“I think there’s a price to be paid for that service,” he murmured.
“So there is.” A multitude of emotions flickered behind her eyes and he sensed her battle, desire warring with some unnamed duty. The same war raged in him, as he stood there in the dark. This felt dangerous, a threat to the control he’d spent a lifetime cultivating, and part of him wanted to back away from it. But when her conflict seemed to resolve itself—when she met his eyes with a fierce, quiet determination—he felt a wild flare of triumph. “Then allow me to pay it,” she whispered.
She slipped a hand up, wrapping it around the back of his neck. The gentle pressure of her palm was all the invitation he required. He lowered his head, watching her eyelids flutter closed, feeling her breath brush across his lips. Then his own eyes slid closed as he pressed his lips to hers.
It should have been as flirtatious and harmless as the game back on the plaza. But the feel of her mouth under his undid him. He drew in a breath through his nose and he could smell her, warm and softly fragrant, and he was hungry for her. His free hand came up to grip the back of her slender neck, holding her to him as he urged her mouth open with his lips. She allowed him in at once. As his tongue swept in, tasting hers, a soft sound broke from her, a strangled little moan which drove him mad.
Her hand slipped to his shoulder, fingertips digging into the fabric of his coat. Then she wrapped her arm fully around his shoulders, pulling her body in close against his. He lost himself, exploring her mouth with a tender, determined thoroughness. Their lips parted only when he paused to angle his head differently, to find some new way to take her.
Sliding his hand down from her neck to her waist, and then lower, around her hip, he pulled her flush to him. His cock swelled and he imagined, for a wild moment, backing her against the rough alcove wall, pulling up her skirts and petticoats, and burying himself inside her. He could drop his candle, fling hers away, too, and let the darkness envelop them. In the darkness, anything would be possible—even that. The fantasy spiraled out in lurid detail and his grip on her hip tightened into a vise.
She rose to her toes. The sound of her breathing, deeper and quicker as they kissed, echoed in his ears, and seemed to fill the small space around them.
They were reaching a critical juncture. What had begun as an ill-advised but harmless encounter was heating up into something they couldn’t come back from. He was a gentleman. She was clearly a woman of fine breeding. He could not take this further, no matter how much he wanted to, or how much she seemed to want him to.
With a growl, he wrenched his mouth from hers and pulled back a scant inch, so he could look down into her face. She kept her eyes closed, her breaths coming in shallow gasps, her hand gripping his shoulder. Then she slid her hand up, her fingertips tracing the side of his neck, the shape of his jaw, the ridge of his cheekbone, as if she were memorizing him.
Her eyes suddenly snapped open. The desire, the intelligence, the wit he’d seen there as they shared this encounter, were gone. Instead, her quiet reserve was back, as if she’d retreated deep inside herself, closing herself away from the world.
“That shouldn’t have happened.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
She shook her head to stop him. “I didn’t say I was sorry,” she said, all cool restraint again. “Only that I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I—” He wasn’t sure what protest he intended to make, but it didn’t matter, because she cut him off.
“I have to go.”
Then she released him, spun away and was gone, like she’d never been there at all. Julian stood still in the alcove, shaking with unspent desire, still feeling her hand on his face, still tasting her on his tongue.
Grace raced through the darkened lanes, one hand cupped around her wavering candle. What on earth had just happened? It was like something from those lurid novels she’d shared with Victoria and Amelia when they were girls. A wild fantasy, something you dreamed about that would never happen in real life.
Grace Godwyn didn’t get what she wanted. She never had. Years ago, while she was still in short skirts, she’d taught herself to stop wishing for anything, to stop wanting. It only led to heartache.
But then, in the alcove, with that man, the wanting had reared up out of nowhere, shocking her sensibility into silence. Years of denying herself seemed to have left a yawning chasm of need inside her, and in one neat swoop, some dark, mysterious stranger had filled it with himself.
His strangeness made it easy, as did the dark and the candles. She didn’t know him, would likely never see him again. What was the harm, just this once, in reaching out and taking what she wanted?
So she did it. She took, and so did he.
Her body had responded to his touch in ways she hadn’t known were possible. He’d touched her neck, he’d held her around the waist, he’d kissed her lips. On the whole, not so much contact. And yet she could still feel him on her as if he’d touched every inch of her bare skin. She’d wanted more, and there had been more coming. It hung in the air between them as the kiss caught fire and got out of control. The ways of men and women weren’t a complete mystery to her, and there had been a moment when that possibility flared to life. Desire had wrapped around them both like a living thing, and the mad thing was, she’d wanted nothing more than to sink into it. She’d wanted him to push her against the wall and touch her in all the places he’d set fire to.
But there were always consequences for such rash acts. There was a cost for recklessness and she had nothing to pay with. She’d learned that hard lesson as a child and had lived with the reality all her life. This was why she moved through life so cautiously. One misstep could ruin her fragile place in the world, and she had very nearly taken a grave misstep.
Thank heaven he’d pulled back when he did. He’d given her a moment to consider and the answer was clear. She had to flee. As thrilling as their interlude had been, she couldn’t indulge in it anymore. The fantasy was over.
