Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She ignored that. “Have you never had a woman for a friend?”

  “No.” He paused, then amended, “Let me be fully accurate. There are two women in my life that might be described by your notion of friendship. One of them is the Duchess of Tremore, who is the wife of my dearest friend. The other is Tremore’s sister, Lady Hammond, whose husband is also a friend of mine. Platonic friendship is the only possible option for me with either of those women. There are certain rules about that sort of thing.”

  “Rules?” Grace shook her head in disbelief. “I did not realize you played by any rules.”

  “A man does not attempt to turn his friends into cuckolds. There are some conventions,” he added dryly, “that even I will not break.”

  “Perhaps one of those conventions should be that your daughter’s governess can never be more than a friend to you. Is that so hard for you to accept?”

  Dylan cast a lingering glance over her body, and erotic imaginings of her flashed across his mind. “Impossible, I would say.”

  “A pity, then. Friendship is all I can give you.”

  She sounded so certain of her statement that he wanted to pull her into his arms again and make it a lie. Her passionate response to his kiss in the alley was still vivid in his mind. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and friendship entered into it only because she did not want to want him. Women just had to make these things complicated. Though he hated to admit it, that was part of their charm.

  “Very well. Friends it is, then.” He lifted her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “For now,” he added and let go of her hand. “Dine with me tonight.”

  She looked away, then back at him. “I do not think that is a good idea.”

  “Friends dine together, do they not?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Dining together usually means conversation on interesting topics of the day?” he went on, using her own words against her.

  “Yes, but—”

  “To me, that sounds very much like intellectual conversation, keeping company, and civilized society. Would you not agree?”

  Grace frowned, knowing she had just been neatly trapped, but he would not let her find a way to wriggle out of it. He took her cheeks in his hands and leaned forward to plant a kiss right between her frowning brows, then he let her go. “Excellent,” he said as if she had accepted his invitation, then he turned away and started toward the doors. “I shall meet you this evening in the drawing room, and we shall go in to dinner together. Eight o’clock.”

  “And if I don’t come?” she called after him. “Shall you burst into my room and carry me down as if I were Abigail Williams on the stage?”

  “No,” he flung back over his shoulder, laughing as he opened the doors out of the music room. “I’ll bring dinner to you and we shall picnic on your bed. God knows, I would prefer it that way.”

  He left the music room, and he could not remember the last time he had felt this exhilarated by any woman’s company. Being friends first was a new experience for him. Her declaration that she would never be able to give him more than friendship was a challenge. Dylan loved new experiences, a challenge was always irresistible, and never was a very long time.

  Grace was in over her head. She stared at her reflection in her bedroom mirror and wondered what on earth she’d been thinking to propose a compromise of friendship. Being friends with Dylan Moore was like being friends with a tiger. They might keep company for awhile, but eventually, he’d have her for supper.

  She reminded herself that no matter what he might try, all she had to do was say no. She could say no. She ought to say no. The trouble was that when he kissed her, when he touched her, she didn’t want to say no, and clever devil that he was, he knew it. He had sensed her aching loneliness that night behind the mews, and he was now exploiting it. She was letting him. She liked letting him. It was the heady, dizzying dance of romance, a game she had not played for so long that the thrill of it was almost irresistible.

  Growing up, she had said no to so many things. She had been a good girl, a sensible girl, a respectable girl. Then Etienne had come, she’d gone rather mad, and no had ceased to exist for a long, long time. In exchange for that, she had received joy, adventure, love, and soul-deep heartbreak. Being good was so much easier, so much safer. So much more sensible.

  Grace glanced at the clock on her mantel. Ten minutes past eight. If she lingered here too long, he would carry through with his threat. She tucked a stray tendril of hair back into the coil of braid on top of her head. She smoothed the dark red wool of her skirt, adjusted her sleeves, and pulled on her only pair of evening gloves, reminding herself with each of these actions that this was only a meal shared between friends. If he made any improper advances, all she had to do was throw his agreement to platonic friendship in his face and walk away.

  Grace went down to the drawing room, where Dylan was waiting for her. He wore impeccable evening dress, but his hair hung loose about his shoulders as if he were some lawless highwayman from the previous century. Though it might be a deliberate affectation, it was an effective one. The contrast of elegance and dishevelment was striking, and it suited him so well that any woman would find it attractive. She did.

  “I am sorry to be late,” she said as she entered the room, hoping she did not sound as skittish as she felt.

  “Please do not apologize,” he said. “That you came is far more important.”

  “Did you think I would not?” She gave a nervous laugh and berated herself for it at once. Lord, what was the matter with her? He was not going to ravish her at the dinner table. On the other hand, he might. One could never be sure with him. “After what you threatened to do, I could hardly refuse.”

  “Even if that is the only reason you came, I am rewarded. Though I must confess I had a preference for the picnic.”

  The image of it flashed across her mind, an image of both of them camped out on her bed, naked, with a basket of food. It was so sudden and so vivid in her mind that her insides began to quiver, and her imagination ran on a wild tangent about what he could do to her with strawberries.

