by Jo Beverley
Hoyden Grace slid her hands around to Lord Dawson’s back and tightened her arms. Mmm. He felt so good.
His mouth had returned to hers. She felt him smile, then his lips moved again in light little kisses. Too light. She made a mew of annoyance and opened her mouth wider.
He chuckled. She felt a moment’s doubt, a slight whisper of embarrassment, and then all was forgotten as his tongue slipped between her lips.
To say she was shocked would be to understate the case.
His hands kneaded her derriere while his tongue swept through her—over the roof of her mouth, over her tongue, over her teeth. She felt so full. A heavy, damp ache throbbed low in her belly…no, lower than that…between her legs. She needed something—
Dear God, what was she doing?
She shoved against Lord Dawson’s chest. He withdrew his tongue into his own mouth—where it belonged—and loosened his hold on her.
“Lord Dawson—”
“David.”
“What?” His voice was husky and lower than usual, and if his eyes had looked hot before, they were blazing now.
“My name is David.” He leaned forward and ran his tongue over her lower lip. “You cannot go back to ‘Lord Dawson’ after this very intimate encounter.”
She was certain she flushed so red she might burst into flame. “I shall call you Lord Dawson if I like.”
His lips slid into a very salacious grin. “All right. That might be fun. And you can call me ‘my lord’ when I slide between your beautiful milky thighs on our wedding night.”
Her jaw dropped. If she’d been red before, she was now whatever was redder than red. How did one respond to such an outrageous comment?
Simple. One did not. One pushed one’s hoydenish side to the far back of one’s mind and let Prim Grace out of exile.
“I believe you said you had good news, Lord Dawson?”
“Indeed I do, Lady Grace.” Lord Dawson raised an eyebrow as he leaned back against the tree trunk. “I was able to get us an invitation to Viscount Motton’s house party.” He smirked. “In fact, I was able to persuade, very subtly, if I say so myself—”
“I’m sure you are the only person who would say so. You do not strike me as the epitome of subtlety.”
“On the contrary, Lady Grace, I am exceedingly subtle”—he waggled his eyebrows—“in many endeavors.”
Grace crossed her arms and snorted. She was completely in control of herself now. Lord Dawson gave her a challenging look, but she was not going to accept any challenges from this man. She had the distinct notion she would lose.
He waited a moment and then shrugged. “I was able to persuade Motton to hold the house party. He hadn’t had a thought about having one before I suggested it.”
Grace merely raised her eyebrows. Lord Dawson was obviously looking for plaudits. Ridiculous! The man was cocky enough as it was. She was definitely not going to stroke him—
She flushed. Verbally stroke him, of course. She was not going to tell him how wonderful he was. She cleared her throat. “And that is good news because…?”
“Because Motton’s estate is not far from Uncle Alex’s, and Alex has a particular interest in the viscount’s cultivation theories. I think he can be persuaded to attend. If you can get your aunt to come, they will have many opportunities to address their differences in relative privacy.”
Grace nodded, though the opportunities springing to her mind were those she could have with Lord Dawson. Obviously she was a candidate for Bedlam.
“I see your point—and I do think I can get my aunt to come. We just learned the new Lord Oxbury will be arriving shortly—I’m certain Aunt Kate would rather be elsewhere when he reaches Town.” Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps her aunt was behaving so oddly because she was tired of London. She had spent her life in the country, after all. She was not a young woman. Perhaps she just needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of Town. “Let’s go ask her.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Oxbury.” David executed a short bow and felt a twinge of compassion. The woman looked terrible. She’d obviously been crying—her nose was red and her eyes were swollen.
Perhaps she wasn’t the harpy he’d been imagining.
“Good afternoon, Lord D-Dawson.” She tried to sound cold, but the effect was spoiled when her voice cracked on his name.
“Aunt Kate! What is the matter?” Grace sat down on the bench next to her aunt and put an arm around her.
