Never a Gentleman (37 page)

She didn’t let him finish. Reaching up, she pulled him to her and met him open-mouthed and hungry. He wrapped himself so tightly
around her, she could feel his heart pounding against her chest, she could smell the smoke of his sandalwood soap on the night
air. She tasted the essence of Diccan; no brandy, no cigars, just sweetness and spice.

She wanted to make a banquet of that taste, of the rough invasion of his tongue, the unbearably soft assault of his lips.
She felt her body ignite beneath him and knew that she would take everything he had to give her, and she would give back more.
She would tell him she loved him the only way she could, whether he heard or not. Whether he acknowledged it. And then, tomorrow,
she would collect the broken pieces of her defenses and try and shore them up all over again.

She tried one last time to pull away. “I need to talk to you,” she insisted. “It’s urgent.”

“In a while,” he murmured, dipping his head to her breast. “Promise.”

There was no more arguing. Not one more word was said by either of them. She felt him pull her braid loose and spread her
hair out like a fan. She held on to him and kissed him back, testing and taunting and tempting him to lose control. She felt
the juices collect in her at the mere thought of him driving into her until he spent himself. The thought of him losing control
ignited a sweet pain that felt like Heaven itself. She couldn’t wait to betray herself.

He shattered her reserve with one kiss. He destroyed every defense with his hands. Grace felt his elegant, clever fingers
on her like dreams; skimming, sweeping, nipping, yanking the bedclothes away and dispatching her night rail as if it had been
no more than a suggestion.

She shivered as the night air kissed her fevered skin, already dampened by Diccan’s tongue. She couldn’t see Diccan; she could
only feel him, hear him, smell him, the heady scent of male in her arms. It was enough to make her mad. It was enough to make
her forget.

She pulled his shirt over his head and sought the sleek planes of his chest and back, rippling now with effort. She satiated
herself with the smooth sweep of his shoulders, the delicious hollow at the base of his throat, the rumble in his chest when
she licked his nipples. She felt his body strain for her, and thrilled in it. She felt her own body respond, swelling, seething,
singing with his as they met in a dance as old as life, and she followed it. She heard the rasp of her own breathing in counterpoint
to his, and heard music. She returned to the buttons that held back his shaft and began to set them loose.

Diccan never stopped his exploration of her with hands and mouth and tongue: her shoulders, her arms, her belly, her breasts.
Oh, her breasts, aching in anticipation, swelling under his touch. Tightening long before he took them with his mouth.

And when he did, she bucked with the shock of it. She swore he tried to devour them, his tongue flicking against the tender
skin, his teeth grazing her aching nipples. She arched to meet him; she yanked at his buttons, desperate to be at him. She
heard that curious keening again, and realized it was she, her need overflowing into sound. She heard
him chuckle and groan when she finally freed that last button and was able to collect the whole of him in her hands, and she
smiled. She nudged him to lift his hips and pulled his pantaloons off. Now she had all of him to explore, muscle and bone
and the delicious rasp of hair against her fingers. She could almost taste him on her tongue.

He never gave her a chance. Wrapping his arms around her, he flipped her on her back. He tangled his hands in her hair and
rubbed his erection against her belly, marking her. His body was taut and slick, his breath coming in rasps. Grace curled
her hands around his bottom, pulling him to her, and felt the thrill of victory when he dropped his head against her throat
and groaned.

He never asked. She never begged. He simply shifted and she spread her legs to welcome him home. He kissed her again, long
and deep and wicked, and then he drove into her, and she forgot everything else. She forgot needing or belonging or having.
She forgot pride and self-respect and a lonely woman’s despair. For these moments he was hers, and she let him be. She braced
her feet against the mattress and lifted to meet him, taking him in, all of him, to the very hilt of him, welcoming him to
the edge of her womb. She panted for air, for patience, for strength, because the fire he ignited had begun to overtake her.
Not gently, like music. Their meeting was a primal force, both of them straining, arching, gasping, laughing, their bodies
slick with sweat, their eyes open in the darkness, their hunger met and matched.

