The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  “It’s not perfect, but at least it won’t be overly suspicious.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Heathcliff will be searching for you,” he said after a long pause.

  His breath was warm at her neck, and she shivered as he placed a lingering kiss there. His hands wrapped round her waist, pulling her back into the strength of his body.

  “I’m quite reluctant to let you go.”

  “Oh?” She found her voice.

  “Indeed.” He kissed her again softly, his tongue flickering against her skin. “I’m afraid you’re addictive. And I’ve never been addicted to anything in my life. Which is saying a lot, since I run a gambling hell.”

  She breathed out unevenly. “I’ve heard gambling is terribly addictive.”

  “Yet I’ve remained unscathed for this whole time,” he murmured, his hands spanning her hips and gripping.

  Her breath caught. “That’s most admirable.”

  “Is it? I must admit I’ve not been acting admirably. And I can’t find it within the strength of my morals to remedy that.” He pressed his hard length into her backside. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

  “Is there?” she asked breathlessly, not caring that she sounded wanton. Good Lord, that ship had sailed when she’d entered his office alone.

  “Are you going to the Rymans’ ball tonight?” he asked, his voice almost a groan as he kissed her neck once more.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll find you.” The words were a promise as he reluctantly released her, as was apparent by the expression in his eyes as she turned to meet his gaze.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she replied, giving herself over to the truth of it; she would be waiting, she would be wanting, and she would be a very willing participant.

  “Until this evening.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, then stepped back, as if needing the distance to simply allow her to leave.

  She felt the space between them immediately, like a chilling breeze when you were expecting warmth. And as she forced herself to walk to the door, the sensation of the increased distance grew more acute.

  And it was then that Grace realized, she was in love.

  And it wasn’t anything like she expected. No, it was so much more.

  So much dangerously more.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ramsey called himself a great many things after Grace departed. In fact, he was still calling himself more colorful versions of those things that evening as he readied himself for the Ryman ball.

  But even the greatest scolding he could deliver to himself couldn’t deter him from seeing her again, or at least trying. He was honest when he had said that he’d never experienced addiction, but he was quite certain he was a victim now. Before, she had haunted his thoughts, teased his curiosity, and provoked his frustration. Now, she was a siren that fed his need for her, and he wasn’t going to be satisfied till he had every part.

  Which only meant one thing.

  He’d have to marry her.

  He wasn’t against it, which was shocking enough, but the current deterrent was finding a way to approach the conversation with Heathcliff.

  No. He could think of a million other things he’d rather do. In fact, as his valet tied his cravat for his evening kit, he compiled a list of things he’d rather do than approach Heathcliff about Grace.

  Have malaria.

  Drink cold tea for the rest of his life.

  Have a doctor give him leeches.

  Drink that horrible confection Mrs. White gave him when he was sick as a lad.

  Swim the Thames in winter.

  Yes. There were a great many things he’d rather do, but unfortunately, he had no other option. He had quite completely ruined Grace that afternoon—even if he had said otherwise—and he was quite certain that only the slight possibility of Heathcliff knocking on the door had stopped him from making it a thorough ruining indeed.

  His body flared to life with the memory of it.

  He cleared his throat, and his valet stepped back to behold his handiwork. With a quick bow, and Ramsey’s nod of approval, the valet quit the room, leaving Ramsey with his thoughts.

  Immediately those thoughts turned back to Grace. Dear Lord, he loved even thinking her name. She had been a siren in his arms.

  Only two aspects could have made the experience more complete.

  For her flaming red hair to be down and splayed across his pillow.

  And for no damn clothes on either of them.

  His body had pulsed with need, and he’d nearly lost himself when she had tightened around his fingers. It was only sheer determination that had kept him from taking her completely, spilling himself within her and taking every part of her delicious body.

  He burned with it now, the desperate need. It was overpowering, and he doubted his self-control to be content with anything less than complete satisfaction. And the Ryman ball wasn’t the place to ruin innocent ladies.