  “Shall we?”

  The soft question sent waves of desire through her entire body. Yes, she wanted to say and bit her lip.

  He turned, offering her his arm.

  “Oh,” she said, staring at him, fighting to come to her senses. “Dinner.”

  He began to smile, the wretched man. “Yes, dinner. I even told them to serve it in the dining room.”

  Why hadn’t she brought her fan down with her? She needed it right now. Grace turned to take his arm, but when she felt the hardness of muscle through his shirt and evening coat, she just could not fight her own imagination.

  He could carry a woman just about anywhere, she thought as they left the drawing room. Off a stage. Down from her room to the dinner table. To heaven and hell and back again. After all she had learned about life, why did journeys of that sort still hold any appeal for her?

  To distract herself, she felt compelled to say something, and she chose the tried-and-true—and very safe—subject of the weather as they walked to the dining room.

  Though he had already made clear his loathing of mundane conversation, he answered in a most serious and attentive manner that the warming temperatures of April would be most welcome after the cold winds of March. But those laugh lines at the corners of his eyes gave him away as he added, “Despite the heavy rains we have had, I am told the state of the roads is excellent for those just now arriving from the country.”

  Grace pretended not to notice. “That bodes well for the season,” she said as they entered the dining room, where Osgoode and two footmen awaited them.

  The dining room of Dylan’s home was small by the standards of his social circle, for there was only space for ten at table. The ceilings were low for a dining room, giving the room a feeling of intimacy. Like all the other rooms of his house, this one was intended for luxury and comfort, not nece
ssarily convention. The thick carpet was of a lavish Turkish design, but the colors of gold, blue, and aubergine were muted. The walls were color washed in ecru, the white moldings were commonplace egg and dart, and the white marble fireplace was simply carved. There were only two paintings, landscapes by Gainsborough, and the only mirrors were located behind the wall sconces, their sole purpose to reflect light. There were no gas lamps in the room, only the soft golden glow of candles. It was a room meant for guests to feel at ease, though it could not soothe away the quivery combination of nervousness and anticipation inside her.

  A footman pulled out her chair, and after she sat down, Dylan took his seat to her left at the head of the table. The moment they were seated, he leaned toward her in a confidential manner, as if they were at some fashionable dinner party and he was about to tell her an interesting piece of news. “Have you heard that hostesses have finally taken up the issue of swords at balls?”

  She took a deep breath, grateful that he was playing along with her desire for innocuous conversation. She began pulling off her gloves. “Have they?”

  “Yes. It has been deemed at last that a military gentleman must hand over his sword at a ball if he intends to dance. If he does not do so, no hostess or patroness shall invite him again.”

  “That is exciting news indeed,” she answered. “And such a relief for the ladies, to know we shall no longer be poked by some lieutenant’s annoying scabbard during a quadrille.”

  The moment she said it, she realized how it sounded, and she choked back a laugh, turning her face away.

  “I could say something very naughty just now,” he murmured.

  “Don’t.” She shook her head and yanked her serviette from her plate. She pressed the piece of linen to her mouth, muffling her laughter. “Don’t say a word.”

  To her relief, he obeyed. After a moment, she was able to look at him again. “I am glad,” she said with a little cough as she smoothed her serviette across her lap, “that the fashionables have finally decided the matter.”

  “Vitally important, I say.” He paused. “Especially to the virtue of ladies.”

  She gave him a glance of reproof, then turned her attention to the footman waiting by her right with the first course. When the servant presented her with the soup, Grace found herself staring down at the dish in utter bewilderment. Porridge?

  Bewildered, she glanced back up at the footman, but his expressionless face told her nothing. She took another look at the silver-edged soup plate in front of her and saw that she had not been mistaken. It was porridge. She glanced at Dylan and noticed that the servant was placing vichyssoise in front of him. Though he was staring down at his own plate and she could not look into his eyes, Grace could see his mouth, and she watched as one corner began to curve upward. Suddenly, the memory of her own words came back to her.

  Plain dishes. Porridge. Boiled beef and cabbage. Things like that.

  This time, she could not stop it. Laughter bubbled up inside her and spilled out like overflowing champagne as she remembered that conversation. “You are an impossible man!” she said between gasps of laughter. “Truly impossible to tease me so.”

  Dylan looked up from his own soup. That tiny smirk was gone, replaced by such innocent perplexity that she could not stop laughing. “Grace, Grace,” he chided, “how can you say such a thing? I am only thinking of your preferences.”

  Still laughing, she said, “Because of the soup, I surmise that several more courses of wholesome food await me in the kitchen? Boiled beef and cabbage perhaps?”

  “You did express a fondness for that particular dish.”

  “So I did. Pray tell me, what courses are you having?”

  “Tail of lobster for the fish, my personal favorite, though I am certain you would not care for it. I know your preferences rebel against such rich food. Although”—he paused, laugh lines deepening as he looked at her—“I heard that Mrs. March did prepare two lobsters. She does know how much I favor that particular dish.”

