by Gill, Tamara
She was not for him and he most certainly was not for her.
Chapter 5
Clara had managed to stay clear of Mr. Grant over the next day, but after dinner the following evening, her father had complained of a megrim and had retired to his room. She’d been unfortunate enough to have to retire to the drawing room after the meal where she was joined by Mr. Grant.
He sat across from her, lazily crossing his legs and lighting a cheroot. She sewed in her own chair, ignoring the heat that sizzled across her skin from his gaze. It traveled the length of her like a physical caress and she cursed him for tempting her so.
After their kiss the other day, her body had not been its usual, calm self. Her skin heated at the memory of his touch, the slide of his tongue against hers made her stomach clench and heat to pool at her core. Two things that never had occurred to her before. Not with anyone. When he’d wrenched her against him she had been tempted to claw at his face, and yet the moment his lips touched hers she was lost.
All thoughts of refusing him fled and instead she’d plastered herself against him as if her life were dependent on him holding her. She’d had the oddest sensations coursing through her blood, and her body ached in a way that instead of being painful was exciting, tempting, and something she wanted to do again.
How he must be congratulating himself on seducing her and making her jelly in his arms.
“Please can you do something else other than stare at me, Mr. Grant? I feel you inspecting me like some oddity on the street corner.”
“You flatter yourself,” he said, his voice flat and uninterested. Dismissive even. She hated when he spoke in such a way. Somehow it always made her feel unworthy. “Why would I stare at you? To do so would show an interest in the subject matter, which I do not have.”
She ground her teeth. He was lying and she ought to call him out for such an untruth, but she could not. She was a lady after all, a duke’s daughter. To call a gentleman out on his word was not the done thing. But his inspection of her was as true as the fact she was sitting across from him.
Her gaze flicked to the clock on the mantel.
“Trying to gauge if you’ve spent enough time with me?”
She shrugged, not willing to be polite if he was not. “You are right, which for you, Mr. Grant, must be a novel thing. It’s not often I should imagine that you’re right about anything.”
He took a long draw of his cheroot before throwing it into the fire. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Do you want to know what else I’m right about, my lady?”
She shrugged again, curious and yet not. “I’m sure no matter what my reply, you’re going to tell me anyway, so you may as well just get on with it.”
Not that she wanted to know, for the amused gleam in his eyes told her she would not like what he said. She had the oddest notion that he was laughing at her, or about to shock her. Which one it would be, she wasn’t certain.
“That the kiss we shared made you as hot as it made me, and if I’m not mistaken, I would lay a gold sovereign on the table that it’s all you’ve thought about since.”
She stared at him, mouth agape before she closed it with a snap. Clara fought to find the words to tell him he was mistaken but they wouldn’t come. Blast it. He was right of course. Every waking hour and sleep too she’d relived their embrace. His hands hard against her flesh, holding her against him as his mouth punished hers. What was wrong with her that she would be thinking of Mr. Grant, her enemy, in such a way? “How dare you be so crude.”
“Am I wrong?” He lazed in his chair, his face suddenly serious, a dark, hungry glint in his eyes that made her stomach clench and her heart race.
“Yes, you’re very wrong. I would rather kiss a fish than kiss you again.”
“Liar.”
She gasped, standing and throwing her sewing onto the floor. “Apologize or you will be removed to the stable like the common man who thinks he’s speaking to a doxy instead of a lady.”
He stood, striding over. Clara swallowed as he towered over her, his intense gaze, chiseled cheeks and full lips that she’d dreamed about last night staring down at her. Or more accurately, she’d dreamed about running her hands over those cheeks that were too perfect for a man. Of his mouth, soft and lush that had kissed her with such passion that she had woken up hot and flushed and aching in places she’d never ached before in her life except while in his arms. He was the devil’s spawn. She hated him. Truly she did.
She did.
Didn’t she?
“If I’m moved to the stable, you’ll not be able to wield insults at me so easily. I would not deprive you of your sport, Lady Clara. I do believe you enjoy me.”
Oh yes, she enjoyed him, that she knew with certainty. She’d enjoy having him touch her right now if only he would eliminate the need that coursed through her blood that only he seemed to evoke.
Blasted man.
“And you think I have a high opinion of myself. If I do, so do you, Mr. Grant.”
He muttered something under his breath and clasped her face. Her hands came up to cover his, to remove his hold or keep him there she was not sure. The particulars did not matter, for within a moment he was kissing her again, and this time she met his tongue with hers, taking as much as he gave.
Clara ran her hands down his chest, the corded, strong muscles beneath her palms reminding her of what he looked like without his waistcoat and shirt. The thought did little to cool her desire.
He pulled back and she mewled in protest, having not had enough of his lips on hers. “You’re too sweet. You should not taste as sweet as you do,” he whispered.
Clara stared up at him as he watched her, his hands flexing on her hips and keeping her hard against him. “I dislike kissing you as well, Mr. Grant.”
