The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Miss Gracie, how good to see you joining us,” Lady Hammond greeted her with a broad smile.

  “Indeed, Miss Gracie,” Lady Lintell chirped. “I was just telling Lady Hammond the other evening that you simply must join us more often. Why Cannon keeps you locked up in the manor, I just don’t know. Such a pretty young girl should get out with those of your own age. You work too hard. I keep saying it to Lady Hammond, don’t I?”

  “Yes, Minnie, you do keep saying it.”

  They flanked Grace and drew her into the crowd. It surprised her that it was easier to find something to say to the other guests than it had been at Lady Hammond’s ball. She didn’t stumble overmuch with pleasantries. It was disconcerting—and oddly exciting—to be welcomed so quickly by the society she’d been distanced from for so long.

  The crowd ebbed and flowed across the lawn as groups formed and reformed. Eventually Grace found herself alone near the pond, the tables laden with food and drink set up before her. She moved toward the tables, thinking to fill a plate with the delicate fare to keep her hands busy. Before she could reach for a plate, a broad shadow fell across the table. She looked up and found the Wandering Earl beside her.

  “My lord.” Unable to help herself, her gaze fell to the earl’s lips. She wanted those lips on hers again and felt a rush of heat at the thought.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see such beauty today, Miss Hannah, and now here you are, gracing us with your magnificence.”

  “But what of the other ladies, my lord? Don’t they deserve such charming platitudes?”

  “Perhaps.” He cocked his head, gaze steady on hers. “But I’ve only eyes for my smuggler.”

  “Smuggler, my lord?” Her heart bumped once, hard. “Don’t you mean a smuggler’s consort?”

  “Ah yes. That was our fantasy, wasn’t it? The smuggling captain and his consort.” He gestured toward the blue sky. “But there’s no night to hide in now, is there?”

  “But there are extensive gardens, my lord smuggler.” Private gardens. Or nearly so. There would be others wandering their paths or traveling the maze, but there would still be room for private conversation.

  And perhaps a kiss. Just one kiss.

  “So there are.” He glanced across the green lawns toward the nearby gardens. When he looked back at her, his eyes gleamed. “Perhaps we should stroll through Sir Richard and Lady Elliott’s garden.”

  She accepted the arm he offered and angled her parasol to block the sun. They crossed the lawns to the formal gardens where other couples and groups walked the stone pathways between the flower beds. Grace could hear snatches of laughter and the murmur of voices. Parasols twirled and bobbed above the hedges and blooms.

  “Perhaps my lady gardener could offer advice on how to rejuvenate Thistledown’s gardens,” the earl said, directing her away from the paths occupied by other guests.

  “That would depend on what you desired your gardens to be. Cultivated roses or wildflowers? Organized and formal, or spontaneous and natural?”

  “What would you prefer?”

  She studied the surrounding beds. Ruthlessly organized, the colors marched in precise lines through the beds. They were beautiful, of course, and yet they didn’t draw her in.

  “Wildflowers. Spontaneity. A riot of colors and scents and blossoms to feed your senses.”

  “I thought so,” he murmured, his lips curving in a knowing smile.

  “And you? Would you prefer something orderly and neat, or bold and wild?” Had she ever spoken in that coy and seductive tone before? Only once. To the earl, on the dark night of Lady Hammond’s ball.

  “Bold and wild, Miss Hannah. Most definitely bold and wild.” He purred the words and brought her hand to his lips. He turned her hand up and those full, attractive lips settled on the delicate skin of her wrist just above the glove she wore.

  Her breath hitched as the touch of his lips sent desire spiraling to her belly.

  She glanced behind them, wondering if they could be observed by other guests. But they were lost in the gardens and the picnic was no longer in view. Surrounding them were only high garden hedges, the hum of bees and the sweet scent of flowers.

  She turned her gaze back to the earl, who watched her with seductive eyes.

