The Last Time We Met - By Lily Lang Page 0,11

protect her, ravish her and worship her, save her and destroy her.

He had intended to insult her with his proposition, had wanted her to slap him, mock him, spit in his face, anything, only show some sign of her old spirit so she would not seem so terribly defenseless. But instead she had kissed him back with the same ardor he remembered from ten years before, and he had gone momentarily mad, lost in a vortex of rage and lust and longing so intense he had been unable to see, let alone think. If she had not whispered that pleading question—do you hate me so much?—he would have taken her there on the floor of his sitting room. Only his determination that she should never again hold the power to make him lose his self-control so completely had stopped him.

Needing to find an outlet for his pent-up frustration, he lit several lamps and sat down at his desk to settle accounts for the club from the last year. He would have preferred a bout at Gentleman Jackson’s, but the lateness of the hour precluded that possibility, so instead, he forced himself to concentrate on what Miranda had told him.

Whatever had happened, there was more to the story than she had confessed, and he fully intended to discover what she was hiding from him. He knew without a shred of doubt she had lied when he’d questioned her about the reason William had struck Clarence Thornwood.

She never had been able to lie worth a damn, especially not to him. Her shifty expression and the way her eyes had slid away from his had reminded him forcibly of the way she had looked at the age of nine, when she had vowed earnestly to Cook that she and Jason had most definitely not stolen and eaten the entire rhubarb pie. Unfortunately for both of them, her explanation had been made somewhat less convincing by the crumbs and jelly streaked liberally across her face.

For the briefest instant, a smile flickered across his face at the memory, then vanished almost immediately, to be replaced once again with the familiar pain that had been his constant companion for the last ten years.

He flicked the ceaseless ache away like cigar ash and turned his attention back to Miranda’s story.

Jason had never met Clarence Thornwood or his wife, but Laurence Thornwood had first showed up at Blakewell’s nine months before with a group of bored, reckless, wealthy young men. Thornwood had been new to town and eager to prove to his friends he was adept at their favorite activities of drinking, gambling and whoring. Unfortunately for the fool, he was an appallingly unskilled gamester, losing thousands of pounds with a single turn of card or roll of dice. The records of his losses were staggering. No doubt he had kept out of dun territory only by pilfering liberally from his cousins’ inheritances.

For a while, Jason studied figures, adding up a long column of numbers he made on a scrap of foolscap, then adding them again before double checking a few dates. When he was satisfied with the results, he extinguished the lamps and went to find his manager again.

“Oliver,” he said, when he had tracked down his friend on the first floor of the club, “are any of Laurence Thornwood’s friends currently here? Lord Hargreaves, perhaps, or Mr. Murray?”

“Yes,” said Oliver immediately. “Mr. Murray, in fact, is playing hazard upstairs.”

“Have him sent to my office immediately,” said Jason. “I should like to speak with him.”

Chapter Two

After Jason had gone, Miranda forced herself to sit back down at the supper table. Unable to bear thinking about their awful confrontation, she focused instead on the superbly prepared food. Though her thoughts shied away from Jason, knowing he would help her calmed her stomach considerably, and for the first time in days, she ate a full meal.

Once she had sated her appetite, exhaustion overwhelmed her. It was as though, knowing that Jason now knew everything and would take care of everything, her mind and body could finally relax. With no notion of where he had gone for the night, and little intention of waiting to find out, she climbed into the massive four-poster bed, still wearing her borrowed gown, and was asleep almost immediately.

She slept deeply and dreamlessly through the night, and when she woke again, it was morning. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she raised herself to a sitting position and gazed blearily around her.

Light flooded the room,