

Right, right, left.

“
To see you happily settled
with some chit.”

“
Indeed?” Harry scoffed.
“You’d wish that on me, would you?”

St. Austell released the sigh of a
beleaguered man. “It would put Pippa’s mind at ease, and I’d much
rather have my wife’s attention focused on me than on
you.”

Harry couldn’t help the laugh that
escaped him. Of course St. Austell would have an ulterior motive.
He spun on his heel to face his brother-in-law. “Altruistic as
always, hmm? How does my sister tolerate you?”

“
Pippa loves me, and I love
her.” A genuine smile lit St. Austell’s face, which was quite
different that the smug expression he sported most of the time. “So
which of Marston’s sisters has caught your notice? Miranda?
Penelope?” He cringed. “Hopefully not Alessandra, as that would be
more than awkward with Puttenham in the mix.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “How is it
you’re so familiar with Marston’s sisters?”

His brother-in-law shrugged. “Simeon
Bartlett was a friend before his untimely death. I’ve heard about
those three girls for years. The shy Alessandra. The secretive
Miranda. And the spoiled Penelope.”

Secretive, that was certainly Miranda.
Harry wasn’t sure if he was more surprised that St. Austell had
been friends with the saintly Simeon Bartlett or that he seemed to
remember details about the late gentleman’s sisters. He’d never
known the earl to give much thought to anyone except himself, and
of course Pippa.

“
He adored them, doted on
them,” St. Austell continued. “Always struck me as odd as I’d
rather be just about anywhere but near my own sister. Of course
Nora is a harridan of the worst variety, but I digress. Which
Bartlett sister has you bashing that poor punch bag into
oblivion?”

Harry shook his head as though his
brother-in-law was absurd. “I come here all the time.”

“
Indeed,” St. Austell
agreed. “But you never look quite so murderous, and you did have
such a bounce in your step in my parlor today. Clearly something
turned your mood black.”

“
Seeing you twice in a day
does that to a man.”

His brother-in-law tossed back his
head and laughed. Then his familiar smug expression settled once
more on his face. “Fine, keep your own council. Pippa’s headed over
to Marston House as it is, with that invitation you were so keen
on. She’ll learn all your secrets, I’m sure.”

Needlepoint had to have been created
by some man to keep women in their place. Horrid waste of time and
energy. Miranda frowned at the mess in her lap. The colorful
thread, stitched this way and that, didn’t remotely resemble a
horse in a pasture. In fact, when she closed one eye and tilted the
fabric to the side, her work looked more like Cerberus frolicking
in a clover field than anything else.

Beside her on the settee, Penny didn’t
even attempt to hide her amusement. Miranda dropped the odious
horse-turned-three-headed-dog to her lap and scowled at her
sister.

“
You’re getting better,”
Louisa said from a chair opposite them, though she bit her lip as
though to keep from laughing right alongside Penny.

One would think a vicar’s daughter
wouldn’t tell an outright lie. Miranda heaved a sigh before
returning her gaze to the disaster of thread before her. At least
Cerberus was better than other mythical characters she could have
created. If she was better at this sort of thing, she could even
have Cerberus slay a particular demigod. Alas, that was not a
talent she possessed. What a pity.

From the threshold, their butler
cleared his throat. “My lady,” he said to Louisa. “The Countess of
St. Austell has come to call.”

Miranda’s heart seized and her breath
caught in her throat. The Countess of St. Austell? Lord Harrison’s
sister? What could that particular lady possibly want?

“
Thank you, Hibbert,” Louisa
replied. “Do show her in, and deliver some refreshments as well,
please.”

As soon as the butler disappeared,
Penny grasped Miranda’s hand. “Do you know who she is?” her sister
whispered, her gleeful eyes boring into Miranda.