by Sharon Page
“I don’t plan to. I intend to climb up.”
Grace dragged her nightgown over her head, her shaking fingers fumbling to fasten the collar. Until she made herself at least partially decent, she didn’t dare look out the window.
What would she find? Devlin’s…body lying at the bottom of the cliff? Or had he really climbed up from her window to the slate roof? The curtains, still closed because Devlin had slid out the window between them, billowed with the sea breezes. Innocent sunlight flooded into her room.
Hand shaking, throat a knot, Grace jerked open the curtains. Her eyes were shut. She leaned out and tasted so much salt in the air her lips immediately dried. She was too scared to open her eyes.
She had to.
She had to know.
Far below her window, the sea smashed against black rocks. The house sat perilously close to the cliff edge, and the rock face fell away in a sheer, gray wall. There was no sign of Devlin, thank heaven. She held the upper sash and leaned out, but not too far, not with the roar of the sea filling her head and the wind whipping her hair. The eaves above, dark and shadowy, hung over her window. It was possible that he’d climbed the stone face above her window, but had he been able to catch hold of the eaves and clamber over them?
A sickening thought curdled her stomach. What if he’d fallen and the sea had already dragged him out?
No, the tide was coming in, she thought. And he would have yelled, wouldn’t he, if he’d fallen?
She shrank back into her room, heart pounding. Her fingers paused on the sash, but she didn’t want to push it down and close it. What if Devlin needed to return this way? Crazy. Foolish. He wouldn’t but she could not close the window.
Instead she pulled on her silk wrapper, a soft shade of pink, and tied it at her waist. She’d loved this robe when she’d first bought it, when she’d wanted to forget Wesley and her bad behavior—but now the pink color felt frivolous and unflattering.
Can you really tell me that you’ll be happy dressing in pink ruffles and pretending to be innocent?
For the first time she realized she wanted to be the mature and sensual woman that Devlin saw her as. She didn’t want to hide in frilly pink and flouncy hems.
Perhaps she should give up pink, but she could never be the woman she really was. He was wrong—she wasn’t punishing herself. It was her goal to ensure that her mistake did not hurt her sisters and their families. She had no other choice.
A soft knock on the door surprised her.
Devlin?
Hardly. He wouldn’t climb the roof and then come and knock on her door. Though she felt nauseous, worrying about Devlin, wondering if he was safe, she went to the door and turned the brass knob.
A maid bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Hamilton, Lady Warren has asked you to come to her parlor.”
Grace stared at the brunette girl. “She wishes me to come now?”
The maid looked harried and nervous. “Her ladyship wants you to come right away, Miss. I have been sent to help, if you need me.”
Grace swallowed hard. She did but she smelled of Devlin—of the masculine aroma of his skin and the rich smell of his come. “Please have washing water sent to me, then I will ring for you to help me dress.” She shut the door and shuddered. It was time to slip in her role of proper young woman, but it was going to be so difficult to play innocent while thinking of what she’d done with Devlin.
She looked down. Her wrists were marked, for heaven’s sakes.
And his words kept ringing in her head. You have to stop punishing yourself for what you did.
To live in her grandmother’s world, she would have to live blamelessly. She would have to be alone. Yet she hadn’t been able to resist Devlin for one night! And what future did she have in Devlin’s world? She would end up alone, anyway, perhaps with illegitimate children.
What did she plan to do? She didn’t want to rely on the kindness of her family, on their pity and sense of obligation. But unlike her sisters, she could not think of a way to make an independent living.
Perhaps she should take up highway robbery.
Why didn’t more destitute and ruined women consider that? What, after all, did they have to lose?
“Miss Hamilton.”
Grace almost leapt out of her slippers as the male voice came out of the shadows beside her. A cultured voice. A voice with a tone she now recognized—full of lust.
She spun toward the niche, certain Lord Wesley was going to step out and grab her.
