Damn it all, the pain was unbearable, worse even than when he’d learned of her engagement. He wanted to hurt her back.
“No, once was enough for me.” She flinched—good. “I came just for old time’s sake, you know. To scratch an itch—see what I’d been missing. I’ve satisfied my curiosity, thank you. I’ve no need to repeat the experience.”
He made himself climb out of the bed when he wanted to fling himself out. He ignored her shocked expression as he pulled on his clothes. Even knowing she didn’t have a functioning heart, it hurt him to hurt her. He was most definitely an idiot.
He went out the window in a blur of agony. He was never going to speak—he was never going to see—Lady Oxbury again.
Chapter 9
“Where is your uncle?”
Lord Dawson choked on a mouthful of champagne. He muffled his coughing with his handkerchief as he peered around a pillar to locate the source of the hissing. Lady Grace Belmont glared at him.
Damn. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. She was so beautiful—so…vivid. She made all the other girls back in Easthaven’s ballroom fade completely from his thoughts—not that any of the insipid misses had managed to find a foothold in his brain box anyway.
Grace was looking especially alluring tonight in a green dress with a deeply plunging neck that admirably emphasized her very large, very lovely—
Her fan appeared to block his gaze. A pity, but just as well. He could not allow himself to be seduced. He was not in charity with her at the moment. He sent that thought directly, with emphasis, to his most argumentative organ.
He might never be in charity with her again. He’d come tonight with the firm resolve to put her behind him and start his bloody matrimonial hunt all over. He was just having one more glass of champagne here in the refreshment room before venturing back into the terpsichorean fray.
“And a very good evening to you, too, Lady Grace.”
Her frown deepened—she had detected his sarcasm. Not surprising; it had been thick enough for the most obtuse member of the ton to perceive—and Grace was not obtuse.
Damn. He would not think of Alvord’s garden and the way her expression had softened when he’d mentioned his mother. So the woman had a heart, unlike her father. Most women had hearts…though not encased in such lovely, sumptuous packaging.
There, it was much easier to tame lust than…another emotion.
Grace thrust her jaw forward. “I asked you a question, my lord.”
“Did you? Then perhaps you noticed I did not answer it.”
He thought for a moment she would haul off and punch him. No ladylike slapping for his—
No, not his. Never his. He could not marry her; he could never marry a woman so closely related to the female who’d wounded Alex. He didn’t know the details, of course. Alex hadn’t said. Alex wouldn’t talk, but the look in his eyes the morning after Alvord’s ball when he’d left London had spoken more eloquently than any words. David hadn’t seen that look since Grandda and Grandmamma had died. Something—someone—had hurt Alex deeply.
Lady Oxbury.
It could not be a coincidence Alex had left Town the morning after he’d spent the entire night…where? David would wager his estate Alex had been with Grace’s aunt. The woman was as cruel as her brother, Standen.
Was Grace that cruel as well?
No. That he couldn’t believe. Grace had been only kind to him—
Blast it, was he flushing?
“Don’t be a complete ass.” Grace was still hissing like a snake. “We have to talk. Your uncle has hurt Aunt Kate horribly.”
He almost dropped his champagne glass. “My uncle has injured your aunt?” He pressed his lips together. He was close to shouting. Two elderly women—Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth and Mrs. Fallwell—stopped their conversation to look at him. He forced himself to smile politely until they moved off, then adopted his own serpent-like sibilance. “Are you insane?”
“I most certainly am not. I—”
“Here is your lemonade, Lady Grace.”
They both turned to stare at the new arrival. Mr. Belham was not a feast for anyone’s eyes. His face was all nose. He had no chin to speak of, and his eyes were small and sadly dwarfed by his overwhelming snout.
Grace snatched the glass from Mr. Belham’s hand.
“Thank you, sir. If you will excuse me now, I have matters of importance to discuss with Lord Dawson.”
Mr. Belham’s small chin dropped.
