The Lost Duke of Wyndham (9 page)

She glanced over at him with surprise. “Oh. I had assumed—” She broke off, too embarrassed to remark that she'd thought him a homeless nomad.

“A life of posting inns and grassy fields,” he said with
an affected sigh. “Such is the fate of a highwayman.”

“Do you enjoy it?” She surprised herself, both by asking it and also by how very curious she was in the answer.

He grinned. “Robbing coaches?”

She nodded.

“It depends on who is in the coach,” he said softly. “I very much enjoyed not robbing you.”

“
Not
robbing me?” She turned then, and the ice, which had been cracked, was officially broken.

“I didn't take a thing, did I?” he returned, all innocence.

“You stole a kiss.”

“That,” he said, leaning forward with great cheek, “was freely given.”

“Mr. Audley…”

“I do wish you'd call me Jack,” he sighed.

“Mr. Audley,” she said again. “I did not—” She looked quickly about, then lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “I did not…
do
…what you said I did.”

He smiled lazily. “When did ‘kiss' become such a dangerous word?”

She clamped her lips together because truly there was no way she would gain the upper hand in this conversation.

“Very well,” he said. “I shan't torment you.”

It would have been a kind and generous statement if he hadn't followed it with: “Today.”

But even then, she smiled. It was difficult not to, in his presence.

They were in the upper hall now, and Grace turned
toward the family apartments where he would be staying. They moved along in silence, giving her ample time to consider the gentleman beside her. She did not care what he'd said about not completing university. He was extremely intelligent, unique vocabulary notwithstanding. And there was no arguing against his charm. There was no reason he should not be gainfully employed. She could not ask him why he was robbing coaches, however. It was far too forward on so short an acquaintance.

It was ironic, that. Who would have thought she'd be worried about manners and propriety with a thief?

“This way,” she said, motioning for him to follow her to the left.

“Who sleeps down there?” Mr. Audley asked, peering in the opposite direction.

“His grace.”

“Ah,” he said darkly. “His grace.”

“He is a good man,” Grace said, feeling she must speak up for him. If Thomas had not behaved as he ought, it was certainly understandable. From the day of his birth, he'd been raised to be the Duke of Wyndham. And now, with the flimsiest of fate twists, he'd been informed that he might be nothing more than plain Mr. Cavendish.

If Mr. Audley had had a rough day, well then, surely Thomas's was worse.

“You admire the duke,” Mr. Audley stated. Grace couldn't quite tell if this was a question; she didn't think so. But either way, his tone was dry, as if he thought she was somewhat naive for doing so.

“He is a good man,” she repeated firmly. “You will
agree with me, once you further your acquaintance.”

Mr. Audley let out an amused little puff of breath. “You sound like a servant now, starched and prim and properly loyal.”

She scowled at him, but he clearly did not care, because he was already grinning and saying, “Are you going to defend the dowager next? I should like to hear you do it, because I'm most curious as to how, exactly, one would attempt such a feat.”

Grace could not imagine that he might actually expect her to reply. She turned, though, so he could not see her smile.

“I could not manage it myself,” he continued, “and I'm told I have a most silver tongue.” He leaned forward, as if imparting a grave secret. “It's the Irish in me.”

“You're a Cavendish,” she pointed out.

“Only half.” And then he added, “Thank God.”

“They're not so bad.”

He let out a chuckle. “They're not so bad? That's your rousing defense?”

And then heaven help her, she could not think of a single good thing to say except, “The dowager would give her life for the family.”

“Pity she has not done so already.”

Grace shot him a startled look. “You sound just like the duke.”

“Yes, I'd noticed they had a warm and loving relationship.”

“Here we are,” Grace said, pushing open the door to his chamber. She stepped back then. It could not be proper for her to accompany him into his room. Five
years she'd been at Belgrave, and she'd never once stepped foot inside Thomas's chambers. She might not have much in this world, but she had her self-respect, and her reputation, and she planned to keep a firm hold on both.