The arched space led to closed double doors, and her eyes were still blinded by the sunlight pouring in windows that opened into the corridor.
The gentleman swept an elegant bow over her hand before she recognized him. Dark hair marked with a silver streak tumbled forward as his lips touched her glove. He looked up, revealing a beautiful face, with black slashes of brows framing heavy-lidded green eyes. A different green than the color of her eyes—a dark, mossy green with mysterious glints of gold.
The rake, Lord Sinclair.
At dinner he had been showering attention on Mrs. Montgomery. Had she succumbed? Had the rake bored of the lovely widow already and was now seeking new prey?
He was beautiful, aristocratically so, yet her heart did not flutter and all she felt was a rising wave of irritation.
“You are an enchantress, my dear—” he began.
The words soured the instant they left his tongue. She did not want flattery. She realized how she loved speaking with Devlin—debating his honest and challenging statements. Now she recognized the murmured compliments of predatory men for the meaningless tripe they were.
She pulled back her hand from Lord Sinclair. “Thank you so much for your lovely sentiments, my lord, but I really must go.”
She’d taken a step back, but he followed, prowling forward like a sinuous cat.
Oh, bother.
He was attempting to back her against the corridor wall. Her legs tensed and she felt a flood of debilitating weakness. Fear. Fear of making a scene. Of being forced to hurt him, of enduring his retaliation.
Good heavens, she was shaking with terror at the thought of listening to biting, insulting words when she refused him.
“You have enchanted me, my dear.” His voice had lowered to that lusty purr that she realized men used in the hopes of seducing women. “I wish to spend some time together, to pay homage to your charms and beauty. Perhaps we should explore the delightful gardens. There are many spots of beauty I wish to show you, though each and every one pales in comparison to your loveliness—”
“No!” She was struck by the strong need to both laugh and scream at his hopeless attempt to sweep her off her feet.
Her stomach lurched. Had he chosen to waylay her because he thought she would easily give in?
“I must go and attend Lady Warren, my lordship. Please let me pass.”
“Her ladyship could wait for a few moments.” The gold in his eyes glittered as he looked at her with blatant, wicked intent. He had her fingertips raised again before she could retract her hand. His tongue snaked out and dabbed her knuckles, wetting her glove and making the fabric cling to her skin. He drew her finger into his mouth and sucked her fingers.
“My lord! You have made my glove clammy!”
He released her hand and before she could skirt around him he was leaning forward, his hard, solid body capturing her back against the wall. “A kiss, sweet nymph. I should enjoy a kiss.”
“I’ll scream.” She threw the words out.
“I don’t believe you will.”
He looked so odious, so utterly sure of himself, so blasted arrogant, that she jerked up her leg, hoping to smack him in his most vulnerable parts. Her leg went up only an inch and then her hem tore. The wretch had trod on the edge of her skirt.
He was exactly like Lord Wesley. How could she have been so blind two years ago? How could she have been mesmerized by such rude attentions? Lord Sinclair thought her worthless, a meaningless woman placed on earth only to plea
sure him and be discarded.
If only she’d realized that was how Lord Wesley had viewed her—
But then she would have never met Devlin. Perhaps she would have been married now. Happy or not? Either way she would not have known what it was to kiss Devlin, to hold him, to make love to him, to spar with words with him—
It stunned her to realize that she had been correct two years before, that making love to Devlin had made all that pain somehow worthwhile—
Lord Sinclair moved in to kiss her, and his coffee-scented breath neared.
She shoved forward. “No!” Her right hand hit his cheek and her left gouged into his neck, protected by high collar and cravat. Her right palm stung with the force of striking him, but he let out a sharp, excited breath. “I do like a spirited woman.”
Fear rushed through her veins, almost freezing her to the spot. She couldn’t fight him. Mad thoughts tumbled in her panic.
Devlin was bigger than this man—he was a giant in comparison, but he’d never made her afraid. She’d never felt Devlin would force her. Or hurt her. He was a pirate, but she’d never been fearful of him. She’d never felt terror like this.
