She felt rather hot herself. She must be blushing—his smile had grown, damn it.
She closed her eyes, but that didn’t help at all. Now she focused on the feel of his hands—firm, yet gentle—as they guided her through the dance. Her bodice brushed against his waistcoat briefly and her breasts felt fuller and heavy. Shocking. She drew in a deep, shuddery breath and inhaled the spicy heat of him.
Her eyes flew open. This was too much. She should have run from him in the garden or at the least fled the moment she’d returned to the ballroom.
She glanced up at his face. His cheeks creased, making the dimple deepen as his smile broadened to a full grin. He knew exactly what she was thinking!
Blast, now her face must really be as red as a fire’s embers. She certainly felt as if she were glowing. She frowned again.
He had to swallow a chuckle. Did she think to cow him? That look might work on her not-quite betrothed, but it didn’t on him. He could almost feel sorry for the man. If the fellow did wed Grace—an event David was becoming more and more determined to prevent—she would ride roughshod over him. In truth, it would be a charity for David to take Grace off the gentleman’s hands. He knew how to manage her fire.
Damn. He edged his hips back slightly. Thinking of managing Grace—in his bed, of course—had the predictable effect on his person.
She was still frowning.
“Don’t try to look so fierce, Grace. You don’t scare me, you know.”
Scare him? Grace was tempted to roll her eyes. He was the one who was frightening, like a spider sitting in his web of seduction, waiting for her to fall into his trap. “You are absurd. Of course, I don’t scare you. I’ve never scared anyone in my life.”
The odd glint in his eyes grew more pronounced. Was he laughing at her? How dare he? She should…she should…
She should feel angry, but instead she felt hot and unsettled.
“Ah, there I’m certain you’re wrong,” he said, swinging her through a turn. “I imagine the average male quakes when he sees you.”
She snorted. “Only because he fears for his toes. The men of Standen know too well what the ton will soon discover—I’ve sent more men limping home than Napoleon.”
He pulled her close to avoid another couple and her bodice brushed his chest again. Her breasts were still extremely sensitive. Her nipples hardened. How mortifying! He couldn’t tell, could he?
“Nonsense,” he was saying. “I don’t worry about my toes at all.”
Toes? Damn, she suddenly had salacious thoughts about the man’s toes. They were talking about dancing not Lord Dawson’s bare feet. “You don’t worry about your t-toes only because you are an amazingly skilled dancer.”
His mouth slid into a slow, knowing curve. He dropped his head and his voice—he had the most wonderful voice, deep and smooth and warm like a cup of the richest chocolate. His words stirred her hair, caressed her ear, sent heated shivers down her back to her—
No. She would not think about such things. No toes, no feet, no secret, wet, aching—No, definitely not. Most assuredly, without a doubt, without question—
“Would you like to see what else I’m amazingly skilled at, sweetness?”
The dark, wet, empty, aching place throbbed with eagerness. Her head snapped away from his lips, and she sent an urgent message to her heart and other organs to behave themselves. She wasn’t a child. She knew seduction when she heard it. She gave him her sternest look. “Lord Dawson—”
“Shh, Lady Grace.” His eyes were glinting—he was laughing at her again, damn him. “Why are you so agitated? I was merely referring to parlor games—Twenty Questions, Pope Joan, charades, spillikins.” One eyebrow arched up. “What did you think I meant?”
Drat her pale complexion! She was definitely burning hotter than the candles now. He was trying to intimidate her. She would not let him do so.
“Seduction, my lord. Do not play me for a fool. You were trying to seduce—”
The orchestra played its last note. Her voice had, unfortunately, got somewhat strident. The ladies and gentlemen near them turned to stare. Lord Dawson raised his other eyebrow.
Damn.
“—to seduce me into the re-refreshment r-room.” Please God, let no one be able to see how red she was. Or, if they noticed, let them think it was from the exertion of the dance.
Lord Dawson smirked slightly. “Ah, yes, those lobster patties are so enticing, are they not?”