“Maddening chit.” He kissed her again and she inwardly crowed. She’d never been kissed before Mr. Grant had moved into their home. His mouth moved on hers, drawing her ever closer. It was searing, wet and full of need. A real man’s kiss that she’d only heard whispered about within the ballrooms of the ton.
Clara had always hoped to be kissed just so one day. So passionately that all her troubles would melt away and all she would be left with was the moment of the kiss. One that consumed and inflamed her body and soul.
Mr. Grant’s kiss did all of those things and more. How would she ever make him stop?
His hand dipped lower on her back and Clara found herself no longer in control of her body. Somewhere between the start of the embrace to this point her body had formed a mind of its own. It also seemed to know exactly what it wanted.
Him…
When his hand cupped her bottom, pulling her into his hardness, comprehension dawned of just where they were and who could walk in on them at any moment.
She wrenched from his arms, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire and dark with hunger. Clara held up a hand to warn him off, to keep him at bay when he reached for her again. “I do not know what just transpired between us, but it’ll never happen again.”
He wiped his bottom lip with his thumb, as if erasing all traces of her off his person. She didn’t like that he did such a thing. Did he not enjoy their kiss? Was he laughing at her?
“It was merely a kiss, Lady Clara. Not much different to the one we shared two days ago.” He studied her a moment and expectation rippled across her skin at the thought he was going to kiss her again. He seemed to rethink his choice and she chastised herself for the disappointment that shot through her blood. “It would be a shame in my estimation if it never happened again. I rather enjoyed our kiss, both of them.”
She bit her lip at his words and a small flicker of pride filled her before she shook herself back to reality. They did not like each other and nor should they be doing anything together, other than tolerating each other’s presence while Mr. Grant was a guest here.
“Goodnight, Mr. Grant.” She started for the door, but he wrenched her back, tipping up her chin to look
at her. Her body rioted for him to kiss her again. She tried to mask her desires, but at six and twenty, she found her emotions were not always so easy to conceal, to push down. Now that he’d kissed her, twice, her mind screamed to run, but her body wanted nothing more than to lean up against him like a cat against a person’s leg and do it again.
“Goodnight, Lady Clara.” He stared at her a moment and hope bloomed in her chest that he was about to kiss her again, but then he stepped back, clasping his arms about his back.
She left, not caring if her departure looked like a scuttle or even a slow run. To stay in his company, to want such a man, a man to kiss her again. One whom she had never liked only meant one thing… She was deprived of the company of the opposite sex, of men who were eligible to court a duke’s daughter. Mr. Grant was not one of them.
What would her friends say if they knew she had been so intimate with Mr. Grant? They would laugh, think it a joke at first and then they would probably oust her from their set. For years she had taken great pains to let everyone know of her acquaintance that she disliked the Grants, Stephen and his social-climbing sisters. To kiss the man, to allow such intimacies went against everything that she stood for.
Clara made her room, shutting and locking her door before collapsing onto her bed. She frowned up at the ornate plaster ceiling. Worse was the fact that he kissed very well, not that she would ever tell him such a truth. He was kind to her father, did not amend His Grace’s words when he made a mistake or did not remember what he’d said only five minutes before.
Had she been too quick to judge Mr. Grant? Had she been jealous that Miss Louise Grant married the Marquess Graham and she did not? She slapped the bedding at her side. Of course she’d been jealous, a raging lunatic if she remembered correctly. She could not have gone to any more trouble than she did during that Season to make Miss Grant feel unwelcome and friendless. Or her family.
She was a terrible person. After seeing the Marquess with Louise she knew that she never stood a chance of making him love her. He might not have known at the beginning of his marriage just how much he adored his wife, but it had become obvious quite quickly that he did. Seeing his lordship’s affection had brought out the worst in Clara and Mr. Grant had been privy to most of her actions and caustic remarks over the fact.
It wasn’t any wonder he loathed her for it.
With him staying here, and now after their two passionate encounters, it would only make the situation with him worse. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d kissed her to teach her a lesson, to tease her so he may use it against her when they were back in town.
Clara sat up on the bed and started unpinning her hair. She would not ring her maid, the last thing she wished for was company. When debating with oneself it was always better, in Clara’s opinion, to do it in solitude. Then at least there was no one to tell you that you were a nincompoop and fool not just for one night, but for many years before.
Chapter 6
Clara jumped in her chair the following morning at breakfast when her father bellowed at the footman. “What are you looking at, boy? Do you think you can stare at me? The Duke of Law?”
Clara reached out a hand to clasp his and he pushed her away. He stood, his chair flying backward at his abrupt movement and she gazed up at him, not recognizing the wild, crazy man who stood before her. What was going on?
“Papa?” she said, trying to clasp his hand once again. He stared at her, his eyes wild and vacant and the flitting thought entered her mind that he did not know who she was. “Sit back down, Papa. Your breakfast is growing cold.”
He stormed around the table and she squealed as she tried to get up off the chair. She wasn’t quick enough and he grabbed her, clasping her arms in a vise-like grip, shaking her.
“Who are you, you wretch? You do not dine with the Duke of Law. Get below stairs where you belong.”
