by Fascination
She did not as much as pretend that she did not want him. “You do remember my request that you not mention our meetings to any other?”
“I could not.”
The answer puzzled Arran. “Could not?”
She made to move away. Arran clasped her cool, bare shoulders and held her in place before him. “What do you mean, you could not mention our meetings?”
“To do so would jeopardize my reputation.”
“Ah, of course.” He must be losing touch with reality. So preoccupied was he that he’d completely forgotten propriety. “A young, unmarried lady keeping late night appointments with a man. You are right. The slightest rumor of such an indiscretion could indeed be ruinous to your character.”
“There will be no such rumor.”
“Why so certain?”
“No one will ever know. How would they?”
Arran pressed his lips together. She intended to make him her friend and assumed such an act would bind them together in silence. Why would a servant, the marquess’s trusted companion, reveal that he was secretly rutting with the man’s soon-to-be wife?
“How indeed?” he asked evenly. Particularly
since she would be at great pains to help protect her fornication.
“My name is Grace.”
“I know.”
“I should like to know yours, sir.”
Arran considered. “Niall.” She would never encounter those who knew him by that name.
“Niall?” She turned to face him. “A strong name. How is your family known?”
Such a curious miss. Curious and—much as he might prefer to ignore the fact—captivating, although he couldn’t for the life of him decide exactly why. She was certainly not pretty, or beautiful—not in the manner acceptable to society. Not that the dictates of society had ever influenced Arran.
“Niall is enough. And it is used only by those with whom I choose to be familiar.” He smiled, telling her with that smile that he intended to become very familiar with Grace Wren.
A faint blush bloomed in her cheeks. “My name is unfortunate.”
He inclined his head. “Grace? How so?”
“Mama says that had she known ... I am really rather clumsy.”
Arran ensured that his face revealed no changing emotion. “Grace seems a perfect name for you.” Her parent would be taught to mind her sharp tongue. “I hope I may call you Grace?”
She nodded, and he noted that she avoided his eyes. “You play the piano very beautifully,” she said.
“Thank you.” He would not remind her that she had already said as much—effusively.
“Do you also play the violin and the violoncello?” Grace indicated other instruments in the room.
“Sometimes.”
“But you prefer not to speak of it.”
“That is so.”
She gestured thoughtfully. “I understand. You have been forced to keep these things secret because you expected to be misunderstood—chastised, even?”
Arran watched her. She puzzled him. Chastised? She sounded sincere about whatever her mysterious mind was concocting. Could there be a deeper level to the girl, or was he mistaking her designing nature for something he’d find so much more appealing? Such as simple concern for another.
“No matter,” she said airily. “You are not yet comfortable enough with me to share too deeply. I must respect your privacy. How long have you known the marquess?”
If he were not cautious, he might be diverted into a careless response. “I’ve known him all my life.” The deception fell naturally enough from his lips.
“I met his brother earlier this evening. Do you know him?”
Damn that brother’s ill-timed arrival. “Oh, yes. Obviously Struan is considerably younger. I have known him all of his life, too.”
“Do you suppose Father Struan has come because he’s been told the marquess is close to death? Very close, perhaps?”
She wanted to spend as little of her life as possible on the fortune she coveted. “I do not think we know Father Struan’s true reason for being here now.” A fact that troubled Arran greatly. “His brother’s health has nothing to do with the visit. Of that I’m certain.”
“Perhaps ... Oh, dear.” Grace crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts—with delightful results. “Of course. That is what he meant when he said his arrival here was fortuitous.”
Arran waited.
“You do see, don’t you?”
He didn’t see at all. “No.”
Grace rocked up onto the toes of her slippers and bounced. “Father Struan intends to marry the marquess and me.”
Her nipples, just concealed by pleated white satin, pushed visibly against fine crepe. Arran imagined those twin berries pressing into his palms, the firm smoothness of pert breasts filling his hands. She would reach for him, find him, fondle him ... Yet again his manhood grew heated and heavy. When he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked, she would shriek, imploring him to release her from exquisite torture. He would make her wait, and wait...
“Do you think that is what he intends?”
“Most definitely ... I beg your pardon?”
“Do you think Father Struan is here to marry the marquess and myself?”
Curses. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Struan had appeared totally surprised at the prospect of Arran’s marriage. But Father Struan was no less wily as a priest than he’d been as the Viscount Hunsingore of his boyhood; he could have heard rumors about the marriage and decided to offer his services at the ceremony. “Father Struan is Catholic.” Damn him. He’d taken the faith of their ancestors out of some malicious desire to annoy; Arran had always been sure of that.
“The marquess is not Catholic?”
“No.”
“How strange that one brother ... Very strange.”
“Immaterial, actually.” How he wished he truly did not care that Struan had announced his conversion and the decision to become a priest at the precise moment when Arran had needed him most—the moment when he’d hoped Struan might agree to marry and produce the needed Rossmara heir.
“I should return to my chamber.”
“I ... I might be missed.”
“By whom?”
Her eyes slid away.