What was she going to do—stand there while Lord Sinclair forced himself on her?
His mouth touched her throat, hot lips skating over her skin, and she made a sharp gasp of horror.
Mad fears again—what if her grandmother saw her like this? What if someone else did? She was pushing at Sinclair’s shoulders, but he took no heed. It only made his nips and kisses to her neck more fervent. His scent, the perfumed smell of a dandy, made her gag and his heat had her hovering on a swoon.
No, her sisters had never swooned. She wasn’t that much of a lady to take that route of escape.
Oh God. Lady Prudence.
She spied her former friend at the end of the hallway. Prudence held a book in her gloved hands and stared in amazement at the scene unfolding before her. Grace felt sickening heat rush over her face. No doubt Prudence thought she had encouraged this. She saw the sneer twist Prudence’s lip.
Then Grace saw the small oak table in arm’s reach, placed along the edge of the hallway, between two wall scones. A vase sat on top, filled with hothouse orchids. Instead of hitting Lord Sinclair, Grace reached for the porcelain rim. She yanked it toward them. Tall and precarious, the table followed the abrupt movement of the vase, and both tumbled onto Lord Sinclair.
He leapt back with a rude curse.
“Witch!” he spat at her.
“Cad!” she shouted back as she slapped him. She doubted Prudence would ever be convinced that she, Grace, was in the right and his lordship in the wrong, but she refused to merely slink away.
She shot a look of cold pride to her former friend and glared at his lordship, who was dabbing a handkerchief on trousers splashed with slimy green water.
She was about to turn on her heel and stalk away when Sinclair shook his fist at her.
“You shall pay for this insult,” he snapped.
She gaped in pure astonishment. He’d forced himself on her and her defense was an insult? There was nothing to say to such a ridiculous view of the world and Grace bit back the urge to spit on his stupid, fashionable trousers.
She wanted to inform him that he would pay for his assault on her, but he wouldn’t. There were only three men she knew who could make him pay. The first two were her powerful brothers-in-law, but of course she would never tell them about this.
The last, she realized, was Devlin Sharpe.
She had no doubt that Devlin Sharpe would make Lord Sinclair pay.
It terrified her. It left her reeling.
The only weapon in her power was to walk away and refuse to allow this incident to hurt her. So she did just that, taking long strides down the hallway but resisting the yearning to run.
At the end of the corridor, her chest was heaving, her breath coming in frantic pants.
Blast horrid Lord Sinclair. She’d hoped to face her grandmother looking like a lady.
Now she knew she looked anything but.
“So you are my granddaughter.” Lady Warren poured tea into two delicate cups with elegance, but from her words and controlled, calm expression Grace could not read what she thought of that fact.
“Er, yes,” Grace responded, knowing that her answer was a failure in itself. Since being ushered inside by Lady Warren’s maid and taking her place awkwardly on the very edge of the wing chair, she had felt like a butterfly pinned in a display case.
Her ladyship tilted her head to the side as she held out one cup, and Grace fought not to squirm beneath the cool scrutiny. What did her grandmother see and did she come up to snuff? Had she managed to look like a lady, or was she, in every way, unsatisfactory?
Grace accepted the tea, determined not to let her shaking hand rattle the cup.
“You resemble me,” her ladyship said.
But was she pleased with that? Grace could not tell. All the letters she had written had been respectful and subdued and hopeful. Now she felt at a loss, like a ship that had slipped free of its mooring and was cast about by tide and wind. She felt the way she had on the boat to the island, as though the world could drop away beneath her feet and she had no control.
“Yes,” she answered carefully. “I agree that we do look alike.” Her grandmother was very lovely. A blend of blond and silver, Lady Warren’s hair was arranged in stylish and elegant curls and waves. Her face looked much younger than her age: her eyes a clear, brilliant green, her complexion perfect, her lips full and pink. Yes, she bore lines, but she was a beautiful woman. A woman of quality.
