by Kim Bowman
The scent of flowers tantalized. In a daze, Grey discovered he had edged around his desk to approach the unsuspecting beauty, and he abruptly halted his steps.
Magpie pressed one hand to the gown at her chest, closing the gap, as she reached with her other hand and plucked Will’s letter from the floor. When she bobbed up again, she stood just outside arm’s reach. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared like a scared horse when her lips parted and she drew in a sharp breath. But she didn’t step back.
“This must have fallen from your desk, your grace,” she whispered. “It may be of… impor… tance.”
“Thank you,” murmured Grey, accepting the paper and tossing it on his desk. “It is… merely a letter from my brother.”
“Your brother?” Magpie blinked several times, confusion clouding her gaze. “Oh, yes. William.”
The sound of Will’s name on her lips raised Grey’s hackles, and he took a step forward. “Why is it you seem to have such trouble using my name yet the names of other men so easily roll past your lips?”
Magpie retreated a step. “I-I… don’t know what you mean.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. ‘Are you unwell, your grace?’…’The ball was lovely, your grace.’” Grey inched forward. “‘Thank you for seeing me to bed, your grace’…”
With a soft gasp, the little bird took another step away, but found herself backed against his desk. Trapped. “I’m sorry, your — I…”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly and she seemed to shrink into herself. So… he intimidated her. And even more so as he stepped closer. She swallowed hard. The spun gold of her hair reflected the firelight as it caressed her shoulders. He knew the feel of those silky tresses now. The heat from the fire was as nothing compared to the need that seared him inside, beginning in his belly and flashing through his veins.
She trembled… or perhaps he did.
He sighed. “Do you think — just this once — you might find it within you to call me by my name?” Grey froze; his heart had surely stopped beating. A duke’s voice should never sound so beseeching.
Of a sudden, the tension drained from her and Magpie straightened her back. Then she smiled, and a hint of mischief sparked in her eyes. “Which name would that be, Graeme Roland Dominick Markwythe?”
When she spoke his name, Grey’s throat went dry. Emotion welled in his heart, threatened to pour out.
“Or perhaps I should just call you… Grey,” she whispered as he crowded her against the desk.
“Grey,” he murmured as his mouth brushed against hers and retreated a fraction. “Definitely Grey.” He crushed his lips to hers, exploding in a conflagration of shameless desire as he settled his hands on Magpie’s waist, spanning it with splayed fingers. When she didn’t resist, he molded her gentle curves to his body.
Her breasts pressed against him, soft as lying in a bed of feathers. Grey closed his eyes and gave himself to the moment, his mind provoked by visions of a feather mattress and her. He gave his hands leave to roam upward along her spine, bunching the thin fabric of her dress beneath his fingers, shaking with the need to rend the garment in order to reap the rewards beneath.
She whimpered and writhed but she stilled when he tangled his right hand in her silken strands of honeyed gold and wove them through his fingers. He should stop — he should stop or he’d take her here in his study. With a gasp, he wrenched his lips from hers. His heart thumped with the violence of an exploding canon as he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her to sit on his desk.
Grey pulled back and looked into her eyes… those tawny eyes that never failed to hold him prisoner. What he was looking for, he couldn’t have said. But the fire he found swirling in their depths reached out to spark his already heated blood. A groan eased from his throat and he bent to trace her jaw with his lips, dragging them down along the line of her neck. He lingered at the base of her throat, gliding his tongue over the little indentation there. Then he trailed kisses lower until he pressed his lips against her skin where it met the neckline of her dress. Trembling overcame him and he inhaled the scent of roses. He’d never walk in the garden again without remembering this moment.
Magpie sighed and slid a hand between the lapels of his shirt. He sucked in a sharp breath at the shock of her tentative touch to his sensitive skin. Her fingers seared along his shoulder as she clutched at him.
Blazing inside, Grey explored freely with his own hands while he rained more kisses on her chest and neck. Slowly, thoroughly, he worked his way back to her face, seeking and finding her lips again. The magpie’s mouth, so pliant and giving beneath his, parted with a sigh and he rimmed her lips with his tongue before easing deeper into her reaches. The sweet taste of wine lingered, reminding him of the Madiera he’d consumed. The wine hadn’t intoxicated him near as much as the impassioned armful of woman who clung to him, allowing him liberties he had no privilege to take. He had no leave to touch her in such ways.
