Unraveled (Turner, #3)

The thought occurred to him only after he’d entered Miranda’s home. It was half past four, almost dark. Scarcely a day had passed since he’d installed her in this house, and already he found himself far out of his depths.

He’d left in a panic last night, scarcely able to suppress his reaction. But when he’d awoken later, it hadn’t been a nightmare that roused him, but a memory. He’d remembered that half-choke in her voice when he’d walked away. And he’d wanted to make it better.

The usual etiquette, when one offended one’s mistress, was that one sent over some glittering bauble. If he’d been accustomed to this sort of affair, he’d have arranged for that. Instead, he’d risked real intimacy.

The warm, polished entry of Miranda’s home smelled of some savory roast. The furniture in the parlor was soft and comfortable. It seemed a beguilement: a promise that he, too, might have these luxuries. Food. Warmth. Companionship.

The only companion he’d had over the last few years was his dog. Dogs didn’t feel pity. Dogs didn’t make plans to fix one, except by repeated application of tongue to face. No matter how much weakness one showed a dog, it still depended on you for food and exercise. As if to emphasize that, Ghost sat in the entry next to Smite, and looked up at him.

He’d let himself believe that he might share an easy affair with Miranda, one that didn’t engage his emotions. Perhaps he’d convinced himself that she’d be so grateful for the largesse he’d thrown her way that she wouldn’t ask any questions.

Any hope of that had gone up in smoke the instant she’d fed him the cake. There was nothing easy about any of this. One night, and she’d wormed her way beneath his skin.

Her tread sounded on the stairs overhead. He’d betrayed too much of himself to her already. She would—

For a second, he had a moment of melting panic. Then she came round the bend in the staircase and saw him standing there. He was dithering, and damn it, he hated dithering.

She broke into a smile at the sight of him.

Oh. Hell. He felt all tangled inside. She was wearing a blue-green satin. The sleeves of her gown scarcely skimmed her shoulders.

There’d been too many shared confidences between them. He scarcely knew how to greet a woman who knew so much of him.

“Turner,” she said. She descended the last few stairs to him, holding out her hands.

He turned abruptly from her. He took off his greatcoat and handed it to the maid who had materialized at his side. She disappeared, leaving them intimately—awkwardly—alone.

When he turned around, she set her hand on her hip. She gave him a rueful glance, and contemplated him with lips pressed together.

Smite looked away from her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to let Ghost loose.”

“Please.”

He leaned down and fumbled with the lead. The knot wasn’t difficult, but he lingered over it. From the corner of his vision he could see her hands, encased in delicate lace gloves. They clenched once and then relaxed. Once Ghost was freed, he walked about the entry, sniffed idly at Miranda, and then curled up on the floor where he could keep an eye on his master.

She watched him. “Would you care for supper,” she asked, “or…”

“Or would I prefer to slake another appetite?”

She colored at that.

“Are you sore?” he asked bluntly.

That pink flush grew until it encompassed the skin of her neck. “I…I could manage. If you wanted.”

“There’s no need to be so damned solicitous of me.” He reached up and loosened his cravat. “You sound as if you have to do everything I wish.”

“Isn’t—” She paused, shook her head. “I had rather assumed that’s what you were paying me to do.”

“Yes,” Smite said. “You’ve nailed it precisely. I wanted you for your docile nature.”

He remembered too late that she might not be used to his peculiar brand of sarcasm. But Miranda, thankfully, gave him a canny smile.

“I care about what you want,” he said awkwardly.

“Then come here and greet me properly.” She curled her index finger at him.

He drifted over to stand before her. She watched him with a little smile on her face, and he found himself leaning into her, setting his palm against her face. She smelt of something subtly sweet and calming—mint, maybe, or chamomile. His tangled insides unclenched.

Oh, hell. This was bad—worse than lust, worse than intimacy. He’d missed her. He wasn’t used to missing anyone.

But he traced his fingertips down her cheekbone, followed the curve of her jaw until he touched her chin. He tipped up her face to his, and then he kissed her.

Her lips were soft and welcoming. Kissing was different with real intimacy present. He didn’t have to think about where she was putting her hands; he knew she’d not touch his face. He could lose himself completely in the taste of her, the scent of her. The feel of her body, melting into his.

It was the first time he’d kissed a woman without feeling wary.

And then her stomach growled. He pulled away.