“Jack,” he said, tugging her even tighter. “From now on, you are to call me Jack.”
“Yes, my lord. Yes, Jack.”
And then, as if the sound of his name on her lips broke through some self-imposed restraint, he crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her with a fierce possession that scattered every sensible thought in her brain.
She jolted as his hand slid lower, his wide palm stroking over the full curve of her bottom to knead her through her gown and petticoats.
“Open your mouth,” he muttered against her lips. “Let me in, Grace. Let me have you.”
Blindly, she obeyed, his tongue sweeping inside the instant she parted her lips. Her heart hammered against a flood of new sensations, nerve endings sizzling in places she hadn’t known she had nerves. Her body grew hot, but not from the sun shining overhead. Instead the source was an inner heat that threatened to burn her up from the inside out. She groaned, surrendering to the dark, wet, delicious slide of his flesh tangling with hers.
Ravenous, he showed her how to respond, how to follow his lead and mimic everything he did. He seemed to approve of her fledgling attempts, coaxing her to try, then try again.
When she felt his fingers working open the buttons at the back of her gown, she made no demur, too abandoned to object to anything he might do.
Jack shifted his stance, using his legs to spread hers apart so he could step between. Kissing her harder, he quaked as she tentatively used what he’d been teaching her to draw circles inside his mouth with her tongue. Her taste was intoxicating—like fresh strawberries and champagne—the sweet, light flavour tingling in his mouth and buzzing in his brain.
He knew he needed to slow things down, to put a halt to what he’d originally intended to be no more than a few simple kisses. But the moment he’d touched her, he’d been lost, unable to keep himself from wanting more, taking more. The keen ache riding him wasn’t helping matters either. He was so hard it was a wonder his straining member didn’t pop the buttons right off his falls.
He considered laying her down, finding some small patch of grass where he could take her. She would let him. He could tell she was as far gone as he. Without further preamble he could have her beneath him, her skirts tumbled upward as he thrust himself deep into her tight, wet depths.
But despite his powerful longing, some niggling spark of conscience still remained, reminding him that she was a virgin and that a hard plot of earth was no place for her first time.
And it would be her first time.
Based on her untutored responses alone, he knew she’d never even been kissed. A fierce rush of possessiveness roared through him, an atavistic satisfaction that was totally at odds with his usual relaxed attitude concerning sex and female chastity. Never before had he cared whether a woman was innocent. Rather, in the past, he’d always chosen experienced partners, women who knew what to expect and relished the opportunity to explore the boundaries of their sensuality. Virgins, on the other hand, were nothing but a bother.
Yet he thrilled now to the knowledge that he would be Grace’s first. Grace’s only. The one man with the privilege of touching her and teaching her everything she needed to know regarding the depths of sexual satisfaction and human desire.
Ah, the pleasure we shall find together when I get her in my bed.
He shuddered at the idea, ravishing her mouth while he tugged open the buttons on the back of her gown. He wouldn’t take her today, he swore to himself, no matter how much his body screamed for release. But he had to have a little more, a last drink of ambrosia before he tore himself away.
Yanking down her bodice, he unlaced her stays, loosening the stiffened cloth enough to free one of her breasts. She cried out as he fastened his mouth over her, shuddering with a clear mixture of surprise and delight as he drew upon her tender flesh. Nestling the fulsome curve in his palm, he kneaded her with gentle finesse, licking her in gradually diminishing circles before pausing to press his tongue and teeth against her sensitized peak.
Her body jerked, her fingers sliding into his hair to cradle him closer and urge him on. With a groan, he freed her other breast and repeated his ministrations—licking and suckling and claiming her utterly. She swayed, trembling and all but insensate, when somehow he found the Herculean strength to stop and pull away.
Ragged breaths bellowed from his lungs, one fist clenched against his thigh in an agony of longing.
He nearly dropped to his knees, seriously tempted to lift her skirts and bury his face between her thighs. Given her innocence, he could likely bring her to completion and have her well on the way to a second release before she even knew what he was doing. But he supposed such diversions would have to wait for later. Closing his eyes, he fought for control.
When he opened them again a few moments later, he found her flushed pink from breast to forehead, visibly trembling as she plucked futilely at her dishevelled clothes.
“Shh,” he murmured, brushing a comforting kiss over her lips. “I see I’ve shocked you, and for that I’m sorry. Here, let’s get you righted again.”
With a minimum of fuss, he had her laced and dressed, her gown smoothed into place with nary a wrinkle. Anyone seeing her would assume she had merely taken a little too much sun. Unless they looked into her eyes. She wore an overly bright, slightly dazed expression—obviously still trying to adjust to everything that had just transpired between them.
Moving a few steps away, he leaned down to retrieve her bonnet. After brushing a speck of dust off the brim, he turned and gently fit it over her head.
“A shame to cover up your glorious hair,” he remarked, “but you know what they say about fair-skinned redheads burning, and I believe you’ve had more than enough sun for today.” He tied the blue grosgrain ribbon beneath her chin. “Let us retrieve your sketchbook and find your maid, then I shall escort you home.” Taking her hand, he laid it over his arm.