“Go on.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “You are very much in the way here. Go back to the ballroom and ask some poor miss to stand up with you.”
“Ah.” Mr. Belham’s tiny eyes almost started from his head. “Er, yes. Of course. I’ll just be on my way then.”
“Splendid. Do enjoy yourself.” Grace turned back to Baron Dawson as Mr. Belham stumbled out of the refreshment room. She was delighted to get rid of the annoying little man. He would never have trapped her into accompanying him if she’d had all her wits about her. But she’d been looking for Lord Dawson and so had missed Mr. Belham’s approach.
It was just as well. The man had helped her find her quarry—her very angry quarry. What reason had he to be in such high dudgeon? It was her aunt who was suffering.
She looked up at him, and her heart stuttered. He was so large and so incredibly handsome, even with a pronounced scowl twisting his features.
When Papa got so angry, she always tried to placate him, even while her own anger twisted in her gut. She felt like a dog with its tail between its legs, cowering from the blows of his harsh words. She never argued with him, never defied him. The only time she’d ever let him see her temper was when she’d decided to come on this trip to London. Even then he hadn’t believed she’d actually go until she was seated in the carriage with the steps up and the door closed.
But she didn’t feel like cowering before Lord Dawson. No, she felt like going at him hammer and tongs. Instead of anger or fear, she felt an odd thrill, a shiver of excitement. She wasn’t at all worried he would hurt her verbally or physically. Rather, she thought they would…after a healthy argument they would…
Of course they wouldn’t! She ducked her head and took a sip of her drink.
David smiled slightly. After riding roughshod over Belham, was his—no, not his—was the lady suddenly turning shy? It really was unfortunate he could not pursue her—she was such an enticing mix of fire and diffidence.
It was so damn good to see her. He should be furious—he was furious—but he was also bloody delighted to be standing just inches from her.
“Lemonade, Grace?”
She flushed. “I find champagne does not agree with me.”
“Shot the cat, did you?” He’d wondered if she’d had too much to drink at Alvord’s ball.
She shot him a very quelling look. “You could have prevented me from consuming so many glasses.”
“If you’ll remember, I did try to dissuade you, but you insisted you would be fine, that you had drunk champagne before.”
“And I had. Just not in that quantity, apparently.” Grace shuddered slightly. “Well, it will not happen again. I am foreswearing the drink for as long as I live.”
“Oh, I hardly think you need to take so extreme a course.”
“You were not the one emptying—well, enough of that. As I said, Lord Dawson, we need to talk. It is vitally important.” She glanced around the room, her eyes pausing when they touched upon Lady Amanda and Mrs. Fallwell. “Somewhere more private, I believe.”
“You are not afraid to be private with me?” He was teasing her now. He couldn’t help it. He’d work on being angry later, when he didn’t have her enticing, lovely, lush, wonderful body before him—and her delightfully prickly personality. Now he couldn’t help but be happy, couldn’t keep lo…lust from blooming in his…heart.
And what if Grace had something truly important to say? Then perhaps he wouldn’t have to be angry at all. He could just be…hmm.
In a nice private location.
Grace flushed, her eyes wavering slightly before she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and gave him a scornful look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m certain your poor male mind can focus on something other than seduction for a few minutes.”
He coughed. Poor, naïve girl.
She put her hand on his arm and tugged. “Come. Let’s find a place where we can have a serious discussion.”
“Very well.” He nodded at Lady Amanda and Mrs. Fallwell as he walked past them. The ladies nodded back, their eyes gleaming with suspicion.
He should not go with Grace. He was opening himself to malicious gossip. It would not help his matrimonial prospects. He wanted an unexceptional bride, didn’t he? Going off into a private room with another woman would certainly compromise that goal.
And yet…Gossip be damned. He didn’t really want an unexceptional bride—he wanted Grace. If Grace had a rational explanation for whatever had transpired between Lady Oxbury and Alex, he wanted to hear it.
She peered into a small room and nodded. “This should suit.” She pulled him over the threshold and shut the door.
