Once More, Miranda by Jennifer Wilde

Author:Jennifer Wilde
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497698215
Publisher: Open Road Media

23

Six o’clock in the morning it had been when he finally came home. Six o’clock in the bloody morning, sunlight streaking the sky in cool pink strokes, shadows evaporating, him staggering up the stairs and coming into the bedroom looking worn and haggard, pulling off his clothes, climbing into bed without a word, falling asleep almost immediately. Damn him to hell. Back from Scotland two weeks now and going out almost every night to his bloody secret meetings with his bloody conspirators, leaving me all alone. You’d think I was still his bleedin’ maid, think I was just a piece of furniture for all the attention he’d given me. Sod hadn’t even brought me a present from Scotland. Wouldn’t have hurt him. Hell, a simple bit of purple heather would’ve done, would’ve said something, would’ve meant the world.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon now and he was still asleep and I longed to march upstairs and grab him by the feet and drag him out of bed so forcefully he’d crack his head on the floor. I’d enjoy that. Maybe I wouldn’t drag him out of bed. Maybe I’d take a pan of ice cold water and dump if over his head. Serve the sod right, it would. Ignoring me, treating me like I wasn’t there, neglecting his book and traipsing all over London to plan and conspire with those bloodthirsty rebels when he knew how I felt about it, knew how scared I was. The bastard hadn’t even noticed my elegant new voice. Never dropped my final ‘g’s’ anymore, carefully pronounced each ‘h,’ spoke with a lovely resonance. Like dark velvet, Mrs. Wooden said it was, said it was a blooming miracle, one day I’m squawking like an agitated duck and the next I’m speaking in a soft, refined drawl that would put a duchess to shame. Still needed work, of course, a few burrs here and there, but a miracle all the same, and Mr. Cam-sodding-Gordon was so preoccupied I might just as well have been jabbering in Hindu.

Sleeping away upstairs he was, in the middle of the day. Downright immoral, and me with my hair just washed, thick and soft as silk, gleaming like molten copper with shiny red highlights. I was wearing one of my nicest frocks, too, lovely sky-blue silk with deep sapphire stripes that matched the color of my eyes, skirt belling out over my petticoat, waist snug, bodice cut modestly low with the puffed sleeves off the shoulder. Why bother to make myself attractive for him? I might as well be dressed in rags for all the good it did, might as well have dirty hair and a face streaked with soot.

Damn him! Two weeks he’d been back and four times he’d slept with me. Slept? Much too dignified a term. Grabbed me, banged away lustily, rolled over and then he slept while I fumed. More like rape, it was, all four times, and I wasn’t Lady Evelyn, I wasn’t a whore conveniently on hand to serve him when he felt the need to release some of his pent-up anger.

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