“Nothing.” Lady Oxbury wadded her handkerchief into one hand, raised her head, and lied. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You are not perfectly fine. You’ve been crying.”
Grace had as much finesse with her aunt as Hermes had with squirrels. Lady Oxbury glared at her.
“I have not been crying.”
“You have. Your face is all red and blotchy.”
“I got a speck in my eye. It is out now. I am fine.”
This speech was accomplished with more glaring and some teeth gritting.
“But—”
It was definitely time to interrupt Grace before her aunt strangled her with Hermes’s leash. “Lady Oxbury, as it happens I was in search of you. I stopped at Oxbury House, and your butler directed me here.”
“Oh?” Lady Oxbury gave Grace one last glare, and then turned her attention to him. She smiled tightly. “And what did you wish to speak to me about, Lord Dawson?”
“He has an invitation to the country, Aunt Kate.”
He would have to muzzle Grace once they were married to keep her from putting her foot into her mouth constantly. She was rather like a bull in an emotional china shop. He smiled slightly while Lady Oxbury glared at Grace once more.
“You are interrupting Lord Dawson.”
Grace frowned and opened her mouth to argue, but she didn’t have much of an argument—she had interrupted him. She must have realized it as well; her frown deepened, but she remained silent.
“Lady Grace is correct, Lady Oxbury.” David grinned as Grace finally snapped her mouth shut. “Viscount Motton is getting up a house party. I have an invitation and I believe you will be receiving one soon…”
It was Lady Oxbury’s turn to frown and open her mouth.
“…as will my uncle.”
Lady Oxbury’s mouth hung open for a moment. She blinked. “Mr. Wilton will be in attendance?”
“Perhaps. He is being invited, but, as you know, he’s down at his estate, so I can’t say for certain whether he will be there or not.” Mentioning Alex had been risky. If Lady Oxbury held his uncle in extreme aversion, knowing he might be a guest would surely convince her to stay in London. But if she were not averse to Alex’s presence, if she actually wanted to see him…
He trusted his gut—it had never steered him wrong in all his investment decisions—and his gut told him Lady Oxbury wanted to—was desperate to—see Alex.
“Why is Viscount Motton having a house party now?”
Because he’d been carefully maneuvered into doing so. No, he couldn’t say that—and, on second thought, Motton was so canny, he probably just let David think he was maneuvering him. “Motton said he was ready for a respite from the noise and dirt of London.”
“Exactly.” Grace beamed up at him and then turned to her aunt. “I’m ready, too, Aunt Kate—aren’t you?”
“Well…”
If Lady Oxbury was hesitating, they had won the field. David allowed himself to relax slightly.
“Wouldn’t you like to be back in the country for a week or two, Aunt Kate? Breathe clean air, take long walks, admire the scenery…”
David admired Grace’s scenery while she continued to try to persuade her aunt. She had the loveliest breasts he’d ever had the pleasure to see. Not that he had seen enough of them. He could only imagine how they would look freed of dress and stays.
And he had imagined it. He’d spent hours last night picturing Grace’s breasts—how they would look when she stood naked in his bedchamber or lay on his sheets o
r sat astride him. He’d imagined how they’d feel in his hands, how her nipples would taste…
He’d spent the night tossing and turning, aching to see how accurate his imagination was.
It had certainly been a pleasant surprise when Grace had collided with him just a few minutes ago. How fortunate he had come upon Hermes in a relatively private location. The greenery had shielded them admirably. The foliage wasn’t dense enough for a longer, more thorough interlude, but it had been completely adequate for the abbreviated encounter they’d just enjoyed.
In the country though…He’d never been to Motton’s estate, but the man must have plenty of land—and trees and leafage. House parties provided a multitude of opportunities for amorous explorations. He was looking forward to exploring more of Lady Grace Belmont’s glorious person. It would be beyond wonderful.
“Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, definitely. Without a doubt. I’ve never…ah, what?” He looked blankly at Lady Oxbury. Surely she hadn’t been asking if he would enjoy fondling—well, rather more than fondling—her niece? “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t attending.”