A storm swept over Grace, crashing through her, pulling her under. Lightning, sharp and deadly and blinding. Thunder and wind
and fury. She felt her body succumb to it; tightening, darkening, disintegrating. She threw back
her head and wailed with the force of it. She felt Diccan follow, heard him call her name as he pumped heat and life into
her, his own body taut and urgent, and she laughed. She laughed until they fell, spent and silent, to sleep curled in each
other’s arms.

She woke to birdsong and knew she’d lost her chance to speak to him. He was gone again, as silently as he’d sneaked in the
night before, evidently forgetting his promise to speak to her. She hadn’t asked why he’d come or where he was going. She
hadn’t told him of her suspicions or warned him of his foes. She hadn’t even forbidden him entry into her bedchamber again.

She had exhausted herself on him and come back for more. She had listened to his words of affection and let herself believe
him. And now, she had to start to repair her pride all over again.

Damn him. Damn
her
for giving in without a fight. Had her trip to Longbridge been nothing more than pretense? Had her decision meant nothing?
She had vowed to walk away from him, to reclaim her pride and person. It had taken one kiss to show her up for the hypocrite
she was.

For a long while she lay there, her arm over her eyes, as the light strengthened. How many more times would she wake like
this and vow not to do it again? How many more times would she excuse Diccan or worse, herself, for their lapses? When would
she begin to rely on his appearance?

She already did.

She spent the day preparing to leave for Olivia’s, all the while feeling as fragile as a fine porcelain plate, carelessly
balanced on the edge of a table where the only outcome
could be a terrible crash. She found she couldn’t eat at all, even soup, and hoped the next long months wouldn’t be like that.
She knew she should see an accoucher, but until something was settled with Diccan, she couldn’t help holding this one little
secret to herself.

She didn’t know what to expect from him. She didn’t know how to hope. Would he pity her or scorn her, or would he simply walk
out again, more interested in his other life? Did it matter, really? She would have the baby. They could get along just fine
in the country, where he could run and ride and fish with his mother, and learn to love the land he would one day own. She
never thought it might be a girl. She’d never been around enough girls to be comfortable with them. But she knew little boys,
and she could see herself raising a fine boy.

Right now she saw Diccan in the picture. But right now, she wanted to bask in the newness of her situation. She wanted to
believe in this future. She
wanted
to hope for something she’d never believed could happen. She wanted to tell Diccan and get it over with so she would know
how to go on.

She was so distracted by her worries that she became vague, impatient, weary. The trip was worse. Even though she once again
rode in Kate’s luxurious, well-sprung coach, for the first time in her life, travel made her ill. She knew her friends suspected
something, but they were kind enough to remain silent. Her footman Benny was not so sanguine.

“Cook and Mr. Roberts’ll have me head if’n you go poorly,” he protested as he and Lizzy helped her into the bushes by the
side of the road. “Won’t you take some of cook’s tonic?”

The thought of drinking anything threatened her still
unsettled stomach. “In a minute,” she gasped, crouched over, “I appreciate the concern, but I’m not sure it will help.”

Her hand on Grace’s other arm, Lizzy chuckled. “Not for another two months or so, I’d say.”

Grace shot her a glare. “Not a word to anyone, Lizzy.”

“Closed as a clam, missus.”

She took the tonic to salve Benny’s feelings, and felt no better, although she kept that to herself. She didn’t know why she
was being so circumspect, especially since anyone with a calendar and a pair of eyes could guess what was happening. But the
possibility was still so new to her, the feelings so private, that she simply didn’t want to have to share them yet.

So it was that when they reached Oak Grove the next day, Grace stepped down from the carriage as if pale green were her normal
skin tone. She smiled and chatted and held herself together with will and fear. She simply refused to mar her reunion with
her friend by being ill in her forecourt.

The house itself was lovely, a mellow brick Queen Anne home with tall sashed windows and stone parapet that had been given
a place of honor at the end of a straight drive lined in oaks. But for Grace the best feature was waiting on the front steps;
Olivia and Jack, hand in hand.

“Finally,” Bea said with a wide smile at seeing them.

Grace nodded. “It is good to see them so happy and well, isn’t it?”

