The Lost Duke of Wyndham (17 page)

Still, Grace seemed not to know what to say. Jack did not mind. He had discovered that watching Grace looking at the painting was far more erotic than the painting itself had ever been.

“I always wanted to go see it in person,” he com
mented. “I believe it is in Germany now. Munich, perhaps. But alas, my travels never took me that way.”

“I've never seen anything like it,” Grace whispered.

“It does make one feel, does it not?”

She nodded.

And he wondered—if he had always dreamed of lying between Mademoiselle O'Murphy's thighs, did Grace now wonder what it was like to
be
her? Did she imagine herself lying on the divan, exposed to a man's erotic gaze?

To
his
gaze.

He would never allow anyone else to see her thus.

Around them, the room was silent. He could hear his own breath, each one more shaky than the last.

And he could hear hers—soft, low, and coming faster with each inhalation.

He wanted her. Desperately. He wanted Grace. He wanted her spread before him like the girl in the painting. He wanted her any way he could have her. He wanted to peel the clothes from her body, and he wanted to worship every inch of her skin.

He could practically feel it, the soft weight of her thighs in his hands as he opened her to him, the musky heat as he moved closer for a kiss.

“Grace,” he whispered.

She was not looking at him. Her eyes were still on the painting in the book. Her tongue darted out, moistening the very center of her lips.

She couldn't have known what that did to him.

He reached around her, touching her fingers. She did not pull away.

“Dance with me,” he murmured, wrapping his hand around her wrist. He tugged at her gently, urging her to her feet.

“There is no music,” she whispered. But she stood. With no resistance, not even a hint of hesitation, she stood.

And so he said the one thing that was in his heart.

“We will make it ourselves.”

There were so many moments when Grace could have said no. When his hand touched hers. When he pulled her to her feet.

When he'd asked her to dance, despite the lack of music—that would have been a logical moment.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

She should have. But she didn't want to.

And then somehow she was in his arms, and they were waltzing, in time with the soft hum of his voice. It was not an embrace that would ever be allowed in a proper ballroom; he was holding her far too close, and with each step he seemed to draw her closer, until finally the distance between them was measured not in inches but in heat.

“Grace,” he said, her name a hoarse, needy moan. But she did not hear the last bit of it, that last consonant. He was kissing her by then, all sound lost in his onslaught.

And she was kissing him back. Good heavens, she did not think she had ever wanted anything so much as she did this man, in this moment. She wanted him to surround her, to engulf her. She wanted to lose her
self in him, to lay her body down and offer herself up to him.

Anything
, she wanted to whisper.
Anything you want
.

Because surely he knew what she needed.

The painting of that woman—the French king's mistress—it had done something to her. She'd been bewitched. There could be no other explanation. She wanted to lie naked on a divan. She wanted to know the sensation of damask rubbing against her belly, while cool, fresh air whispered across her back.

She wanted to know what it felt like to lie that way, with a man's eyes burning hotly over her form.

His eyes. Only his.

“Jack,” she whispered, practically throwing herself against him. She needed to feel him, the pressure of him, the strength. She did not want his touch only on her lips; she wanted it everywhere, and everywhere at once.

For a moment he faltered, as if surprised by her sudden enthusiasm, but he quickly recovered, and within seconds he had kicked the door shut and had her pinned up against the wall beside it, never once breaking their kiss.

She was on her toes, pressed so tightly between Jack and the wall that her feet would have dangled in the air if she'd been just an inch higher. His mouth was hungry, and she was breathless, and when he moved down to worship her cheek, and then her throat, it was all she could do to keep her head upright. As it was, her neck was stretching, and she could feel herself arching forward, her breasts aching for closer contact.

This was not their first intimacy, but it was not the same. Before, she'd wanted him to kiss her. She'd wanted to
be
kissed.

But now…It was as if every pent-up dream and desire had awoken within her, turning her into some strange fiery creature. She felt aggressive. Strong. And she was so damned
tired
of watching life happen around her.

“Jack…Jack…” She could not seem to say anything else, not when his teeth were tugging at the bodice of her frock. His fingers were aiding in the endeavor, nimbly unfastening the buttons at her back.

But somehow that wasn't fair. She wanted to be a part of it, too. “Me,” she managed to get out, and she moved her hands, which had been reveling in the crisp silkiness of his hair, to his shirtfront. She slid down the wall, pulling him along with her, until they were both on the floor. Without missing a beat, she made frenetic work of his buttons, yanking his shirt aside once she was through.

For a moment she could do nothing but gaze. Her breath was sucked inside of her, burning to get out, but she could not seem to exhale. She touched him, laying her palm against his chest, a whoosh of air finally escaping her lips when she felt his heart leaping beneath his skin. She stroked upward, and then down, marveling at the contact, until one of his hands roughly covered hers.

“Grace,” he said. He swallowed, and she could feel that his fingers were trembling.

She looked up, waiting for him to continue. He
could seduce with nothing but a glance, she thought. A touch and she would melt. Did he have any idea the magic he held over her? The power?

“Grace,” he said again, his breath labored. “I won't be able to stop soon.”

“I don't care.”

“You do.” His voice was ragged, and it made her want him even more.

“I want you,” she pleaded. “I want this.”

He looked as if he were in pain. She
knew
she was.

He squeezed her hand, and they both paused. Grace looked up, and their eyes met.

And held.

And in that moment, she loved him. She didn't know what it was he'd done to her, but she was changed. And she loved him for it.

“I won't take this from you,” he said in a rough whisper. “Not like this.”

