She couldn’t find the breath to speak. “Ah…”
“Aunt Winifred!”
She turned to look back at Viscount Motton. Now Edmund the monkey had jumped to the decorative lintel above the door and was screeching down at Edmund the viscount.
“Get that bloody beast!”
“Theo!” Miss Smyth frowned at her parrot. “Your language!”
“This is one time Theo and I are in perfect agreement, aunt. Will you curb that animal?”
“Very well. Come, Edmund.” Miss Smyth tugged on the monkey’s leash. The leash dropped out of her hands. Edmund-the-monkey screeched again and leapt for the curtains. Edmund-the-viscount looked as if he, too, would like to screech, or at least curse freely.
Miss Smyth smiled brightly at the gathering. “Who would like to take a brisk turn about the terrace?”
“Lady Oxbury?” Alex offered his arm. She took it and let him lead her toward the garden and darkness, where she could tell him…
She wasn’t ready.
Lady Kilgorn was standing by the door, watching Lord Motton and her husband try to catch the monkey. Poor woman. She’d been estranged from Lord Kilgorn for years, but now found herself sharing a bedchamber with him. It must be very uncomfortable. According to Marie, no other accommodations had yet been arranged. Surely she would enjoy a turn about the terrace.
“Lady Kilgorn, would you like to join us?”
She laughed. Kate guessed she was not yet thirty. She had beautiful creamy skin, jet black hair, startling blue eyes, and a ready smile—when she wasn’t glaring at someone.
“Well, I’d like to stay and watch Ian scamper after the wee monkey, but I doubt he’d thank me for it—I’d be laughing too hard, it is so funny.” She looked from Kate to Alex. “Yes, I’d like to join you, if I won’t be in the way?”
“No, indeed. We were just going to invite Lady Wordham to come with us as well, weren’t we, Mr. Wilton?”
“Of course, Lady Oxbury.” Alex’s expression was unreadable. Was he annoyed or relieved? She couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. With Lady Kilgorn on her one side and Lady Wordham on the other, she was safe. She could put off the inevitable just a little longer.
“Lord Dawson, would you be so kind as to escort me around the terrace?”
“Oh, Lord Dawson, please, surely you would prefer to take a turn around the terrace with me?”
David looked at the Addison twins and hoped his mouth wasn’t agape. Did they not see Lady Grace on his arm? He was certain he still felt her hand.
He glanced down. Yes, there she was, biting her lips to keep from laughing, he was sure.
He drew his arm closer against his side, trapping her hand securely. He was not letting her stray an inch while these man-eating maidens were in the vicinity.
“I’m sorry, but as you can plainly”—he tried not to put too much stress on that word—“see, I am already committed to Lady Grace.”
“Oh, but surely she will give up her place,” Abigail—or perhaps it was Amanda—said.
“Won’t you, Lady Grace?” the other twin said. “Won’t you give up your place to me?”
“To me.” Abigail glared at Amanda—and vice versa.
David squeezed Grace’s hand even closer against his side, and turned to look at her. He was certain his eyes held groveling entreaty and abject terror. She couldn’t desert him now—she couldn’t be that cruel.
She smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, but Lord Dawson and I have matters to discuss. I’m afraid I can’t cede my place to either of you.”
Thank God! David struggled to look and sound pleasant. “And since I am completely incapable of choosing between you”—ever—“I regretfully cannot offer my other arm. And as Lady Grace says, we have matters to discuss that would certainly bore you”—since they don’t deal solely with your narrow little concerns—“so if you will excuse us?”
He dashed out the garden door while the twins were still sputtering.
“My heartfelt—my very heartfelt thanks, Lady Grace, for not deserting me in my hour of need.”
She laughed. “They were rather forward, weren’t they?”
“Rather. I have been dodging them ever since their come-out; they live near my estate. I thought I’d escaped them when I came to Town—I was not very pleased to see them in London, and I was even less pleased to see them here.”