Olivia and Jack had been through so much, their first marriage shattered by betrayal and lies, their lives all but ruined.
They had been through even more since they’d found each other again, and the scars showed. Jack had barely survived Waterloo;
Olivia had barely survived the
Surgeon. The slash down the side of her face was still red and angry. But as Grace saw the peace in eyes once so careworn
and sad, it didn’t matter.

“You’re here!” Olivia cried, running down to meet the carriage, her primrose jaconet dress floating around her legs, tendrils
of blond hair wisping about her face. “Oh, I’ve missed you!”

“She’s driven me mad for days,” Jack said, looking fit in a hacking jacket and doeskin breeches.

He looked healed, Grace thought, as he bussed her cheek, with weight back on his tall, lean frame and life in his sea-green
eyes. He was a lucky man to have been afforded a second chance. And a smart one for taking it. But then, Grace couldn’t imagine
a man turning away from Olivia.

Hugs were exchanged, greetings given, and appearances commented upon. Grace stood back a bit, content to simply enjoy the
unmoving ground, wondering suddenly how she could share her fears and hopes and questions even with her friends. How could
she explain how earth-shattering the changes were in her life, when any other woman would expect them by right.

How odd to suddenly be shy with the three women she knew best.

“Grace?” Olivia was frowning. “You’re so quiet.”

Grace found it wasn’t hard to smile after all. “I’m taking it all in. I’m so happy to see you both.”

Olivia’s big gray eyes filled with tears as she reached up to share a hug. “No more than I am to see you. You can’t imagine
how much I counted on you all to witness my wedding.”

“Well, it’s only fair,” Kate offered wryly, “since we witnessed the preliminaries.”

“Midwife,” Bea added with a nod.

Even Jack laughed. “A very good description of your role. But I’m certain I don’t want to rehash it all in the front drive.”
Turning his wife to the door, he waved her in. “We have tea in our renovated south drawing room.” He frowned. “Or is that
the Red Salon? Olivia keeps changing the name.”

“It’s going to be the drawing room where Jack loses his head, if you aren’t careful,” Olivia retorted amiably, as she allowed
him to wrap his arm around her.

Just as they were climbing the steps, a veritable herd of children came thundering around the corner of the house, shrieking
with glee as they chased a barking shaggy behemoth of a dog. Grace picked out six youngsters in the melee, ranging in age
from three to maybe ten, closely followed by a pretty young woman with curly blond hair.

“Like to introduce my sister Georgie,” Jack drawled as she sped past with a wave of the hand in their direction. “Her brat
Lully is the one leading the pack. The urchin on her heels is our son Jamie. I have no idea who the rest of them are. Georgie
collects brats like Diccan’s mother collects dogs.”

Grace felt a clutch of wonder at the sight of those raucous, laughing children. It was as if her hopes had crystallized right
in front of her. Happy, healthy children, tumbling around the lawns like pups, their laughter bright as the morning. Her throat
grew thick with a surge of unfamiliar joy.

It only took a moment to come back down to earth. They had just about reached the steps when Jack stopped and looked back.
“Where
is
Diccan?” he asked. “I can’t imagine a carriage ever beating Gadzooks anywhere.”

Grace’s delicate stomach dropped. “He… will try and be here.”

Jack peered down at her. “Diccan miss the social event of the fall? Nonsense. I’m convinced he had three waistcoats made just
for the weekend.”

Grace knew her smile was weak. “And a quizzing glass made of gold. But he was delayed.”

By his mistress. Or the Lions. Or a writ for his arrest for treason.

Or all three.

It didn’t take Grace long to settle into her beautifully appointed room. Decorated in spring greens and yellows, it was on
the southeast corner, with windows on both sides that looked out over sweeping lawns and thick woods. Grace helped Lizzy unpack
and then sent the girl to check on her own baby, who had accompanied them and seemed to be missing Mr. Pitt, who hadn’t.

Once her own nausea eased a bit, she needed to find Olivia. She knew that this would be her best chance to get private advice
on her condition. After all, Olivia had a child. Surely she had gone through the same thing. Would she share her story with
Grace?