Without question she was capable of taking care of herself, but she was still somewhat innocent and naive. A man could take advantage. One no doubt would. Some gent was going to grow weary of competing with the others and seek to force her into marriage by compromising her. A man who was desperately in need of funds. Like the four flocking around her now. He knew their worth, not only in terms of money, but in terms of character. None of them was good enough for her.
But who was? There had to be someone with whom he wouldn’t find fault, someone who would love her as she deserved to be loved. But for the life of him, he could think of no one.
While Lovingdon remained mounted, Lord Vexley dismounted quickly and fairly loped over to Grace, placing his hands on her waist—
Lovingdon’s horse shied away and he realized he was gripping the reins, yanking them. After settling his gelding, he reached into a pocket, removed a coin and began weaving it through his fingers, seeking calm. Using his knees, he urged his horse forward, reached down and grabbed the reins to Grace’s horse. He’d relegated himself to groomsman, but he certainly wasn’t going to play the part of swain, especially after she’d already announced that he was nothing more than a family friend.
Lord Chesney came galloping over, a puppy nestled in his arms. He quickly dismounted, not at all hindered by the creature. As he handed Grace the squirming bundle of fur, she looked as though she would marry Chesney on the spot. Like his father before him, he bred dogs, had bred Lovingdon’s most recent collie. That alone should have at least earned him some favor, but he couldn’t see the man marrying Grace.
Grace’s laughter wafted toward him. She was sitting on the ground, playing with the puppy in her lap while entertaining the gentlemen around her. He studied each and every one. In his more charitable moments he wished them each to hell. In his less charitable moments, he decided hell would be too good for them.
Grace shuffled into her bedchamber and looked at the bed with longing. It was wearying to be always smiling, to pretend to care about subjects that held no interest, to not want to hurt some gentleman’s feelings because she knew with every fiber of her being that he was not the one.
Although she suspected her tiredness had to do with Lovingdon more than it did the other gents. He kept her alert, aware of every nuance of his movements, every tone of his voice. She’d been acutely aware of him watching her while she flirted with each of the lords who had joined her in the park today. She’d wanted to order him to get off his blasted horse and join her but refrained. If he’d barged into the midst of their group, she had little doubt the others would have scattered. But he maintained his distance, just as he had since Juliette’s passing. Even when he was with her, it was obvious his mind drifted elsewhere.
Felicity entered and without a word began assisting her in removing her riding habit. She had left the dog with the boot boy. He would see to its needs until it learned not to make puddles in the house. It was such a sweet gesture on Chesney’s part, but Lovingdon had grumbled on the way back to the residence, “A man who loves you would know that you prefer cats. Nasty vile creatures that they are.”
He’d made her laugh, naturally and honestly, her first true laugh since Somerdale had arrived. It had felt marvelous to be carefree, to be herself. She never had to worry about impressing him. He’d always accepted her as she was. She was grateful that aspect to their relationship had not changed.
“I’m going to lie down for a while,” she said, once all the outer garments were gone and only a layering of cotton separated her skin from the air.
“Are you feeling well, m’lady?” Felicity asked.
“Yes, just tired. Return in time to prepare me for dinner.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
After the maid closed the door, Grace walked to the bed, stopped, considered, then crossed over to the mirror. Very slowly, she unlaced her chemise. With her eyes on the mirror, she gingerly parted the cloth and, as she had a hundred times during the past two years, imagined her husband doing the same, tried to imagine herself through his eyes. Still, after all this time, when she was completely revealed she felt as though she were taking a punch to the gut. The familiar sight should no longer take her off guard, and yet it did.
“The scars aren’t so bad,” she whispered, but in her mind she heard a man’s voice, deep and rich, roughened by passion. Her husband’s voice, on their wedding night. Mayhap he wouldn’t notice in the dark. She sighed. He’d notice.
Not bothering to lace herself back up, she wandered over to the bed and stretched out on her side. Her cat, Lancelot, leapt upon the counterpane, circled around, and finally nestled against her hip. She slid her fingers through his fur. “Don’t worry, the dog won’t replace you. I suspect he’ll become Father’s more than mine. They seem to have hit it off.”
And then because Lancelot was the one in whom she had confided regarding her first love, her first heartbreak, she said, “What if the man I determine loves me doesn’t love me enough to remain once he learns everything?”
Her scars were such a personal matter. No one outside of the family knew. Her mother insisted that there was no reason for anyone to know. It wasn’t that anyone was ashamed. It was quite simply that things of this nature weren’t talked about.
But Grace knew she would tell the man who proposed to her, on the day he proposed. She could not in all good conscience accept a proposal with secrets between them. But again she asked Lancelot, “What if he doesn’t love me enough?”
She wasn’t aware of going to sleep, but she opened her eyes to darkness warded off by a lamp on the bedside table, and a man hovering near the foot of her bed. William Graves, physician extraordinaire. When he wasn’t serving the queen, he served the poor and those he considered friends.
