A cotillion had always seemed infernally long, but this one ended far too soon, and before she knew it, Miranda stood facing Roger on the edge of the dance floor, now uncertain what to do or say. The ball had only just begun, and she was in for hours of dancing with various partners and making polite conversation.
Clearing his throat, Roger glanced about as if searching for something. “Can I get you more champagne?”
“I think I’ve had enough for now, thank you.”
“You … you wished to speak with me. Perhaps we could …”
He offered his arm again and Miranda accepted it, following his lead to the perimeter of the ballroom. They went unnoticed when slipping out onto the terrace, the shadows of the night enveloping them as they drew away from the glow of candlelight.
Miranda wrapped her arms around herself and turned to face Roger, taking a deep breath that stung her nostrils and smelled of freshly fallen snow.
“Are you cold?” Roger asked, clear concern in his voice.
“It is a pleasant change from the heat of the ballroom. I am fine.”
He nodded, then ran a hand through his hair, his breath turning to white mist on the air as he issued a heavy exhale. “Miranda, I should—”
“Do you find me objectionable in some way?” she blurted before he could finish.
He scowled, a slash of light from inside illuminating the tight compression of his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
She held her arms out wide as if to present herself and raised her chin. “Do you find me unattractive? Perhaps you prefer fair-haired women, or tall women, or blue eyes? Maybe I am not beautiful enough to tempt your desire, or I lack the goods to spur you to passion. Whatever it is that sends you running from me whenever we encounter one another, I’d like to hear it. Because I fail to understand how a man who is being paid to do away with his virginity with a willing woman finds himself unable to bring himself to the task, unless he is impossible to please.”
Roger held both hands up defensively and advance on her. “That isn’t the way of it.”
“Then what is it? I thought we were having a perfectly lovely time last night, but I must have been mistaken. You ran from that room as if you couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”
“It wasn’t … I …” He ducked his head as if trying to avoid her probing gaze, pressing a hand against his throat. “It isn’t you.”
Miranda raised her eyebrows and waited for him to elaborate, but when he merely stood staring at her for several seconds, she released a low groan of agitation. “If you want to dissolve our agreement, I wish you would simply say so. These past few days of uncertainty and guessing have left me weary of such games!”
His hands shot out to close around her arms, and Miranda gasped when he pulled her closer, looming over her with wide eyes and a clenched jaw.
“That isn’t what I want,” he murmured, his lashes sweeping low over his eyes as his gaze dropped to her mouth.
Miranda’s heartbeat increased to a gallop as she breathed in the crisp, masculine scent of him—like pine and leather, and a hint of brandy. Just as they had in the drawing room last night, her knees became weak and her senses devolved into chaos. The potency of this man combined with his reticence was baffling, to say the least.
“What do you want?” she asked, unable to help the pleading edge to her voice.
There was no hiding it. She wanted him. He appealed to her in a way that defied her annoyance and made her willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. If the problem was simply an overwhelming shyness on his part, Miranda would be willing to work through it. The promise of his kiss told her it would be worth the effort.
“This,” he whispered, drawing her against him and lowering his head toward hers. “You.”
Miranda melted into him, swept away by the fervor in his sudden kiss. His hands wandered up her shoulders and neck, strong fingers cupping her cheeks as he tilted his head and thrust his tongue at the seam of her lips. She wrapped her arms around him, clutching at his shoulders to keep on her feet as he overwhelmed her with his ardor. Last night’s kiss felt like a gentle prelude to this fiery exploration, all reticence finally falling from between them.
Roger issued a low, rough groan, his long legs propelling them both deeper into the shadows and away from the ballroom doors. Miranda’s buttocks came against the stone railing and she was relieved for the additional support as Roger overwhelmed her with lips and tongue and teeth. Her insides melted when he nipped at her lower lip, then caressed away the sting with this tongue. The man kissed like he was starving—as if the taste of her were too delectable for him to stop. The surge of satisfaction that brought her was nearly as satisfying as his kiss.
Arousal sent heat flooding her middle and sinking between her legs. Roger pressed between her knees, urging her skirts up and standing between her parted thighs. His hand braced at her back, he pressed her against him, his chest hard and unrelenting against her tender breasts. The proof of his lust swelled against her, lending truth to his words. Whatever had stopped him from finishing what they’d started last night, it wasn’t lack of attraction.
When they pulled apart, Miranda sucked in several deep breaths, her head spinning as she attempted to pull herself together. Roger was still standing between her legs, his hands braced against the stone on either side of her hips.
She grew aware of their surrounding by degrees, registering the bite of cold air on her exposed legs and the hardness of the stone beneath her. The circle of light spilling from the ballroom showed no approaching shadows, easing her fear that they might be discovered. If they tarried any longer, however, they might be.
“Roger,” she began. “Why did you—”
“Walk with me,” he interjected.
Backing away, he lowered her skirts and offered his hand, inclining his head toward the garden beyond. Coming to her feet, Miranda accepted his offer. She was curious over what he might tell her that she couldn’t possibly think of returning to the ballroom. Hopefully, no one would notice their absence.
He waited until they had slipped through the wrought iron gates, enclosed in a world of evergreen trees and hedgerows. Miranda watched Roger pace away from her, once again combing his fingers through his hair. It seemed to be a habitual, nervous gesture of his. She found it charming—some hint that he wasn’t as implacable as he led others to believe.
“Roger?” she prodded when he didn’t speak after a while.
Turning to face her, he cleared his throat. “Speaking is … difficult for me at times.”
Interest piqued, Miranda studied him with a closer eye. The moonlight illuminated a figure of confidence and poise. It would never have occurred to her that he was silent because he found speech difficult. Was he really so shy that conversation unnerved him?
“I see,” she replied, uncertain what else to say.
“It has been since I was a child. I have spent many years p-p-practicing and t-trying to c-control it, b-but …”
Realization dawned as he broke her gaze, a deep sigh of frustration emitting from him. She recalled the moments just before he’d fled the drawing room. He had stammered over his words then, but Miranda had assumed he was simply overcome with nerves. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
“Oh,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her belly. “I’m so—”