Could she be increasing? After all those years with Oxbury, month after month of disappointment…
Marie must be wrong.
But her courses were over a week late and they were never late. And she’d never felt this way before—so tired and…odd.
It could be the strain of coming to Town, couldn’t it, and of seeing Alex again?
Alex. She had done much more than see him. She had tasted him and touched him and felt him deep inside her…
Dear God. She must be increasing.
She grabbed hold of the banister before she pitched down the stairs. If she fell, she might hurt the baby.
The baby…ohh.
“Are you all right, Aunt Kate?”
“Wha—?” Grace was standing next to her. Where had she come from? “Yes. No. Ah.”
Grace and Hermes stared at her.
“Perhaps you’re sickening.” Grace laid her hand on Kate’s arm. “I was worried when you slept so late, but maybe…do you think you need to go back to bed? I’ll take Hermes out for you.”
Going back to her room, pulling the covers over her head, hiding from…No, that would do no good. Even if she hid in her room for all nine months, she’d still have a baby at the end…
Dear God, a baby! How was she going to tell Alex? Marie was right. He deserved to know. But the man was forty-five years old. He could not want a child. And she’d promised him she was barren before he’d even ventured into her bed. Would he think she’d lied to him intentionally? He thought she’d lied about her engagement to Oxbury.
This wasn’t the sort of news one put in a letter. She should tell him face to face—but he had left London.
And if Marie knew Alex was the father, would all the ton guess as well?
She wet her lips and swallowed. “N-no. It will do me good to get out, I’m sure.”
Grace was still frowning at her. “Why don’t I accompany you then? You still look pale.”
“All right. Yes. That would be fine. Delightful.”
“Let me just go get my bonnet. Wait for me in the entry hall, all right?”
Kate nodded. Grace gave her another worried look and then hurried to her room. Kate stumbled down the stairs.
Sykes was standing by the hall table. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sykes.” She clutched Hermes’s leash more tightly. Mr. Sykes looked unpleasantly serious. Surely he didn’t know about the scandalous state of her womb? “Do you have something to say?”
Sykes let out a gusty, rather depressing sigh. “Unfortunately I do, my lady. The new Lord Oxbury has sent word he is coming up to Town. He should be arriving shortly. I’m sure you understand, but the staff will need to move you and Lady Grace to other accommodations as Lord Oxbury”—Sykes swallowed as if he’d just had to down a draught of extremely nasty medicine—“will expect to be occupying the master suite.”
“Of course, Mr. Sykes. I understand completely.” Dear heavens! The situation had just got horribly worse. Why was the Weasel coming to Town? He was certain to note the moment her waist got half an inch larger—though he shouldn’t care. Oxbury had been dead over a year. There was no chance anyone would think the baby legitimate.
She let herself down slowly onto a handy chair.
If she didn’t marry, her baby would be a bastard.
“My lady, are you feeling quite the thing?”
She couldn’t meet Sykes’s eyes—she merely nodded and waved a hand in his direction. Hermes came over and put his paws on her knees, barking and waving his tail in an encouraging fashion.
He was a dog. He did not understand the depths of her despair.
What would the Weasel do when he discovered she was increasing? Would he throw her out into the street?
Of course, she was forty years old. It was possible she would miscarry…She put a protective hand over her middle. She didn’t want any harm to come to her baby—hers and Alex’s.
She sniffed and searched for her handkerchief.
“Lady Grace, please, look to Lady Oxbury,” she heard Sykes say. “I fear she is unwell.”
“Aunt Kate.” Grace put a hand on her shoulder and bent to look searchingly into her face. Kate focused on Hermes. “Are you certain you’re all right?” She dropped her voice. “Is it that time of month, perhaps?”
Kate’s head shot up. That time of month? She began to laugh, she feared a touch hysterically. “No. It’s not. Definitely not.”
Grace stepped back, looking hurt. Thankfully, Sykes—probably assuming her malaise was a female complaint—had taken himself off.
“I sometimes get weepy at that time,” Grace said.