They strolled along the terrace. Fortunately, it was an unseasonably warm evening—a little chill, but the ladies appeared to be comfortable without their shawls. Except for Lady Oxbury—she still clutched hers; she had not shed it since she’d appeared in the drawing room.
“Is your aunt feeling quite the thing?” Was this another sign that Lady Oxbury was increasing? Was she increasing? He had indicated to Alex that she might be, and Alex had acted as though it were a definite possibility.
Grace frowned. “I don’t know. I confess I’ve been worried about her. She’s been behaving so oddly.”
“Oddly? How so?” Not that he knew what behavioral signs indicated pregnancy. He only knew the behavior that precipitated the state—a behavior he would most dearly like to engage in with Grace. And if that behavior resulted in Grace growing big and heavy with his babe?
A part of him grew big and heavy at the thought. Good God! He’d never considered children, certainly never thought he’d want one or two or more.
Oh, of course, he knew he needed an heir, but that had been, well, just a word. He hadn’t thought of an infant, a small person with his blood flowing in its veins, a being made through a very intimate act with…
Bloody hell, the thought was physically painful in its intensity.
Grace sighed. “Well, you saw how weepy she was in Town. I don’t think she’s usually that way at all. And she’s been so tired even though she’s sleeping more than usual.”
Grace was frowning, obviously sincerely puzzled and distressed. She was a female—wouldn’t she know the signs of pregnancy? Perhaps he was mistaken. But then why had Lady Oxbury’s maid referred to her “condition”?
Whatever the situation, Grace obviously had not been told anything. He would not mention his suspicions. Alex was here now. He was a responsible adult. Adult? The man was forty-five. Well, and Lady Oxbury was forty. One would think they were too old…
In any event, Alex was here. This was his concern. If Lady Oxbury carried his child, Alex would not rest until he had addressed the situation to his satisfaction.
But would it be to Lady Oxbury’s satisfaction? There were two people involved here…but, thankfully, he was not one of them. He had his own somewhat difficult female to deal with.
“At least Mr. Wilton is here,” Grace was saying. “I am so glad. Thank you for persuading him to come.”
Should he lie? No, he couldn’t, even by omission. “I have to confess I didn’t persuade Alex. He came to see Motton’s cultivation techniques, I suspect. He was rather surprised”—shocked would be a better adjective—“when I met him on the drive and he discovered you and Lady Oxbury were going to be guests as well.”
“Oh?” Grace frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t signify. He’s here, that’s all that matters. Aunt Kate has the opportunity to talk to him. They can resolve any problems they have with each other.”
Easier said than done, if the problem was the one he thought it was. The only resolution for that was a special license and vows before the parson as quick as may be. People might still count on their fingers the months between church and birth, but that couldn’t be helped. It would be vastly better for Lady Oxbury to walk down the aisle in her current state than a few months further along when she was bulging with child.
And, of course, there was no question they must marry. Alex’s baby could not be born a bastard.
Miss Smyth poked her head out the terrace door, her parrot still on her shoulder. “You can all come inside again,” she said brightly. “Lord Kilgorn caught Edmund—my monkey Edmund, I mean.”
“C
aught ’im good. Put ’im in chains.”
“Oh, stop, Theo. They merely tied the leash more firmly to his leg so he couldn’t get into mischief again.” She turned to address everyone on the terrace. “Do come in. It is quite safe—but you know, it was quite safe before as well. Edmund is rather high spirited, but he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” She stepped aside to let Lady Kilgorn and Lady Oxbury pass. “Edmund the monkey, that is, though I assume my nephew wouldn’t hurt anyone either. Still, you can never be sure with men, can you, Mr. Wilton? Here, let me help you, Cordelia. Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilton, you take Cordelia’s arm. That’s the way.”
Everyone started back into the drawing room. Grace stepped forward as well, but David stopped her. “Not yet,” he whispered.