Only then did she speak. “Jack.”
“Yes?” He met her gaze.
“Did you mean it?”
He tipped his head to one side. “Mean what?”
“What you said? You know…about wanting me.”
A guffaw escaped him. “After everything that just passed between us, you still have doubts?” He sobered, reading the uncertainty in her eyes. “Yes, Grace, I want you. Quite badly, in fact.”
“And will I see you again? You aren’t leaving town?”
“No, I’m not leaving, and you will most definitely see me again. Why do you imagine otherwise?” He paused, as a new thought suddenly struck him. “Did someone else leave you?”
She shook her head and looked away. “It is nothing. I should not have said.”
“But you did say. Now tell me, what is this about? Did a man hurt you? Leave you?” At her renewed flush, he knew he was right. “Who is he?”
And how can I kill him?
“He is no one,” she said. “And it happened long ago. I was eighteen, too young to know better than to put my trust in a scoundrel. He wanted my money, you see, and I was too foolish to realize what he was really after.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “And you think I’m the same?”
Christ, he realized, I am the same.
Reaching up, she laid a hand on his shoulder and hastened to assure him. “No, not at all. You are nothing alike.”
“So, what happened between you and this man?” he asked, a raw flare of emotion blazing in his chest.
She shrugged. “He courted me for a few weeks. We shared some dances, a carriage ride or two. It was nothing serious, not really.”
But he could tell it had been serious—at least for her.
“My father found out,” she continued, “and that was the end of that. He left one day without so much as a word. No note. No good-bye.”
“Have you ever seen him again?”
“No. Once my dowry was out of reach, so was he.”
“And you think I will go away too?”
“I don’t beli
eve you will pack your valise and disappear one morning. It is only that I know you are here temporarily and I just wondered how much time we have…rather, how much longer you mean to stay in Bath. Don’t be angry, my lord. I know you don’t need nor want my money.”
No, I just need your father to forgive my gaming debt, he thought, his stomach rolling in a slick wave.
“Are you certain?” he challenged in a quiet tone. “Maybe I do just want your dowry.”
She shook her head. “If you did, you’d never be so foolish as to mention that fact. Please, forget I ever said a word about such matters and walk me home.”
I should tell her now. End this charade, these lies. But he couldn’t take the chance of admitting the truth and losing her—and no longer just because of the money. She wasn’t some means to an end for him anymore. He knew her now. Wanted her now. And the only way to have her was by way of holy matrimony.
Strangely, the idea no longer repelled him as it once had. He would still prefer not to get married, but he was sure when they were wed that he and Grace would rub along well together through the years.
He would ask her to marry him now—except for one thing. She didn’t love him. Not yet.
But she was close. And once she said the words, once he knew for certain that he’d won her heart, then she would be his—to have and to hold forever.
Leaning close, he took her lips again—a full, leisurely kiss that was as much about possession as it was pleasure. “If I ever decide to leave,” he whispered, “I shall make sure you’re the first to know.”
* * *
CHAPTER 7
Over the next several days, Grace discovered that she need not have worried about seeing less of Jack Byron. Quite the contrary—beginning the very next afternoon, when he called on her at her aunt’s town house.
To Aunt Jane’s clear delight, he stayed to take tea and biscuits before asking Grace to accompany him on a walk to Sion Hill. Forty minutes later, she found herself concealed within the shelter of a great mulberry tree being kissed senseless.
The following evening, they met at a dance. After standing up together for a set, he suggested they adjourn for refreshments. But she quickly realized he wasn’t referring to drinking glasses of punch. Instead he led her to a secluded alcove, where he proceeded to take all manner of knee-weakening liberties—his roving hands and passionate kisses leaving her so dazed that she was nearly incapable of returning to the entertainment afterward.
And then there was the carriage drive to the Avon Valley. Stopping his curricle in a sheltered vale, he kissed her until she feared she might explode with pent-up longing. Jack seemed even more affected, releasing a harsh, pained groan as he forced himself to set her aside. If not for their out-of-doors location, she suspected she might have lost her virginity then and there.
In spite of his obvious desire for her, though, he always ended their embraces before they went too far, careful to bring her pleasure without taking her innocence.
Aunt Jane was certain he meant to propose and kept dropping not-too-subtle hints about the best linen-drapers for wedding clothes and where the most fashionable newlyweds were spending their honeymoons.
Yet Grace wasn’t so sure he had marriage in mind.
Jack Byron, third in line to a dukedom, moved in the highest circles of English Society. Ordinary Miss Grace Danvers, on the other hand, did not. Why then, she found herself wondering, would he have any interest in marrying me? True, she had a sizeable dowry, but he quite obviously lived well and had no need of her wealth. As for love…he never said a word on the subject, telling her instead how much he admired her, desired her. Which led to a rather discomfiting conclusion—that what he really wanted was to make her his mistress.
She knew she ought to be appalled, even angry, at the idea that Jack might be intending to offer her a carte blanche. Instead, she found herself curiously intrigued by the idea, and more tempted than a young woman raised to be a virtuous lady had any right to be.
