A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls)

by Amanda Weaver

  Turning Julian away was costing her more than she ever imagined. It felt like an open wound which might never heal. But deep down, she knew she was right to do it. If she betrayed Rupert—if she and Julian betrayed him together—she’d be taking a step she’d never be able to undo. She would gain Julian, but hurt everyone else, including herself. And so would he.

  He was too kind, too upstanding, to do something like that to the people he loved. He would lose things he cared about deeply. If Julian were dragged into another scandal, the stain left by his father on the Knighton name would only grow. If she’d taken his hand like he’d begged her to, and run away with him, in time, when the passion had cooled, he’d realize just how much he’d given up to win her.

  “Are you enjoying the performance?” Rupert asked. And before she could reply, he continued on. “Honor and I were just saying how much we’re enjoying it for Shakespeare. The chap in the lead part is a corker, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a wonderful actor.” In truth, Grace couldn’t have said what was even playing tonight, despite having just watched an hour of it.

  “Isn’t he, though?” Honor said, reaching for Grace’s hand. “I nearly swooned with laughter at the bit with the servants, didn’t you?”

  She’d come with her parents tonight, but had joined Gen, Grace and Rupert in their box, declaring her parents’ company to be entirely too dull when there were good friends nearby. She was so kind. And Grace had unwittingly ruined her marriage, even though Honor didn’t know it yet. Perhaps he’d change his mind about that, too. When Julian had time to think, he’d realize it would be wrong to turn his back on Honor’s expectations. She didn’t know if she was hoping for or dreading such an outcome.

  “Would you excuse me?”

  “Grace?” Gen asked, concern coloring her voice again.

  “I’m fine. I’m just going to withdraw for a moment.”

  Solitude. Maybe a glass of brandy punch. That’s all she needed. Rupert touched her hand and she smiled at him, and at Honor, before leaving their box.

  The crowds had flooded the hallways during the intermission. Reaching the refreshment tables was out of the question, and the ladies’ retiring room was too difficult to reach, as well. Grace slid along the wall, behind the crush of bodies, unseen and unnoticed. She pressed a hand to her ribs, feeling stifled by far more than her corset. A little air. She just needed to breathe again.

  As she passed the hall leading to the upper balconies, she felt a hand wrap around her wrist. Before she could yank free or protest, she’d been pulled out of the crowded hallway and into a curtained vestibule.

  Julian.

  He looked terrible. His hair was disheveled and his jaw was shadowed with a days’ growth of beard. His eyes were red-rimmed, with purple bruises of sleeplessness underneath them.

  “Julian. What—”

  He grasped her hand in both of his, turning it over and pressing a card into her palm. “Come see me tomorrow. Please.”

  Her fingers closed around his card even as her mind told her to turn him away. “I can’t do that.”

  He reached for her, holding her arms and pulling her in closer. “Please. I’m trying, but I just can’t go. Not yet. I need to see you, to speak to you, and I can’t do it here.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “I don’t care. Come tomorrow at two. Please, Grace.”

  She looked into his haunted eyes and her heart ached. Her whole life had been spent making sensible choices. It had been her only hope for navigating an unfriendly world alone. But she was so tired of it. Every day from this day forward was pledged to sensibility. She’d made her promise and she would see it through, safe, sane, and honorable. As she stared into his face, she knew she couldn’t refuse him, no matter what the outcome. Tomorrow, she would give one last hour to her heart.

  “I’ll come,” she whispered.

  He looked at her for another moment, his jaw working, eyes tormented. Then he raised a hand, holding her face in his palm. Tugging her forward, he pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. His heavy breaths heated her lips and cheeks. Every nerve strained, desperately wanting him to kiss her and dreading the moment when he did.

  But he didn’t. As if he was summoning strength from some deep well within himself, he raised his other hand, took her face in his palms, and pushed himself back. When he opened his eyes again, they were bleak, lost. He held her gaze for what felt like an eternity, but she could no more make herself look away then she could stop herself from blinking or breathing.

  “Wanting you makes me hate myself,” he whispered. Then, as if he hadn’t just devastated her with those words, he left, disappearing into the crowd.

  * * *

  The card directed her to a hotel in Knightsbridge, where a footman showed her down a luxurious hallway flanked by private salons. He stopped at a closed door, handed her back her card, and bowed before withdrawing. She watched him retreat down the hall and glanced around to see if anyone else was there, but she was alone.

  She was taking a terrible risk, coming here. If she were seen, her reputation would end in tatters. She’d kept her veil down, but it offered scant protection. She should have refused his card and refused to come. But she’d never had a choice and she knew it. As foolhardy as it was, she needed to see him alone this one last time. Perhaps if they could discuss it rationally, he’d find some peace.

  Her hand was trembling as she raised it and tapped lightly on the door. It opened in moments. He still hadn’t shaved, the dark shadow of stubble and unkempt hair making him look half-wild. His coat was off, tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, leaving him in just his dark waistcoat and wrinkled white shirt.