Kate stood. She had to get out of this house and into the park, into the open, the fresh air. She had to get a grip on her emotions. “Yes, I know. I thank you for your concern, it’s just…” She let out a long breath. What could she say? “Mr. Sykes just told me the Weasel is coming to London.”
“Oh.” Grace grimaced. “I see why you might be crying.”
“Yes, well, I am better now, and Hermes has been very patient. Shall we go?”
“Did you see Miss Hamilton dancing with Mr. Dunlap at the ball last night? Or, more to the point, did you see the Duke of Alvord watching Miss Hamilton dancing?” Grace was grasping for conversational straws. This was her fifth attempt; if she met with as little success this time as she had with her previous efforts, she was going to give up and just sit quietly on the park bench next to Aunt Kate watching Hermes chase squirrels.
“Hmm?” Aunt Kate fiddled with Hermes’s leash and stared off into space.
“Alvord did not look at all happy—not that I blame him. I had one set with Mr. Dunlap. I grant you, he’s very handsome, but…well, I found him unsettling. He reminds me of a rotten apple—big and red on the outside, but brown and soft and nasty on the inside.”
“If the apples are rotten, tell cook to throw them away.”
Grace rolled her eyes. It was hopeless.
Hermes, barking maniacally, dashed after another squirrel. This one scampered back toward Oxbury House and dove into some large, dense bushes. Hermes followed in hot pursuit.
Grace jiggled her foot; Aunt Kate frowned at Hermes’s leash.
Hermes’s barking faded.
“I think I’ll go see what happened to Hermes, Aunt Kate.”
Aunt Kate did not reply—she probably hadn’t even heard. She was sniffing again and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
Something was seriously wrong.
“I’ll be right back.” Grace spoke a little louder. Aunt Kate nodded and blew her nose.
Grace strode across the lawn. What could be the problem? Aunt Kate had been fine last night. Well, not fine. A little sad—she’d been sad ever since Mr. Wilton had left London—and tired, but not the watering pot she was this afternoon.
She reached the bushes. She was not going to plunge into the greenery. “Hermes?” No response. The stupid dog. Where had he got to? Surely Hermes had the sense to turn around and come back once the squirrel took to the trees. She walked around the shrubbery—
“Oof!” Her stomach collided with a masculine shoulder. A masculine hand shot out to grab her hip.
Her heart flew into her throat; she opened her mouth to scream—and then saw who was crouching in front of her.
Lord Dawson.
Oh. Her heart paused, took stock of the situation, and changed from the rapid tattoo of panic to the slow thud of something else entirely. It dropped from her throat to her stomach. Lower even. To…She flushed.
The last time she’d seen Lord Dawson, they’d been standing very, very close together in Lord Easthaven’s tiny waiting room. He had been on the verge of kissing her. If only Aunt Kate had not arrived at precisely that moment—
No. It was very good Aunt Kate had arrived. If she hadn’t, who knows what might have happened.
A little shiver ran up Grace’s spine. She knew what would have happened—exactly what had happened in the Duk
e of Alvord’s garden.
She should not be hoping for a recurrence of such activities, but part of her was—the odd, daring, hoyden part that had emerged when she’d defied Papa to come to London and which was insisting she gain a few adventures during her stay. The other part—the dutiful daughter, the well-bred lady of quality—was suitably shocked by her behavior.
She pushed the prim Grace to the back of her consciousness.
Lord Dawson was looking up at her now. Well, not looking up precisely. Looking at would be more accurate. His head was on level with her—
She turned even redder and tried to step back, but he wouldn’t let her go. “What are you doing?”
He grinned at the parts of her by his face and then finally tilted his chin to look into her eyes. “I’m making the acquaintance of this friendly dog.”
She looked past Lord Dawson’s large body. Hermes was lying on his back, an expression of canine ecstasy on his face as the baron gave his belly one more scratch. “Hermes!”
She swore the beast grinned.