He would not look down at his breeches to determine if an astute observer could tell to what he had been attending.
“Don’t you agree Grace should not miss any part of the Season?”
“Oh, no, indeed. If you’ve been to one ball or Venetian breakfast or rout, you’ve been to them all. You see the same people over and over.” It was true. He’d been disappointed, when he’d decided, at the time that, he could not marry Grace, to find he’d already met all the other eligible ladies.
Lady Oxbury sighed. “Very true.”
“Exactly true,” Grace said. “And it’s not as if I’m in the market for a husband, is it, Aunt Kate?”
“Well, as I believe I’ve said, I did hope you would look around you, Grace.”
“I have looked around me.”
Was Grace flushing? She had glanced very briefly his way, hadn’t she?
“And I can look more at this house party.”
Oh, sweetheart, I’m hoping to keep you too busy to look anywhere but at me.
“And you don’t want to have to share Oxbury House with the Weasel, do you?”
“Very true.” Lady Oxbury looked at him again. “Does Lord Motton have a suitable hostess?”
“I believe he said his Aunt Winifred would fill that role.” What Motton had actually said was Crazy old Winifred will come if I let her bring her damn menagerie. David looked down at Hermes who, apparently having had his fill of squirrel chasing, was resting on the grass. “I’m certain you can bring Hermes as well.”
Hermes, hearing David say his name, immediately rolled over and presented his stomach for scratching.
Lady Oxbury sighed. “Very well, then, I guess we will go.”
Chapter 11
“Ah, Lady Grace. This came for you in today’s post.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sykes.” Grace took the letter and examined it.
“Who’s it from, Grace?” Aunt Kate removed her bonnet and unfastened Hermes’s leash.
“Papa.”
“Oh? I’m amazed your father could find paper and pen—he is not a correspondent. Thank you, Mr. Sykes.” Aunt Kate took the rest of the letters from the butler. “I don’t believe I got a single missive from him in all the years of my marriage.”
“Hmm.” Grace stuffed the letter in her pocket. She had a bad feeling about this. “Papa hates to waste time or money on things he views as unnecessary.” So why would he write to her?
“You are his daughter; I am merely his sister. I’m sure he wants to know how you are enjoying your Season. Have you written him yet?”
“No.” The thought had not occurred to her. As far as she knew, all correspondence went directly to Papa’s estate manager; Mr. Boothe hated London almost as much as Papa. He would not be amused by her stories of Town. “I can’t imagine Papa would like an account of the balls and parties we’ve attended or the sights we’ve taken in. Perhaps he is looking for some household item.” Though then he would have just asked Mrs. Drexel, their housekeeper. Her stomach twisted. “Or perhaps he is summoning me home, but I would have thought he’d have written you. Do you have a letter from him?”
“No.” Aunt Kate leafed through her pile. “Ah, but here is something from Viscount Motton.”
“It must be the invitation to the house party.”
“Yes, it is.” Aunt Kate skimmed the sheet of paper and then looked up and frowned. “It’s in two days’ time. Do you really think we should go?”
“Yes.” Grace would wager a hefty sum that if she could only get Aunt Kate and Mr. Wilton together, give them some privacy, and allow them to talk, the two would resolve whatever issue was troubling them. “Definitely.”
“But I’ve already accepted the Palmerson invitation for next week.”
“Send our regrets. I can’t imagine Lady Palmerson will be devastated by our absence.”
“Well, no, of course not, but it will be one of the bigger events of the Season. You’d be able to meet so many eligible men.”
“The men will still be here when we return, Aunt Kate. We will not be gone that long.”
Aunt Kate bit her lip. “And this excursion will put you much in the way of Lord Dawson. I cannot like that.”
Anticipation shivered up Grace’s spine. Nothing could come of her time with Lord Dawson—she knew that—but she wanted it anyway. It was simply one more adventure, one more taste of freedom and excitement before she had to return to her normal life.