  Slipping past him, she stepped inside and peeled off her gloves and hat. The room was a sort of small private parlor, elegantly appointed in burgundy and polished cherry wood, with a table and chairs near the door and a sofa and armchair near a small fireplace across the room. In her nervousness, she didn’t note much more.

  Julian closed the door behind her, then leaned on it, watching her with those haunted, shadowed eyes as she set her hat and gloves on the table.

  “You look terrible,” she said at last.

  “I feel terrible. Drink?” He pushed off the door and crossed to a cart which had been arranged against the wall. Unstopping a decanter of something amber, he poured a healthy splash into a cut crystal glass. “I’d offer you tea, but I didn’t order any. I’ve been making do with scotch, myself.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She didn’t particularly want to drink anything, especially not spirits, but perhaps it would help steady her nerves. At least she could calm her shaking hands if she had a glass to hold. He poured her a solid inch and came back to hand it to her. She took it and examined him over the rim as she took a sip. It burned like fire down her throat.

  Clearing her throat, she licked her lips and took a deep breath. “Why did you want me to come here?”

  He threw back the rest of his scotch, his throat working as he swallowed. His tie and collar were gone, and his shirt was unbuttoned a few inches, giving her a glimpse of the base of his throat and a bit of his chest. A few dark hairs sprinkled his skin before disappearing beneath the fabric. It was unspeakably intimate, seeing this small part of him usually carefully buttoned up. The burning began inside again, and this time it had nothing to do with the scotch.

  “I wanted to let you know I’m leaving.”

  Her heart constricted painfully. “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “America.”

  “But...why?”

  The look he gave her broke her heart. “You know why.”

  She had to look away from him before she could speak. “How long will you stay?”

  “As long as it takes,” he said quietly.

  She took another sip of h
er scotch. Having drunk nothing stronger than wine before, she could feel the spirits already affecting her. Or maybe it was him, or this place, or the conversation. She felt slightly disconnected from reality as she turned away and set the glass on the table. Enough of that.

  Gripping the back of one of the chairs, she didn’t look at him as she spoke. “Will you come back for the wedding?”

  “I will. I’ll...find some way. The distance...perhaps it will help.”

  “It won’t be until the end of summer. By then, you’ll have forgotten all about this.” Her voice sounded obscenely calm and rational to her own ears, never mind the drivel she was saying.

  “No, I’m afraid I won’t. Will you?”

  She turned to look at him again, which was a mistake. She clutched at the back of the chair to steady herself. “Will I what?”

  “Forget me? This?”

  Licking her lips again, she swallowed hard. The smart thing to do would be to lie, to downplay what had happened between them. To tell him it was a flirtation or infatuation which had gotten out of hand and would be quickly forgotten. But whatever might happen next, she didn’t want to lie to him.

  She shook her head. “I won’t forget. Not ever.”

  He dragged a hand across his face. “Grace—”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t want you? Don’t love you? Because I can’t stop doing either, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I drink.”

  “Stop,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. She shouldn’t have come.

  Julian let out a harsh breath. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t... Ah, hell.” He turned back to the cart, poured another glass of scotch, and tipped half of it down his throat.

  She crossed the small room and caught his hand. “Stop. That won’t help.”

  “It’s the only thing keeping me going at present.”

  “Please don’t.” His pain was killing her. Without meaning to, she placed her hand on his shoulder, feeling his muscles tense under her fingertips.

  He dropped his head forward and groaned. “Grace...”

  She slid her palm to the back of his neck, only wanting to soothe him, to ease his struggle any way she could. He turned his face toward her, grasping her hand and bringing it around to kiss her palm.

  “Oh, Julian...”

  He answered her plea with a kiss, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her into his body and pressing his lips to hers. The soft perfection of it burned away the protest she meant to make. Instead, she curled her fingers into his hair and opened her lips under his, inviting him in. He groaned again, the sound disappearing down her throat, curling through her chest. Sliding his hand across her cheek and around the back of her neck, his fingers twisted into her hair. Her hairpins give way and the whole careful arrangement tumbled down over her shoulders.

  He dragged his lips from hers, kissing a hot trail across her cheek until he could whisper in her ear. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you this way.”

  “Stop. It’s not right.” Except she wasn’t pushing him away. She knew she should. She should back away, put her hair to rights, and get out of this room. But it was as if her feet had grown roots, holding her fast where she stood.

  His chest brushed her breasts and his hand caressed her waist. “Nothing about this is right. I don’t care what’s right.” His hot breath washed across her neck just below her ear. Her knees went weak and her thighs trembled.

  His hand moved through her hair, twisting, wrapping it around his fingers, until he held her fast. Then he turned her face to his and he kissed her. Heat instantly flared up, exploding like kerosene poured on an open fire. She forgot to push him away, forgot this was wrong, forgot she was supposed to leave, as he urged her mouth open, surged in and possessed her entirely. She couldn’t seem to stop touching him, not when his kiss was sending her rational thoughts skittering away like a string of broken pearls.

  Once. Just one more time, to touch him like this before it was over forever.