“Quite. You are shamefully neglected here, night imp. Your mama is in another wing. You have no companion nearby, no maid close enough to answer your call—should you call in the dark, silent hours.” He let the comment hang a moment. “And you have not been moved from the Delilah room.”
The smooth skin between her brows pleated. “How do you know all this?”
Much as he detested the thought of her being in what had once been his dear wife’s room, it had been his decision to leave Grace there. Her isolation from the rest of the household suited him perfectly.
“Niall?”
Her use of the name startled him. “I know because I am closer to the marquess than any man, and I know what he knows. He knows everything. Are you comfortable in that purple monstrosity?”
“Comfortable enough.”
“And you are not disquieted that should you perceive yourself to be in some danger, there might be no one to aid you?”
She hesitated an instant before saying, “No.” Outside, the wind changed direction, and rain beat a staccato rhythm at the windows. Grace glanced sideways and back again. “Why should I be in danger? Why?” Her voice cracked.
Arran shrugged. “I cannot imagine. But I suppose there is always a chance. After all, one cannot be certain that no villain is afoot in such a large establishment. But you are right. Of course there is no danger.”
Raindrops clattered like handfuls of ice chips flung against the glass. “I wish it would stop,” Grace murmured.
“It will—eventually. What is it that you carry so stealthily through the night? In your bundles.”
Wariness sprang to glittery life in her eyes. “You do not wish to share your own secrets. I shall not share mine. I
carry nothing that would interest you. And I am not stealthy.”
He laughed aloud. “Not stealthy? If I didn’t know better, I would suppose you were stashing stolen treasure.”
Grace drew herself up very straight. The top of her head truly did not reach his shoulder. “What I brought is treasure to me, sir. Of no value whatsoever to any other, but priceless to me—as it may be to others one day.”
Intrigued, he looked at the bundle on the window seat. “Do tell, Grace. I swear I shall think of nothing else until you do.”
“You fun me, sir.” She turned and moved her “treasure” beneath the lid of the window seat. “As I have already intimated, just as you do not care to share your music with any other, I do not care to share my ... I do not care to share what is precious to me with you. Kindly do not press me further.”
He gave her a mocking bow. “As you say, Grace. But how do you know I will not wait until you leave and simply take a look?”
There was a rustle of petticoats and she planted her small, slippered feet apart. “Because I know I am not entirely wrong in my first assessment of you. You are like me ... in a way, like me.” She moistened her lips. “And because you are a gentleman. Gentlemen do not break their word.”
He would disregard her fanciful comparisons between them. “Did I give you my word?”
Her chin came up. “You will, won’t you?”
Arran considered. “Let me see. If I do give my word, I think I should receive some bonus for exemplary behavior.”
“Will you give me your word?” She stepped closer, and he looked down into her earnest face. Innocence shone in her eyes.
The lady was an accomplished actress.
“Will you give me a bonus, Grace?”
My God, her skin was translucent. From his vantage point over her, he saw her white, pointed breasts, the shadow between almost as if she were naked. Rising and falling with her rapid breaths, the rims of pink areola were no longer hidden from him.
Unable to restrain himself further, Arran tilted up her chin with a crooked finger. “Answer me. What shall be the price of my silence?”
Once more she passed her tongue over her lips—with predictable results. His body tightened to unbearable readiness.
Very slowly Arran slid his fingers down the side of her neck until they rested, spread wide, over the swell of her breasts above her bodice.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened and she made to jump away.
Arran was quicker. “I cannot possibly allow you to leave me now,” he said, slipping a hand around her waist. “You have yet to tell me about my prize.”
“I do not understand you,” she whispered. “A gentleman requires no payment for his honor.”
Arran chuckled—deep in his throat. “My honor is not at stake here.” The baggage had decided to spice the game with a display of virginal skittishness. She intended to entice him the more, and she was succeeding, by damn. “My reward, Grace?” he urged.
She shook her head. With each breath she took, her warm breasts pressed against his hand. He almost grimaced at the force of his arousal.
“What are you asking of me?”
Arran inclined his head. “Very little, my clever imp. A mere nothing between a man and a woman destined to share so much.” Careful not to move too quickly, he bent to pass his lips over her brow. At her temple he placed a light, lingering kiss. “Very, very little from one with so much to give.”
She trembled, and Arran smiled secretly. Never had he been presented with so desirable a package that was so ripe for the taking.
“Perhaps I should allow you to suggest suitable, shall we say, payment?” he said.
“I cannot imagine what that would be.” Her body was stiff.
He was happy to play her game. “Ah, but I think you can.”
“I do not think you should ... That is to say, I think you should not touch me ... A single female should not be alone like this with a man. But I think there is a special need for me to be here with you.”
“How very true.”
“Yes, well ... However, I do not believe I should allow you to touch me.”
Very, very clever. Very artful. “Perhaps not. At least not in the ordinary way of things. But you and I are not ordinary people to be governed by ordinary rules, are we? You and I are destined to discover wonderful things together. Closeness, physical closeness, is bound to be part of such things, don’t you agree?”