Fortuitously, they were in a darkened portion of the terrace, in a patch of shadow cast by a large tree. If they were quiet, everyone would go inside without noticing they were not among the crowd. They could have a few moments of privacy.
He found he was very anxious for a few moments alone with Lady Grace. All this thinking about infants had heated his blood. He needed to take a few moments to cool down—and for one of his organs to calm down—before he went back into the light and heat and prying eyes of the drawing room.
“It’s a beautiful evening, don’t you agree, Lady Grace?”
“Um, yes. Yes, it’s very beautiful.” Grace was just as happy to have a few more moments away from the drawing room. It was overwarm and stuffy there—and she did not like those Addison girls one bit. What shockingly bold hussies, the pair of them!
She drew in a deep breath of the cool, night air. A breeze rustled through the treetops and somewhere off in the distance, an owl hooted.
It was very dark in this corner of the terrace, and Lord Dawson was standing very close. She took a few steps away to rest her hands on the balustrade. Was he going to kiss her?
She should insist on going back inside immediately.
He had not followed her. He was still standing where she’d left him. Perhaps he was only interested in enjoying the night air and avoiding the stuffiness—and the Addisons—inside.
She was relieved. Of course she was relieved. She was virtually married to John Parker-Roth. She should not want kisses from another man.
But she wasn’t married, not quite yet.
“You are going to talk further with your grandmother tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, after breakfast.” He made a noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I confess I’m more than a little nervous. Perhaps we should have left the drawing room to have our conversation this evening, but I don’t believe either of us wished to bring attention to ourselves.”
“You are wise. People are so interested in everyone else’s business.” Why did society have to be so hungry for gossip?
He shifted slightly. “I don’t know what we will say, but I do believe you were right. Even if I wished to continue avoiding the situation, Lady Wordham—”
“Your grandmother.” She looked over her shoulder. He should learn to say it. He nodded.
“My g-grandmother seems to feel a need to address the issue.”
“She is getting older. She is just out of mourning for her husband. Perhaps she is feeling that time is precious and limited.”
“Perhaps.”
She felt him move. She turned to see what he was about, and found herself quickly trapped between his hard body and the balustrade. They were alone and in the very darkest spot of the terrace. She should have been extremely alarmed.
She was extremely something, but it wasn’t alarmed.
“Thank you, Grace.”
“For what? I did nothing.”
“You listened.” His lips turned up ever so slightly. “You asked the right questions.” There was enough light from the moon—and they were standing so close together—that she could see the softening in his eyes. “You gave me courage when I needed it.”
“No, I—”
He silenced her with his fingertips. The sly man had removed his glove; his skin was warm and slightly rough as he stilled her lips and then slowly traced their outline.
What was he doing? Why did her lips feel suddenly swollen? She parted them slightly.
“Yes.” He pulled her lower lip down just a little with his thumb. “You did give me courage.”
His lips touched hers as lightly as his fingers had. The briefest brush and then brush again.
“Oh.” She inhaled. His scent was all around her—the scent of soap, linen, and…him.
His arms gathered her close—a good thing as her knees had chosen that moment to turn to water. His lips kept playing with her mouth, teasing her with fleeting brushes. She moaned.
That must have been the sign he’d been waiting for. His mouth finally came to rest on hers, and his tongue traced where his finger had earlier. She moaned again, opening wider, and he slipped inside.
Heaven. He was stroking deep and wet, over her tongue, over her teeth, over the roof of her mouth—filling her.
Causing another emptiness to open. An aching, throbbing emptiness, a heat, a madness.
He moved his mouth to her cheek, and all she could do was cling to him, panting, mindless.
“I need you, Grace.”
Yes, need. That was right. He needed her. She needed him.
No…
“I need you, Grace. For this”—he returned to her mouth and leisurely, thoroughly, filled her again—“but also for your wisdom”—he brushed his lips over her forehead—“and your strength.”