Mr. Audley peeked in. “How very blue,” he remarked.

She could not help but smile. “And silken.”

“Indeed.” He stepped inside. “You're not going to join me?”

“Oh, no.”

“Didn't think you would. Pity. I'm going to have to loll about all on my own, rolling in all this silken blue splendor.”

“The dowager was right,” Grace said with a shake of her head. “You're never serious.”

“Not true. I'm quite frequently serious. It's up to you to figure out when.” He shrugged as he wandered over to the writing desk, his fingers trailing idly along the blotter until they slid off the edge and back to his side. “I find it convenient to keep people guessing.”

Grace said nothing, just watched him inspect his room. She ought to go. She rather thought she
wanted
to go, actually; all day she'd been longing to crawl into bed and go to sleep. But she stayed. Just watching him, trying to imagine what it was like to see all of this for the first time.

She had entered Belgrave Castle as a servant. He was quite possibly its master.

It had to be strange. It had to be overwhelming. She didn't have the heart to tell him that this wasn't the
fanciest or most ostentatious guest bedchamber. Not even close.

“Excellent art,” he commented, tilting his head as he regarded a painting on the wall.

She nodded, her lips parting, then closing again.

“You were about to tell me it's a Rembrandt.”

Her lips parted again, but this time in surprise. He hadn't even been looking at her. “Yes,” she admitted.

“And this?” he asked, turning his attention to the one underneath. “Caravaggio?”

She blinked. “I don't know.”

“I do,” he said, in a tone that was somehow both impressed and grim. “It's a Caravaggio.”

“You are a connoisseur?” she asked, and she noticed that her toes had somehow crossed the threshold of the room. Her heels were still safe and proper, resting on the corridor floor, but her toes…

They itched in her slippers.

They longed for adventure.

She
longed for adventure.

Mr. Audley moved to another painting—the east wall was full of them—and murmured, “I would not say that I am a connoisseur, but yes, I do like art. It's easy to read.”

“To read?” Grace stepped forward. What an odd statement.

He nodded. “Yes. Look here.” He pointed to a woman in what looked like a post-Renaissance work. She was seated upon a lavish chair, cushioned in dark velvet, edged with thick, twisting gold. Perhaps a throne? “Look at the way the eyes look down,” he
said. “She is watching this other woman. But she is not looking at her face. She's jealous.”

“No, she's not.” Grace moved to his side. “She's angry.”

“Yes, of course. But she's angry because she's jealous.”

“Of her?” Grace responded, pointing to the “other” woman in the corner. Her hair was the color of wheat, and she was clad in a filmy Grecian robe. It ought to have been scandalous; one of her breasts seemed poised to pop out at any moment. “I don't think so. Look at her.” She motioned to the first woman, the one on the throne. “She has everything.”

“Everything material, yes. But this woman”—he motioned to the one in the Grecian robe—“has her husband.”

“How can you even know she is married?” Grace squinted and leaned in, inspecting her fingers for a ring, but the brushwork was not fine enough to make out such a small detail.

“Of
course
she is married. Look at her expression.”

“I see nothing to indicate wifeliness.”

He lifted a brow. “Wifeliness?”

“I'm quite certain it's a word. More so than truthiness, in any case.” She frowned. “And if she is married, then where is the husband?”

“Right there,” he said, touching the intricate gilt frame, just beyond the woman in the Grecian robe.

“How can you possibly know that? It's beyond the edge of the canvas.”

“You need only to look at her face. Her eyes. She is gazing at the man who loves her.”

Grace found that intriguing. “Not at the man she loves?”

“I can't tell,” he said, his head tilting slightly.

They stood in silence for a moment, then he said, “There is an entire novel in this painting. One need only take the time to read it.”

He was right, Grace realized, and it was unsettling, because he wasn't supposed to be so perceptive. Not him. Not the glib, jaunty highwayman who couldn't be bothered to find a proper profession.