She’d reached the edge of the plaza now. The moucouleti seemed to have run its course. The lovers had all captured one another, kisses had been exchanged, candles blown out. Now the crowd was dispersing, and tired, laughing people were slowly making their way home. The dowager had left her wicker chair by the plaza, no doubt back in her rooms by this hour. This was so foolish on her part. Now she’d have to make up some story about her disappearance, some harmless reason she’d been delayed.
When she reached the wide marble steps of the hotel, she glanced back at the plaza, now nearly empty and littered with the wilted remains of the day’s festivities. This moment—her one wild, passionate encounter—would be left here, with the rest of the leftovers, never to be thought of again. Turning back, she blew out her candle, climbed the steps and returned to her life.
Chapter Two
The following evening, the dowager accepted an invitation to Lord Bromley’s musical entertainment at his villa at the edge of Menton. As their carriage bumped down the cobbled road toward the villa, Grace attempted to keep her spirits up and her thoughts in check. She didn’t much feel like spending the evening listening to a second-rate string quartet while gossiping with all the wintering London aristocracy, but her wishes weren’t at issue. The dowager wished to go and so thither she went. Lady Bosworth accompanied them, which meant the dowager had a new conversational companion to entertain her, leaving Grace with more free time than she usually had. Tonight, she intended to spend it with Frederick Musgrave.
Frederick wouldn’t have been her first choice, or even her fifth or sixth. He was too brash for her tastes. His ruddy, blond good looks were too coarse—not at all like him, her stranger from the night before, with his dark hair, dark eyes and elegant features. But that was foolishness, just a dream which faded upon waking. One didn’t waste time on dreams when reality was before you, waiting to be managed. And her rea
lity, if she played her cards right, could be Frederick Musgrave. His position—his family’s position—in Society would secure her own, and provide her with a home in London, close to all her friends. The world she’d haunted for years as a poor hanger-on would be hers in full once again. She’d put up with an awful lot from a husband to gain that.
He was interested, she was sure of it. Could she raise his passions enough to compel a proposal? Less certain. He would face some opposition in choosing her, being from a well-off family and the son of an earl. But he was the third son, without so many expectations placed on his marriage, so it wasn’t impossible. She would be a mild disappointment for his family, but not an outright disaster. It might be achievable, if he could be convinced to be in love with her.
Their carriage rolled to a stop at the Bromley townhouse and Frederick stepped out to help his grandmother down onto the walkway. Lady Bosworth followed her out. Frederick offered his arm to his grandmother and his other to Lady Bosworth, leaving Grace to trail after them alone into the house. Once inside, he managed to position himself near Grace as they paused in the entryway to divest cloaks and gloves. His eyes swept over her appreciatively as her dark wool cape dropped away from her shoulders.
“Gracie, you are a vision tonight.”
Her dress was three years out of fashion and made of a serviceable, unlovely steel gray taffeta, but it was a nice sentiment. His offhanded use of her Christian name was far too casual, but the last thing she needed to do was to set him at a polite distance, so she swallowed her unease and allowed him the intimacy.
With a smile, she dropped her gaze modestly to the ground. “Thank you, Mr. Musgrave.”
He nudged her elbow with his hand. “None of this Mr. Musgrave business. It’s Frederick for you.”
His touch made her shudder, and not in a good way. Not at all like last night. But enough... She didn’t have the luxury of discouraging him.
“Of course...Frederick.”
He smiled warmly at her, then brought his hand back up to her elbow and held it. When his thumb rubbed against the sensitive bend of her arm, she shivered, despite her long gloves. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
Her smile was decidedly forced this time, but she nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“You and I have a lot to discuss, don’t we, Gracie?”
She made herself raise her head and look him in the eye. This was it. Surely he meant to declare himself. Everything in her shrank from him, but if he wanted to marry her, she simply had to encourage him. “I’m sure we do, Frederick.”
He licked his lips, his eyes dropping down to take in her exposed neck and shoulders. “I’ll find a moment for us later tonight, Gracie.”
“I look forward to it,” she whispered before moving back to the dowager’s side, where she was expected.
* * *
Julian had no interest in encountering English Society while in Menton, especially considering the business which brought him here. He’d purposely rented a private house rather than lodging at one of the large hotels so he’d have less chance of encountering people he knew from London.
He’d run into Lord Bromley quite by chance during his early morning walk through the streets of Menton. At that hour, no one was about but the French, on their way to work. And blasted Bromley, who enjoyed early morning constitutionals. Bromley had invited him to his villa for a musical evening and there was no graceful way to refuse, so here he was, in the exact company he’d hoped to avoid.
Bromley’s guests were certainly curious about him. A newly minted earl was always of interest in their circles. The rest—the same whispers and gossip that always swirled around the Knighton name—followed him as he made his way through the crowd. He exchanged short greetings with those he knew, smiled politely, and did his best to ignore it.
“Julian!” He stopped and sighed when he recognized the voice calling to him. Turning around, he forced a smile.
