My Lord Hercules Read online

  “Smile,” Lord Harrison ordered as he directed his bays down Curzon Street. “Or you’ll have all of Mayfair thinking I’ve abducted you.”

  Miranda cast him a sidelong glance. He truly was a magnificent specimen, as far as the male of the species went. But she couldn’t let herself get distracted by his impressive build or his clear green eyes. “Haven’t you?”

  “You did agree to come along with me,” he said, his gaze focused on the traffic before them.

  “Because you didn’t give me a choice.” Then she mocked his baritone voice. “We have much to discuss, do we not?”

  Beside her, the Herculean gentleman chuckled. “You are a spitfire, Miss Miranda.” Then he chanced a glance in her direction. “Would you like to drive?”

  Drive? His question completely unarmed her. He’d let her drive his bays? Devlin would have an apoplexy if he knew. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lord Harrison slid slightly closer to her on the bench, until his hard, muscled leg touched Miranda’s. Tingles raced across her skin at the contact. Good heavens, he could jumble her mind.

  “For a girl who dons trousers, I figured you might be adept at driving cattle too,” his deep voice floated around her like an embrace.

  The fluttering in her heart increased tenfold. No one had ever had such an effect on her. And no one had ever offered such a thing to her, not even Simeon, God rest his soul. “I’ve never handled the ribbons before,” she admitted before she thought the better of it. What if he took back his offer?

  “There’s nothing to it, my dear.” He moved the driving reins closer toward her. “Just like riding. You do know how to ride, do you not?”

  Of course she knew how to ride. What a ridiculous question. “Before I was walking.”

  A brilliant smile flashed on his face. “Why does that not surprise me?” He slightly jiggled the reins before her. “Here you go, don’t pull too hard, but don’t give the ribbons too much play either.”

  Miranda gulped. Devlin would flay her alive if he found out, but when might she get another chance like this? She heaved a steadying sigh then took the reins in her hands.

  “Perfect,” Lord Harrison gushed. “Like you’ve been driving all your life.”

  “It’s been all of ten seconds.”

  He laughed once more. “You do make it quite difficult for a fellow to compliment you. Do you know that?”

  Did she? Miranda glanced up to find his smoldering green gaze leveled on her.

  “Watch the road, my dear.”

  A bit light-headed, Miranda returned her attention to the other conveyances and riders in front of them as they approached Park Lane.

  “Right there—” he pointed to a grand home “—is St. Austell House. Number Twelve. I’d hate for you to lose your way tomorrow.”

  Miranda snorted. “After Penny’s performance, I don’t believe there’ll be any way I could possibly get out of attending that function, my lord.”

  “Then I shall have to thank Penny profusely.”

  Miranda couldn’t help the smile that escaped her. He really was very charming for all that he had managed her ever since their paths had first crossed. “And just why do you want me to attend your sister’s ball?”

  “So I can see you in a pretty gown. Do save me a waltz.” His hand brushed her elbow. “Lead them to the right, my dear.”

  Miranda pulled the reins slightly to the right and grinned when the phaeton made a smooth turn onto Park Lane. “I did it!”

  “I never had any doubts,” he drawled. “Now slow down just a bit so we can get across the street.” He gestured to the park entrance up ahead on the left. “Go right through there.”

  Miranda followed his instructions, pulling back slightly on the reins until it was safe for them to make the turn into the park. What a heady feeling to be in control of the phaeton. She’d never even contemplated driving before. What other excitements was she missing out on?

  “You aren’t like any other girl I’ve ever met.”

  His statement jerked Miranda back to the present, and she turned her head to look at his lordship. The intensity of his gaze stole her breath, and she simply gaped at him.

  “Do watch where we’re going, Miranda.”

  “Oh!” She turned her attention once more to the path in front of them. That was the hardest part of driving, the looking ahead part.

  Lord Harrison leaned back on the bench and draped his arm on the back of the seat. Heat seemed to roll off him in waves, warming her thoroughly. “Quite shy for a chit who frequents gaming hells.”

