Catching her hand, he brought her palm to his lips for a kiss. “You are too good, do you know that?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Good? There is nothing good about me. Unless you are talking about my abilities in the boudoir. Now, at that, I more than excel.” Divesting herself of her dressing gown again, she moved to sit astride his hips. “What do you say to one last tumble before you go? Something to tide you over in the coming days, since Bath is one of the deadliest dull spots on earth.”
He smiled and slid his arms around her small, willowy body. As he did, a memory of rich, red hair—Grace’s hair—flashed in his mind for reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Banishing the thought, he arched Philipa closer and took her up on her very generous offer.
* * *
CHAPTER 3
A little over a week later, Grace made her way into a small assembly room not far from Bath’s Sydney Gardens, where an afternoon lecture on perennial floriculture was scheduled to take place.
So as not to let either her height or that of her bonnet brim impede anyone’s view, she took a seat in the last row of chairs set up for the event. Withdrawing a small notebook and pencil from her reticule, she prepared to wait.
She’d arrived in the company of her maid, who was currently taking her ease with a group of other servants in an anteroom beyond. Grace had invited Aunt Jane to join her, but the older woman declined. Her aunt might love the fragrance and beauty of fresh flowers, but she had no patience for learning about their cultivation.
“That’s what I keep Perkins for,” Aunt Jane had told her this morning over tea, toast, and sausages. “I let him grub around in the garden dirt and tend the plants so I don’t have to.”
Given that Grace was no longer in her first flush of youth, her aunt had deemed it acceptable for her to attend the lecture with only a servant accompanying her. Aunt Jane had promised, however, to come by with the carriage at the end of the lecture so they could drive home together.
She checked the delicate gold and pearl watch pinned to her bodice and saw that another ten minutes remained before the talk was scheduled to begin. Glancing around, she studied the small, but growing, crowd, which was made up of mostly older, academically minded men and a trio of middle-aged bluestocking females.
Gazing idly along the length of her own row of chairs, she noticed a man seated at the far end. Dark-haired and attractive, he put her in mind of a panther who’d mistakenly wandered into a room full of ordinary grey cats. A curious little tingle sizzled along her spine as she stared, her pulse giving a rabbity hop.
Surely it can’t be, she thought, but he reminded her of the man she’d met that day at Hatchard’s. The gorgeous, sophisticated, dangerously appealing Lord Jack Byron!
After all, what would a man of Byron’s obviously cosmopolitan tastes be doing in Bath? More particularly, why would he be attending a lecture about flowers?
Aristocrats went to their country estates this time of year to shoot grouse and visit with their lofty friends. They didn’t come to the ancient, barely fashionable environs of Bath—not unless they were ill and in need of taking the waters. And no one looking at this man would ever believe him in anything but robust good health.
But it isn’t him and I’m only misremembering, she told herself as she studied the dynamic angles of his profile, completely unable to look away.
Suddenly she had to know, aching for him to turn his head and let her see his entire face. One fleeting glance—just a glimpse of his eyes—and she would have her answer. After all, how many nights had it been now that she had dreamt of him, conjuring up images of the man and his unforgettable eyes?
Only every one since that first brief encounter.
How many moments had she spent wool-gathering about him during the day?
Enough that I feel like a simpleton for being so weak and foolish.
She was scolding herself for acting the pea goose again when he turned his head and gazed straight at her. Her heart jumped; his eyes were even more sensuous and vividly blue than she recalled, his face more strikingly handsome than the warmest of her recollections. Air wheezed from her chest, the impact hitting her with the force of a quick, one-two punch. Glancing downward, she stared blindly at her shoes.
Stars above, it is Jack Byron!
Desperately she struggled to compose herself, forcing her heartbeat to slow and her breath to come at less erratic intervals.
Did he see me? Recognize me? Do I want him to?
Slowly, after a long, long minute, she glanced up and over, peering out from beneath her lashes.
Disappointment crashed through her. Not only was he not looking at her but he wasn’t even in his chair anymore! In fact, it seemed he’d left the room.
She was still collecting herself and her thoughts when the guest speaker stepped up to the podium. A full five minutes passed, though, before she was able to pay him any mind, and another two after that before she opened her sketch pad and began to draw the floral samples arranged for illustration and display.
She was drawing with steady intent when she sensed someone ease into the chair to her right. At first she took little notice, her pencil moving with deliberation over the paper. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a pair of large, elegant black leather shoes. Slowly, her gaze roved higher to find powerful male legs clad in fawn-coloured pantaloons positioned barely inches from her own.
A shiver tingled over her skin, along with an odd feeling of familiarity, as if she’d experienced a similar situation in the past. Abruptly, she realized she had.
Her pencil fell still.
“Your pardon,” murmured the rich, masculine voice she’d heard that day at Hatchard’s, “but haven’t we met before? Miss Daniels, is it not?”
Even though she had no doubt as to his identity, her gaze slid upward. The action itself was noteworthy, considering she rarely had the need to look up to meet anyone’s gaze. A quick glimpse of vivid azure irises sent fresh shivers racing through her. “Danvers,” she whispered, correcting his error. “It is Danvers.”
