They had to go to this gathering for Aunt Kate’s sake, but that didn’t mean Grace couldn’t get some…enjoyment from the excursion as well. She pushed open the door to her room and looked at the writing desk. She should answer Papa’s letter. She should send a few words to John.
She should, she should, she should. She was so tired of “should.”
When she went to Lord Motton’s estate, she was going to do a few things she shouldn’t.
Kate lay on her bed, curtains drawn, staring up at the canopy. What should she do?
Her thoughts had been flapping wildly like birds in a net ever since she realized…
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…
There were herbs she could take, things she could do to…It was early days. No one would ever know…
She would know.
But she wasn’t married. If she did nothing, if she grew round and heavy, everyone would whisper. More than whisper. The ton would gossip, laugh, mock her. Give her the cut direct. Her brother would berate her; the Weasel would call her a harlot, toss her out on the street…
If the Weasel tossed her out, would Standen take her in, let her live in his home and give birth to her bastard under his roof?
No. How could he? He would tell her she had besmirched his name and he would be right. And then where would she go? To the workhouse?
She turned onto her side. What was she going to do?
Damn it all, this wasn’t supposed to happen. She was too old to be enceinte. She’d never thought…well, why would she? She’d had regular congress with Oxbury for over twenty years and had never conceived. Of course she thought she was barren.
She was an idiot, a bloody sapskull. Widows, experienced women, women who took lovers were supposed to be smart about these things. They were supposed to know what precautions to take. Mistakes like this didn’t happen.
Dear God. She had finally conceived—and it was a mistake.
She covered her face with her hands to muffle her sobs, but she didn’t have to worry Marie would hear her. She was crying too hard to make a sound.
They were leaving for Lord Motton’s estate the day after tomorrow. Alex might be there. She might see him.
Did she have to tell him? Maybe she could go away somewhere, say she had a friend in Yorkshire, leave before she started to show, stay away for nine months, have the baby, and give it away—
Oh! Give her baby away? How could she do that?
How couldn’t she? She couldn’t raise a child by herself, in poverty and disgrace.
She wiped her face on her sheet and rolled onto her back again. Marie was right. She had to tell Alex—he deserved to know. But would he even listen to her? She had stupidly hurt him badly, so badly he had fled her room, fled London.
She would have to apologize first. Grovel. Beg his forgiveness—and then tell him she had lied to him.
She squeezed her eyes shut. How could he ever believe her, believe she was sorry, that she hadn’t intended to mislead him?
Was it a lie when you told a falsehood you sincerely believed was true?
She stared back up at the bed canopy. She shouldn’t try to make excuses for herself. All Alex needed to know was that she was sorry, but he had a child growing in her womb.
She laced her hands protectively over her stomach. But that wasn’t true, either. She wasn’t sorry. Oh, yes, she was, because it was all such a terrible mess, but if Alex had loved her, if he had wanted to get her with child when he’d come inside her…
If, if, if. The truth was what she needed to face, not her wishes, not her dreams.
“My lady?” Marie’s hand appeared on the bed curtain. Kate turned over quickly, so Marie saw her back and not her tears when she let the light in. “It’s time to get ready for the soiree.”
“Psst!”
Lord Westbrooke raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose you should see why that potted palm is trying to get your attention, Dawson?”
David repressed a sigh. Lady Grace would never make a competent spy. At least he hoped it was Lady Grace. It must be. The Addison twins were normally not so discreet.
Come to think of it, where were the Addison twins? He hadn’t seen them at the Wainwright ball or any of the recent society events—and he had been looking. Was it too much to hope they had decamped and returned to the country for good?
“If you’ll excuse me, Westbrooke?” How to say this diplomatically? “I’m certain I don’t need to suggest that it would be best not to mention the, um, furtive vegetation?”
“My lips are sealed.” Westbrooke grinned. “But you might tell Lady Grace that if she wishes to hide in the greenery, she shouldn’t wear blue. The gown is lovely, but rather noticeable, don’t you agree?”
“Definitely. I’ll put a word in her ear.” David nodded and turned to stroll past the palm. Surely Lady Grace would have the sense to come out of the vegetation on her own. If he was compelled to haul her out, the gabble-grinders certainly would notice.
“Why didn’t you come talk to me when you arrived?” Grace sounded very disgruntled. And she had a leaf in her coiffure as well. He had best take her somewhere private where he could remove it for her. He put her hand on his arm.
“And good evening to you, too, my love.”
“Shh.” She darted a glance to either side. “Do you want to set the prattle boxes to chattering?”
“No, which is why I didn’t dash to your side the moment my foot crossed Fonsby’s threshold.”
“Oh. Yes, well, I see your point.”
He saw that she looked adorably confused. She flushed all the way down to…hmm. Her breasts were displayed in all their glory.
Well, not all their glory, of course. She did have a bodice to her dress, but at least it was cut low enough to display her beauty as fully as was allowed by society’s dictates.
He guided her toward a door he had already determined led to a less crowded part of the house.
Now that he considered the matter, perhaps he should suggest she reclaim her modest fichus. He found he did not care for the thought of other men observing her charms.