Thankfully, everyone around them went back to their own conversations. “What?”
“The lobster patties, Lady Grace. The alluring, tempting, seductive lobster patties.”
“Oh, do stop laughing at me, will you?” And he was laughing. Not out loud, of course. He wasn’t even grinning, but his damn eyes were positively gleaming.
“But you are so amusing.” He took her hand and laid it on his arm. “And the most amusing thing is you have no idea how beautiful, how utterly enchanting you are.”
The man was definitely mad. “I am not amusing or…or…any of that other balderdash.” Lord Dawson had started walking, and since he was keeping her hand firmly on his arm, she had to walk as well. “Where are we going?”
“To the refreshment room, of course, and the ravishing lobster patties.”
She pulled back. “I’m not hungry.” Unfortunately, it was true. Her stomach was too busy jumping and twisting and shivering—all due to his annoying presence—to accept even the smallest morsel of food. A shame, as lobster patties were generally one of her favorite dishes, and she suspected these would be splendid. The Duke of Alvord did not seem the type to stint on his lobster patties.
“Have a glass of lemonade instead, then.”
He was very highhanded. “Perhaps I should look for my aunt.” Where was Aunt Kate? Grace glanced around the ballroom as Lord Dawson stubbornly steered her toward the door to the refreshment room. “And you could look for your uncle.”
He smiled and inclined his head toward the garden door. “No need to look. See, they are returning from a promenade in the greenery.”
“Well.” Grace tried not to stare. “They look as though they are on cordial terms, don’t they?”
“Yes, indeed. Perhaps they have managed to deal with their differences.”
Grace glanced at the couple again. Aunt Kate was smiling, though she looked a little nervous. And Mr. Wilton appeared a touch stiff. Still, they were together—they were even joining the next set. Was Aunt Kate going to find love again?
Grace grinned. “Perhaps I’ll have a glass of champagne.”
Chapter 5
She’d actually asked Alex to come to her bed.
Kate gripped her hands tightly together in her lap and pretended to look out the carriage window at the dark London streets.
She must have been mad, that was the only possible explanation. She’d never been so bold before. Bold? Ha! Her action was beyond bold, it was…
It was too outrageous to contemplate.
Yet she had contemplated it. More than that, she had done it. She had asked Alex…and he had said yes.
Oh, dear God. She pressed her hands to her stomach. The damn stays. She could barely breathe.
In just an hour—perhaps less—Alex would be in her bed.
Her stomach twisted. She bit down on her lower lip. At least she had shown one shred of good sense. She had avoided the refreshment room. If her stomach rebelled, she would be saved that humiliation.
What was she thinking? Her stomach was the least of her worries. If Alex actually came to her room—to her bed—he would expect her to show some…experience. Some talent. Something to make the trip worth his while. She couldn’t just lie still as she had with Oxbury.
Oh! She tried to breathe. She must not panic. Oxbury had never complained. He’d seemed to enjoy the exertion. He’d kept at it all those years, even when—
Well, he’d kept at it.
Men needed their release. It probably didn’t matter what female was beneath
them. In the dark, surely all women were much the same.
Were all men?
No. Alex would not be like Oxbury…would he?
She would find out tonight. After all the years of wondering and longing, she would finally know. Perhaps she’d learn what she’d longed for was no different from what she’d had.
Good. The point was she could finally put aside her wondering and move on, unencumbered by the “what ifs” and “if onlys.”
Would the experience be different with Alex? Kissing certainly had been. Mmm. She closed her eyes. Just thinking about his lips on hers, remembering the feel of his hard form, the strength of his arms around her started an odd ache in her center.
She flushed. Well, not her center precisely…
“That was quite, um, f-fun.”
Kate’s eyes flew open. Surely Grace hadn’t read her mind?
Grace hiccupped and grinned at her—a rather broad, sloppy grin.
Heavens! Kate squinted at her niece in the dim light. Grace’s eyes did look slightly glassy, and now that she considered the matter, the girl had stumbled a bit getting into the carriage.
“How many glasses of champagne did you have, Grace?”