He inclined his head. “Ah, of course. My sincerest apologies, Miss Danvers.”
The lecturer’s voice faded into the background, her attention focused completely on the man at her side.
“Jack Byron,” he introduced himself in a controlled sotto voce, apparently assuming that she would not have remembered his name.
As if any woman could forget.
Laying a hand on the back of her chair, he leaned closer. “London, was it not?”
She couldn’t help but stare, startled to find him so close that she could trace the faint grain of dark bristles on his smooth-shaven cheeks. And near enough to catch the clean scents of fine-milled soap, lemon water, and starch, which lingered on his skin and clothing. For an instant, she leaned nearer, drawn by the elusive fragrances. But then she remembered herself and pulled away.
“Gunter’s, wasn’t it? For ices?” he inquired.
She paused and took a moment to recover. “No. Hatchard’s. For books.”
“Quite right. Dr. Johnson. I remember now. So, how is the good doctor?”
“Still deceased, as far as I know.”
He barked out a short laugh.
Several heads turned in their direction. Finding herself the sudden focus of more than one disapproving set of eyes, she came rapidly to her senses. Straightening, she drew away from Lord Jack. He did the same, removing his hand from the back of her chair.
For the span of an entire minute, the pair of them listened solemnly to the presentation.
He tipped his head toward her and whispered, “What brings you to Bath?”
She stared straight ahead, aware she shouldn’t respond. “I am visiting my aunt for a few weeks.”
“A pleasant time of year for seeing family. And where is the esteemed lady? Surely you are not here alone?”
She cast him a glance. “No, my maid is with me. My aunt will be arriving later.�
�� She paused, trying to pay attention to the lecture and failing dismally. “What of you, my lord? Why are you in the city?”
He grew silent, his gaze directed ahead. Curiously, she wondered if he was going to answer.
“Personal business,” he said at length. “Such that will keep me here for a few weeks as well. So, you enjoy flowers, do you?” he observed in a smooth redirection of the conversation.
She nodded. “As do the majority of my sex. Although technical lectures like this one don’t generally hold much appeal for the average female.” She settled her small notebook more comfortably on her lap, the pencil on top. “Actually, I’m a bit surprised to find a man like you here either.”
He arched an imperious brow. “‘A man like me’? Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
A slight flush rose in her cheeks as she realized she’d let her tongue run wild again. “Pray take no offence. It is only that most people, even those who like plants, have scant patience for the study of botany and horticulture.”
Shifting in his chair, he bent nearer. “You think me a brainless fribble then, do you?”
“Not at all. I…” Her words drifted away as she caught the shrewd gleam dancing in his eyes.
“Yes, you were saying?” he drawled.
“I just would not have expected you to be at an event of such an academic nature…”
His lips twitched, but he refrained from further comment.
Inwardly she cringed, knowing she was digging herself deeper yet somehow unable to stop. “I mean that robust men such as yourself usually prefer other, more physical pursuits.”
The colour of his irises intensified. “Physical, hmm? And just what sort of ‘physical pursuits’ did you have in mind?”
Her cheeks grew warm, subtly aware that she had stumbled into dangerous territory. For some unfathomable reason, images of secluded, romantic rendezvouses and stolen kisses leapt into her head—subjects about which she was sure Jack Byron was an expert.
“Hunting and angling and riding, for instance,” she said in a hushed tumble of words.
“Well, I must admit I enjoy a round of hunting and angling every now and again. As for riding…” His gaze lowered to her lips. “I’m always up for a good ride.”
Her throat became too tight to swallow. Why, she wondered, do I have the impression that he isn’t talking about horses?
Flustered, Grace lowered her gaze. Only then did she realize that the speaker had finished his lecture and was busy answering a last few questions from the audience.
“As for your assertion that a man such as myself cannot take an interest in serious academic subjects like botany, I must protest,” Lord Jack continued. “Floriculture may not be my main area of interest, nevertheless it’s worth an odd hour here and there. I had hoped our lecturer might have something new to offer on the use of hybrid cultivars and the grafting potential for Rosa centifolia and other highly fragrant varietals. Unfortunately, he seems only moderately well-versed on the topic, though I would never wish to cast aspersions.”
Grace stared. “Y-your pardon, my lord. I stand corrected.”
His mouth curved in a devastating smile, white teeth flashing. “That’s quite all right. It is usually easier to see what lies on the surface of a person rather than taking the time and attention to delve deeper.”
“Yes, exactly so,” she whispered, her lips parting in surprise at his candour and perception.
How many times had she thought that very thing herself? Wishing that people were capable of looking past the surface to discover a person’s true worth. Shame rolled through her, that she, of all people, would so shallowly underestimate him. She would be careful not to do so again—assuming they had occasion to meet in the future.
Only then did she become aware that the other attendees were beginning to make their way out of the room.
“It would appear the presentation has concluded,” he observed. “I scarcely noticed, given our conversation. Did you say your aunt is arriving to accompany you home?”
“She should be here quite soon.”