  “In my gardens,” he said, bringing his hand up to grasp her glove at the tip of her forefinger, “I want secret grottoes and hidden groves.” He tugged at the glove until it was loose enough he could draw it off. “I want unseen pockets of lush foliage that two people can hide in, concealed from the rest of the world.”

  “What would those two people do in your hidden groves?” Excruciatingly aware of every inch of her skin, she waited, breathless.

  “Anything they desired.” He turned her hand palm up and placed his lips on the center of her palm. The kiss was soft, seductive. “Secret places have infinite possibilities.”

  “Secret places have infinite uses, as well.” One corner of her lips pulled up in a half smile. “Especially for smugglers and their consorts.”

  “What do you know of secret places and smugglers, Miss Hannah?” The earl brought her forefinger to his lips and kissed the tip. He looked up and she saw in the bright blue what she’d been waiting for. Calculation, sharp and dangerous.

  A thrill shot through her. “What better way to use your gardens than as a smuggler’s hideaway?” She angled her parasol, effectively separating them from the picnic. Still, she lowered her voice. “There are many things a smuggler could conceal in his gardens.”

  “So there are.” He kissed her fingers in turn, his tongue making hot circles on each before moving to the next fingertip. “Perhaps he could hide his consort there, imprisoned among the blossoms.”

  “Imprisoned?” She curled her fingers inward to hold his kisses in her palm.

  “A prison of pleasure only.” Keeping her hand in his, he drew her down the garden path. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” Her feet were already moving, seemingly of their own accord.

  “To the maze.” His eyes stayed focused on hers. “Will you?”

  She thought of the light that swirled within her, of the burgeoning liquid heat that filled her. And of him.

  “Yes.”

  They passed shrubs and beds rioting with color. Everywhere were shades of green strewn with brilliant blooms. The hedge maze rose before them. He found the opening and drew her just inside, between the rows of tall yews.

  Even though they were only a step into the maze, the voices of the guests dimmed to become background to the drone of bees and the rustle of the hedge leaves. They were isolated. Alone.

  She should turn back. She was flirting with disaster. Compromise could come at any moment. Who knew that better than she? Still, when he pulled the parasol from her limp fingers and gently pressed her back into the leaves, she didn’t protest. Her heart was thudding, her body hot. Her blood thrummed just below the surface, a needy beat holding her trapped.

  “The smuggler and his consort would retreat to their secret place,” he murmured against her ear. His fingers ran the length of her ungloved arm, sensitizing her skin. “He would bring gifts to his consort, only for her pleasure. Smooth silk from the Orient to twine about her limbs, caressing her soft skin. Strings of pearls and jewels that could be looped around her neck.” His knowing fingers skimmed up to the hollow of her throat, then slid around her collarbone.

  She should protest the liberties he was taking. But she wanted to be seduced, to be lost in his honeyed words. Her breathing quickened as she waited for the next flicker of his fingertips. Where would it be?

  “The finest scent could be spread along the skin of her jaw, at the pulse beating at the base of her throat.” His hands followed his words, brushing gently against her jawline, pausing at the hollow of her throat. Fingers skimmed along the scooped edge of her bodice, and her breasts ached with
need.

  “Silver bangles would encircle her dainty wrists and tiny bells from India would tinkle at her pretty ankles.” His hand braceleted her exposed wrist. He tugged gently, pulling her against him. She let him, her senses heightened by the low murmur of his voice and the touch of his fingers. Seduction by the earl was a heady thing.

  She reveled in it.

  “A diamond tiara could be tucked into her silver locks.” He smoothed the delicate loose curls around her ear. “Ah, fair lady, I have wanted my fingers in that hair since I first saw you.”

  She smiled, just the smallest movement. “A smuggler takes what he wants.”

  A groan escaped his lips. His fingers performed the task his voice had laid out, reaching into her hair and pulling out the pins. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders and his fingers splayed through it, separating the long strands until the mass rained down her back.

  “Liquid silver,” he murmured.