“You're in my room,” he said.

She stepped back. Abruptly.

“Steady now.” His arm shot out and his hand found her elbow.

She couldn't scold him, not really, because she would have fallen. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He didn't let go.

She'd regained her balance. She was standing straight.

But he didn't let go.

And she did not pull away.

A
nd so he kissed her. He couldn't help it.

No, he couldn't stop it. His hand was on her arm, and he could feel her skin, feel the soft warmth of it, and then when he looked down, her face was tilted toward his, and her eyes, deep and blue but so completely unmysterious, were gazing up at him, and in truth there was no way—simply no way—he could do anything in that moment
but
kiss her.

Anything else would have been a tragedy.

There was an art to kissing—he'd long known that, and he'd been told he was an expert. But this kiss, with this woman—the one time it should have been art, it was all breathless nerves, because never in his life had he wanted someone in quite the manner he wanted Miss Grace Eversleigh.

And never had he wanted quite so much to get it all right.

He couldn't scare her. He had to please her. He wanted her to want him, and he wanted her to want to
know
him. He wanted her to cling to him, to need him, to whisper in his ear that he was her hero and she'd never want to so much as breathe the air near another man.

He wanted to taste her. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to drink in whatever it was that made her
her,
and see if it would transform him into the man he sometimes thought he ought to be. In that moment she was his salvation.

And his temptation.

And everything in between.

“Grace,” he whispered, his voice brushing across her lips. “Grace,” he said again, because he loved saying it.

She moaned in response, a soft whimpering sound that told him everything he wanted to know.

He kissed her softly. Thoroughly. His lips and tongue found every corner of her soul, and then he wanted more.

“Grace,” he said again, his voice hoarser now. His hands slid around to her back, pressing her against him so he could feel her body as a part of the kiss. She was not corseted under her gown, and every lush curve became known to him, every warm contour. He wanted more than the shape of her, though. He wanted the taste, the smell, the touch.

The kiss was seduction.

And he was the one being seduced.

“Grace,” he said again, and this time she whispered—

“Jack.”

It was his undoing. The sound of his name on her lips, the single, soft syllable—it shot through him like no
Mr. Audley
ever could. His mouth grew urgent and he pressed her more tightly to his body, too far gone to care that he'd gone hard against her.

He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck, moving down to the hollow of her collarbone. One of his hands moved along the side of her rib cage, the pressure plumping her breast up until the upper curve was so close to his lips, so tantalizingly—

“No…”

It was more of a whisper than anything else, but still, she pushed him away.

He stared at her, his breath rushed and heavy. Her eyes were dazed, and her lips looked wet and well-kissed. His body was thrumming with need, and his eyes slid down to her belly, as if he could somehow see through the folds of her dress, down, down to the V where her legs met.

Whatever he'd been feeling just then—it tripled. Dear God, he hurt with it.

With a shuddering groan, he tore his gaze back up to her face. “Miss Eversleigh,” he said, since the moment called for
some
thing, and there was no way he was going to apologize. Not for something that good.

“Mr. Audley,” she replied, touching her lips.

And he realized, in a single blinding moment of pure terror, that everything he saw on her face, every stunned blink of her eyes—he felt it, too.

But no, that was impossible. He'd just met her, and beyond that, he did not
do
love. Amendment: he did
not do the heart-pounding, mind-fogging, overabundance of lust that was so often confused with love.

He loved women, of course. He liked them, too, which he was aware made him rather unique among men. He loved the way they moved, and he loved the sounds they made, whether they were melting in his arms or clucking their disapproval. He loved how each one smelled different, and how each moved differently, and how even so, there was something about them all as a group that seemed to brand them together.
I am woman
, the air around them seemed to say.
I am most definitely not you
.

And thank heavens for that.

But he had never loved a woman. And he did not have any inclination to do so. Attachments were messy things, given to all sorts of unpleasantries. He preferred to move from affaire to affaire. It fit his life—and his soul—much better.