  Miranda kept her eyes on the path this time, glad she didn’t have to look at him for fear that he would see her blush even despite her unfortunate coloring. “I don’t frequent them.”

  “No?” Humor laced his voice, blast him.

  “No,” she returned tartly. “Last night was my first hell.”

  “And what would make you brave such a place in disguise, all alone?”

  Miranda shook her head. “I don’t owe you an explanation, my lord.”

  His arm along the back of the seat brushed against her shoulders as his hand settled on her arm. “Whatever excitement you’re searching for, I’m certain I can provide it for you, whether it’s driving my phaeton or…something else. There’s no need to put yourself in a dangerous spot again.”

  “I’m not looking for danger or excitement, Lord Harrison.” Just answers. Just the truth about her Tessie. And she would go wherever that mission took her, no matter how dangerous.

  Before he could reply, a pretty blonde waved her arm in the air. “Good afternoon, Lord Harrison!”

  Harry dragged his eyes from Miranda’s slender neck to focus on Alice, Countess of Gifford, in a curricle alongside her husband. He took the reins from Miranda and drew the phaeton to a stop. “My lady, how nice to see you. It’s been an age.”

  Alice’s gaze swept from Harry to Miranda and back. “You would see me more regularly if you spent more of your time in polite society. You’re as bad as Wood these days.”

  Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Alice never did mince words. It was probably the reason she was his favorite of all of Pippa’s friends. “Certainly, I’m not all that bad. I’ll even be at Pippa’s ball tomorrow.”

  “Always the devoted brother,” Alice returned without heat. In fact, she smiled sadly and Harry could almost read her thoughts. If only Woodsworth had been a better brother to his sisters, they wouldn’t have found themselves in such perilous positions over the years.

  Was Marston a devoted brother, or a neglectful one? Would he care that Miranda had put herself in danger the night before, or would he wave the thought away as nonchalantly as Woodsworth would have? For some reason, Harry was desperate to know the answer, desperate to make sure that Miranda was well cared for. Simeon Bartlett was known for his bravery, for his honor. Had he survived the brutal attack from footpads less than a year ago, Harry had no doubt that Miranda would not be entering hells on her own. But her oldest brother hadn’t survived, and that loss was still felt throughout London. It had to be felt even more so in the Bartlett home. Poor Miranda.

  “Are you going to introduce us?” Alice asked, her brown eyes wide in question.

  Subtlety had never been her strong suit. Harry grinned at the couple as he squeezed his little minx’s shoulder. “Miss Miranda, this is the Earl and Countess of Gifford. Giff, Alice, this is Miss Miranda Bartlett.”

  “A pleasure,” Miranda murmured so softly, no one would ever believe she was the same brazen chit who’d dressed like a fop in order to gain entrance into Gioco’s the previous night.

  “The pleasure is ours, Miss Miranda.” Gifford then turned his all-knowing gaze to Harry. “Actually, Woodsworth said he saw you last night, Casemore.”

  Miranda stiffened at Harry’s side. Was she worried that someone had recognized her at Gioco’s? Perhaps a healthy dose of fear would keep her from doing something equally foolish in the future. “He took my seat at a vingt-et-un table as I was
on my way out.”

  “That’s not the part he mentioned,” the earl continued.

  No, Wood probably mentioned the dark-haired girl tossed over Harry’s shoulder, not that Gifford would ever broach that bit of gossip in front of the ladies. “You know Woodsworth. Prone to dramatics from time to time.”

  Clearly, Gifford didn’t believe him, but he was gentlemanly enough not to say as much.

  Harry tipped his head in farewell to the Giffords. “Well, until tomorrow night.” Then he urged his bays forward down the path. Once they were out of earshot, Harry nudged Miranda with his arm. “Don’t worry, my dear. I won’t ever tell anyone it was you.”

  When she didn’t respond, Harry’s gaze shifted from the path to his companion. Her pretty olive skin was almost as white as parchment. Miranda’s hazel eyes, a mix of green and amber, met his, a haunted expression flashing back at him. “You know the Marquess of Woodsworth?”