  She swore she heard his control snap. Or was it her own? His lips swooped down to claim hers, hot and demanding, even as his hands fisted in her hair. She raised herself on tiptoe and met his mouth with her own. His tongue darted in, stroked.

  Gripping his shoulders, she dug her fingers in. More. More heat. More light. More him. He burned away the black, melting it so there was nothing but the fire within her. The fire of him.

  Until the short, distressed squeak echoed between the hedges.

  “My lord! Miss Gracie! My lord . . .” The high-pitched voice trailed away, leaving only the twitter of birds.

  She looked to the maze entrance and saw Lady Hammond, Lady Lintell, and Mrs. Parker.

  They’d been caught. Everything had fallen apart. Her entire life upended in a single moment of passion.

  Again.

  Grace tried to wrench herself away from the earl, but he held her face steady between his cupped palms, his fingers still tangled in her hair. His eyes stayed on hers, intense, focused, the bright blue burning into her. Then he stepped back and let his hands fall away. But still he stared into her eyes. She was trapped in his gaze, drowning in it, until he looked toward the others.

  The earl made a sweeping gesture with his arm toward Grace. “Ladies. May I present Miss Grace Hannah, who has kindly consented to be my wife.”

  Grace gripped her fingers together. The situation was spinning out of control. It was happening just as it had with Michael. A kiss, the witnesses, the hasty proposal. A weight fell on her chest, smothering her so that she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “Oh, oh! My lord,” Lady Lintell chirped, clapping her hands together like a schoolgirl rather than the matron she was. “We were just about to invite you to an assembly, but perhaps we’ll turn it into an engagement assembly. Really, this is simply fantastic! Our Miss Gracie! A countess!”

  “Humph,” said Mrs. Parker.

  Lady Hammond, her wise eyes flicking between Grace and the earl, made no comment at all.

  “I simply cannot wait to tell Lord Lintell this news.” Lady Lintell’s hands fluttered in the air as she beamed at the couple. “Why, I haven’t heard anything about it! Not a whiff! I daresay we’re the first to know!”

  “No,” Grace said. The word was barely a whisper. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. A low, droning buzz filled her head. “No,” Grace repeated, louder this time.

  “No?” Lady Hammond raised a brow.

  “No.” She tried to find her composure. Drawing a deep breath, she attempted to regulate her breathing. “I won’t marry the Earl of Langford.”

  Beside her, the earl tensed and jerked his head around to stare at her. She refused to look at him, keeping her gaze on Lady Hammond.

  “What?” Lady Lintell’s hands fell to her sides, confusion evident in the furrowed brow that marred her thin features. “You’re not marrying the earl? But . . .”

  “Humph.” Mrs. Parker added a snort and crossed her arms.

  “You have no choice,” Lady Hammond said.

  “There is always a choice.” Her voice must have separated from her body. It seemed to come from such a long way off. Grace rubbed her throat with numb fingers. “I won’t let that choice be taken from me.”

  “There is no choice in this.” It was the earl who spoke, his voice low and carrying none of the charm she usually heard there. His tone was serious, even a little dangerous, and his lean face was set, eyes resolute.

  “I don’t understand!” Lady Lintell squawked.

  “Be quiet, Minnie,” Mrs. Parker interjected.

  “But—”

  “It will get out,” Lady Hammond said. Her gaze flicked toward Lady Lintell, as if to say the other woman would not be able to keep quiet. “Even if it doesn’t, the facts remain as they are. The earl must do what is proper. So must you, Gracie. You cannot withstand this a second time.”

  “Marriage will fix it? Will that restore my reputation?” But it wouldn’t come to marriage. The earl would rescind his offer once his mind had cleared.

  “Marriage always does,” Lady Hammond replied.

  “Reputation?” queried Lady Lintell. “But—Oh.” Understanding dawned and her eyes opened wide. “Oh dear. Well, really, my lord. You must do the proper thing.”

  “I’m trying,” the earl ground out. “Miss Hannah, Grace—”

  “No.” Blood surged through her so that she wanted to run, to pump her legs to match the frantic beat of her heart. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  She fled. Cowardly, but with the roaring in her head she could think of nothing else to do.