He stood and offered a hand to assist her to her feet. Accepting, she couldn’t help but be aware of the way his large gloved palm fit so firmly around her own. Flutters danced like tiny wings in her stomach.
“Allow me to thank you for a pleasant diversion, Miss Danvers. I sincerely enjoyed our talk. Ordinarily I would remain, but the hour grows more advanced than I anticipated and I find I must take my leave. Shall we locate your maidservant?”
Grace shook off her sense of disappointment, wondering suddenly if he had only been amusing himself and now wished to be quit of her as soon as he could.
“There is no need,” she told him, her tone cooler. “She is only in the adjoining room.”
“Even so, I insist.”
Having no alternative, she walked from the room at his side. Far too soon, her maid was found.
As they strolled back into the main corridor, he turned and made her an agile, elegant bow. “I shall not say good-bye but rather au revoir.”
Grace curtseyed. “Good day, your lordship.”
An enigmatic expression shone in his gaze, as if he might say more. Instead, he inclined his head, then turned and strode away.
“Gor, who was that?” her maid cooed in a low voice as Lord Jack departed. “’e’s a looker, ’e is, miss, and make no mistake of it. Handsome, and a gentleman, too.”
“Be that as it may, I doubt we shall see him again,” Grace said, suppressing a wistful sigh. “He merely came to hear the lecture.”
Slipping her notebook into her reticule, she moved toward the entry, relieved to see her aunt’s coach arrive.
From a sheltered area several yards distant, Jack watched Grace step into a black barouche and drive away, her aunt presumably inside.
All in all, he thought the afternoon had gone well. He and Grace had met again and talked, establishing the beginnings of what he planned to be a fairly rapid, thoroughly satisfactory courtship—assuming one could call what he was doing a “courtship.” Conquest was a far more appropriate term considering the cold-blooded nature of his arrangement with her father. Still, “Campaign Grace” was proving far less of a chore than he’d originally imagined.
As with their first encounter, he’d found her intelligent and engaging, with a quick wit and a clever tongue. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he grew bored, but for now, she was proving unexpectedly fascinating.
He would have to take care, though. She’d almost caught him out with her inquiries about his attendance at the lecture. She was right that he wasn’t the sort of man to take an interest in such a dry topic. Good thing he’d taken the precaution of skimming a few botany books.
Years ago, as a boy longing to be outside on clear spring and summer days, he’d developed a gift for memorization. His father had chosen a strict, serious-minded man to serve as tutor to him and his brothers. The only way to escape the schoolroom had been to recite that day’s lesson without flaw. After a bit of practice, Jack had taught himself how to quickly visualize anything. It was a skill he’d put to good use ever since—including his years at Eton and Oxford, where he’d moved effortlessly through his studies, leaving him more time to indulge in a variety of pleasurable pursuits. This afternoon, the ability had once again come in handy with Grace.
He smiled, thinking about her, marvelling at his response.
And he was definitely having a response!
Many might find her ordinary, but the more he saw of her, the more he liked. In fact, he’d had a hard time keeping his hands off her during their hushed tête-à-tête, wanting to draw her outside into the gardens so he could steal a kiss. But he supposed it was just as well they’d been inside a lecture hall, since it was far too soon for kisses.
Which is why he’d excused himself so abruptly and left. Had he stayed, he might have pushed matters too far, too fast, and risked alarming her. He’d already gone beyond what he’d planned for their fir
st true meeting, forgetting himself long enough to trade innuendos a more experienced woman would have recognized for what they were. Instead, Grace Danvers had blushed and looked unsure, of both herself and her reactions.
In those moments, he’d found her adorable.
And kissable.
And far too innocent.
The time would come for intimacy. And when it did, he promised she would find exquisite pleasure. He might be taking her as his wife because he must. But he would be taking her to his bed because he wanted her.
Considering his next move, Jack strode toward his lodgings, deciding a walk would do him good.
* * *
CHAPTER 4
Three days later, Grace accompanied her aunt to Bath’s finest perfume shop. Drawing her spectacles from her reticule, she set them on her nose and began perusing the array of glass bottles lined up for display. Beside each one stood a small white card with a description of the scent penned in crisp black ink.
Oil of Bergamot
Eau de Neroli
Essence of Frangipani
As a rule, she didn’t often wear perfume. On the rare occasions when she did, she preferred simpler, lighter scents, such as violet water or a few drops of plain vanilla rubbed on her wrists or behind her ears.
Aunt Jane, however, adored perfume. The polished walnut dressing table in her bedchamber was completely obscured by a mass of perfume bottles, skin creams and powders. She had so many, in fact, that she needed a separate cabinet to house her hair combs, brushes, feathers, and jewellery.
“What do you think of this one?” her aunt asked, drawing near with an open bottle in hand.
Leaning dutifully forward, Grace gave a delicate sniff. She wrinkled her nose and pulled away, fighting the urge to sneeze. “Too heavy for my taste,” she murmured. “What is it? Cloves, if I’m not mistaken, and cinnamon perhaps. But there’s another scent…something I cannot place.”
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