by Jo Beverley
She uncrumpled the letter. Perhaps she had missed something…No, she’d read all her father had written, but there was a short note from John, scribbled at the bottom of Papa’s sheet.
Lady Grace, I hope you are enjoying London. As you know, I do not see the attraction besides the periodicmeetings of the Horticultural Society. Mother and Father send their regards.
Your obedient servant,
John Parker-Roth
Bah! She wadded the paper up once more and threw it on the ground. Such passion! If she were an exotic rose, now, or a…a…oh, damnation. She didn’t even know a proper plant, but if she were an unusual bit of greenery, John would be in raptures. Common, boring, known-her-forever Lady Grace Belmont, however, certainly couldn’t get his heart to race.
Well, she very much doubted he could get her heart to race, not like Baron Dawson could. It was racing now, just thinking of their heated encounter in the park.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What had she been thinking, to allow the man such intimacies? It was completely shocking—but it had felt completely right.
Was Lord Dawson a wizard? She had never before experienced the urge to get so close to a man, to touch him or be touched by him.
Most males were slightly repulsive. She’d discovered that as soon as she’d grown from girlhood—as soon as she’d grown breasts. That was when every male of her acquaintance had become incapable of directing his attention to her face. John had been one of the least afflicted; she had caught him studying her chest surreptitiously, but at least he’d had the courtesy to look her in the eye when he spoke to her.
But Lord Dawson was different. Oh, he noticed her breasts, all right—and, they, to her extreme mortification, noticed him. They felt swollen and sensitive now, just thinking about him. As if they would gladly leap from her stays…
She was losing her mind. Or perhaps the man had put a spell on her. Why else would she be wondering how his hands would feel on her naked skin? What sensations his mouth, his tongue, his teeth would evoke if they encountered her nipples, which were now hard, pointed, and aching.
She pressed her hands against her bodice.
She should be incapable of imagining such bizarre activities, and yet, here she was, in the Oxbury garden, imagining all kinds of salacious things and causing various areas of her body to throb. If only Lord Dawson were here—
No! Having Lord Dawson here would be a disaster. Her malady was all his fault.
She bent over to pick up her discarded letter.
At least the baron didn’t focus solely on her breasts. Oh, no. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her derriere, the heat of his mouth on her lips, the wet fullness of his tongue…
Heavens, she was panting! She had to get control of her thoughts. She needed to lock this new hoydenish side of herself away for good; prim and proper, that’s what she should be.
She smoothed out the letter and looked at John’s addendum once more. There wasn’t a single thing in it to make anything but her head throb.
Lord Dawson had mentioned marriage, more than once. Surely sharing a marriage bed with him would be much more interesting than climbing into one with John…
What was she thinking? She couldn’t marry Lord Dawson. John would make an adequate husband. He was just more restrained than Lord Dawson, and restraint was a very good thing. Much more restful. All this throbbing and aching must be tiring after a while.
She stuffed the letter back in her pocket. It was time to go in. She would write a few lines to John. She could tell him about the Wainwright ball.
No, he wouldn’t be interested in that at all.
Hmm. Would he be intrigued by the gossip swirling through the ton that the Duke of Alvord might wed Lord Westbrooke’s American cousin if the duke’s cousin, Richard Runyon, didn’t kill him first?
No. John didn’t approve of gossip, and she had to agree that all the tittle-tattle concerning the duke was rather farfetched, almost like a bad gothic romance. This was London in the nineteenth century, after all.
She could write about their plans to attend Viscount Motton’s house party. He might have heard of the viscount—Lord Dawson did say Motton was employing some new cultivation theories. Cultivation theories sounded like something John could get very excited about. Perhaps he would even be moved to visit…
She did not care to have John attend this gathering. If—when—she married him, she would be stuck—well, compelled—delighted—to spend the rest of her days with him. She just was not ready to do so now—especially now that she knew her wedding was so soon. She very much needed her few more weeks of freedom.
Lord Dawson’s face and figure popped into her mind. Damn. She could not be entertaining thoughts of the baron.
But she wanted to. She wanted to entertain much more than thoughts.
Perhaps she could strike a bargain with herself. She would be a little daring at this house party. It would be her last opportunity before she became Mrs. Parker-Roth. She wouldn’t do anything too dreadful—just steal a kiss or two. Get this out of her system.
Didn’t men sow their wild oats? Well, this would be her one very minor scattering.
John should be pleased—she was actually thinking in vegetative terms.
She stepped through the garden door into the library.
“Is it warm outside, Lady Grace?”
“Eek!” She pressed her hand to her heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, Mr. Sykes.”
Sykes raised an eyebrow. “My apologies. Next time I shall be certain to drop something when you enter a room I am already occupying; however, I do think it is a good thing I did not do so today.”
“What?” She looked around. Sykes had a bottle of brandy in his hand. “Are you…?”
“Imbibing? No. I am ascertaining that Lord Oxbury will have a sufficient quantity of spirits should he wish to imbibe when he arrives.”
“Oh. Of course.” Lord Oxbury was coming. His arrival was reason enough for their departure.