“Only t-two.” Grace dropped her head back against the squabs and contemplated the carriage ceiling as if the correct number were written there. “Or th-three.” She giggled. “I lost count.”
“Wonderful.” Kate blew out a short, exasperated breath. Obviously she should have been paying more attention to Grace and less—much less—to Mr. Alex Wilton. But how could she have guessed Grace would get brandy-faced at her first London ball? The girl—the woman—was twenty-five years old. “Surely you’ve had champagne before?”
“’Course I have!” Grace snapped her head forward to glare at Kate, but spoiled the effect by losing her balance and slipping sideways. She braced herself on the seat beside her. “Just not s-so much.”
“You’re going to have quite the head in the morning.”
“S-so?” Grace settled back against the squabs again. “I feel sp-splendid now. I’ve never felt so h-happy.”
“Happy’s one way to describe it. Jug-bitten is another.”
“Oh, pooh. Why are you such a crosspatch? Didn’t you have f-fun?” Grace wiggled her eyebrows.
Kate looked out the window in earnest, cupping her hands to block out the dim light of the carriage. Good, she recognized the neighborhood—they were almost at Oxbury House. With luck she would be able to get Grace upstairs and into bed before she fell asleep—or got sick.
“I was not at the Duke of Alvord’s ball to enjoy myself,” Kate said. “I was there to chaperone you. Obviously, I did not do an adequate job fulfilling my duties.”
Grace was contemplating the carriage ceiling again. She giggled and transferred her gaze to Kate. “Is that what you were doing in the g-garden with Mr. Wilton? Chaperoning me?”
More eyebrow wiggling. The girl looked as if she had a pair of dancing caterpillars on her forehead.
The caterpillars would leap off her face if she knew what her aunt had really been up to in the garden.
“I was looking for you.” It was only a small lie. And what was it Oxbury used to say? The best defense was a good offense. “And while we’re on that subject, what were you thinking, going out into the shrubbery alone? You are not some silly, dewy-eyed debutante.” Kate paused. “Well, debutante, yes; silly and dewy-eyed, no—at least I hope not.”
Grace actually sniggered. “I wasn’t alone.”
Good Lord, what had Grace been doing? Certainly nothing as scandalous as her own activities…No, the situations could not be compared. She was a widow; Grace was a virgin.
Surely Grace was still a virgin…
Now she was letting her guilty conscious lead her into the ridiculous.
“Even worse. If you’d been seen, you’d be ruined now. Your Season would be over. London society is full of gossips that delight in shredding young—and not so young—females’ reputations.”
Grace shrugged. “I wished to speak to Baron Dawson.”
“What!” Standen would have Kate’s head if he ever got wind of the fact Grace had been talking to Baron Dawson, let alone promenading in the foliage with him. “You went into the shrubbery with Lord Dawson? I don’t believe it. I told you to avoid him. You know your father does not approve of the man’s family.”
“Well, P-Papa’s not here, is he?” Grace blinked at Kate. “You aren’t going to s-snitch on me, are you?” She waggled her finger in Kate’s direction. “Because I can snitch, too. You were also in the garden with a Wilton, auntie.”
“But you are unmarried. You should have remained sedately on the terrace,” Kate said, rather weakly to her own ears.
It didn’t matter. Grace was too foxed to concern herself with nuances.
“M-maybe I don’t want to be s-sedate. Maybe I want to have some f-fun before I shackle myself to Mr. J-John P-Parker-Roth and his damn roses.”
“Grace—”
Grace leaned forward, catching herself on the seat edge before she toppled face first into Kate’s lap. “I like Mr. Park—John. I like his mother and his father and his brothers and his sisters. I like the whole blasted lot of them.” She waved her finger in Kate’s face this time. “But I like Baron Dawson, too. I really, um, like him.” She sat back, put her head against the squabs again, and wrapped her arms around herself. “He makes me feel all…tingly.”