“Aren’t you being a bit indiscreet, Lady Grace?” Not that he was complaining. The room was hardly more than a closet. There was a single, uncomfortable-looking chair, a small table, and a bookshelf with excruciatingly boring titles such as A Discourse on Crop Rotation and Some Thoughts on the Topic of Sheep Shearing. It must be the room where unwelcome guests were deposited.
The limited space meant he had to stand very, very close to Grace.
“Aren’t you being a bit idiotic, Lord Dawson? As I said, we have a serious issue to discuss. Are your animal instincts so strong you cannot control them long enough for rational discourse?” Grace hoped her voice didn’t waver. This room was smaller than she’d thought—and Lord Dawson was so large. He filled the space rather alarmingly.
David confined himself to a noncommittal grunt. The air was rapidly filling with Grace’s scent, a mix of soap and lemon and…Grace. His animal instincts were urging him to engage in some truly idiotic behavior. Frustration made his voice harsher than he intended. “Get to your point, Lady Grace.”
“Very well.” Grace pulled her thoughts away from Lord Dawson’s shoulders and pointed her fan at him. “Something is seriously amiss with my aunt, and I firmly believe your uncle is the cause.”
David crossed his arms to keep from grabbing Grace and pulling her against him. “Can you be more specific?”
“Yes, I can. I will grant you my powers of observation the night of the Alvord ball”—Grace flushed—“were not at their sharpest, but I would swear my aunt and your uncle were getting along famously. Remember their waltz?” How could anyone forget? Watching them had been extremely disconcerting. Had she and Lord Dawson looked so scandalous when they’d been waltzing?
Grace shivered slightly. She had certainly felt scandalous. Well, not scandalous precisely. She hadn’t been giving their appearance one second’s thought. She’d been too busy feeling, enjoying having Lord Dawson’s arms about her and his chest so close…
She unfurled her fan and plied it vigorously. It was very warm in this tiny room.
David nodded. He, too, had thought all was well with Alex and Lady Oxbury when they were waltzing. Extremely well, if Alex’s woolgathering on the walk back to Dawson House was any indication. The problem must have occurred later.
“Aunt Kate was very distracted on the ride home,” Lady Grace was saying. “Almost agitated. But the next morning she was different. She was still agitated, but, well—”
Grace frowned, idly tapping her fan against her hand in thought. David contemplated that movement. She just happened to be holding her fan near her lovely breas—dress. Her lovely dress that so delightfully revealed her large, well-shaped—
Focus. He needed to focus on the question at hand—not the lovely—the things he would most like to have in hand. If he and Lady Grace could mend the rift between her aunt and his uncle—if it were indeed just some silly misunderstanding—he would be free to lust after Grace again with a clear conscience. That would make him very, very happy.
“Pay attention, Lord Dawson.” Grace poked him with her fan; he forced himself to look at her eyes, not her…right, not her, hmm. She had very nice eyes, too. Green with flecks of brown and yellow.
“Aunt Kate has periods when she is pleasantly bemused. I’ll be talking to her and realize her thoughts are miles away. She’ll just stare off into space, with this funny, dreamy sort of smile. Other times I’ll come upon her and it’s clear she’s been crying. Whenever we’re out in society, she keeps glancing around as if she’s looking for someone. And then when we saw you here alone, she turned white as a ghost.”
David wanted to ask if she had been looking for him, but he stopped himself in time.
Grace frowned. “I think your uncle must have come by Oxbury House after the ball. Someone was throwing pebbles at Aunt Kate’s window, though how Mr. Wilton knew which window was my aunt’s…” Grace shrugged, causing her lovely shoulders—and, well, other things—to move delightfully. “But who else could it have been? And they must have spoken, don’t you think?”
He grunted. He’d wager they’d done a lot more than speak. Alex would not have looked so stricken—would not have fled London—if he’d simply engaged in conversation.
Grace poked him with her fan again. “So, my lord, tell me where your blasted uncle is.”