  The earl called out to her, but she pulled her skirts up and half ran out of the garden toward Lord Elliott’s stable. Thank goodness she knew the young groom well.

  “Quickly,” she gasped, skidding into the stables. “Saddle one of Sir Richard’s horses.”

  “Miss Gracie?” He scrambled up from the floor and dropped the bridle he’d been oiling.

  “It’s important. I need one of Sir Richard’s horses.” Was that hysteria in her voice? She glanced into the courtyard behind her. No sign of the Earl of Langford. Yet. “Hurry,” she urged.

  “You want to take one of Sir Richard’s horses? He’ll murder me, Miss Gracie.”

  “I’ll return it immediately. One of Cannon Manor’s grooms will bring him back within the hour.” When he hesitated, she lowered her voice. “Please.”

  “Aye.” His shoulders squared and he strode away to saddle the horse. When he returned, he was leading a spirited mare. “Be quick about returning her.”

  “Thank you.” Pathetically grateful, she gripped his shoulder in thanks before leading the mare to the mounting block. Settling into the saddle, she clutched the mare’s reins and turned her toward the lane leading away from the house.

  The Earl of Langford stood there. Tall, lean and formidable.

  “Stop,” he commanded. “We must talk.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” The mare sensed her tension and pranced sideways. She tugged at the reins to keep her under control and struggled to work up an indifferent smile for the earl. “I’ll survive the scandal and you can return to London. No harm done.”

  “No harm? Lady Lintell will spread the news to the borders of Devon and beyond within the week.”

  “That may be. But I’m just a poor relation, my lord. Within two weeks, no one will care.”

  She spurred the horse into a gallop and rode past him. Refusing to look behind her, Grace kept her eyes on the dirt lane. Even when sobs wracked her frame and tears tracked down her cheeks to plop onto hands fisted in the reins, she refused to look behind her.

  Chapter 9

  JULIAN VERY CAREFULLY and very deliberately shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. The knife he’d hidden beneath was removed next. He set it on the desk beside a delicate kid glove. Her glove. He’d removed that bit of leather, kissed the t
ips of her long pretty fingers. Seduced her.

  Ruined her.

  Was Grace Hannah a traitor? That was the dilemma. If she was, then the scene that afternoon meant nothing. Her reputation meant nothing. His offer of marriage would be rescinded. Not even rescinded, it would be so unimportant it would be forgotten altogether.

  And if she was not a traitor? He felt the noose tighten around his neck and heard the click of the lock as fate trapped him into marriage. No, not fate. His own stupidity. Worse, his own lack of control. He’d forgotten where they were when he’d kissed her. The guests, the garden, the investigation had all faded away until there had only been her taste, her scent and his driving need for more of her.

  He fingered the glove, rubbing a thumb over the worn seams. The offer of marriage had been unavoidable. Now he sat in the semidarkness of a curtained room and contemplated matrimony.

  Spies made horrible husbands. They had a habit of dying. Travers men made even worse husbands. They had a habit of philandering and murder.

  The marriage would be a failure.

  But he could see Grace. Her laughter, her wit. The slow smile that spread across her face. The quiet composure. Her breeches. He grinned as he pictured her riding astride Demon, her hair whipping around her. Whatever else happened in their relationship, that image would stay with him always.

  He picked up the knife, tested the balance. Absently, he checked the blade for nicks. He would have to confront her. Soon. As soon as he could orchestrate time alone with her. There was no other way forward. Yet in the interim, he couldn’t leave her unattached and unaffianced. If there was some other explanation for her conduct, he would be doing her a grave disservice.

  In short, he would be no different than his father.

  He forced down bile and wondered if the sour burn was the taste of deception.

  Picking up a quill, he dipped it in the inkwell and began to scrawl across a sheet of paper. The first draft found its final resting place crumpled beneath his desk. The second draft was thrown into the fireplace.