“That will not be a problem. You know I’ve already explained matters to the baron. And he won’t be the only man attending the house party. The viscount must be inviting a dozen or more people, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“So there is no need to decline Lord Motton’s kind invitation. In fact, I would like to attend. I miss the country—and I’ve never been to a real house party. It should be entertaining.”
“Well…”
“And frankly, Aunt Kate, you are looking a trifle out of curl. A few days in the country would do you good.”
“I don’t—”
Hermes, apparently of the opinion that he was being ignored, stood on his hind legs and waved his front paws.
“Hermes, do you think we should go to Lord Motton’s country estate?” Grace asked.
The little dog barked enthusiastically.
“See, Hermes agrees with me.”
Aunt Kate laughed. “Oh, very well, I suppose it can’t do any great harm. And you are right. I could stand to get away from Town for a while.”
“Exactly.” And Aunt Kate could stand to see Mr. Wilton again. She hadn’t mentioned him as a reason not to attend, and surely she would have if she was determined never to encounter him again. “You should send word now, shouldn’t you?” No point in delaying and letting her aunt come up with more arguments against the trip.
Aunt Kate nodded. “Yes. I’ll pen our acceptance and ask Mr. Sykes to have one of the footmen take it over—and I’ll send our regrets to Lady Palmerson. And then I think I’ll take a little nap.” She blushed. “I’m, er, uncommonly tired these days for some, ah, reason.”
Why was Aunt Kate embarrassed by being tired? “You just need to visit the country. London is so noisy; you probably aren’t sleeping well at night.”
Aunt Kate turned even redder, if that were possible. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I, ah…Yes, you are p-probably right. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go up to my room now, write these notes, and lie down for a while. Come, Hermes.”
Grace watched Kate and Hermes climb the stairs. Why did it feel as though her aunt was running away? Well, no matter. At least she had convinced her to accept the house party invitation. Hopefully Lord Dawson would be as successful getting his uncle to attend.
How was he going to persuade Mr. Wilton, given the man had already left London? She was not certain a simple letter would be en
ough. Hmm. She had best discuss it with him tonight. He should be at Lord Fonsby’s soiree. They could step into the garden, find a secluded spot, and…
Talk. Nothing else. There would be only talking with Lord Dawson from now on.
She could stand to take a turn about the garden—she was feeling markedly overheated. A breath of cooler air would be just the thing.
The Oxbury House garden was sadly overgrown; a caretaker had been in charge for far too long. Certainly Aunt Kate had never lived here when Oxbury was alive, and she’d said Oxbury had only come up to Town when Parliament was in session—and not even then the last few years when his health had been failing. The big tree by Aunt Kate’s room was in desperate need of pruning. Its branches almost touched the window.
Grace sat on a bench by a bush with small white flowers. She should know what it was called—John certainly would. Whenever she’d made the mistake of admiring some foliage at the Priory, John’s home, he’d given her a long, boring discourse on its history and variations. She’d soon learned not to comment on anything vegetative. But this specimen must be as common as any weed if it was flourishing in this poor, neglected patch of earth.
It was rather pretty, but unfortunately it seemed to make her sneeze. She reached for her handkerchief—and found something in her pocket…ah, Papa’s letter. She’d forgotten. She pulled it out and broke the seal.
You will be happy to learn—Papa didn’t bother with a salutation—why should he? The letter was addressed to her—that Parker-Roth and I have reached an agreement. An agreement? Her heart started to pound. The wedding is set for next month. You may inform your aunt. Plan to return shortly to prepare for the occasion. He signed it “Standen.”
She gulped air. Black specks danced before her eyes. She fisted her hands, crushing the letter in her fingers. She would not faint.
The wedding was to be next month?!
She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t draw in enough air. She wanted to hit something—someone.
Papa and John—how could they do this to her?
Yes, she had expected to wed John some day—but not next bloody month. And it would have been nice if he had bothered to propose.