“Is it warm out, Lady Grace? You look a trifle flushed.”
“Warm? No, actually, it’s cool.” As long as she didn’t think about a certain baron.
She would be spending days in the man’s company, days with hours of free time and acres of secluded places.
She shivered.
“I see. You aren’t ill, are you?”
“Of course not, Mr. Sykes. I am feeling fine. Wonderful.” Especially when she considered all the interesting things Lord Dawson could do in the secluded spots of Lord Motton’s estate.
She felt herself flush again. She should not be considering such a subject. But she was. Given the opportunity—and she suspected the baron would give her plenty of opportunities—she was going to do far more than consider the subject.
Mr. Sykes was observing her closely. “Are you certain you don’t have a touch of the ague, Lady Grace?”
“No, I am perfectly healthy.” Mr. Sykes did not look convinced. Well, she could stand a few moments of privacy. “But maybe I should go lie down as a precaution. If you’ll excuse me?” She hurried out the door before he could make any more observations.
They had to go to this gathering for Aunt Kate’s sake, but that didn’t mean Grace couldn’t get some…enjoyment from the excursion as well. She pushed open the door to her room and looked at the writing desk. She should answer Papa’s letter. She should send a few words to John.
She should, she should, she should. She was so tired of “should.”
When she went to Lord Motton’s estate, she was going to do a few things she shouldn’t.
Kate lay on her bed, curtains drawn, staring up at the canopy. What should she do?
Her thoughts had been flapping wildly like birds in a net ever since she realized…
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…
There were herbs she could take, things she could do to…It was early days. No one would ever know…
She would know.
But she wasn�
��t married. If she did nothing, if she grew round and heavy, everyone would whisper. More than whisper. The ton would gossip, laugh, mock her. Give her the cut direct. Her brother would berate her; the Weasel would call her a harlot, toss her out on the street…
If the Weasel tossed her out, would Standen take her in, let her live in his home and give birth to her bastard under his roof?
No. How could he? He would tell her she had besmirched his name and he would be right. And then where would she go? To the workhouse?
She turned onto her side. What was she going to do?
Damn it all, this wasn’t supposed to happen. She was too old to be enceinte. She’d never thought…well, why would she? She’d had regular congress with Oxbury for over twenty years and had never conceived. Of course she thought she was barren.
She was an idiot, a bloody sapskull. Widows, experienced women, women who took lovers were supposed to be smart about these things. They were supposed to know what precautions to take. Mistakes like this didn’t happen.
Dear God. She had finally conceived—and it was a mistake.
She covered her face with her hands to muffle her sobs, but she didn’t have to worry Marie would hear her. She was crying too hard to make a sound.
They were leaving for Lord Motton’s estate the day after tomorrow. Alex might be there. She might see him.
Did she have to tell him? Maybe she could go away somewhere, say she had a friend in Yorkshire, leave before she started to show, stay away for nine months, have the baby, and give it away—
Oh! Give her baby away? How could she do that?
How couldn’t she? She couldn’t raise a child by herself, in poverty and disgrace.
She wiped her face on her sheet and rolled onto her back again. Marie was right. She had to tell Alex—he deserved to know. But would he even listen to her? She had stupidly hurt him badly, so badly he had fled her room, fled London.
She would have to apologize first. Grovel. Beg his forgiveness—and then tell him she had lied to him.
She squeezed her eyes shut. How could he ever believe her, believe she was sorry, that she hadn’t intended to mislead him?
Was it a lie when you told a falsehood you sincerely believed was true?
She stared back up at the bed canopy. She shouldn’t try to make excuses for herself. All Alex needed to know was that she was sorry, but he had a child growing in her womb.
She laced her hands protectively over her stomach. But that wasn’t true, either. She wasn’t sorry. Oh, yes, she was, because it was all such a terrible mess, but if Alex had loved her, if he had wanted to get her with child when he’d come inside her…
If, if, if. The truth was what she needed to face, not her wishes, not her dreams.
“My lady?” Marie’s hand appeared on the bed curtain. Kate turned over quickly, so Marie saw her back and not her tears when she let the light in. “It’s time to get ready for the soiree.”
“Psst!”
Lord Westbrooke raised an eyebrow. “Do you suppose you should see why that potted palm is trying to get your attention, Dawson?”
David repressed a sigh. Lady Grace would never make a competent spy. At least he hoped it was Lady Grace. It must be. The Addison twins were normally not so discreet.
Come to think of it, where were the Addison twins? He hadn’t seen them at the Wainwright ball or any of the recent society events—and he had been looking. Was it too much to hope they had decamped and returned to the country for good?
“If you’ll excuse me, Westbrooke?” How to say this diplomatically? “I’m certain I don’t need to suggest that it would be best not to mention the, um, furtive vegetation?”
“My lips are sealed.” Westbrooke grinned. “But you might tell Lady Grace that if she wishes to hide in the greenery, she shouldn’t wear blue. The gown is lovely, but rather noticeable, don’t you agree?”
“Definitely. I’ll put a word in her ear.” David nodded and turned to stroll past the palm. Surely Lady Grace would have the sense to come out of the vegetation on her own. If he was compelled to haul her out, the gabble-grinders certainly would notice.