  If Miranda had been coshed over the head, she’d have felt less stunned. Not only did Lord Harrison know the Marquess of Woodsworth, it appeared he knew the blackguard rather well. She hadn’t even considered that possibility before now. Lord Harrison seemed so gregarious, so clever – he’d outwitted her the previous evening, after all – so perfect in nearly every way. He didn’t seem at all the sort who would fraternize with the likes of Lord Woodsworth. Had she misjudged the gentleman completely? Heavens, she couldn’t even trust her own judgment, apparently.

  “Of course I know Woodsworth.” Lord Harrison frowned down at her. “What do you know of the wastrel?”

  Wastrel? Miranda somehow managed not to scoff. Was it better or worse that Lord Harrison knew his friend was a cad? And did it matter one way or the other? For all she knew, Lord Harrison was a cad too. He did spend his time in the same awful places Lord Woodsworth did, after all, which was more disconcerting when one thought about it.

  Since it might only take one look from her Herculean suitor to melt her heart, Miranda had to be careful not to let that happen. She only had to look at what had happened to Tessie to see the danger in falling for the wrong man. Tessie had fallen completely in love with Woodsworth and now…now, she was nowhere to be found.

  “Miranda,” Lord Harrison interrupted her thoughts. “What do you know of Woodsworth?”

  Whether or not Lord Harrison was a cad of the same variety as Woodsworth, he might very well be her best chance at getting close enough to the marquess to demand he answer for Tessie. “I only know him by name,” she replied. And reputation, though she thought better of mentioning that bit. “I should like very much to make his acquaintance, however.”

  Lord Harrison looked a bit taken aback, as though she’d insulted him in some fashion. “I hardly think that’s a good idea,” he grumbled.

  “Why not?” She touched his arm and when his green gaze settled on her, Miranda felt it all the way to her toes. Heavens, it would be only too easy to fall for him. But that would be such an enormous mistake, one she might not survive.

  “He’s not fit company most of the time.”

  Miranda didn’t care if the marquess was fit company any of the time, so long as he gave her the answers she needed. “Will you introduce me to him, Lord Harrison?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Miranda frowned at his lordship. “I would be forever in your debt.”

  “You’re already in my debt for saving your pretty little backside last night.”

  Ha! He’d only made her course more difficult. “It took me quite a bit of planning on my part to breach the walls of that club last night. You owe me for ruining my plans. Arrange an introduction for me to Lord Woodsworth, and we’ll call it even.”

  A muscle twitched beside Lord Harrison’s right eye, and his jaw hardened stubbornly. “Stay away from Woodsworth.”

  He wasn’t her brother. He wasn’t her father. He couldn’t tell her what to do. Miranda tipped her head up to better see him. “Or what?”

  “That’s it,” he growled as he urged the bays from their path toward a copse of trees at a much faster clip than they’d traveled thus far.

  Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. What in the world was he doing? She gaped at him just as he pulled back on the reins, drawing his phaeton to a halt. She looked around wondering why in the world he’d stopped here where no one could see them. Had he lost his mind?

  Lord Harrison hooked the reins in front of him and then shifted on the bench so she could see more than just his profile. “You are bound and determined to ruin yourself, aren’t you?”

  Miranda did scoff now, her bravado finally returning. “You’re the one who drove off the path as though the devil was chasing us. Half the ton must have seen you abscond with me.”

  “Well, then we should really give them something to talk about, shouldn’t we?” Lord Harrison cupped her face with both of his hands and then pressed his firm lips to hers.

  Stunned, Miranda couldn’t move, which didn’t seem at all to matter to him. His fingers caressed her cheeks and he groaned slightly against her lips. She placed her hand on his chest, intending to push him away, but he smelled of sandalwood and tea as she breathed him in, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from fluttering shut and her hand from clutching his jacket.

  And then he pulled away from her.

  Miranda opened her eyes to find Lord Harrison’s heated green gaze settled on her lips once more. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, wishing she sounded more together than she felt.