“Musgrave. Good to see you.” Actually, he’d happily live out his life without ever seeing Frederick Musgrave again. He’d had quite enough of the bastard at Cambridge, and Eton before that. But he was meant to be beyond all that now, and snubbing Frederick wouldn’t serve anything but his pride. “What brings you to Menton?”
He didn’t care why Frederick was in France, but he hoped by asking the question, he’d forestall Fredrick asking him first.
“Here dancing attendance on my grandmother. Third sons have to make sure they stay in the good graces of the ones holding the purse strings, don’t you know?”
Leave it to Frederick to be so crass about his motives. “Of course. And how is your grandmother these days?”
Frederick sighed. “Healthy as a horse, unfortunately. She says she winters here for her health but I think the old battle-ax could make it through a Siberian blizzard without blinking. Her longevity is proving most inconvenient for me.”
“Careful, Musgrave,” Julian said acerbically. “All this sentiment might make me cry.”
“I like the old dame well enough, but my plans require a bit of cash and the pater keeps me on a tight leash. Seems he feels I’m a spendthrift.”
“You don’t say.”
“Bloody unfair, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“So what’s got you down here?”
“Ah...just dealing with some business.” He hoped Frederick was too slow, or too obsessed with his own situation, to press, but no luck.
Frederick’s eyes narrowed as he put the pieces together. “Oh, righto. Your father lived here, didn’t he?”
“He kept a property here, yes.” Julian’s glacial tone would have discouraged anyone more astute.
“And you’ve inherited. I’d forgotten. It’s Lord Knighton now. My condolences.”
Julian inclined his head in acknowledgment. Bearing the title still felt awkward, especially since, for all his life, it had been associated with someone he hated. But it was his now, and he meant to do everything in his power to leave it more respected than he’d found it.
“Thank you. How long do you stay in Menton?” he asked, desperate to turn the conversation back to bland pleasantries, then escape. His eyes were already skating over the crowd behind Frederick, looking for any familiar face he could use as an excuse. Then he saw one, and not at all the one he expected.
It was her. His girl with the candle.
His heart stuttered to a stop as he took her in. Her dark gray evening gown was out of date and rather dour, but it didn’t detract from her cool loveliness. Her head was turned partly away from him as she attended the conversation of her companions, but he’d recognize her swanlike neck and satiny brown hair anywhere. As he looked at her across the room, he could almost feel that hair under his fingertips again.
Despite all reason and good sense, he could feel his body coming alive. He should avoid her. He should turn around and leave the villa entirely.
He took a step in her direction.
“I meant to stay only a few days.”
Bloody hell, he’d entirely forgotten he was talking to Frederick. “Pardon?”
“Menton,” Frederick said. “I’d meant to only pop in to see the old dame for a day or two on my way to Monte Carlo, but a certain enticement has me lingering.”
Julian forced his attention back to Frederick. He fought through his muddled thoughts, his eyes still dragging back to her, no matter how he tried to tell himself to look away. “And what’s that?”
Frederick finally noticed his distraction and followed his gaze. He chuckled. “Ah, I see you’ve spotted her, as well.”
“What? Who?”
“My enticement. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Frederick made a slow, lascivious perusal of the woman. “She’s a bit prim for my usual tastes, but there’s something fun about undoing all the fussiness and se
eing what’s underneath.”
A sick hollowness settled in Julian’s gut. Frederick wasn’t speaking about her with any sort of honorable intent. She’d seemed a gentlewoman, with her accent and her indefinable proud grace. But Frederick would never have formed such disreputable designs on a woman of quality. Musgrave might be a boor, but there were rules.
He cleared his throat and willed his voice to steady. “You’ve taken her as a mistress, then?” His disappointment was profound and inexplicable. It was no business of his. She was nothing whatsoever to him. But it didn’t stop him from feeling as if he’d just lost something precious.
Frederick chuckled. “Not quite yet, but she and I understand each other well enough. We’ll sort it out tonight. I can’t wait to see what’s under all her polish and reserve. It’s always the quiet ones, eh?”
Julian’s hands were shaking with the effort of not punching Frederick square in the face. He tried to convince himself it was borne out of his long dislike of Frederick Musgrave. That had to be why he was filled with this sudden revulsion, this rage. But he suspected he wouldn’t care quite so much if Frederick was bragging about bedding any other woman in the room.
“She seems to be an intimate of your grandmother,” Julian observed, now recognizing the elderly woman she spoke to and wanting to take a dig at Frederick. “You’d best be careful not to overstep.”
Frederick snorted. “Hardly. She’s just her companion. Not a penny to her name and a bit desperate, if you ask me. She’s more than happy to settle for what I’m offering.”
Julian allowed himself another glance at her. The magic of his moment with her last night turned sour on his tongue. No doubt she’d been handing out her favors left and right, hoping to grab a wealthy patron. Of all the women in France, that he should have nearly been entrapped by her... The irony was revolting. She smiled serenely as Frederick’s grandmother chatted away to another older woman, looking so self-possessed and elegant, his heart hurt. It was quite an act she put on. As much as he hated Frederick Musgrave, he was grateful he’d encountered him before he’d done something awful, like seek her out again.
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 3