“Why didn’t you come talk to me when you arrived?” Grace sounded very disgruntled. And she had a leaf in her coiffure as well. He had best take her somewhere private where he could remove it for her. He put her hand on his arm.
“And good evening to you, too, my love.”
“Shh.” She darted a glance to either side. “Do you want to set the prattle boxes to chattering?”
“No, which is why I didn’t dash to your side the moment my foot crossed Fonsby’s threshold.”
“Oh. Yes, well, I see your point.”
He saw that she looked adorably confused. She flushed all the way down to…hmm. Her breasts were displayed in all their glory.
Well, not all their glory, of course. She did have a bodice to her dress, but at least it was cut low enough to display her beauty as fully as was allowed by society’s dictates.
He guided her toward a door he had already determined led to a less crowded part of the house.
Now that he considered the matter, perhaps he should suggest she reclaim her modest fichus. He found he did not care for the thought of other men observing her charms.
“What I wished to tell you is Aunt Kate has agreed to attend Lord Motton’s house party. She sent our acceptance this afternoon.”
“Splendid.” And this small chamber led out onto a rather isolated, dark section of the terrace. “Do you think it is stuffy in here?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know. What does it matter?”
“It matters not the slightest. Let’s just step out this door and enjoy the cool night air.”
“All right.” Grace went into the dark with him. “So have you got your uncle to agree to come? It is most important. Aunt Kate is still not herself.”
He’d noticed. Lady Oxbury had been standing on the other side of the room with a group of chaperones that included Mrs. Fallwell, Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth, and Lady Gladys, the Duke of Alvord’s aunt. She’d seemed to be staring off into space while the other women conversed. At least she’d paid scant attention to Grace’s whereabouts and the nefarious men who might be luring her charge astray.
No matter. He had been paying careful attention. He intended to be the only nefarious man to tempt Lady Grace into misbehavior. He maneuvered her so her back was to the balustrade and his back was to the door, his body shielding hers from anyone who might venture onto this little corner of the terrace.
“So, what has your uncle said?” Grace frowned at him, but didn’t protest her location. Had she not realized his intentions?
He smiled slightly. She looked especially alluring tonight. Her skin—her lovely, wonderful skin—was an enticing play of cool, creamy paleness and seductive shadows.
“Lord Dawson, what did Mr. Wilton say? Is he coming?”
“Hmm?” He could not help himself. He’d surreptitiously removed his gloves and stuck them into a pocket; now he put his hands on her upper arms. His fingers smoothed her silky skin. He heard her breath catch.
“He didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask him.”
She had looked slightly alarmed and slightly expectant when he’d touched her. Those expressions vanished and she glared at him.
Would she slap him if he tried to kiss her?
“Why didn’t you ask him?”
“Besides the fact he is not in Town at present—”
“I know that!”
“—I thought it inadvisable to push him too hard. He may smell a rat, you know, and refuse to set foot on Motton’s estate.”
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Grace put her hands on his waistcoat and looked up at him. Her voice held sincerity and a touch of pleading. “That would be terrible. I’m convinced he is the author of Aunt Kate’s discontent. He must come.”
Did she know she was driving him mad? He covered her gloved hands with his bare ones. “I think he will come, but if he doesn’t,
his estate is not so far from Motton’s. I will devise a way to get him and your aunt together.”
“You promise?”
Zeus, she was looking up at him as though he could work miracles. He was only a man. He could not decide the future; he could not determine anyone’s fate.
But he wanted to. He wanted to work miracles for her.
He would find a way. He could not promise Alex and Lady Oxbury would reach the accord Grace so obviously hoped for, but he could promise to bring them together. He would succeed, even if he had to knock Alex out and abduct him to do so.
He bent his head toward Grace. Her eyes grew wary; she started to draw back. He slid his hands up her lovely arms to her beautiful shoulders.
“I promise.” He moved closer. She stayed still, like a frightened rabbit, frozen, ready to bolt. He would not let her bolt. He was her fox; he would consume her.
“I promise,” he whispered again, against her mouth. He traced her lips with his tongue. She sighed softly and he slipped inside.
She was hot and wet. She was his. Her body sagged against him—her lovely, soft, rounded body. Her hands moved up to his neck; his hands moved down to her hips, urging her even closer, pressing her against his need. He could not get enough of her. He plunged his tongue into her sweetness…
She pushed against him. Had she been struggling for a while to get free? No, he would have noticed, even through his madness. He raised his head.
“Lord Dawson.” She was panting, her lovely breasts heaving, but she still clung to him. His cheek had not yet felt the sting of her hand. “You go too far.” She spoke in a breathy whisper.
He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.
“Sweetheart, believe me, I intend to go a lot farther.”
She inhaled sharply, but still made no move to slap him. How far could he go? Regrettably, it would be inadvisable to investigate on Lord Fonsby’s terrace.
“Just not tonight.” Did she look disappointed? Splendid. He put her hand on his arm and headed back inside. He could barely wait until he had the time and privacy to see just how far Lady Grace would permit him to venture.