The Last Time We Met - By Lily Lang Page 0,20
quantity into her bowl. She kept her head lowered, and as she worked the pastry, tendrils of her silky hair escaped from its knot to curl around her face. She was flushed from the heat of the kitchens. “If you wish to argue the proprieties, sir, I fear it is rather too late for that.”
Jason opened his mouth to argue, but Monsieur Leblanc, crossing his arms over his protuberant belly, settled the argument.
“You take her away, you serve your own supper,” he said. “Now get out of my kitchens.”
Jason set his teeth. Abruptly, he became aware of the kitchen maid cowering in one corner and the three male cooks who had also beaten a hasty retreat to the other side of the kitchen. They regarded him with the mingled fascination and terror generally reserved for madmen in the final stages of lunacy.
He was making an ass of himself, yelling at Miranda in his own kitchens. Sanity returned, and he drew a deep, steadying breath before forcing himself to speak lightly.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting,” he said. “Miss Thornwood. Monsieur Leblanc.”
Bowing ironically, he stalked back out into the hall.
The door slammed shut with a satisfying bang behind him.
Miranda could not sleep. It had been midnight before the supper preparations ceased, and nearly two in the morning when she finally made her way back up the stairs to Jason’s suite, but though she was physically exhausted, she remained wide awake. All day, keeping herself busy with Monsieur Leblanc, laughing with the staff members of Blakewell’s who inevitably made their way to the kitchens for a cup of tea or a quick bite to eat, she had managed to keep her anxiety about William at bay.
Alone now in the darkness, she could not escape the chaos of her thoughts.
What if Jason’s men were too late? What if she had been too late? By now, a week had passed since she had left Hertfordshire. What if someone remembered Hannah lived in Middlesex and managed to find and arrest William? Was he even now being dragged before the local magistrate?
The local constables in Hertfordshire were generally inept, inexperienced and disinclined toward chasing down a criminal to the next county, but if her aunt offered a generous reward, as the obnoxious woman had probably done—with William’s money—they would be inspired to greater diligence in their search.
She tried to tell herself that even if William had been arrested in the week since she had seen him, murder was a grave enough crime to merit a hearing before the assize judges of the King’s Bench. Not even Aunt Beatrice with all her determination could get him safely to the gallows and hanged before he had had a proper trial, in which Miranda herself was prepared to lie with great earnestness and conviction if necessary. In the meanwhile, Jason had promised to help them, and he could no doubt be counted upon to produce a competent lawyer.
But the thought of Jason did not help calm her nerves. When she had first returned to the suite, she had wondered what she would do if she found Jason inside of it. She hadn’t had to worry, however, since the room had been empty, though it had evidently been cleaned at some point, the untouched luncheon tray cleared away, the chamber pot emptied and the ewer of water exchanged for a fresh pitcher.
She was relieved not to have to face Jason again today, Miranda told herself now. She was very relieved not to have to see his dark face scowling at her like a villainous Goth out of Titus Andronicus. She had no desire to be threatened, bullied, or-or-or kissed in that most improper—and exciting—fashion.
She had absolutely not looked forward to their next encounter. She had absolutely not looked forward to Jason carrying out his highly ungentlemanly threat of making her his mistress, or of finally experiencing once again all the thrilling sensations she remembered from—
“Argh!” Miranda rolled over in the bed and, burying her over-warm face in the pillow, gave a small, muffled scream of annoyance.
She was an idiot. No longer able to endure the crazed thoughts racing through her mind, she climbed out of the high bed and pulled on the wrapper Madame Beaumont had delivered sometime during the day along with a beautifully made nightgown. Though Miranda had a sneaking suspicion the luxuriousness of the soft material was decadent and possibly indecent, she was unable to stop herself from enjoying the sensual slide of silk against her skin.
Recollecting