“Where did you come from?” she asked, her fingers curling reflexively against her pencil.
“Along the main path,” he said in a wry drawl. “You really ought to pay more attention to your surroundings, you know.”
“I am drawing.”
“Yes, so I see.” Crossing, he sank down onto the stone seat next to her. “I met your aunt on the high street. She told me you were here.”
“Was that before or after she finished raiding all the stores?”
“After, I would say, based on the armload of packages her footman was carrying. Although I might be wrong, considering the militant gleam in her eye. As I recall, there was some mention of ribbon at a ten percent discount just as I was departing.”
Grace grinned, then returned to her drawing.
Silence descended, comfortable and undemanding, as Lord Jack lounged on the bench at her side.
“What are you drawing? Those stalky, puffy-headed flowers over there?” he asked.
Pausing, she tossed him a curious glance. With his knowledge of botany, he had to know a hollyhock when he saw one, since it was a common enough variety. He’s teasing me, she realized. “Yes, the hollyhocks, of course. You’re very amusing, you know. Stalky, puffy-headed flowers indeed.” She chuckled.
For a brief moment, an odd, almost alarmed expression passed over his face. Then, just as abruptly, it vanished. “No point in always being precisely accurate, is there? Sometimes a description says it best.”
Smiling, she shook her head at his antics.
“May I see?” he queried.
She hesitated for an instant, then turned the drawing his way.
He contemplated her work, long enough that the faintest flutter of nerves jiggled over her skin. “It’s only a preliminary study,” she defended. “I’ll do a far more refined sketch later, then another in colour.”
“It’s wonderful,” he stated, his tone clearly sincere. “When you said you do some drawing, I assumed you dabbled like most young women. But this is a far cry from dabbling. You have true talent.”
Pleasure spread through her, radiant as the sun shining overhead. When did his opinion come to mean so much to me? She wondered. Why do I care that he approves? But she did, she realized, wanting him to like her work, even admire it. Admire her.
Tiny lines formed on his brow. “There is an artist who does similar watercolour renderings of natural subjects. I have one of his folios in my own book collection. Danvers is the name…G. L. Danvers.” His eyes widened. “Good Lord, it’s you, isn’t it? Grace L. Danvers.”
“Lilah,” she murmured, her pleasure increasing. “The L is for Lilah. And yes, I’ve done a few little books.”
“There’s nothing little about those books, either in size or content. Grace, you are an extraordinary artist. Why does no one know the truth of your identity?”
He has one of my books. The thought made her a little giddy.
“I know,” she told him. “And that is enough. I would have no use for fame anyway. It’s better that people believe I am a man, that way my work is taken seriously. Otherwise, many would say my watercolours are good—for a young woman who dabbles.”
For a moment, he looked as if he might argue the point. “Sadly, I suppose you’re right. I’m glad, though, that I have uncovered your secret.”
“As am I, your lordship.”
His gaze met hers. “I shall demand a private showing of anything you have in process, you know.”
Her heart beat with excitement. “That might be permissible.”
“And your autograph as well.”
She smiled. “I would be honoured.” Although she didn’t know when she would have such an occasion.
“I suppose I should go and leave you to your work.”
She shook her head. “Actually, I would rather you didn’t. My drawing will keep for a bit.”
His mouth turned up in a slow smile. “Good. If that is the case, then perhaps I might persuade you to take a stroll.”
“Here in the gardens, you mean?”
“Of course in the gardens. Maybe you will see some new plant that inspires your muse.”
A small voice whispered that she should remain where she was and keep drawing. A far louder one urged her to accept.
“Yes. All right,” she agreed. Rising to her feet, she secured her sketchbook and pencils inside a small satchel.
“Allow me,” he said, reaching out a hand to take the cloth bag.
Passing it to him, she took his arm and they began to walk.
“Where is your maid, by the way?” he asked a few moments later. “I assume you didn’t walk here by yourself.”
“No. I let her go visit a friend for a few minutes.”
“A friend? You are too generous by half, since she should not have left you at all. But I am here now, so there is no harm done.”
Actually, he thought, leaving me to stand guard is rather like asking a wolf to oversee the sheep. But why quibble when it gave him a chance to be alone with her?
The past few weeks had been wearing on him, to say the least. As the days crept by, he’d been forced to place strict controls upon himself, trying to act as though he wanted nothing physical from her at all.
But denying himself had only increased his appetite for her—together with his enforced abstinence. He hadn’t had a woman since he’d left London. He supposed he could have sought out a convenient female, but the idea held no appeal. Once he’d met Grace, she was the only one he desired.
From the first, he’d known he would need to get past Grace’s barriers and win her trust. What he hadn’t counted on, though, was earning her friendship as well. Nor had he expected to like her.
But he did. A lot.
Guilt raked through him like a sharp set of claws. Lord knows, I hate the necessity of lying to her. But the wheels had already been set in motion, and there was no stopping them from spinning. His fate was fixed now and hers along with it.