What would it be like to belong to him? She mused now as she lay in bed with the dawn light rising in the sky. How would it feel to sleep at his side and let him claim her body? To experience the culmination of the passion that raged like white-hot embers between them?
If his kisses and caresses were any indication, she knew she would find exquisite pleasure in his arms. And joyous delight in his company as well. But what of her heart? Could she give herself to him knowing that someday their affair would end? That he would turn his back and desert her, leaving her even more alone than she was now? And worse—broken-hearted with love? For him.
The last thought stopped her, forcing her to shake off any further contemplation of an idea she should find alarming at best. Instead she put it all from her mind as she tossed back the covers and climbed from bed to bathe and dress for the day. She would make no decisions for now, she decided. Rather she would let the hours pass as they pleased, without plan or expectation.
“My brown cambric,” she told her maid. “Lord Jack and I are going water-colouring this morning, and I don’t want to risk getting paint stains on my skirt.” As to whether or not there would be a repeat of their kisses inside the labyrinth, she did not know.
Tingling with anticipation, she let the servant help her into her gown.
Later that afternoon, they turned onto the street that led to Grace’s residence, her hand cradled securely over his arm.
“Behave yourself, my lord,” she murmured in response to a remark he’d just made, “or I shall be forced to administer a punishment.”
Leaning closer, he brushed his lips against her ear. “Is that a promise, my dear Grace? If so, I’ll be sure to be even naughtier than before. I suspect I might like being punished by you.”
Warmth stole into her cheeks, an unrepentant laugh bursting from his lips at her bemused expression. Taking pity, he schooled his features into a more serious mien, repressing the urge to drag her into his arms and kiss her. But they’d done enough of that for one afternoon. Touching her without the promise of consummating the act was like playing with fire, and he didn’t think he could take more right now—not without suffering a serious burn.
Not too much longer, though, he told himself. Winning her love was part of the bargain he’d made with her father, and he was confident he would make good on that pledge. Soon, she would admit she loved him, and once that happened, he would ask her to be his wife.
Then he would wait no more.
Smiling, he escorted her up the front steps and into the house. A footman came forward to take Grace’s painting supplies, while she removed her bonnet and gloves.
She gazed at Jack. “Will you stay for tea?”
“Actually, I have some business I should attend to this afternoon. But I thought I would return tonight to escort you and your aunt to the theatre, if that would be agreeable.”
“Most agreeable,” she murmured. “Then I shall see you in a few hours?”
“You may count upon it.”
“Pardon the interruption,” said the butler. “But I thought I should let you know there is a visitor waiting in the parlour.”
“Someone to see my aunt?” she asked.
“No, miss. The caller asked most specifically for you. He said his name is Cooke.”
A wide smile lit her face. “Terrence is here? Oh, why did you not say so sooner?”
Who the devil is Terrence, Jack thought, and what has he to do with Grace?
Without preamble, she hurried across the foyer and disappeared through the painted parlour doors. Seconds later, voluble exclamations of delight issued from the room. Jack followed, his brows drawn tight. He walked inside just in time to see her taken inside a man’s embrace as she accepted a pair of enthusiastic kisses on her cheeks.
Willpower alone kept him from striding across the room and dragging her bodily out of the other man’s embrace. Instead he stopped inside the entrance and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well, this is a wonderfu
l surprise. What are you doing here?” she asked the man, one of her hands still caught in his. “You made no mention of coming to Bath.”
“I had business in the area and thought I’d stop by,” the interloper replied.
“Well, I’m glad you are here,” she said. “I had your last letter, but that was over two weeks ago at least.”
Letter? She writes him letters!
Jack was still contemplating that bit of information when Grace and her companion turned around. The instant they did, recognition kicked in. It was the sandy-haired fellow from Hatchard’s! The one who had escorted Grace from the bookshop that day.
Obviously becoming aware of his regard, she moved forward. “Jack…my lord, please forgive me for not introducing you right away. Lord John Byron, pray meet Mr Terrence Cooke. Terrence is my publisher from London.”
Her publisher? Well, at least that answers a few questions.
“My lord, a pleasure,” Cooke said, offering his hand.
For a moment, Jack stared at the square palm, with its blunt nails and calloused fingers. “Cooke,” he said. They exchanged handshakes, his own confidently firm, while the other man’s was surprisingly weak and indecisive.
“So you print Grace’s artwork?” Jack stated after drawing away. “She is extremely talented.”
“She is indeed,” Cooke agreed.
“You’re lucky to have her. I hope you’re paying her well.”
Grace’s eyes widened, while Cooke let out a laugh that sounded just a bit nervous. “Well enough, I trust.”
“His lordship’s sentiments are flattering, but as you know, I don’t paint for the money,” she said. “Lord Jack has one of my folios, Terrence.”
“A fan of the natural world, are you?” Cooke commented.
“At times. However, in this instance, I am more a fan of Grace’s.”
Cooke met his gaze straight on in a kind of silent challenge. “As are we all.”
Grace gave a brief laugh. “Well, before you two make my head swell to twice its normal size, I suggest we adjourn to the sofa and have some tea.” She paused, turning to Jack. “Oh, except I forgot. You said you were needed elsewhere. Business, I believe.”
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