Then how?
she wanted to ask, but sense was trickling back into her body, and she knew he was right. She had precious little of value in this world—her mother's tiny pearl earrings, a family Bible, love letters between her parents. But she had her body, and she had her pride, and she could not allow herself to give them to a man who was not to be her husband.

And they both knew that if he turned out to be the Duke of Wyndham, then he could never be her husband. Grace did not know all of the circumstances of his upbringing, but she'd heard enough to know that he was familiar with the ways of the aristocracy. He had to know what would be expected of him.

He cupped her face in his hands and stared at her
with a tenderness that took her breath away. “As God is my witness,” he whispered, turning her around so he could do up her buttons, “this is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.”

Somehow she found the strength to smile. Or at the very least, to not cry.

 

Later that night Grace was in the rose salon, hunting down writing paper for the dowager, who had decided—on the spur of the moment, apparently—that she must send a letter to her sister, the grand duchess of that small European country whose name Grace could never pronounce (or, indeed, remember).

This was a lengthier process than it seemed, as the dowager liked to compose her correspondence aloud (with Grace as audience), debating—at painful length—each turn of phrase. Grace then had to concentrate on memorizing the dowager's words, as she would then be required (not by the dowager; rather, by a general duty to humanity) to recopy the dowager's missive, translating her unintelligible scrawl into something a bit more neat and tidy.

The dowager did not acknowledge that she did this; in fact, the one time Grace offered, she flew into such a huff that Grace had never again whispered a word of it. But considering that her sister's next letter opened with gushes of praise on the dowager's new penmanship, Grace could not imagine that she was completely unaware.

Ah, well. It was one of those things they did not discuss.

Grace did not mind the task this evening. Sometimes it gave her a headache; she did try to do her recopying when the sun was still high and she could enjoy the advantages of natural light. But it was an endeavor that required all of her concentration, and she rather thought that it was exactly what she needed right now. Something to take her mind off…well, everything.

Mr. Audley.

Thomas. And how awful she felt.

Mr. Audley.

That painting of that woman.

Mr. Audley.

Jack
.

Grace let out a short, loud sigh. For heaven's sake, who was she trying to fool? She knew exactly what she was trying so hard not to think about.

Herself.

She sighed. Maybe she ought to take herself off to the land of the unpronounceable name. She wondered if they spoke English there. She wondered if the Grand Duchess Margareta (née Margaret, and called, she was pertly told by the dowager, Maggs) could possibly be as ill-tempered as her sister.

It did seem unlikely.

Although as a member of the royal family, Maggs presumably had the authority to order someone's head lopped off. The dowager had said they were a bit feudal over there.

Grace touched her head, decided she liked it where it was, and with renewed determination pulled open the top drawer to the escritoire, using perhaps a bit
more force than necessary. She winced at the screech of wood against wood, then frowned; this really wasn't such a well-made piece of furniture. Rather out of place at Belgrave, she had to say.

Nothing in the top drawer. Just a quill that looked as if it hadn't seen use since the last King George ruled the land.

She moved to the second, reaching to the back in case anything was hiding in the shadows, and then she heard something.

Someone.

It was Thomas. He was standing in the doorway, looking rather peaked, and even in the dim light she could see that his eyes were bloodshot.

She gulped down a wave of guilt. He was a good man. She hated that she was falling in love with his rival. No, that was not it. She hated that Mr. Audley
was
his rival. No, not that. She hated the whole bloody situation. Every last speck of it.

“Grace,” he said. Nothing else, just her name.

She swallowed. It had been some time since they'd conversed on friendly terms. Not that they had been
un
friendly, but truly, was there anything worse than oh-so-careful civility?

“Thomas,” she said, “I did not realize you were still awake.”

“It's not so late,” he said with a shrug.

“No, I suppose not.” She glanced up at the clock. “The dowager is abed but not yet asleep.”

“Your work is never done, is it?” he asked, entering the room.

“No,” she said, wanting to sigh. Then, refusing to
feel sorry for herself, she explained, “I ran out of writing paper upstairs.”

“For correspondence?”

“Your grandmother's,” she affirmed. “I have no one with whom to correspond.” Dear heavens, could that be true? It had never even occurred to her before. Had she written a single letter in the years she'd been here? “I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away…” She paused, thinking how sad that was, that she needed her friend to leave so she might be able to write a letter. “…I shall miss her.”

“Yes,” he said, looking somewhat distracted, not that she could blame him, given the current state of his affairs. “You are good friends, aren't you?”

She nodded, reaching into the recesses of the third drawer. Success! “Ah, here we are.” She pulled forth a small stack of paper, then realized that her triumph meant that she had to go tend to her duties. “I must go write your grandmother's letters now.”

“She does not write them herself?” he asked with surprise.

Grace almost chuckled at that. “She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. Even I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.”

She looked down at the pages in her hands, shaking them down against the top of the desk first one way and then on the side, to make an even stack. When she looked back up, Thomas was standing a bit closer, looking rather serious.

“I must apologize, Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

Oh, she didn't want this. She didn't want an apology, not when she herself held so much guilt in her heart. “For this afternoon?” she asked, her voice perhaps a little too light. “No, please, don't be silly. It's a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for—”

“For many things,” he cut in.

He was looking at her very strangely, and Grace wondered if he'd been drinking. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. She had told herself that she mustn't scold him; truly, it was a wonder he was behaving as well as he was, under the circumstances.

“Please,” she said, hoping to put an end to the discussion. “I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.”