Her mother sat in a nearby chair, hands folded in her lap, concern in her blue eyes. “Felicity said you weren’t feeling well.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “I was tired, that’s all.”
“Will you let Dr. Graves examine you?” her mother asked. “Please.”
Dear God, she wanted to say no. He’d examined her so many times. But she understood her mother’s fears. Reluctantly, she nodded. It was a small thing for her mother to ask. Swinging her legs off the bed, she sat up. Dr. Graves knelt before her, his pale locks curling around his head. She wondered if they would ever turn silver.
“You’ll tell me if anything hurts,” he ordered quietly.
Nothing had hurt before. That was the thing of it. Had Graves not warned her that eventually she would experience excruciating pain and eventual death, she’d have not believed it, but he’d been most adamant about the death part. So, yes, she understood her mother’s fears.
Nodding again, she stared at the corner where shadows waltzed. The doctor was gentle, careful, but thorough. It seemed to take hours, but it was only minutes before he moved away.
“Everything appears to be all right.”
The relief washing over her mother’s face made Grace feel guilty for inadvertently raising an alarm. She’d only been tired. Reaching out, her mother squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Bill.”
“Send word if you need me, Frannie. Any time.”
With that, he quit the room. Her mother rose, wrapped her arms around Grace’s shoulders, brought her in close to her bosom and rocked from side to side. “Thank God, thank God.”
“Mother, I wish you wouldn’t worry so. I keep a watch just like he taught me. I’d alert him if there was anything amiss.”
Her mother kissed her forehead. “I know, but it is a mother’s job to worry.” Then she returned to the chair, while Grace retied her chemise. “How was your afternoon in the park with Lovingdon?” her mother asked.
“Lovely. Some other gentlemen caught up with us there, so we didn’t have much time to converse about anything other than the weather.”
“I doubt you discuss the weather with any of these gentlemen.” Her mother studied her for a moment. “I was quite surprised he came to c
all.”
“It’s been two years. His mourning period has ended.”
“Based upon what I heard, it ended some time ago. I’m also aware that he danced with you last night.”
“I don’t know why you’re beating around the bush. I’m sure Father told you. I spoke with Lovingdon. I thought he could provide some perspective on the men who have been courting me.”
Her mother flexed fingers that had once been nimble enough to pick pockets. “Grace, I’m very much aware that you were quite infatuated with him when you were younger.”
“When I was a child,” she said impatiently. “He can be quite charming. Or at least he was. What I feel for him now . . .” She struggled to find the correct word. “I suppose it’s confusion more than anything. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the young man from years ago, but mostly he’s not there anymore. The person he is now is a friend, nothing more.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s also an expert on rakehells. He’s managed to give me some advice there.”
“Are you certain you’re not running a con, striving to snag something that has always been beyond reach?”
“Drake asked me the same thing. I’m not so desperate that I would try to trick a man into loving me. I’m insulted you would both think so poorly of me.”
“Perhaps it is just that I fear a bit of the swindler resides in your blood.”
“My grandfather, you mean. I do wish I’d met him.”
Standing, her mother reached into her pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Lovingdon’s man delivered a missive for you while you were sleeping. Take care, my darling. Games seldom end the way we imagined.”
“I’m not playing a game, and I won’t fall for him.”
“Hmm,” her mother murmured. “Funny thing is, I told myself I wouldn’t fall for your father. The heart will have its way.”
Grace waited until her mother left before opening the sealed envelope and removing the single sheet of paper. The message was short and to the point.
Midnight.
The garden.
—Lovingdon
The garden path was lit by gas lamps, and yet the darkness still dominated. Grace walked slowly, cautiously, searching through the shadows for a familiar silhouette. She wondered what Lovingdon wished to discuss with her and why he had chosen this setting rather than the parlor. He was always welcome in their home. He was well aware of that fact, although she did have to admit that the clandestine meeting appealed to her, the thought of doing that which she shouldn’t.
And why so late at night? What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning? She was not usually lacking in imagination, but she was quite stumped.
“Grace.”
She swung around. In the darkest recesses of the rose garden, she thought she could make out the form of a man. Her heart was hammering so strongly that she feared it might crack a rib. “Lovingdon?”
She watched as the shadows separated and he strolled toward her. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”
“I’d never ignore a summons from you. What’s this about? What’s—”
His strong arms latched around her as he pulled her from the path, into a corner where light could not seep. Before she could scream or utter a word of protest, he latched his mouth onto hers with such swiftness that she was momentarily disoriented. His large hand was suddenly resting against her throat, tilting up her chin as he angled her head, all the while urging her lips to part. She acquiesced and his tongue swept forcefully through her mouth, as though aspects of it needed to be explored and conquered.
With a sigh and a soft moan, she sank against him. She had thought about kissing him for far too long to resist—and his skill made resistance unappealing. His other arm came around her back, pressed her nearer. As tall as she was, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by how well they fit together, thigh to thigh, hips to hips, chest to chest, and yet she was taken off guard by the intimacy, the heat radiating off him.