“Ah, is he a friend of yours as well?” The baron stood, but did not step back nor allow her to move to a more appropriate distance. The hand that had been scratching Hermes moved to join its fellow so he now had his fingers on both sides of her waist.
Prim Grace tried to get her attention. She ignored her.
“He’s Aunt Kate’s dog.” She was having a difficult time drawing breath. “I’m sure she is missing him.” She glanced back down at Hermes. He yawned and chewed on a stick.
“We won’t be long.” Lord Dawson slid his hands higher.
Grace glared up at him, but she was certain she failed miserably to look stern. It was very hard to feel any kind of righteous indignation when one was unable to breathe—and when the hoyden Grace was urging her to grab Lord Dawson’s face and pull it down to hers.
His blue eyes lit with a spark of…what? Something very hot. As she watched, the spark spread. It must have jumped from him to her because she was suddenly extremely overheated.
“I have good news.”
She saw his lips move. She remembered so clearly how his mouth had felt on hers in Alvord’s garden. She wanted to feel it again…She moistened her lips and watched his eyes follow the path of her tongue.
“What?” She was as bad as Aunt Kate. She couldn’t make herself focus on what the man was saying. If only he would bring his lips closer…
He did. He brought them very close indeed. He brushed them over her forehead, her cheek…
She tilted her head, parted her own lips. Her eyes drifted shut.
No, no, no, prim Grace was shouting, but it was difficult to hear her over the pounding of her heart—and very easy to ignore her.
Lord Dawson’s mouth touched hers—just the barest glancing contact. Oh! His hands wandered almost to her breasts and then back down to her hips. They stroked over her skirt, pressing, bringing her up against his hard body.
She was panting—quietly, discreetly, she hoped, but definitely panting. She wanted to be even closer.
Hoyden Grace slid her hands around to Lord Dawson’s back and tightened her arms. Mmm. He felt so good.
His mouth had returned to hers. She felt him smile, then his lips moved again in light little kisses. Too light. She made a mew of annoyance and opened her mouth wider.
He chuckled. She felt a moment’s doubt, a slight whisper of embarrassment, and then all was forgotten as his tongue slipped between her lips.
To say she was shocked would be to understate the case.
His hands kneaded her derriere while his tongue swept through her—over the roof of her mouth, over her tongue, over her teeth. She felt so full. A heavy, damp ache throbbed low in her belly…no, lower than that…between her legs. She needed something—
Dear God, what was she doing?
She shoved against Lord Dawson’s chest. He withdrew his tongue into his own mouth—where it belonged—and loosened his hold on her.
“Lord Dawson—”
“David.”
“What?” His voice was husky and lower than usual, and if his eyes had looked hot before, they were blazing now.
“My name is David.” He leaned forward and ran his tongue over her lower lip. “You cannot go back to ‘Lord Dawson’ after this very intimate encounter.”
She was certain she flushed so red she might burst into flame. “I shall call you Lord Dawson if I like.”
His lips slid into a very salacious grin. “All right. That might be fun. And you can call me ‘my lord’ when I slide between your beautiful milky thighs on our wedding night.”
Her jaw dropped. If she’d been red before, she was now whatever was redder than red. How did one respond to such an outrageous comment?
Simple. One did not. One pushed one’s hoydenish side to the far back of one’s mind and let Prim Grace out of exile.
“I believe you said you had good news, Lord Dawson?”
“Indeed I do, Lady Grace.” Lord Dawson raised an eyebrow as he leaned back against the tree trunk. “I was able to get us an invitation to Viscount Motton’s house party.” He smirked. “In fact, I was able to persuade, very subtly, if I say so myself—”
“I’m sure you are the only person who would say so. You do not strike me as the epitome of subtlety.”
“On the contrary, Lady Grace, I am exceedingly subtle”—he waggled his eyebrows—“in many endeavors.”
Grace crossed her arms and snorted. She was completely in control of herself now. Lord Dawson gave her a challenging look, but she was not going to accept any challenges from this man. She had the distinct notion she would lose.
