by Gill, Tamara
Chapter 4
Clara stood and walked to the window, watching as Mr. Grant gained his mount and cantered off down the drive. She told herself it was because she wanted to ensure he left her lands, hadn’t loitered about and managed to stay longer than he needed to. It wasn’t, however, why she was staying where she was in the library, staring after him as his bottom sat snug in his saddle, his back ramrod straight as if he’d been riding his whole life, not only a few years.
He looked very well indeed on the back of a horse. She mumbled words no lady should know and turned back to her father. “It’s started to rain. I think Mr. Grant will be soaked through by the time he arrives home.”
Her father glanced up at her, a biscuit with jam on top partway to his mouth. “Mr. Grant was here? Why did he not come and see me? I like that fellow, good chap. We should invite him ’round for dinner one evening.”
Clara nodded, biting back the sting of tears at her father’s words. She looked back out the window and the rain that was falling much heavier, torrential even. A flash of light blazed outside the window followed by a boom of thunder that made her jump.
The thought of Mr. Grant out in this weather was not a pleasant thought, no matter how much they did not get along, how much they disliked each other’s company. Mr. Grant out in this storm was dangerous. He could be hit by lightning or his horse could bolt with fright and leave him injured, or worse, dead in a ditch.
“Mr. Grant has just left, Papa, and the weather has turned terribly dangerous.”
He joined her at the window, taking in the weather just as another flash of light and boom of thunder rattled the panes.
“Let us hope he returns home without injury. We’ll send a stable hand over later today to ensure his safe arrival.”
And just like that he was back again, his eyes clear of confusion. She bit her lip, wishing she knew what it was that ailed him so she may try to cure him of the disease.
“I think that would be best. I’ll go and send word now to the stables. You may wish to ready yourself for luncheon, Papa. We’ll be dining in an hour.”
Clara walked from the room, and after telling the butler to send word to the stable, she was walking through the foyer about to head upstairs to change for lunch when the front door burst open and Mr. Grant stumbled in, water dripping from him as if he’d partaken in a swim since he’d left. He glanced at her, holding out his arms as if to stop his clothing from touching his sides.
“I do apologize, Lady Clara, but the causeway is flooded. It seems the storm hit upstream prior to hitting us here and I cannot make my way home.”
Which was true, the Duke of Law’s estate was in effect on a small island, surrounded by a river that when flooded made one housebound. She turned to the footman who looked at Mr. Grant with annoyance that he was making a mess on the floor.
“Have the blue room prepared for Mr. Grant, and tell Mrs. Pennell there will be three for both lunch and dinner today.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Follow me, Mr. Grant. I’ll show you the room. The chambermaid will be up shortly to place fresh linens on the bed.” Clara walked up the staircase, fully aware of the tall, dripping-wet man behind her. Her skin prickled in awareness and she had the oddest sense that he was staring at her neck. The urge to run her hand across her nape assailed her, but she did not. Not for a moment did she want him imagining he had any effect on her whatsoever.
For he did not, nor would he ever have.
She turned toward the guest wing of the house, pointing out rooms that he may wish to use should he need solitude. “With the river flooding you’ll be here for some days. It’s quite deep and rises quickly, but unfortunately does not go down as rapidly.”
She opened a door halfway down the passage, swinging it wide. “This will be your room. It has a lovely view of the maze and has a desk, not that you’ll be able to correspond with anyone at present, but even so…” What was she saying? She was blabbering like a nincompoop. “There is a dressing room through there,” she said, pointing to a connecting door. “You may change in there. I’ll have Papa’s valet find something to fit you and bring it in.”
He threw her a tentative smile, running a hand through his thick, brown hair, pushing it off his face and for the first time in all the years she’d known Mr. Grant her stomach fluttered. “I’ll instruct the maid to light the fire for you also. Is there anything else that you will need?” she asked with a sharp edge to her voice, annoyed to have reacted to him in such a manner.
He wiped a drop of water off his chin with the back of his hand and again her attention was seized. “No, thank you, Lady Clara. You’re more than generous.”
She turned without answer and walked from the room, before pausing at the threshold. “Well, I cannot have you stay in the stable. Father would never allow it.” Clara walked away as fast as she could from the flash of disappointment she read in Mr. Grant’s eyes at her words. She would not under any circumstance feel anything for him but contempt. He’d been rude and impolite to her during her first Season, which was unforgivable. That his sister stole her intended wasn’t to be borne.
He was never your betrothed…in fact he never showed you that much interest.
She ignored the voice of reason and went downstairs to ensure everything was put in order for Mr. Grant before heading to her room where she found to her dismay that the rain had only grown stronger and now the wind had picked up. A day or two of Mr. Grant being at Chidding Hall may end up being a week.