  But, he grinned in spite of himself, she wasn’t completely innocent anymore.

  And it was at his hand, his kiss, his touch that she’d experienced her first pleasure. He loved that, damn, he loved her. Even if it was a lustful love, he was quite certain it had a deeper root, one that was as insane as his need for her. He only hoped she would be open to his courtship . . . his advances.

  Good Lord, let her be a willing participant.

  He had seen the light of awareness come into her expression as she came back from her surge of pleasure. She hadn’t gone into hysterics; no, she’d taken it all with aplomb, but she’d also had several hours to herself to think, and there was no guessing what had transpired between then and now.

  Well, he would know soon.

  The time was approaching to depart, and with a good long moment of thinking about less desirable things, he was able to be presentable in polite company.

  So it was with a determined stride that he entered his carriage, and set forth to the Ryman ball. The bays sprang forward as soon as he rapped on the side of the carriage, and he leaned back into his seat, expectation his companion.

  As they started down the familiar streets of Mayfair, he allowed his mind to wander ahead to the ball. He was slightly late, which only meant that Grace would likely already be in attendance. It was a calculation he’d intentionally made in order to alleviate some of the pressure on his patience. It was in short supply, and he rather thought he should keep his patience in reserve for the time he needed to act the gentleman when the woman in question made him lose all sense of reason.

  They rounded a corner, and he leaned slightly to the left with the motion, but the carriage squeaked in a fashion that wasn’t usual, and his ears perked at the sound. The carriage continued on, and Ramsey had almost dismissed the noise when a snapping sound reverberated through the carriage. Instinctively, he gripped the window, anchoring himself as the carriage swayed, slowed, and then came to a complete halt about five blocks from the Ryman residence. Ramsey’s breath was tight as he took account of the situation, then as the footman opened the door for him, he carefully stepped from the carriage into the waning evening light.

  “Are you well, milord?” the footman asked, just as the coachman came around from the front.

  “Well enough,” Ramsey replied, tugging on the cuff of his coat, evaluating the carriage wheels in the dim light.

  “’Twas a loud crack, milord. We thought it best to stop,” the coachman said, bending down to get a better view of the carriage. “I don’t think we’ve broken a wheel, but the axle may be damaged.”

  Ramsey simply nodded.

  “If it was the axle, it’s a good thing we didn’t snap it. ’Twould have been disastrous,” the coachman mumbled, then stood. “My apologies, my lord. But we cannot continue till we’ve fixed the problem.”

  “I understand.” Ramsey nodded, then took in his surroundings more fully. He wasn’t more than a block away from Heathcliff’s residence, and he could send for a hack from there. “I believe I’ll hea
d toward the viscount’s residence and hire a conveyance from there. I’ll send word back to the stables and have some assistance sent to you as well.”

  “Thank you, milord.” The coachman bowed.

  “I’ll accompany you, milord.” The footman stepped forward, and soon they were making their way to Heathcliff ’s residence. As Ramsey had suspected, they had already left for the ball nearly an hour before, but John was more than accommodating, allowing them entrance into the house immediately. After showing them into one of the parlors, John immediately dispatched a missive to request a hack coach. Ramsey conveyed his thanks, but didn’t dismiss John. There was a slightly anxious edge to his demeanor, and he kept casting assessing gazes at the footman who had accompanied Ramsey. After a moment, Ramsey dismissed the footman and instructed John to stay.

  The footman obeyed and closed the door, and no sooner had he left than John strode forward. “My lord, I can only assume that you have not seen the viscount this eve.”

  John’s demeanor had Ramsey immediately on alert. “No. I have not.”

  “Then may I speak plainly, my lord?” John asked, his tone eager.

  Ramsey nodded, frowning as he did so. John was beyond trustworthy, and loyal to a fault. If he was requesting to speak in such a way, it was something that needed to be heard.

