Unraveled (Turner, #3)

A brief respite was allowed for tea in the afternoon. Miranda took the opportunity to corner one of the maids and to ask her to obtain a few items for her bedchamber. She was about to manufacture an explanation for why she needed them—a perfectly reasonable explanation, of course—when the woman simply curtsied and left.

Apparently, she didn’t need to explain herself any longer. She just needed to ask.

And her time away from the dressmaker didn’t last long. No sooner had she drained her cup than one of the assistants returned, laden with packages. Her personal maid stripped her down to her skin, and everything was tried on to test the fit—fine linen shifts and drawers and petticoats, followed by knee-high silk stockings held in place with garter-ribbons. She caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror as they fastened the corset for her. The seamstress grumbled about the fit, but it seemed finer than any of the ill-fitting secondhand garments Miranda had ever tried.

She was surrounded by feminine bustle, but she could not help but dwell on the masculine. He was going to see her like this tonight. He’d see her in far less. Tonight, he’d be the one undoing those laces. She found herself flushing.

She wasn’t finished, not even when the dressmaker departed for the evening. Miranda’s maids drew her a bath. They scrubbed her hair with something soft and floral-smelling, and dumped warm water over her when she stood. Afterward, they wrapped her in thick, warm towels and dried her hair by the fire. She had almost drifted off to sleep before they intruded again, this time to dress her in a cream-and-green striped silk gown. The smooth fabric spilled over petticoats that swished when she walked. Her clothing seemed to belong to another woman.

No, she corrected herself. Another man. Who was going to take it off—every last inch of it.

The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it sent tendrils of heat sifting through her. When she sent her maids away, she pulled out the parcel she’d had them obtain. A bit of sea sponge, a bottle of vinegar, and some silk thread. The simplest of the prophylactics she knew. Somehow, readying herself in that final way brought home the fact that she stood on the verge of something irrevocable. His body would fit where her fingers dipped. That sponge, soaked in vinegar, was lodged inside her because he was going to have her.

She could scarcely wait.

A scratch sounded at her door. She jumped to her feet, patting her skirts back into place, and rushed to open it. The maid blinked in surprise when Miranda threw it open herself; apparently, that had been the wrong thing to do, too.

But all the maid said was, “Supper is ready.”

Supper, when she’d had tea just three hours past? She could scarcely touch the soup or the meat pie or the roasted beetroot. The repast was whisked away, and Miranda was left alone in the library, with tea and a tray of small, delectable lemon cakes. They were too good not to eat, even though she was full beyond belief.

“I could grow used to this,” she remarked aloud. The books had nothing to say in response.

Easy to grow used to something when she hadn’t yet paid the price for any of it. Tonight, she’d have to surrender herself to him. If she’d had any proper sensibilities, she should have been trembling in fear. But it was distinctly not fear that had her thumbs pricking. She wandered from shelf to shelf, glancing at titles of books that she couldn’t bring herself to read, and reliving the feel of his hands on her skin, his mouth on her. She couldn’t feel the sponge inside her, but she was aware of its secret promise. Tonight. It was going to happen tonight.

Finally, the housemaid ducked in once more.

“Mr. Turner to see you,” she said.

He stood behind the maid, and her heart stopped beating.

Miranda had been so engrossed in her thoughts that she’d not heard him arrive. He waved the maid away—she wondered, briefly, what the servants said amongst themselves about this arrangement—and leaned against the doorway. His eyes met hers, smoldering with barely suppressed intent.

“Everything to your liking?” he asked.

He was damnably handsome. He was tall and imposing, topping her by more than half a head. There was something sharp about his features, true, but he was saved from severeness by the small smile he gave her. Her gaze dropped to contemplate his long fingers. He’d stroked her with those; he was going to do it again. She was going to know all of him, and by the way he looked at her, she was going to enjoy it. He was dressed in dark wool; his white shirt and a green silk waistcoat gleamed in contrast. His cravat was tied neatly.

There were no diamond stickpins, no cuff links made of precious stones. She’d known he was a duke’s brother. But somehow, she’d not quite comprehended what that meant. He lived by himself in a tiny house. How was she to have expected this luxury? And what did it mean that he’d casually lodged her here and promised her a thousand pounds without even flinching?