Grace looked up into his eyes, and her own seemed to glimmer with unshed tears. “I believe we are meant to be very close.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I wish ... I hope that ... Niall, I do have a feeling about you. No doubt I am reckless to say as much, but even last night I thought there was something intimate in you that reached out to me.”
Perfect. “Indeed, imp. And there was something intimate in you that reached out to me.”
“I knew it!” Lightning struck afresh, snapping and crackling and thrusting a path of blinding white
light. Grace flinched and covered his hand where it still lay upon her breast. “You are strong and warm and ... and there is an energy within you that searches out the same energy within me. Could it be that we are like souls?”
Ah, yes, she was very, very good. “Quite possibly. Are you perhaps ready to discuss the future of our friendship now?”
“I don’t know. The storm ... you. Everything is so confusing.”
All an act. All a delightfully concocted drama intended to bring him falling before her knees. “You excite me,” he murmured, bowing to kiss her temple once more, and then her cheek, her jaw, the arched line of her throat. “I know what you want from me, Grace. You may be sure that our interests are mutual.” He would gladly fall before her knees—and bury his face in her belly, between her legs—and pull her down until her breasts hovered like tender fruit above his mouth.
Her hands caught at his shoulders. He wore no coat, and she plucked at the fine linen of his shirt as if seeking a way inside. “This is ... I have never felt quite like this before.”
Arran drew his lips back from his teeth. She might never have felt quite like this perhaps, but close enough to know that her sexual appetites would need to be met again and again. He would not think of the other men upon whom she must have bestowed her favors. She was what he needed, what he must learn to find satisfying—a woman who could match his passion without demanding love. Whatever that was.
He licked the hollow above her collarbone, and below. Grace began to pant and make small, mewling sounds. “Dear me,” she said breathlessly. “Are you certain this is what should be part of our closeness? I don’t think you should ... That is, I don’t think we should do this.”
Pretty, so pretty. “Sometimes it is appropriate not to think at all. Simply feel. You deserve what I can offer you. You are a woman meant for intimacy with a man—the right man.”
“You are right.” Her tone had changed, become certain. “Yes. You have made up my mind. I shall share my secret self with you at once.”
Arran almost laughed aloud. “I am honored,” he said against her skin. He raised his head and regarded her steadily. “But we should definitely not hurry, my dear. Oh, no, these things are far better when enjoyed in a leisurely manner.”
She frowned, a perfect parody of perplexity.
Glancing down, Arran bracketed her breasts with his hands and pushed them together.
Grace let out a sharp cry and clutched his arms.
“There is no hurry, sweet. Trust me in this.” Trust him and he would lead her to joy that was agony ... and frustration that was endless torment. This avaricious, deceitful, predatory, carnal little woman would learn the agony of knowing ecstasy, knowing its source, knowing that it was physically within her reach, but knowing also that it would never be hers to command.
“Niall?” Her hands sought his. “What ... Do you want me to share what is most intimately mine with you now?” Her gaze darted to the window seat.
Her nipples were al
l but freed. She would share what he wanted her to share, when he wanted her to share it. Arran jerked satin and crepe down and rubbed work-roughened thumbs in circles that skirted contact with distended areola.
“Niall!”
“Cry out my name,” he told her, narrowing his eyes. “Cry, my sweet. This is a most gratifying beginning to our friendship.” He concentrated, tracing the paths again and again, slowly, very slowly, coming a little closer to that which she sought from him, and a little closer, but not touching.
“I want ... I want ...” She writhed and plucked ineffectually at his fingers.
“What do you want? Tell me.”
Grace only moaned and pressed her eyes shut. She let her head fall back, and Arran bared her breasts completely—and gasped at their small, thrusting perfection. He must control himself. He must. If his plan was to be brought to the satisfying conclusion he demanded, then he had to curb his impulses.
Half-lifting her from the floor, he bent to kiss the underside of one breast.
Grace cried out.
With his tongue, he followed the circles he’d first made with his thumbs.
She filled her hands with his hair, and he felt it pulled from the ribbon at his nape. “Oh, please,” she said on a deep sigh.
Please, indeed, Arran told himself. Please myself. Suck you so deeply into my mouth, you cry out your pleasure. Tear off this damnable gown and plunge into your body until you scream, not knowing if you plead for more or beg to be spared.
The tip of his tongue dragged across one swelling mound, into the vale between the onward across petal-softness to the very edge of the other rosy circle.
Grace tugged his hair. She clamped his head between her hands and attempted to force his mouth to that aching spot she yearned for him to claim.
And he wanted it.
With his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth clenched, Arran held Grace close and rested his cheek where she would have his mouth take possession.
Another second of this and his legs would give out.
“Niall,” she said, pleading. “Please.”
Please, please, please. His manhood pulsed, drove against his trousers until he longed to be naked.
Her struggling shifted her nipple back and forth against his cheek. The smallest shift ... just a tiny turn of his head and he could claim it.