  “The viscount requested that I do some checking on Lord Westhouse. It has taken me longer than I anticipated, since he’s quite good at covering his tracks.”

  At this, Ramsey snorted. He was well aware of that fact.

  John continued after giving an agreeing expression. “But it would seem that there is some circulation of a possible connection between Lord Westhouse and your father,” John finished, his tone hesitant.

  “Continue.” Ramsey tipped his head, a slight edge of dread spreading like ink through his blood.

  “It would seem that Lord Westhouse is . . . that is to say . . . there are rumors that—”

  “Plain speaking, John,” Ramsey almost ground out.

  “He’s quite possibly your half-brother.”

  Ramsey wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting, but most certainly not that.

  John continued. “That is all the information I have now, but I’m not certain that there aren’t more implications to be uncovered, so I would be on my guard, my lord. I’ll let Mrs. Marilla know that I’ll be taking my leave to evaluate your carriage myself. I want to rule out some sort of foul play. It would be a stretch, but I’ve learned never to underestimate a man.”

  Ramsey nodded; that was all he was bloody able to do at the moment. He was still processing the emotional roundhouse punch John’s words had delivered. “Thank you, John,” he was able to say after a moment.

  There was a knock at the door, and Ramsey found the presence of mind to call for the person to enter. Mrs. Marilla opened the door. “The hack is here, my lord. And your footman is already with it.” She curtsied.

  Ramsey nodded, taking in the slight blush on her cheeks when she mentioned the footman. It would be good for her to find a companion; she’d been dealt a severe blow in life, and as such, deserved some happiness.

  He pushed these thoughts away and nodded. “Very good.” He gave a curt nod to John, who bowed back, his expression a promise that he would not miss any detail, and with that, Ramsey quit the room.

  The hack swayed slightly as he stepped inside. The faint scent of pipe smoke spiced the air and he immediately missed the more luxurious furnishing of his own carriage, but it wasn’t of import.

  No.

  What was of import was figuring out how the hell Westhouse could be his half-brother.

  Their lands bordered each other, that was true enough. It was possible as far as distance, but they were nearly the same age. No. That wasn’t true. Westhouse was about six months older. Ramsey thought back over his childhood, scouring his mind for any recollection of his father mentioning Lord or Lady Westhouse. He hadn’t.

  Which, as he thought about it, was rather odd.

  His father had no scruples in mentioning other noblemen, or their wives. No, he would often berate them or make sport of them whenever possible. But Ramsey couldn’t remember the mentioning of their names even once.

  The carriage lurched forward from a stop at a crossroads, then continued, and Ramsey’s thoughts slipped back in time. Lord Westhouse had died before he was born—his mind tickled with awareness that this piece of information was a clue, but he had no idea where it fit in the grand scheme of things. The carriage came to a halt just before the Ryman residence, and Ramsey took a fleeting moment to collect his wits. He wasn’t feeling in the mood to be in polite society, any society, really. But he needed to speak with Heathcliff about the information from John. And there was Grace.

  Thinking her name snapped his attention back into place, and he alighted from the carriage. The ball was in full swing, and had been for quite some time based on the din of music and voices that carried out into the foyer. He nodded to several gentlemen who were speaking by the front door and then proceeded down the hall toward the ballroom. The air was more humid than usual, and he had the urge to tug on his cravat. As he walked into the crowded ballroom, he started scanning the sea of faces for Heathcliff, Lady Kilpatrick, or Grace.

  “Evening, Lord Ramsey.” Lady Whipplemen nodded her head, fanning herself quite enthusiastically.

  “Good evening,” he returned, then continued along, nodding to Lord and Lady Ryman, who were in conversation with Lord Pennwood. It was at times like these when he was thankful for his height. He could easily see over most of the gentry’s heads, unless they were wearing those dreadful ostrich feathers. Those were the bane of a tall man’s existence. Always in the way, and always tickling his nose. Bloody awful things. He made a wide arc around a few dowagers who were sporting the dreadful things, and scanned the faces for those he sought.