He smiled. Just a little one. Exactly the sort one would expect from a man like him at a time like this. Perhaps with a little extra tilt in one corner. Just enough to lend some wry wit to his tone when he said, “You stepped into my room.”

She nodded, but the motion was so slow he couldn't be sure she even realized she was doing it. When she spoke, there was a certain dazedness to it, as if perhaps she was talking to herself. “I won't do it again.”

Now,
that
would be a tragedy. “I wish you would,” he said, offering her his most disarming smile. He reached out, and before she could guess his intentions, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It was
certainly,” he murmured, “the most pleasant welcome of my day here at Belgrave.”

He did not let go of her fingers as he added, “I very much enjoyed discussing that painting with you.”

It was true. He had always liked the smart women best.

“As did I,” she answered, and then she gave her hand a gentle tug, forcing him to relinquish his hold. She took a few steps toward the door, then paused, turning partway around as she said, “The collection here rivals any of the great museums.”

“I look forward to viewing it with you.”

“We shall begin in the gallery.”

He smiled. She was clever. But just before she reached the door, he called out, “Are there nudes?”

She froze.

“I was wondering,” he said innocently.

“There are,” she replied, but she did not turn around. He longed to see the color of her cheeks. Vermillion, or merely pink?

“In the gallery?” he asked, because surely it would be impolite to ignore his query. He wanted to see her face. One last time.

“Not in the gallery, no,” she said, and she did turn then. Just enough so he could see the sparkle in her eyes. “It is a portrait gallery.”

“I see.” He made his expression appropriately grave. “No nudes, then, please. I confess to a lack of desire to see Great-Grandfather Cavendish
au naturel
.”

Her lips pressed together, and he
knew
it was with humor, not disapproval. He wondered just what it
would take to nudge her further, to dislodge the laughter that was surely bubbling at the base of her throat.

“Or, good heavens,” he murmured, “the dowager.”

She sputtered at that.

He brought a hand to his forehead. “My eyes,” he moaned. “My eyes.”

And then, bloody hell, he missed it. She laughed. He was sure that she did, even though it was more of a choking sound than anything else. But he had his hand over his eyes.

“Good night, Mr. Audley.”

He returned his hand to its proper place at his side. “Good night, Miss Eversleigh.” And then—and he would have sworn he'd been prepared to allow her to depart—he heard himself call out, “Will I see you at breakfast?”

She paused, her hand on the outer doorknob. “I expect so, if you are an early riser.”

He absolutely was not.

“Absolutely I am.”

“It is the dowager's favorite meal,” she explained.

“Not the chocolate and the newspaper?” He wondered if he remembered everything she'd said that day. Quite possibly.

She shook her head. “That is at six. Breakfast is laid at seven.”

“In the breakfast room?”

“You know where it is, then?”

“Haven't a clue,” he admitted. “But it seemed a likely choice. Will you meet me here, to escort me down?”

“No,” she said, her voice dipping slightly with amusement (Or exasperation? He couldn't be sure), “but I will arrange to have someone else lead you there.”

“Pity.” He sighed. “It won't be the same.”

“I should hope not,” she said, slowly shutting the door between them. And then, through the wood, he heard, “I plan to send a footman.”

He laughed at that. He loved a woman with a sense of humor.

 

At precisely six the following morning, Grace entered the dowager's bedroom, holding the heavy door open for the maid who had followed her with the tray from the kitchen.

The dowager was awake, which was no great surprise. She always woke early, whether the summer sun was slipping in around the curtain edges, or the winter gloom hung heavy on the morning. Grace, on the other hand, would have gladly slept until noon if permitted. She'd taken to sleeping with her drapes open since her arrival at Belgrave—the better to let the sunlight batter her eyelids open every morning.