  “Removing thoughts of any other men,” he said, his gravelly voice rumbling over her.

  Then he leaned forward and kissed her once again. But this time, his tongue touched Miranda’s lower lip, and she nearly shot off the bench. Dear heavens! An unfamiliar ache settled deep in her belly, and shivers raced across her skin.

  “Open for me,” he whispered across her lips.

  Open? Miranda was about to ask what he meant by that, but when she did, his tongue swept into her mouth. The unfamiliar ache only deepened within her, and Miranda couldn’t think, she could barely breathe. All she seemed able to do was clutch his jacket in her hands once more and hold on.

  His sensual assault only intensified. He sucked her lower lip; he touched his tongue to hers; he pulled her closer and closer to him, until she was nearly on his lap. His lips trailed to her jaw and then down the side of her neck, eliciting tingles and heat everywhere he touched her.

  Miranda’s nipples peaked against her soft chemise and she wished he would touch her there, but his muscled arms wrapped more tightly around her until her breasts were flush against the hard wall of his chest. She trailed her hands up his arms, finally settling them on the broad expanse of his shoulders.

  “If you want to be ruined, Miranda,” he rasped in her ear before nibbling on her neck, “you need only ask.”

  As though he’d doused her with icy water, Miranda’s flame was instantly snuffed out. He was still outwitting her, trying to teach her whatever lesson he thought she needed to learn about rakes and dangerous men. And his lesson had been apt. She pushed with all her strength against his chest until he released her.

  “Take me home,” she ordered in her most haughty voice as she held back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. But she wouldn’t give Harrison Casemore the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

  Even the murderous glare she cast him and no effect on Harry’s ardor. He’d give nearly everything he owned to pull her back into his arms caress every inch of her. But this was hardly the time or the place. Besides, there was that murderous glare of hers. She probably wouldn’t be amendable to allowing him any more liberties.

  On second thought, he probably shouldn’t have said that last bit, but the thought that she wanted Woodsworth drove him a little mad. Whatever she saw in the profligate was not in her best interests, even if she didn’t realize that. Woodsworth was capable of ruining her without thought, without warning, if she got close enough to him. And Harry didn’t doubt, with her proclivity for en
ding up in places she shouldn’t be, that she’d find herself in the marquess’s presence sooner rather than later. He’d never met a more determined girl. But now, maybe, she’d think twice about getting herself in an unfortunate position with Woodsworth.

  “I said,” she bit out, “take me home.”

  Harry unhooked the driving reins and urged his bays forward, back toward the more populated area of the park. “Miranda,” he began after a moment.

  “Don’t say another word to me.” Her voice quivered slightly, and Harry’s heart ached. She sounded as though she’d been just as affected as he was, but now she hated him.

  He chanced a glance in her direction, but she refused to meet his eyes, instead she sat bolt upright, her arms folded across her middle like the strictest of governesses, staring out in front of them as though daring anyone to defy her. Yes, it was rather obvious that she hated him. Damn it all to hell. That hadn’t been his intent at all.

  Harry threw a left then a right when the punch bag swung back toward him. There was nothing quite so satisfying as the release of pressure as he pounded the target once more, the weight of the bag against his knuckles, the dull thudding sound that reverberated off the walls.

  Left, left, right.

  A primitive growl escaped him.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with his left arm, then jabbed with his right. Woodsworth was fortunate he never stepped foot inside Gentleman Jackson’s, or Harry might be tempted to practice his punches on the marquess instead of the punch bag. Until today, he’d have never considered pummeling the ne’er-do-well, but at the moment, the thought did have a certain appeal.

  Left, left, left.

  His conversation with Miranda still rang in his ears, and one thing had become amazingly clear after he returned her to Marston House. Miranda Bartlett had gone to Gioco’s to meet Woodsworth. It all made complete sense now that he thought about it. She’d entered the hell only a few moments behind the wayward marquess, and her hazel eyes had lit with interest when the man’s name was mentioned today.