“Father!” she yelled. “It’s me, Clara.”
The door opened and Mr. Grant strode in. His eyes flared at the sight of what was going on and he stormed over to her, wrapping his arms about her father’s and pulling him away.
“Your Grace, calm yourself.” He pulled him back and Clara took a steadying breath, taking in the two footmen who stood idly by, their eyes wide with shock and their feet seemingly made of stone and not able to render assistance. “Leave us,” she said, turning back to her papa, whom Mr. Grant still held and was edging back toward his chair.
“Father,” she said again tentatively. “Do you know who I am?” Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she blinked to clear her vision, rummaging into her reticule for a handkerchief. Had he forgotten he had a daughter? If that were the case, she would have to ring for Dr. Miller and have him call on them as soon as the river dropped enough to be passable.
Her father’s eyes cleared after a few minutes and Mr. Grant helped him to sit in his chair, kneeling beside him. “Your Grace, do you remember what just happened?”
Her papa rubbed a hand over his brow, frowning. “Did I spill the tea again, my dear?” he said to her, looking out over the breakfast table. “I do apologize if I did.”
She smiled, although even to her it felt wobbly at best. “Are you feeling well, Papa? Would you like to lie down a moment?”
He nodded, not venturing to argue with her and that in itself was telling. Her father would never usually go back to his room throughout the day. He’d always been such an active, outdoors man. Loved to hunt, fish, ride his stallion. Whatever sickness that ailed him, it was only growing in severity. Mr. Grant helped him to stand and they walked him out into the foyer.
“I shall take the Duke to his room. Maybe you should see what the staff can do about getting word out to your family doctor so he may be ready to call when the river is passable.”
Clara nodded, not bothering to reply, but simply going straight to the housekeeper to give her instructions. Once she had ordered the servants to check on the river’s height and prepare for Dr. Miller’s arrival, she instructed Cook to make up a tisane and heat bricks for her father’s bed since the weather had turned chill.
Clara walked back into the library, a sanctuary, a place that helped her remember that no matter what this issue with her papa’s mind was, she would always have her memories of her father. Those at least could not be ripped from her.
“Lady Clara, are you well?” Mr. Grant walked into the room, coming over to her. For a moment she thought he may engulf her in his arms, but instead he looked about and then sat, staring up at her from the settee. He wrung his hands in his lap. “Your father is resting. Mrs. Pennell brought up a tisane that she said would calm him and make him sleepy.”
Clara sat on a settee beside Mr. Grant, staring at her hands in her lap. “I’ve never seen Father so angry before. He’s never raised his voice to his staff or myself. When he grabbed my arms it was like looking at a person whom I had never met.” She took a calming breath, biting her lip to stop it from wobbling. “He’s forgetting me,” she said, meeting Mr. Grant’s concerned gaze. “My papa is forgetting his daughter.”
The tears did slip over her cheek at her words and she covered her face with her hands, lest he see her crying. A strong arm wrapped about her back and pulled her close. She went willingly, wanting the support, needing it more than she even knew. The horror of her father forgetting everything he’d ever been was too awful to face or accept.
He was forgetting her…
“I’m so sorry. I know this must be terribly hard for you.”
Clara pulled back a little to stare up at him. What she found staring back at her gave her pause. She’d never seen Mr. Grant look at her with anything but loathing, or annoyance. Besides the two times they’d kissed, certainly he’d never shown a deeper emotion. His eyes were comforting, leaving her feeling warm and safe.
“Thank you for stepping in and assisting me. I could not manage to get Father to let me go and the footmen seemed to have been frozen from shock. That is twice you have rescued me. I will owe
you a great debt by the time you leave for your own estate.”
He rubbed her back, his thumb slowly working along her spine and making her skin prickle in awareness. The scent of sandalwood wafted from him, and she shut her eyes, liking that he smelled just as a man should, earthy and unpretentious.
“Has your father ever reacted like so before or is this a new development with his illness?”
“It’s a new symptom and one that I never wish to see again. He was doing so well this morning, he sometimes does spill his tea or misses his mouth with his food or drink, but never has he ever forgotten who I am. Never has he become violent and grabbed me the way he did.”
She looked up at him and met his eyes. “He’s not getting any better, if anything he is getting worse every day. The decline has been so fast and now we’re stuck here until I can get his London doctor out to see us.”
Mr. Grant pushed back a lock of hair from her brow, placing it behind her ear. The action caused her to shiver. Of all the times she would react so to a man’s touch, now was not the appropriate time to do it. But how could she not when it had only ever been Mr. Grant who made her feel alive, was not scared to chastise her when he thought she was being unfair? It had only ever been the man beside her that had caused her to react in any way.
“The river will go down in a day or so and then we shall fetch the doctor. I shall stay with you until his arrival to ensure you remain safe. Not that I think that your father would ever intentionally harm you, but that does not mean that he will not unintentionally hurt you and when he does realize his mistake, it would kill him to know you were injured. I will save you both from that pain at least.”