“What I wished to tell you is Aunt Kate has agreed to attend Lord Motton’s house party. She sent our acceptance this afternoon.”
“Splendid.” And this small chamber led out onto a rather isolated, dark section of the terrace. “Do you think it is stuffy in here?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know. What does it matter?”
“It matters not the slightest. Let’s just step out this door and enjoy the cool night air.”
“All right.” Grace went into the dark with him. “So have you got your uncle to agree to come? It is most important. Aunt Kate is still not herself.”
He’d noticed. Lady Oxbury had been standing on the other side of the room with a group of chaperones that included Mrs. Fallwell, Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth, and Lady Gladys, the Duke of Alvord’s aunt. She’d seemed to be staring off into space while the other women conversed. At least she’d paid scant attention to Grace’s whereabouts and the nefarious men who might be luring her charge astray.
No matter. He had been paying careful attention. He intended to be the only nefarious man to tempt Lady Grace into misbehavior. He maneuvered her so her back was to the balustrade and his back was to the door, his body shielding hers from anyone who might venture onto this little corner of the terrace.
“So, what has your uncle said?” Grace frowned at him, but didn’t protest her location. Had she not realized his intentions?
He smiled slightly. She looked especially alluring tonight. Her skin—her lovely, wonderful skin—was an enticing play of cool, creamy paleness and seductive shadows.
“Lord Dawson, what did Mr. Wilton say? Is he coming?”
“Hmm?” He could not help himself. He’d surreptitiously removed his gloves and stuck them into a pocket; now he put his hands on her upper arms. His fingers smoothed her silky skin. He heard her breath catch.
“He didn’t say anything. I did
n’t ask him.”
She had looked slightly alarmed and slightly expectant when he’d touched her. Those expressions vanished and she glared at him.
Would she slap him if he tried to kiss her?
“Why didn’t you ask him?”
“Besides the fact he is not in Town at present—”
“I know that!”
“—I thought it inadvisable to push him too hard. He may smell a rat, you know, and refuse to set foot on Motton’s estate.”
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Grace put her hands on his waistcoat and looked up at him. Her voice held sincerity and a touch of pleading. “That would be terrible. I’m convinced he is the author of Aunt Kate’s discontent. He must come.”
Did she know she was driving him mad? He covered her gloved hands with his bare ones. “I think he will come, but if he doesn’t, his estate is not so far from Motton’s. I will devise a way to get him and your aunt together.”
“You promise?”
Zeus, she was looking up at him as though he could work miracles. He was only a man. He could not decide the future; he could not determine anyone’s fate.
But he wanted to. He wanted to work miracles for her.
He would find a way. He could not promise Alex and Lady Oxbury would reach the accord Grace so obviously hoped for, but he could promise to bring them together. He would succeed, even if he had to knock Alex out and abduct him to do so.
He bent his head toward Grace. Her eyes grew wary; she started to draw back. He slid his hands up her lovely arms to her beautiful shoulders.
“I promise.” He moved closer. She stayed still, like a frightened rabbit, frozen, ready to bolt. He would not let her bolt. He was her fox; he would consume her.
“I promise,” he whispered again, against her mouth. He traced her lips with his tongue. She sighed softly and he slipped inside.
She was hot and wet. She was his. Her body sagged against him—her lovely, soft, rounded body. Her hands moved up to his neck; his hands moved down to her hips, urging her even closer, pressing her against his need. He could not get enough of her. He plunged his tongue into her sweetness…
She pushed against him. Had she been struggling for a while to get free? No, he would have noticed, even through his madness. He raised his head.
“Lord Dawson.” She was panting, her lovely breasts heaving, but she still clung to him. His cheek had not yet felt the sting of her hand. “You go too far.” She spoke in a breathy whisper.
He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.
“Sweetheart, believe me, I intend to go a lot farther.”
She inhaled sharply, but still made no move to slap him. How far could he go? Regrettably, it would be inadvisable to investigate on Lord Fonsby’s terrace.
“Just not tonight.” Did she look disappointed? Splendid. He put her hand on his arm and headed back inside. He could barely wait until he had the time and privacy to see just how far Lady Grace would permit him to venture.
Chapter 12
Alex stared out at the rain. It splashed in the puddles on the terrace and ran like tears down the Coade stone statue of Hermes he’d purchased in a moment of whimsy.
Funny, Kate’s dog’s name was Hermes.
Damn. He turned away from the window. He should light some candles—it was too dim in the library to read.
He didn’t want to read.
He walked over to his desk. Windom, his estate manager, had been after him to work on his accounts ever since he got home. Something about a drainage problem in the south fields and a new kind of seed…
Blast it all! He left the desk and went back to the window. He’d tried to work on the damn accounts almost every day since he’d fled London. Windom was getting impatient with him. He didn’t blame him. He was getting impatient with himself. His attention was shot to hell. Nothing interested him any more.
What the blazes was he going to do? He had to put Kate behind him. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days drifting from room to room, staring out windows.
The rain continued to fall. It had been misting or pouring every day since he’d got back to Clifton Hall. Everything smelled musty. He could feel the damp in his bones.