  He staggered forward and she fell back, still braced by his arm, until she felt the sofa bump the back of her knees. Letting him lower her down onto it seemed the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t as if her shaking legs would let her keep standing. Then he was on her, pressing her into the cushions, the delicious weight of him setting her entire body alight. Just his kiss...if she could stay lost in this drugging kiss, perhaps the real world would burn away, never to return.

  His hand moved between them, his fingers tracing the line of buttons down the front of her bodice. “I want to see you,” he murmured against her lips. “Just once. Please.”

  Grace slipped a hand under his and unfastened the first one. Then it was a fumbling tangle, her hands and his, until they were all undone, until her bodice was sliding back off her shoulders and down her arms. Her chest was exposed, and the swell of her breasts above the lace of her chemise and the hard edge of her corset. His fingers were warm, the rough tips rasping across skin no one but him had ever touched. Goose bumps raced in his wake, only to be soothed when he lowered his head and swept his tongue across first one swell, then the other.

  He pressed her waist in firmly and she gasped, and then felt the release of pressure as the busk hooks down the front of her corset came open. Pushing it open, he slid his hand down her chest, now covered only in the fine lawn of her chemise, and cupped her breast in his palm. When his thumb swept across the hardened peak, she moaned, writhing underneath him.

  “Grace...” He whispered her name into her skin as he moved down her body. His tongue traced a line of heat between her breasts. With a tug of ribbons, her chemise gaped open, baring her breasts to him entirely. His hand found her again, bare skin against bare skin. No man had ever touched her this way before, and she was sure no man ever would again, at least not in a way that elicited this reaction from her.

  His mouth found her, drawing her nipple between his lips, flicking it with his tongue. She felt the wet heat deep in her stomach and lower, an aching throb between her legs. He rocked against her, his hips urging her legs apart as he settled between them. Even with layers of skirts and petticoats between them, the feel of his body pressed up against her sent shockwaves of pleasure rippling through her.

  He reared back up over her, his eyes finding hers. Then, without looking away from her face, he deliberately slid his hand down her thigh and over her knee. He grasped the hem of her skirt and began to hike it up.

  Stop this. Some small voice in her mind spoke with all the authority of years spent doing the right thing. But she didn’t want to hear that voice. She didn’t want to do the right thing. Just once, she wanted to give in, to do what felt good, and not right.

  Stop this. He should put a stop to this. He never should have started it in the first place. Every terrible choice Julian had made to this point was nothing compared to what he was doing now, dragging Grace’s skirts up, running his hand up the smooth contours of her leg. But then...Christ almighty, his fingers found her bare thigh, the hollow between her leg and her hip, and he could barely remember to breathe, never mind make a sound decision.

  His fingers slipped inside her bloomers. He groaned just as she did, their breaths and voices mingling in pleasure, and he kissed her before she could make another sound. Ah, God, she was so warm and slick. Her mouth, her sex... She’d be the end of him. Just a little more. One more moment of this exquisite pleasure before he did what he had to do and ended this forever.

  Grace moaned again, her body moving in unconscious tandem with his hand. She found his rhythm and met it with her body. Dropping his head, he took her breast in his mouth again, brushing her tight pink nipple with his tongue, his cock swelling further with each moan he elicited from her. With one finger, he entered her and felt the tremor rack her. He added another, groaning at the feel of her, imagining it
was his cock instead of his fingers. She arched under him, releasing a strangled cry of pleasure as her climax took her. He rose over her, capturing her mouth, letting her gasping breaths fill him and fog his head.

  Her hands left his hair, slid down, tugging at his shirt buttons and pulling the hem free from his trousers. It was a tangle of hands as they both fought to free him from his clothes. Grace reached the buttons on his fly and he moaned. He did the rest, drawing himself out, placing himself at her opening, and then nudging his way inside.

  There was a moment of mind-numbing sweetness, the sublime perfection of her body, slick and hot, gripping him tightly, and then she stiffened and gasped, an unmistakable sound of pain.

  Julian froze in horror.

  No. What had he just done? His mind had been so consumed with her—by his wild desire for her—he’d ceased even thinking about reality. And the reality was, she was a virgin, untouched...until now.

  “Oh, Grace, I’m sorry. I can’t...”

  Her breathing had steadied and her thighs relaxed around his hips. Without meaning to, he sank further into her. The bliss nearly overtook him, and he hated himself for it. He should stop. It was too late to repair what he’d broken, but to take his pleasure from it... It was unforgivable.

  She touched the side of his face and whispered in his ear. “I want to. Just this once. So I know.”

  It was possible he could have denied himself, but he was powerless to deny her. Well, it was too late to go back, so he’d go forward. She wanted to know? Very well. He’d show her, and in the process, brand himself on her soul forever.

  “I’m damned to hell,” he muttered, drawing back and plunging in again. The sound she made this time came from pleasure, not pain.

  He drew her knee up, opening her further to him, setting up a frantic pace. If he was damned, then he’d thoroughly slake his desire just this once, and hers. But even as his body tightened and he neared his climax, he knew once would never be enough. She was imprinted on him, too, body, heart and soul, a mark he could never erase.