His roughened thumb stroked the sensitive flesh beneath her chin, near her ear. No gloves, just bare flesh to bare flesh. A slight alteration of position and his fingers were working her buttons. One loosened. Two. Three.
She knew she should pull back now, should insist that he stop, but when his warm, moist mouth trailed along her throat, she did little more than tip her head back to give him easier access. Another button granted freedom, and his tongue dipped into the hollow at her throat. Fire surged through her, nearly scorched her from the inside out. Desire rolled in ever increasing waves.
He groaned, low and deep, his fingers pressing more insistently into her back as though he wished for her to become part of him, as though he couldn’t tolerate even a hairbreadth separating them.
He dragged his lips up her neck, behind her ear. Then he was outlining the shell of her ear with his tongue, only to cease those delicious attentions in order to nibble on her lobe. She was close to sinking to the ground, her knees growing weak, her entire body becoming lethargic.
“Do you understand now,” he rasped, “how, when a man desires a woman, his kiss might very well ruin her reputation?”
He desired her. A sensation, rich, sweet, and decadent coursed through her. He desired her. The words echoed through her mind, wove through her heart.
“But he is not likely to stop here,” he murmured.
He? Who the devil was he talking about?
“He will leave no button undone, no skin covered. He will remove your clothes, lie you down on the grass, and have his way with you. You will cry out with pleasure only to weep with despair because you’re ruined. If you’re discovered, you’ll be forced to marry him. If not discovered—”
He gave her a tiny shake and she realized his fingers were digging into her shoulders, jerking her out of her lethargy. She opened her eyes, and though they were in darkness, she could still feel the intensity of his gaze.
“You play with fire when you go into gardens with gentlemen.”
Abruptly he released her and spun away. Three steps later his silhouette was visible from the faint light of the lamps. She saw him plow one hand through his hair.
“You said you desired me,” she whispered.
“I was demonstrating how a man who desired you would kiss you. If Somerdale didn’t kiss you until your toes curled, then he doesn’t desire you and it is very unlikely that he would ever love you.”
“Demonstrating.” Forcing her legs to regain their strength, she strode toward him. “How could you kiss me like that if you didn’t desire me?”
“I’ve desired enough women to know the particulars.”
Without thought, she swung her hand around and slapped him with all her might. He staggered back. Her palm stung. “How dare you! How dare you lure me out here and kiss me as though it meant something, as though I meant something.”
“You need to understand the danger you place yourself in when you allow men to take liberties. And you need to understand that you will never be happy with a man who kisses you as Somerdale did.”
“You place too much emphasis on his kiss. Perhaps he simply possesses the wherewithal to hold back his passions.”
“Not if he loves you.”
“You don’t love me and yet you kissed me as though your very life depended on it. I should think that a man who cared deeply for me would be able to accomplish the opposite.”
He sighed heavily. “Little Rose, I’m trying to impart a lesson—”
“Well I don’t bloody well want your lessons.” She hadn’t gone to him all those nights ago to seek his assistance because she wanted his love, although perhaps her mother and Drake had the right of it. Perhaps she had been striving to rekindle what she had felt as a child. It had made her feel such joy, made her believe there was nothing she could not conquer. But what she had felt then was composed of childish things: simple and without basis.
She didn’t love the man standing before her. She longed for the young lad of her youth, and he was nowhere to be found.
She marched past him. He grabbed her arm and she wrenched free of his hold. “Do not touch me when it means nothing to you, when I mean nothing to you.”
“You mean . . . you mean a great deal to me. I want you to be happy, to have this man you want who will love you.”
“Why can’t it be you?”
The swirling shadows created an illusion of him jerking back as though she’d struck him again, but she knew her words meant little. He was helping her because she’d been insistent, not because he had any true desire to be of service. He didn’t care what happened to her.
“I don’t have it within me to love like that again.” His voice was somber, reflective, filled with pain and anguish.
Although she knew the words would slice, she couldn’t seem to hold her tongue. “Perhaps you never truly did love.”
“You know nothing at all about love if you believe that.”
Spinning on his heel, he disappeared into the shadows. She’d meant to hurt him, because he’d hurt her, the one person whom she’d thought would never cause her pain. Her father was right. She wasn’t going to find love where she was looking for it.
So she’d damned well find it elsewhere.
Whipping around, she headed to the residence.
Why can’t it be you?
What had prompted her to ask such an absurd question? He had only himself to blame for tonight’s debacle. Meeting her in the garden had been a mistake. A colossal mistake. Five minutes after sending the message, he’d known it, and yet had been unable to not make the rendezvous.
From the moment he learned that Somerdale had kissed her, Lovingdon had thought of nothing except her lips, what it might be like to press his against them.
It had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He was so young when he married Juliette, so untried, so blasted naive. He had been determined never to offend her with a man’s lustful cravings. Oh, certainly passion had characterized their lovemaking. He had adored and desired her.
But with Grace it had been something else, something more. She responded with fervor that matched his own. And while his original intent had been to teach her a lesson, he feared he was the one tutored.
When the Duke Was Wicked Page 11