It didn't work very well, nor did the chiming clock she'd installed upon her bedside table years earlier. She thought she would have adapted to the dowager's schedule by this point, but apparently her inner timepiece was her one rebellion—the last little bit of her that refused to believe that she was, and forever would be, companion to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham.

All in all, it was a good thing she'd befriended the
housemaids. The dowager might have Grace to start her day, but Grace had the maids, who took turns each morning, slipping into her room and shaking her shoulder until she moaned, “Enough…”

How strange about Mr. Audley. She would never have pegged him for a morning person.

“Good morning, your grace,” Grace said, moving to the windows. She pulled open the heavy velvet curtains. It was overcast, with a light mist, but the sun seemed to be making a good effort. Perhaps the clouds would burn off by afternoon.

The dowager sat up straight against her pillows, queenly in her elaborately styled, domed canopy bed. She was nearly done with her series of morning exercises, which consisted of a flexing of the fingers, followed by a pointing of the toes, finishing with a twisting of her neck to the left and right. She never stretched it side to side, Grace had noticed. “My chocolate,” she said tersely.

“Right here, ma'am.” Grace moved to the desk, where the maid had left the tray before hurrying off. “Be careful, ma'am. It's hot.”

The dowager waited while Grace arranged the tray on her lap, then smoothed out the newspaper. It was only two days old (three was standard in this region) and had been neatly ironed by the butler.

“My reading glasses.”

They were already in Grace's hand.

The dowager perched them on the tip of her nose, taking a gingerly sip of her chocolate as she perused the paper. Grace sat in the straight-back chair by the
desk. It was not the most convenient location—the dowager was as demanding in the morning as she was the rest of the day, and would surely have her hopping up and down and across the room to her bed. But Grace was not permitted to actually sit
next
to the bed. The dowager complained that it felt as if Grace were trying to read over her shoulder.

Which was true, of course. Grace now had the newspaper transferred to her room once the dowager was through with it. It was still only two and a half days old when she read it, which was twelve hours better than anyone else in the district.

It was strange, really, the things that made one feel superior.

“Hmmm.”

Grace tilted her head but did not inquire. If she inquired, the dowager would never tell.

“There was a fire at Howath Hall,” the dowager said.

Grace was not certain where that was. “I do hope no one was injured.”

The dowager read a few more lines, then answered, “Just a footman. And two maids.” And then a moment later: “The dog perished. Oh my, that
is
a shame.”

Grace did not comment. She did not trust herself to engage in early morning conversations until she'd had her own cup of chocolate, which she was generally not able to do until breakfast at seven.

Her stomach rumbled at the thought. For someone who detested mornings as she did, she'd come to adore breakfast fare. If they could only serve kippers
and eggs for supper each evening, she'd have been in heaven.

She glanced at the clock. Only fifty-five more minutes. She wondered if Mr. Audley was awake.

Probably. Morning people never awoke with only ten minutes to spare before breakfast.

She wondered what he looked like, all sleepy and rumpled.

“Is something wrong, Miss Eversleigh?” the dowager sharply inquired.

Grace blinked. “Wrong, ma'am?”

“You…
chirped
.” She said this with considerable distaste, as if handling something with a particularly foul smell.

“I'm so sorry, ma'am,” Grace said quickly, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. She could feel her cheeks growing warm, and she had a feeling that even in the morning light
and
with the dowager's diminished vision, her blush would be clearly visible.

Really, she should not be imagining Mr. Audley, and especially not in any state of dishabille. Heaven only knew what sorts of inappropriate sounds she would make the next time.

But he
was
handsome. Even when all she'd seen of him was the lower half of his face and his mask, that much had been clear. His lips were the sort that always held a touch of humor. She wondered if he even knew how to frown. And his eyes…Well, she hadn't been able to see those that first night, and that was almost certainly a good thing. She'd never seen anything quite so emerald. They far outshone the dowager's emeralds,
which, Grace was still chagrined to remember, she'd risked her life (in theory, at least) to keep safe.