Lady Warren sipped her tea and Grace followed suit, knowing she should be thinking of clever things to say.
She had waited years for this. How could she be tongue-tied now?
Finally her grandmother lowered her cup. “There is nothing of your father in your appearance, and I am pleased to see that. Your eldest sister is far too similar to him.”
Venetia did look like their father. It surprised Grace to see that her grandmother had green eyes—she had always thought that was her father’s legacy. Rodesson’s eyes had been an exotic emerald; her mother’s were hazel.
Grace glanced around the sumptuous parlor that Avermere’s staff had given her grandmother—every flat surface now bore an opened book. It was an eccentricity of her ladyship—Grace knew that from her two years amongst the ton. Lady Warren traveled with a trunk of books and read them all concurrently.
All the books were opened or marked close to the beginnings, as though Lady Warren had quickly discarded one and fled to the next for excitement.
She felt cold dread. How could she build a relationship with a woman unable to commit to a book?
“Your other sister is rather plain,” Lady Warren continued, “though both girls have made excellent marriages in terms of status. Not that Lord Swansborough does not have a most blackened reputation.”
“He is every inch a gentleman,” Grace protested, in defense of Maryanne’s husband. “He is noble and honorable, and has been unerringly faithful to my sister. He is completely in love with her.”
“Why have you not married, Miss Hamilton?”
Grace’s fingers tightened precipitously around the delicate handle of her cup as she fought not to blush or stammer or look as guilty as she felt. “I have not yet met the right gentleman. I am hoping for a love match, like the ones my sisters made.” Then she regretted the words. It was love and passion that had sent her mother into an affair with her father Rodesson.
Lady Warren pursed her lips, and the lines around her mouth deepened. “I know exactly why you have not married, Miss Hamilton. I know all of your secrets. All of them.”
Grace saw her cup tilt and brown tea slosh onto her skirts. She quickly righted the cup. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to look perplexed. She couldn’t know…not about Lord Wesley…about Devlin…?
“My great-nephew told me about your disgraceful behavior with Lord Wesley.”
Disgraceful. That was what she was—disgraceful.
Even Lord Sinclair thought so, and he couldn’t know about what she’d done. Could he?
“You are your father’s daughter,” Lady Warren continued. “You are immoral, scandalous, and shameless. For months you have been writing me letters, begging to be recognized by me. How can you expect that after the shocking, brazen, and unforgivable way you have behaved?”
Grace wanted to crawl away. But she forced herself to say, “He offered marriage. Lord Wesley. It was a lie, but he offered it, and I had accepted.”
“He offered marriage to you?”
Grace surged to her feet and watched her teacup drop to the carpet and the tea fly out. She didn’t care. “Why did you ask me here, Lady Warren? If you had only wished to insult and reject me, why did you not do it with your pen?”
“Would a rejection have stopped you?”
“Your letter spoke of wanting to reconcile!”
“That was before I heard the truth of what you are. That foul scoundrel Rodesson seduced my daughter and turned her into a tart. You were born one!” Her ladyship waved elegant hands. “I insist that you never write to me again. And if you intend to threaten me, to threaten to make our relationship known amongst the ton—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Grace cried. “Why? I don’t want to hurt you or blackmail you. All I wanted was to know my grandmother.” Grace swallowed hard. Devlin had been correct, of course, for he knew what it was to be outside the ton. Her grandmother had not wanted to accept her. She had wanted only to ensure that no scandal could touch her. Lady Warren had brought her here to crush her.
Anger rose. She would not be crushed.
With as much pride as she could find—for her stomach burned with bile and her throat felt so tight she knew tears would be squeezed from her eyes—Grace stood. She turned and walked away from her grandmother.
She paused at the door. No, she could not just run away. She spun around to face Lady Warren. “You turned your daughter out of the house and never acknowledged her again. You have denied your granddaughters. Has it made you happy?”