Oh, however would she bear it?
The following day Stephen sat in the upstairs parlor reading a book that the Duke had given him on the property he now leased. It was an interesting read and gave him more of an insight to his brother-in-law, the Marquess Graham, and his family on his grandmother’s side.
The Duke seemed quite well today, bright and alert, and he was hopeful that maybe he would remain so, but after what Lady Clara had explained about his illness he doubted his day of clarity would last.
The door opened and a maid walked in, a few logs of wood in her arms. He stood, coming to her to take them. “Here, let me help you, miss.”
She pulled them away, horror written on her face. “Oh no, my lord. I could not have you do that. I won’t be a moment and I’ll leave you in peace once again.”
Stephen shook his head. “No, I insist. They look too heavy for you.” He took them from her, surprised just how heavy they were when he grabbed them. He threw a couple of logs onto the fire before placing the others in the wood bin at the side of the fireplace. “I’m not a lord, merely Mr. Stephen Grant at your service.”
The young maid grinned, a light blush stealing over her cheeks and he smiled in return. She was a pretty woman and the type of woman he’d always thought to marry one day. Before his sisters had married so very well and placed him in a precarious position. Related to people of high rank and yet without the funds to support such a lifestyle himself was oftentimes looked on with ridicule and pity. It was fortunate his brother-in-law was so very wealthy and could afford to lease him Ashby Cottage for a fraction of its worth.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grant. I’m Miss Daphne Smith.”
The door opened and Lady Clara walked in. Her steps halted at the sight of them close before the fire and close enough to each other that to anyone it would look like a private tête-à-tête was at play.
She raised her brow and he knew what she was thinking. The chiding look she gave to Daphne was easy to read and the maid bobbed a quick curtsy before all but running from the room.
Stephen stared at Lady Clara in return and waited for the little minx to say something about his conduct.
She came farther into the room and sat over by the window, picking up a small basket he’d not seen there before, and pulling out a cushion that looked half completed along with needle and thread. “Cavorting with the help. I wondered how long it would be before you made trouble with one of our maids.”
He
sat, staring at the flames and counting to five before he answered, or stood and strangled the woman. “I was not cavorting, as you term it. I helped her with the wood for the fire and introduced myself. Had you found me making a beast with two backs you may have an issue to discuss.”
She gasped, her needlework halted in her hands. “Have you forgotten whom you’re speaking to? That rough, uneducated speech is not appropriate for a Duke’s daughter. Mind your manners, Mr. Grant.”
“Mind your own manners.” He glared at the flames, his hands flexing in his lap. Out his peripheral vision he noticed she stood, hands on hips and he ground his teeth. Now he was in for a tongue-lashing.
“I do not need to mind my own manners, sir. I know very well what is expected of me and how to go about in this life. You will never see me cavorting with a footman or giving the staff hope of an understanding that is beyond their reach and too beneath mine. From when I was very little, Father has reminded me of my duty, of whom I should marry and why.
“You’re now the brother of a marchioness and countess, being such one would think that you too would understand your limits. Not to mention you’re a guest in someone else’s home and should conduct yourself with respect and propriety. Seeing you with our maid does concern me as to how you get on in London at your sister’s home.”
Stephen stood, storming over to where Lady Clara waited near the window. Her eyes blazed with annoyance and something else he could not make out. Even so, he was glad she was mad, for it only matched his own ire.
“You have a sharp tongue. One day, Lady Clara, someone will tell you to keep it still in that pretty mouth of yours.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a pretty little O. He clenched his jaw, willing himself not to look at her lips. Don’t do it, man, you’ll regret it a voice warned.
“And you, Mr. Grant should decide to which social sphere you wish to belong. This one you’re now circulating in or the one you’ll find below stairs.”
“Jealous I was not talking to you instead of the maid? Maybe if I complimented your gown more often, or asked you to dance you would not be so bitter toward me.”
She scoffed at his words but her cheeks pinkened, making her even more alluring than normal. When she was angry, she was like a hellcat protecting its kittens and he found it extremely alluring. “To be jealous one has to have emotions involved. When it comes to you, Mr. Grant, I do believe you think too highly of yourself. I do not care what you do outside of these walls, but in this house, you’ll keep your hands off my staff.”
“Has anyone ever told you how pompous you are? How judgmental and belittling you can be to those who are not of your rank? Do not forget the people belowstairs that you find so beneath your notice keep this house running and everyone in it fed, clothed and warm. What do you do, Lady Clara?” He accentuated her name, wanting to add a little sarcasm to his words.
Vexing chit!