  He was halfway through the crowd when he spotted Heathcliff. Not more than twenty yards away, he was beside his wife and next to her—his breath caught.

  Grace.

  Her hair was nearly glowing fire in the bright candlelight, and her emerald dress merely drew the eye to her creamy shoulders with just the barest hint of the curve of her breasts. Like the most delicious dessert wrapped in gold foil, she was tempting even from a distance. He took a deep breath to pull his thoughts into line, and started toward them. Belatedly, he noted the ending of the music as the first strains of a waltz began.

  Grace turned slightly, her face no longer visible. Foreboding tickled his senses. A moment later, he knew why. Lord Westhouse had approached their small party and was extending his hand expectantly to Grace.

  Foreboding quickly shifted to rage.

  “No, refuse him,” Ramsey muttered, increasing his pace.

  Grace turned her head slightly as if furtively searching for him nearby.

  “I’m here, turn around,” he commanded softly, turning slightly to slip through a narrow space between two ladies with their backs turned.

  “Don’t do it,” he muttered a little louder.

  He noted the way her shoulders sagged slightly. No. They didn’t sag, they merely rounded, as if disappointed, and she followed his lead onto the dance floor.

  Ramsey paused, watching her back disappear into the swirling dancers before he caught a glimpse of her face, but she didn’t see him. Her eyes were on her partner, and her expression was alight with amusement, as if Lord Westhouse had said something witty.

  Ramsey took in a deep breath of frustration, releasing it slightly. Creating a scene in the middle of the Rymans’ ballroom wouldn’t be good for either him or Grace. Plus, there was something else afoot, he just didn’t know what.

  When Ramsey forced his gaze away from Grace, he turned back to Heathcliff, only it wasn’t Heathcliff’s gaze that met his, it was Lucas’s.

  And Lucas, eighth Earl of Heightfield and third partner in Temptations, was clearly back in town, clearly aware of what had just happened, and clearly amused that Ra
msey was in hot pursuit of Heathcliff’s ward.

  Good Lord. The evening just kept getting better.

  He meant that in the most sarcastic way possible.

  Lucas arched his dark brows, a knowing smile teasing his blue eyes. He took a step back as Ramsey approached, as if thrilled to be able to watch whatever happened, but not be necessarily close enough to accidentally get hit should it come to fisticuffs.

  “About bloody time you got here,” Heathcliff said by way of greeting.

  “Good evening to you, too,” Ramsey remarked dryly.

  “What in the hell took you so long? I’ve been fending off Westhouse for nearly an hour and I ran out of excuses. But I must say that at least Grace acted less interested. Thank the good Lord for that small boon. No thanks to you.”

  Ramsey thought her lack of interest was rather in direct thanks to him, but he didn’t think it was the time to mention that fact. Rather, his attention was shifted to the mention of Lord Westhouse’s name, and his blood boiled.

  He cast a cautious glance to Lucas, who merely grinned and glanced away.

  What a bloody useless friend, Ramsey decided. “Finally in town?” He directed the statement to Lucas.

  “I figured you needed me. I was correct.” He shrugged. “My lovely wife did not accompany me, due to her delicate condition.”

  “Samantha is still frustrated with that piece of information, though she understands. I’m sure you’ll have a visitor quite early.”

  “My lovely sister-in-law is always welcome.” Lucas gave a slight bow, grinning in the direction of Samantha, who was in conversation with Lady Greywick.

  “Now, back to the issue at hand. Why are you so bloody late?” Heathcliff turned to Ramsey.

  Ramsey had focused his gaze back on the dance floor and was searching for Grace. He could only catch a glimpse of her back, but his eyes greedily trailed down the length of her spine, his hands tingling with the memory of her curves within his grasp.

  “Ramsey?” Heathcliff’s voice interrupted his rather scandalous thoughts.