He waited a moment and then shrugged. “I was able to persuade Motton to hold the house party. He hadn’t had a thought about having one before I suggested it.”
Grace merely raised her eyebrows. Lord Dawson was obviously looking for plaudits. Ridiculous! The man was cocky enough as it was. She was definitely not going to stroke him—
She flushed. Verbally stroke him, of course. She was not going to tell him how wonderful he was. She cleared her throat. “And that is good news because…?”
“Because Motton’s estate is not far from Uncle Alex’s, and Alex has a particular interest in the viscount’s cultivation theories. I think he can be persuaded to attend. If you can get your aunt to come, they will have many opportunities to address their differences in relative privacy.”
Grace nodded, though the opportunities springing to her mind were those she could have with Lord Dawson. Obviously she was a candidate for Bedlam.
“I see your point—and I do think I can get my aunt to come. We just learned the new Lord Oxbury will be arriving shortly—I’m certain Aunt Kate would rather be elsewhere when he reaches Town.” Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps her aunt was behaving so oddly because she was tired of London. She had spent her life in the country, after all. She was not a young woman. Perhaps she just needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of Town. “Let’s go ask her.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Oxbury.” David executed a short bow and felt a twinge of compassion. The woman looked terrible. She’d obviously been crying—her nose was red and her eyes were swollen.
Perhaps she wasn’t the harpy he’d been imagining.
“Good afternoon, Lord D-Dawson.” She tried to sound cold, but the effect was spoiled when her voice cracked on his name.
“Aunt Kate! What is the matter?” Grace sat down on the bench next to her aunt and put an arm around her.
“Nothing.” Lady Oxbury wadded her handkerchief into one hand, raised her head, and lied. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You are not perfectly fine. You’ve been crying.”
Grace had as much finesse with her aunt as Hermes had with squirrels. Lady Oxbury glared at her.
“I have not been crying.”
“You have. Your face is all red and blotchy.”
“I got a speck in my eye. It is out now. I am fine.”
This
speech was accomplished with more glaring and some teeth gritting.
“But—”
It was definitely time to interrupt Grace before her aunt strangled her with Hermes’s leash. “Lady Oxbury, as it happens I was in search of you. I stopped at Oxbury House, and your butler directed me here.”
“Oh?” Lady Oxbury gave Grace one last glare, and then turned her attention to him. She smiled tightly. “And what did you wish to speak to me about, Lord Dawson?”
“He has an invitation to the country, Aunt Kate.”
He would have to muzzle Grace once they were married to keep her from putting her foot into her mouth constantly. She was rather like a bull in an emotional china shop. He smiled slightly while Lady Oxbury glared at Grace once more.
“You are interrupting Lord Dawson.”
Grace frowned and opened her mouth to argue, but she didn’t have much of an argument—she had interrupted him. She must have realized it as well; her frown deepened, but she remained silent.
“Lady Grace is correct, Lady Oxbury.” David grinned as Grace finally snapped her mouth shut. “Viscount Motton is getting up a house party. I have an invitation and I believe you will be receiving one soon…”
It was Lady Oxbury’s turn to frown and open her mouth.
“…as will my uncle.”
Lady Oxbury’s mouth hung open for a moment. She blinked. “Mr. Wilton will be in attendance?”
“Perhaps. He is being invited, but, as you know, he’s down at his estate, so I can’t say for certain whether he will be there or not.” Mentioning Alex had been risky. If Lady Oxbury held his uncle in extreme aversion, knowing he might be a guest would surely convince her to stay in London. But if she were not averse to Alex’s presence, if she actually wanted to see him…
He trusted his gut—it had never steered him wrong in all his investment decisions—and his gut told him Lady Oxbury wanted to—was desperate to—see Alex.
“Why is Viscount Motton having a house party now?”
Because he’d been carefully maneuvered into doing so. No, he couldn’t say that—and, on second thought, Motton was so canny, he probably just let David think he was maneuvering him. “Motton said he was ready for a respite from the noise and dirt of London.”
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