He took care to be as honest with her as he could, however, not simply because it made things easier, but also because he wanted there to be as much truthfulness between them as possible. After all, she was going to be his wife.
When he’d discovered she was the G. L. Danvers, his surprise and admiration had in no way been feigned. He really did own one of her folios, and his esteem of her artistic talent was genuine. His motives and methods in pursuing her might not be strictly honourable, but that didn’t mean the whole of their dealings were false. Of course, Grace might not see it that way should she ever learn about his bargain with her father, he thought with an inner wince.
But she won’t find out, he promised himself. He would make certain of it. And so he had nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever.
“I understand there is a labyrinth here,” he said, cutting off his own uncomfortable thoughts. “Do you like mazes?”
She nodded, her eyes appearing more blue than grey today in the brilliant sunlight, her red hair gleaming like fire-coloured silk beneath her bonnet. His hands itched suddenly to slip the little hat free of its moorings and send it sailing so he could spear his fingers deep into her tresses. And then he would kiss her, taking her mouth in a zealous joining that would soon have her aching for more. He nearly reached for her, but stayed himself. He’d waited this long; he could wait a while more.
Quietly, he cleared his throat. “Shall we go inside, then?” he asked, directing their footsteps along the path that led to the labyrinth. “I’ll even give you the advantage of going in before me. We can make a game of it and see which one of us reaches the centre first.”
“I haven’t been inside a maze since I was a little girl,” she confided.
“Then it would seem a repeat of the experience is long overdue.”
They soon arrived at the maze entrance, the precisely trimmed boxwood hedge rising upward in a seemingly impenetrable wall of thick, leafy green. The warm, ripe scent of vegetation hung in the air, birds chirping in nearby tree branches, w
hile a pair of butterflies danced on the light breeze.
Yet Jack was barely aware of anything except the woman at his side and his anticipation of the mock hunt to come.
“I’ll give you to the count of ten,” he declared, tucking her satchel into a sheltered spot just inside the entrance where he felt certain it would be safe. “Hurry along now, else I catch you.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he turned his back to the maze opening. “One!”
Grace sprinted away.
“Two!” he called in a carrying voice. “I can still hear you.”
She giggled, bushes rustling as she clearly ran into her first obstacle.
“Three!”
The sound of her passing grew more distant, the accelerating beat of his heart taking its place.
“Four!”
He heard an “oh drat” and smiled, trying to estimate how far into the maze she had likely travelled.
“Five!”
Her footfalls faded into silence, as he fought the urge to turn in search of a lingering view.
“Six!”
I shouldn’t have given her so much time.
“Seven!”
What if she eludes me?
“Eight!”
What if she doesn’t?
“Nine!”
Almost there.
“Ten! Ready or not, here I come!”
Turning sharply on his heel, he headed inside.
Grace bit her lip and forced herself not to giggle, her feet flying as she hurried along a narrow corridor of greenery that towered far above her head.
A few moments later, Lord Jack finished his count of ten and started after her. Soon, a distant rustling sounded, making her wonder if he’d blundered into the same trap in which she’d also been temporarily ensnared. But he was smart and resourceful and would soon find his way free.
Knowing she dare not waste a second, she continued on. Yet each turn looked frustratingly like the one before, every angle leading to a potential trap. Coming to a new break in the foliage, she stopped and looked right, then left, wondering which choice led in the correct direction.
Behind her, she couldn’t hear Jack at all now, his progress silent despite his large physique. He might be tall, but he was agile, quick and stealthy on his feet. She knew how a doe must feel being pursued by an experienced hunter. Her heart thudded beneath her breasts, her breath issuing in soft gusts—though with excitement, she realized, not fear.
Making a random choice, she turned and dashed forward, the pale blue skirt of her India muslin gown floating around her as she ran. The move led her deeper into the labyrinth, drawing her in ever-tightening circles, each one more bewildering than the last.
Twice, she had to double back, worried every time that she would stumble upon Lord Jack, or he upon her. But as the minutes ticked past, she realized that he must be as mired in confusion as she. She also became aware of the fact that the two of them were completely alone—no hint of other human voices or movement anywhere in the vicinity.
Finally she sensed she was nearing the centre of the maze, her goal barely feet away. But being close to the middle and actually finding it were two different things.
Turning again, she glided forward, her steps bringing her into a square-shaped section of hedge that functioned as a box. An inescapable box from which there was no exit save the one through which she had come. Trapped, she raced back toward the break in the vegetation.
She was just passing through when a long male arm emerged seemingly from out of nowhere, coiling like steel around her waist.
She squealed, the sound reverberating in the air, as she twisted for a moment in Lord Jack’s grasp.
“Got you!” he exclaimed, triumph plain in his voice.
“Oh, you scared me!” she said, breathless as she met his gaze. “You’re as silent as a breeze.”
“And you’re as lithe as a gazelle, slipping from row to row as though you were made of fog. For a few moments, I thought I’d lost track of you.”
“This is a tricky maze. The centre is nearby, though. Shall we both dash to find it?”
A gleam came into his eyes, along with an expression she’d never seen him wear before. He shook his head, his gaze roaming over her face before lowering to her lips.