“I pay their wage, that’s what I do, Mr. Grant, which is more than you can say for yourself.”
He took some calming breaths through his nose, sure he was breathing fire. How dare she, but then, how dare he? He was being unapologetically rude and he would not be surprised if she did make him sleep out in the stables.
“Really? Or does your father pay their wage?”
“I do, Mr. Grant,” she retorted hotly. “My father no longer controls the finances or running of the estates. That has fallen to me and our steward since his health has declined.”
The reminder that her father was ill, that she had multiple stresses on her small shoulders shamed him. He stepped back, turning away. “I think, Lady Clara, that we should part ways before any more is spoken and if at all possible, start our acquaintance again. I apologize for my conduct here this morning.”
“Apology not accepted. You think me judgmental, and you too judge me and my friends. I’ve seen you in town, laughing, throwing us mocking looks whenever the chance arose. Do not think for a minute that I do not remember how rude you were to me in Hyde Park several years ago.”
He scoffed. “I was rude. You were throwing yourself at my sister’s husband. Do you think I would sit by and watch you shame her so? I will never allow anyone to treat my siblings such, not even a duke’s daughter who was angry because the Marquess had not picked her.”
“He had not picked your sister either, if I recall correctly.” She stepped closer to him, the breath of her words fanning his ire even more. “Am I wrong, Mr. Grant? Was he not found in her room by mistake?”
“That is beside the point,” he mumbled, knowing she spoke the truth. “Their marriage is a love match and a happy union. You shall not speak of Louise again. I’ll not stand for it.”
She laughed mockingly. “You will not stand for it. Really? And if I do, what do you plan to do? Chide me like a child?”
Right at this moment a good slap on her ass would do him a world of good. The thought of touching her derriere pulled him up short and he ran a hand over his jaw. He didn’t want to touch her any more than she wanted to touch him. Did he?
“Take my words as the truth that they are. I’ll not stand for you saying another word about my sisters.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she glared at him as if he were the worst creature in England. Their breathing was ragged, and Stephen’s attention snapped to her bosom that rose and fell with each of her breaths. He cursed the ample delights that sat nestled in her gown. She was not for him to ogle or think about in any other way than the annoying, rude Lady Clara that he’d forever dislike. Not for a moment would he think her strong-willed, defiant, beautiful…
“You do not tell me what to do. Ever.” The last word accentuated with a step closer to his person, almost putting her breast-to-chest against him.
He did not move away, nor did she seem to realize just how close they were. He glared down at her plump mouth, pulled into a mocking smirk and something inside him snapped. She seemed to sense a change in him and her eyes widened, but still she did not scuttle away. Nor did he want her to. In fact, right at this moment all he could think about was kissing her within an inch of her life. Taking the maddening wench in his arms and seeing if her fire burned as bright in his arms as it did out of it.
Stephen reached for her, wrenching her from the short space that separated them and kissed her. His hand spiked into her soft curls and at her gasp, he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue against hers. She softened in his hold, her hands, tentative at first, clasped his shoulders before slipping about his neck.
She tasted like sweet tea and sin and he ravaged her mouth, punished her for being so obstinate and alluring at the same time. Punished her for all the times he’d been on the receiving end of her wicked lips while drawing him ever closer. His body hardened and he hoisted her a little off her feet, holding her against his person. She melted against him, her body undulating against his and he hardened at the satisfied moan she expelled.
Footsteps sounded in the passage and they wrenched apart, putting much-needed distance between them.
“Ah, here you both are. I’ve been outside and the rain does not seem to want to relent.” The Duke walked over to the window, staring out at the weather. “No, my opinion on this is correct. The rain is here to stay. You may be stuck with us, Mr. Grant, for several days at this point.”
Lady Clara moved over to the window and picked up her sewing. Her lips were swollen and there was a pretty rose hue on her cheeks that he’d placed there. For a moment Stephen couldn’t move. That kiss. Shit! He had not meant for that to happen, but now that it had, all he could think about was why the hell had the Duke picked that particular time to interrupt.
He inwardly groaned. For all that was holy, he needed help if he were thinking about Lady Clara Quinton in a romantic light. “I think you may be right, your Grace,” he said, joining him at the window and looking out on the weather. “I hope you do not mind. My stay here was not purposefully done.”
The Duke chuckled, waving his concerns away ju
st as a muffled voice from behind him said, “I mind and the sooner you’re gone the better.”
He ignored her remark, making a note to take it up with her later. Or perhaps not. If he were tempted to kiss her again when they were alone it would probably be best if he stayed as far away from Lady Clara as much as possible until he could leave. If there was one thing he would promise himself, it would be to stay the hell away from her and the temptation she oozed.
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.”