  “Two lobster tails for one man? Such extravagance.”

  “Is it not? I believe Mrs. March has also prepared for me a saddle of lamb, and one of beef, baby carrots, and asparagus. For dessert, I asked her to make two of my favorites, a lemon torte and a chocolate soufflé. Not that the desserts would be of any interest to you, of course.”

  She looked over at his vichyssoise, then at her own porridge. She cleared her throat. “I believe I am changing my opinion on gastronomic matters, and coming round to your way of thinking,” she said gravely.

  “Are you indeed?” When she nodded, Dylan signaled to Osgoode. “I believe Mrs. Cheval has changed her mind,” he said.

  It was clear the butler and footman both knew what he meant, for Osgoode waved the footman toward the door of the dining room, and a few minutes later, she was also being served a bowl of the chilled potato and leek soup.

  She picked up her spoon and smiled at him. “Do you know what the worst thing is about you?”

  “Now, this is a splendid topic for conversation between friends. Continue.”

  Still smiling, she said, “You are a scoundrel, and by all rights, I should dislike you. But I cannot. Every time I think I dislike you, you do something that changes my mind.”

  “Thank you.” He tilted his head to one side, seeming to reconsider. “I think.”

  His pretended doubt widened her smile. “It is a backhanded compliment, I know, but it is true. I want to dislike you, but I can’t.”

  “Why should you want to dislike me?”

  “Because I should.”

  “Do you always do what you should?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “If that is true, Grace, you are missing a great deal of what life has to offer.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, not adding that she had already seen a great deal of what life had to offer, and most of it had not been worth the price. She deliberately reverted to small talk. “I read in the Times this morning that the British population is now estimated to be nearly fourteen million people.”

  Dylan lifted his eyes toward the ceiling with a sigh. “Grace, please do not give me such dull subjects. Let us discuss something interesting. Politics, for instance.”

  She smiled, playing along. “If you insist upon so much excitement, I can oblige you. The Reform Bill is finally expected to pass the House of Lords this spring.”

  As the meal progressed, conversation became a game, with each of them trying to outdo the other by presenting the dullest news possible. By the time dessert arrived, they agreed Dylan had won for his announcement that Lord Ashe had fainted at the news that his second cousin once removed was in fact marrying a man in trade. Both of them proclaimed it shocking as a footman presented them with chocolate soufflé and lemon torte.

  She studied the tray, trying to make up her mind.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer a plain, boiled pudding?” Dylan asked, watching in amusement as she wavered, unable to decide.

  “No,” she answered, giving him a gentle kick under the table. “I shall have both.”

  “Both?” Dylan looked at her as if shocked. “But Grace, boiled pudding is easier on the digestion. Much more sensible to have that.”

  “I am being sensible,” she told him as two dessert plates were placed in front of her. “Since I cannot make up my mind, the only sensible thing to do is have both.”

  “My wicked ways are rubbing off on you,” he warned her as the footman presented him with two plates as well. He devoured both desserts quickly, with the careless enjoyment of someone accustomed to such luxuries. She was not so hasty.

  Grace alternated between the two, taking a bite or two of sweet, smooth chocolate soufflé, then following it with a bite of tangy lemon torte. She could not remember the last time she had tasted anything this good. The only sweet she’d had in months was sugar for her tea, and even that tiny luxury had stopped quite some time ago. Dylan was leaning back in his chair, seeming fascinated simply to w
atch her eat. Finally, she set down her fork with a satisfied sigh.

  “You still have a bite left,” he pointed out, gesturing to the chunk of lemon torte still on her plate.

  She looked at it and started to pick up her fork, then changed her mind. “I cannot,” she groaned. “I am too full. If I have that last bite, I shall be sick. It has been so long since I have dined like this.”

  Osgoode and the footman took away the dessert plates and set out fruit and cheese. Osgoode presented Grace with a selection of dessert wines, and she chose sherry. The butler then poured a brandy for Dylan, and all three servants left them alone in the dining room.

  Dylan lifted his glass, looking at her over the rim. “Now that dinner is over, I think we should leave trivial subjects aside and talk about something important.”

  Grace looked at him with suspicion. “Why am I feeling that you have a particular topic in mind?”

  “Because I do. I want to talk about you. I want to know how a girl of Cornish gentry, who has seen me conduct in Salzburg, became a charwoman. How a woman who obviously came from breeding is reduced to selling oranges on the street. Grace, what happened to you?”

  She wished she knew the answer to that question. She looked at him helplessly. “Many things have happened to me, things I choose not to discuss with anyone. My past is a painful subject for me. Please do not ask me about it.”

  “Very well,” he said quietly. “Then we shall have entertainment instead. What would you like?”

  Relieved, she said, “Why don’t you play the piano for me?”

  “I’d rather you play your violin for me.”

  “For you?” She shook her head. “Never.”

  “Do not talk as if you have never played for me before.”