“Good God!” Tingly? Tingly would never do. She had felt tingly all those years ago. Tingly too often led to thoughts of marriage, and Standen would dance naked at Almack’s before he’d let his daughter marry a Wilton. She knew that from bitter experience.
Why did Alex and his nephew have to choose this Season to come to London?
Because the old baron had died, of course. So was Lord Dawson in Town for a wife or to lure a few young women—including the daughter of his enemy—down the primrose path?
She straightened. He’d best steer clear of Grace if he had nefarious purposes. If he hurt Grace—
She sighed and collapsed back against the squabs. Even if he meant marriage, the baron must look elsewhere—Standen truly would never accept his suit. When Alex came tonight, she must have a few serious words with him about his nephew.
If he came. Certainly good sense and caution would convince him, on further reflection, to stay home. He had never been a wild, careless man. Climbing into a lady’s bedchamber window—or sneaking up the servants’ stairs—was not an activity Alex Wilton would engage in, she was sure.
Or was she? She must remember she’d only known Alex for a few months many years ago. Perhaps he was adept at getting in and out of ladies’ bedrooms without detection. And, truthfully, inviting a man to her bed was not something she’d ever have believed she’d do—and yet she had.
But it was Grace’s amorous activities—dear God!—that she needed to attend to at the moment.
“Grace—”
But Grace interrupted. “Lord Dawson told me his uncle asked you to marry him before you married Oxbury.” Grace frowned, sounding much too sober. “Why didn’t you share that bit of information with me, Aunt Kate?”
Thank God for concealing shadows. “It was a long time ago.”
“Hmm. The last time you were in London. Is that why you came back, to see Mr. Wilton again? Now that you’re free and he’s free…” Grace sighed. “How r-romantic.”
“It is not romantic.” She didn’t need Grace interfering in her…in whatever she had with Alex. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Grace leaned forward—and almost fell into Kate’s lap again. She pushed herself back to a more upright position. “You know, this time Papa can’t stop you.”
True, Standen couldn’t stop her. A little thrill of defiance shivered down her spine. She was no longer seventeen. She was a grown woman—a merry widow. She had lived her life to please her brother and her husband. Now, finally, she could choose to please herself.
Except she co
uldn’t. She wasn’t the heroine of a fairy tale, living in a castle by herself. She couldn’t marry Alex—even if he asked her, which he wouldn’t. It wasn’t just that Standen would explode with anger. Society would flock like vultures to feast on the scandalous stories in the Belmont-Wilton past. She couldn’t bear that—and she certainly couldn’t consider the possibility at the beginning of Grace’s Season.
“It’s not that simple, Grace.”
An affair, though, that would be permitted as long as she was discreet. Very discreet. If even a whisper of Alex’s visit to her tonight—if he did indeed come—reached the ton’s ears, the gabble-grinders would resurrect the stories of Alex’s brother and Alex’s own ill-considered, short-lived courtship of her.
“Why would Papa want to keep you from marrying Mr. Wilton, Aunt Kate? He must see you’d be vastly more comfortable with a husband than living in the dower house, watching the new Lord Oxbury ruin the estate.” Grace grinned. “P-Papa thinks the man’s an ass, you know.”
“Grace, your language!” Had Standen let Grace grow up like a weed? He should have remarried. Everyone had thought he would after he’d mourned his countess for the requisite year. He’d needed an heir. Still did, but it was unlikely he’d get one now, with fifty-six years in his dish.
“Well, that’s what Papa said when your husband died.”
“I’m sure he did. He never cared for Oxbury’s heir—few people do—but that doesn’t mean he would want me to wed Mr. Wilton. Another man—any other man—but not Mr. Wilton. If Lord Dawson explained our history, you must know that.” Kate looked down and smoothed her skirt. “And in any event, Mr. Wilton has not mentioned marriage.”
“But he will.”
Kate snapped her head up and glared at Grace. “He will not.”
“Don’t be s-silly, Aunt Kate. I saw you waltzing with him. Of course he will.”
“You had consumed a significant quantity of champagne by the time you made that observation, hadn’t you, Grace?”
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