It had been too wet to work in the fields or take Lear for a good long gallop, but he had the sinking feeling those activities would no longer cure him of the dismals.
He shouldn’t have left London. Hell, he shouldn’t have left Kate’s room, but something in her glib tone had shot straight to his heart like a well-aimed arrow.
Maybe if he had stayed and simply enjoyed what she was offering, he would have cured himself of this infatuation. Perhaps they could have had an enjoyable liaison for the Season. He might have got tired of her—or she of him, of course. In any event, he could have finally put this longing to rest.
He rested his forehead against the windowpane. God, could he ever fill the hole she’d torn in his heart? He had lived for years with the emptiness of loss, but he’d still had a vague sense of hope. Now that was gone and in its place was this bleak ennui. He felt as if he were dead, but had just forgotten to lie down in his coffin.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again and straightened. No, he was not some silly fribble to be brought low by love. The very thought was nauseating. Damn, he was acting like some court-card, some mewling dandy poet. Disgusting.
And what if David actually married Lady Grace? It would have to be over Standen’s dead body, but stranger things had happened. If he did not want to cut all connection with his nephew, he would have to learn how to meet Lady Oxbury in social settings. At David’s wedding, the christening of his first child—
He squeezed his eyes shut again. God, the pain that thought caused him. But he had to get over it. He wanted David to be happy.
He would stop this ridiculous moroseness immediately. Lady Oxbury was just a woman, and there were plenty of women in the world who would be happy to spend time with him—women who were younger, more beautiful—
No, he was not ready for comparisons. He would not think of Ka—Lady Oxbury. He would not think at all. He would just do. He would start slowly. There was no hurry. Just taking the first step to free himself from this awful gloom was—
“Sir?”
His butler was at the door. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the man approach. Well, that would change right now. “Yes, Grant? What is it?”
“This just arrived from Viscount Motton.” Grant handed him a note. “The footman is awaiting your response.”
“I see.” He pulled his spectacles from his pocket and glanced over the text.
Motton was having a house party at Lakeland, was he? Splendid! What could be a more perfect first step out of his misery? True, sometimes the viscount allowed his odd sense of humor to rule his better judgment—one of his gatherings reportedly included a competition to determine who possessed the worst singing voice—but a little screeching was a small price to pay to get out of the dungeon Clifton Hall had become.
If the planned festivities were too wearing, well, he’d been wanting to talk to Motton about the viscount’s new cultivation scheme and to view his fields firsthand. And if that failed to amuse, Lakeland was only a day’s ride away. It would be easy to come home.
“Grant, tell Lord Motton’s footman I shall be delighted to attend.”
“Lord Dawson has arrived, my lady.”
“Oh.” Grace’s heart almost leapt from her bodice. She stopped packing to press her hand to her chest. Just the man’s name made her stomach flutter as if it housed a flock of sparrows. “I’m not quite ready. Is my aunt packed, Marie?”
“No. Ye both are taking forever. Yer just going for a few days, ye know, not weeks.”
“Yes, I know. It’s just, well, I’m not certain what to expect…” She glanced around the room. Perhaps she should just pack her entire wardrobe and be done with it.
“I’ll put him in the blue parlor and have some brandy sent in.”
“Perhaps that wo
uld be best. I won’t be too much longer.”
Marie laughed. “My lady, any time waiting is too long for most gentlemen.”
Grace let out a long breath once the door closed behind Marie. How was she going to survive this house party? She’d be spending days in close proximity to Lord Dawson with hours free to wander the estate in relative—well, perhaps actual—privacy. Many opportunities for him to do exactly what he’d done at Lord Fonsby’s soiree…and more.
Ooh. Her knees gave out and she sat down abruptly. Fortunately, the bed was there to receive her. She was throbbing again.
She’d decided she was going to sow a few wild oats, yes—but only a few. Not a crop. She was still marrying John Parker-Roth in a matter of weeks; in fact, she was leaving for Devon after the house party to make the final preparations. She was not at heart—could not be—a hoyden.
Where was the proper, prim, always-follow-the-rules Grace when she needed her? She was only the veriest whisper in the farthest, darkest recesses of her mind.
She must get herself under better control. Once she wed John…well, she could not be lusting after another man.
But she was lusting after another man right now. She covered her face with her hands. Dear God, she was. How was she to stop?
She should have slapped Baron Dawson there on Lord Fonsby’s terrace. He’d expected her to do so, she could tell. He had put his tongue in her mouth and had run his hands over her person, pressed his body against hers—ohh…
She hadn’t wanted to slap him, she’d wanted to tell him to do it again. And when he’d said he intended to go a lot farther, she’d almost begged him to do so immediately—sooner than immediately if possible—there on Lord Fonsby’s terrace. She’d wanted to cry when he’d taken her back inside.
Was she mad?
She was mad. She was also in serious, serious trouble.
It was all very well to have an adventure or two, but John would expect her to be a virgin on their wedding night. She wasn’t familiar with all the particulars—usually the discussion of a woman’s marital duties happened on the night before she was expected to assume those duties—but she’d be willing to bet the odd sensations she felt with Lord Dawson were closely linked to the marital act. They certainly were linked to nothing she’d ever experienced before.
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