“No,” he murmured in a tone as rough as gravel. “I have what I came to find.”
She trembled, abruptly aware that he was still holding her against him. Her heart leapt when he reached up and began untying the bow that anchored her bonnet in place.
“What are you doing, my lord?”
He smiled. “Claiming a forfeit. I caught you. I believe I deserve a reward.”
“B-but the game isn’t finished.”
“You’re right about that,” he mused aloud, lifting her hat from her head. “The game has only just begun.”
Without giving her time to consider, he tossed her bonnet to the ground, angled his head and kissed her.
She froze, completely unprepared for the heady sensation of his lips moving against her own. His mouth was surprisingly warm and luxuriously soft; his kiss demanding and persuasive in ways that made gooseflesh pop out all over her skin in spite of the late summer heat.
On a quivering gulp, she forced herself to break away. “M-my lord, what are you doing?”
“I believe you asked me that once already,” he remarked. Reaching up, he traced the curve of her ear with his thumb and forefinger. “I should think the answer is obvious.”
Catching her earlobe between his fingers, he rubbed the nubbin of flesh in a circular motion, then bent to scatter kisses along the column of her neck. Her eyelids fluttered, her toes curling like petals inside her shoes.
“Y-yes, but I don’t understand why,” she said on a half-gasp. “You d-don’t think of me that way.”
“Do I not?” he said in a silky tone. “Are you sure?” Moving to her other side, he fanned a line of kisses over her throat.
“You see me…as a sister.”
He stopped and lifted his head to meet her gaze. “I assure you, I do not.” His arm tightened around her waist, yanking her flush against the long length of his body. “Now, I ask, does this feel at all brotherly to you?”
Locked hip to hip, she became aware of an insistent bulge pressing against the lower portion of her stomach, just slightly above the juncture of her thighs.
Is that him? She thought. Is that hard jut wedged against me—his sex? Mercy, surely he isn’t aroused? For me?
Having never felt an erection before, even through the barrier of clothing, she wasn’t certain. But a glance at the fixed set of his jaw and the intense gleam in his azure eyes made her realize she must be right.
“But I’m so plain and tall,” she cried, unwilling to let herself believe that this man—this big, virile, gorgeous specimen of masculinity—could possibly want her. Her. Grace Danvers—unremarkable spinster—who had never so much as tempted a man to kiss her in all her twenty-five years. Not even Terrence had tried. Despite having asked her on repeated occasions to be his wife, he had never once attempted to take liberties.
Yet here was Jack Byron, sophisticated libertine and lady-killer—a man who could have any woman of his choosing no matter how beautiful or well-born—demonstrating his attraction for her.
“You don’t want me,” she whispered.
“Don’t I?” He dropped a lingering kiss on her lips, then another on her cheek, and a third on her temple. “You continue to be mistaken in your estimation of my opinions, and in your own as well.
Her brows drew tight. “My own?”
“You are not plain,” he told her, his words low and husky.
When she made a sound of disagreement, he hushed her. “You may not be beautiful in the traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t lovely all the same. Uniquely lovely, with an inner radiance that far transcends what passes for pretty these days. Take your eyes, for example.”
“My eyes?”
“Hmm. Have you ever noticed
how they change colour with your moods?”
She shook her head.
“Well, they do. When you’re happy, they’re a pure pristine blue, like twin brushstrokes of sky. And when you’re displeased or lost in serious thought, they shift to grey. Silvery, sensual grey, the sort that ripples like dawn mist over a lake. I can think of no other woman with eyes like yours. Magnificent, soul-deep eyes in which a man could drown if he weren’t careful.”
He laid a hand against her face and touched his lips to hers. She quivered, blood throbbing in her temples, her skin turning hot beneath his touch.
“As for being tall…,” he went on, stroking his thumb in an arc over her cheek as he scattered random kisses along her brow and chin and neck, “…I am tall myself. I like that you’re tall, too. I like that I can hold you and gaze with ease upon your face. I like it that I can do this”—he captured her lips for a slow, soft kiss—“without having to stoop or crouch or dip in order to make you fit against me. You are a perfect complement, Grace. The feminine half that makes me whole.”
He bumped his hips gently into hers and drew a ragged gasp from her throat. “See what you do to me?” He cupped a hand over one breast. “See what I do to you?”
Of its own volition, her nipple peaked, the stiffened bud rising traitorously against his palm. Her breath soughed fast between her lips. Her knees grew weak, making her thankful he was holding her, since she was sure she would have crumpled to the ground in a heap otherwise.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he told her.
Trembling, she did as he asked, bringing their bodies even closer together.
His thumb stroked over her breast, back and forth across the hardened tip, then back and forth again.
“Shall I stop?” he whispered, changing his caress to a circular glide. An ache rose between her legs, a yearning that drew an involuntary whimper from her throat.
“What did you say?” he asked, his breath warm against her ear.
She shook her head. “No, don’t stop, your lordship.”
Seduced By His Touch Page 6