He pushed her fan aside and stepped back—as far as the tiny room would allow him. “Home at Clifton Hall.”
Grace gaped at him. “What? He’s left London entirely?”
“I’ve just said so, haven’t I?”
“But that’s ridiculous. How could he have done such a thing?” She brandished her fan, but he caught it and took it away from her. He was tired of being poked.
“Very easily. He packed a bag and saddled his horse. I sent the rest of his gear along later.”
“Later? How long has he been gone?”
What harm could there be in telling her? “He left the morning after Alvord’s ball.”
She snapped her jaw shut. “I knew it! The man is a rake, a rogue, a…a complete scoundrel.”
How dare she say such things about Alex? For once the passion he felt had nothing to do with lust. “If you were a man, Lady Grace, you would be naming your seconds.”
Grace bit her lip. Lord Dawson had stiffened up like a poker. She could tell he was going to storm out of this little room at any moment, all high in the instep.
Well, she was angry, too, but that wasn’t going to solve Aunt Kate’s problems. She needed to calm down and calm this glowering man down as well.
She held up a hand—and then two as Lord Dawson approached her, clearly intent on getting to the door as quickly as possible. She pushed against his chest. He would have to knock her down to get out—which was beginning to look like a distinct possibility. He grabbed her hands as if he would remove two cockroaches bold enough to sully his person.
“Lord Dawson, storming off like this will do no good.” He was not listening to her. He’d already discarded her hands and was stepping around her. She lunged and grabbed his lapels. “My lord, wait. I apologize. I spoke in haste. I retract, most humbly, my comments about your uncle.”
He finally paused. He was still looking at her as if she were the lowest class of vermin, but at least he was looking at her.
She loosened her grasp, smoothing his lapels where she’d wrinkled them—but she was careful to keep her body between him and the door.
“Let’s be rational. I love my aunt, and you love”—He was glaring at her again. Apparently “love” was not a manly enough word to use—“hold your uncle in high esteem.” Better. Lord Dawson relaxed, at least slightly. “I’m sure we both want them to be happy.” He nodded. Good.
“It also seems clear they cannot address the problem, whatever it is, dispassionately.”
He snorted at that. “Blood
y right.” He grimaced. “Pardon my language.”
She waved her hand. “Please, don’t refine on it.” He was talking to her, which was all that mattered at the moment. “It’s equally clear to me that your uncle’s chosen method of dealing with the issue”—Lord Dawson straightened, his face darkening. Oh, dear, she was going to lose him—“which is perfectly understandable”—he softened slightly—“will not result in a satisfactory solution.”
“I don’t see what is unsatisfactory about it.”
Grace kept herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely. Of course he didn’t see the problem—he was a man, and most men were completely blind to the many emotional facets of an issue. They saw only the one side that was right under their nose. Look at her father—no, she would prefer not to look at him.
“Is your uncle happy, Lord Dawson?”
He frowned. “Well…no.”
“Has he been happy—really happy—recently, or for as long as you can remember?”
“N-no.”
“Does his unhappiness have something to do with my aunt?”
“Damn right, it bloody well does.”
“Exactly. So how will hiding away on his estate make him happy?”
“He is not hiding.”
She could argue with that, but she did not care to get into a spitting match with the baron. His lowered brows and set chin did not bespeak an open, conciliatory mind. “Well, perhaps not. Yet don’t you agree that while leaving London allows him to avoid whatever—”
Lord Dawson snorted and raised a very obnoxious eyebrow.
“—all right, whoever is causing his pain, it won’t make the pain go away. He has to address the root of the problem. He needs to meet with my aunt—”
“He did meet with your aunt. I believe it was that meeting that sent him back to Clifton Hall.”
“Pardon me, my lord, I mean no disrespect, but that’s ridiculous! How could a conversation, a short conversation, carried on between my aunt in her room and your uncle outside—are you all right?” The man had turned red and was making a choking noise.
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