He pulled back, cupping her face in his hands. “Marry me, Grace. Please?”
He was asking her to marry him again. Lord Dawson—David—was asking her to become his wife, live in his house, sleep in his bed. Bear his children.
She could say yes and have his wonderful, amazing mouth on her skin, everywhere on her skin, doing things she could barely imagine…
She couldn’t say yes. There was John. There was Papa. There was the history of their families.
Why did none of those things seem particularly persuasive at the moment?
“Grace? Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”
“I…” Could she say yes? “I—”
“There you are, you naughty children!”
Grace tried to jump back and slammed into the balustrade. Miss Smyth and Theo had stepped out onto the terrace. They strolled toward them.
Dear God, could she be more embarrassed? At least all her clothing was in order.
Of course her clothing was in order! What was she thinking?
“Naughty children. Naughty, naughty.”
“Shh, Theo.”
David cleared his throat. “Miss Smyth, I—”
“Oh, you shush, too, Lord Dawson. It’s a house party. The rules are a little looser. Everyone expects young people to have a little fun.”
“Fun! That’s wot we’re ’aving. A spot o’ fun. Naughty—”
“Theo! Behave yourself.” Miss Smyth smiled at Lord Dawson and Grace. “Do I have to say the same thing to you?”
“I—” Grace’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t get any more words out.
“Miss Smyth—” David did not sound the least bit alarmed.
Miss Smyth laughed. “Don’t say another word. You wouldn’t be young and lusty if you didn’t try to steal a kiss in the moonlight. Now come in and join the others. We are trying to get up tables of cards, and we need you to make the numbers even.”
Chapter 15
It was a glum group at the breakfast table. Alex chose some kidneys and toast and took the seat next to David.
David glanced at him, grunted what must have been a welcome, and returned his attention to his plate. Kilgorn didn’t even look up from his coffee.
Damn Miss Smyth. What had she been thinking? Why in God’s name had she put him in the room next to Kate—a room connected to Kate’s by a blasted interior door? An unlocked door…and yes, he had checked.
Did she wish to tortu
re him?
He’d barely slept a wink; he’d kept thinking of that damn door. It would take but a moment to open it. If he waited until their servants left, no one need know he was visiting Kate in her bedchamber.
He had a good reason to seek her out. He needed to talk to her. He had to find out if David’s suspicions were true. If she was carrying his child…
His knife slid on his plate, making a hideous scraping noise. The other men flinched and glared at him before returning to their own private gloom.
Talking was not the only thing he needed from Kate. His lust was almost unbearable. He’d spent years trying not to imagine her in bed, especially in bed with Oxbury. Now…He stabbed a kidney. Now he knew she was lying in bed alone, just steps from him.
Bloody hell.
He had cured himself of the woman. He had been ready to be finally free of her when he’d come to Town with David. And then he’d seen her at Alvord’s ball—and at Oxbury House.
He’d done more than see her—he’d touched her, tasted her, taken them both to the most amazing climax he, at least, had ever experienced.
Now when he thought of her in bed, he thought of the silky smoothness of her breasts, the slightly tart taste of her nipples, the musky scent of her…
Damn it all, he was as hard as a poker here in Motton’s breakfast parlor with only two other men for company. Thank God his lap was shielded by this sturdy table.
The fact of the matter was he was going to go mad. Even the pain of her rejection had left him, burned away by this all-consuming lust. Did she have the slightest clue what he was suffering? Did she feel it, too?
No. She looked so cool, so self-possessed.
He should leave Lakeland and go home to Clifton Hall.
He couldn’t leave. He had to find out if Kate was increasing.
Damn it all. He shifted position and tried to contemplate Motton’s cultivation techniques.
Cultivation. Planting seeds in well-tilled soil, in fertile fields…
Motton had a lake. He’d seen it when he’d ridden up. With luck, it was cold, ice cold. He would test it after breakfast. Perhaps a plunge into freezing water would cool his damn ardor.
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