He almost didn’t care.
I don’t even know who she is!
The thought sent ice through his veins and brought him up short. Gasping, Grey took a hasty step back. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, horrified at the freedoms he’d allowed himself to take with the woman. Breathless, Grey pushed a hand through his hair, scooping it out of his eyes.
Magpie stood trembling before him, eyes wide, lips parted. Her gown dipped low in front exposing a curve of ivory skin that ignited a fierce hunger in Grey all over again. This time he averted his eyes, though the memory of that vision would remain with him for some time; of that, he had no doubt.
“My apologies,” he murmured, forcing himself to cross to the hearth where the dim embers of the dying fire held more chill than warmth. He straightened his shirt, then picked up the iron poker and stirred the ashes until a tiny orange flame began to dance along the top of the log. He threw another piece of wood in and waited for it to blaze before turning. “My actions were inexcusable. Rest assured, this will not happen again.”
She had straightened her clothing, but her hair remained in disarray and her plump lips… She’d obviously been thoroughly embraced. He could only hope she would be able to make her way unnoticed to her rooms. Unable to keep looking at her without wanting her, Grey turned his back again, dismissing her, willing her not to argue the point with him as she seemed wont to do on every other occasion.
His sharp ears picked up the soft rustle of her gown, the whisper of her footfalls on the plush carpet, the click of the doorknob.
“Grey,” she called softly from across the room.
He closed his eyes against the emotion that crowded his throat at the sound of his name freely crossing her lips, and swallowed before he turned to face her. She clung to the door as though for support. Had her knees gone as weak as his?
“Yes?”
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “The letter from your brother… it contained bad news?”
“It was…” He sighed. “Not precisely. It merely carried news that… distressed me.”
Her lower lip trembled and his little magpie sank her teeth into it before drawing a deep breath. Even so, her voice quavered. “I can — I can stay… with you. If you need me to.”
Grey’s head jerked up and his gaze connected with hers. Does she know what she does to me? Does she realize what she seems to be offering?
Her level stare stole his breath and Grey touched his fingers to the mantle to steady himself. In her eyes, undefined emotion swirled. Fear? Hope? And… anticipation? For the briefest of moments, desire battled with propriety.
“Thank you for the offer of your company, but this is a matter best dealt with alone.” He smiled to soften the rejection. “Go to sleep, Magpie. Things will appear different in the morning.”
She lowered her gaze and bowed her head, then slipped from the room, pulling the door behind her until it latched with a soft click. Grey stumbled across the distance between the hearth and his desk, picked up his glass of wine and
finished it in one swallow. He closed his eyes and released a soft chuckle. For the first time since her arrival, his uninvited guest had departed his presence with neither agitated flight nor sedate curtsey.
****
In the dimly lit hallway outside Grey’s study, Juliet collapsed against the wall, grateful the ever-hovering Higgins was, for once, nowhere to be seen. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she finished putting her dress to rights. She dragged a hand over chest and up to her neck, following the path Grey had taken with his lips. Her heart throbbed heavily against her ribs and pushed against her lungs, making it hard to catch her breath.
“What have I done?” she whispered into the empty hallway. But she knew the answer to that, and unfortunately, so did the duke. She’d read in his eyes that he’d understood her shameless offer to lie with him. Just as she’d read the hunger there before his rejection. What must he think of me?
He’d been hurting about something. Juliet had seen it the moment she stepped through the door to leave the note. She should have slipped away again, especially after he snapped at her. Why hadn’t she?
Juliet knew the answer to that question as well. She had feelings for Grey that had come to her unexpectedly. She knew nothing could come of them, but those emotions left her powerless to leave him when she might offer him comfort.
Except he evidently doesn’t want the sort of comfort you just offered, my dear. A tear slipped down Juliet’s cheek as she imagined Lady Charity’s voice. If Annabella’s aunt had seen her in there, leaning into Grey’s intimate caresses, touching him back in such an inappropriate fashion…
At the sound of glass shattering from the other side of the study door, Juliet jerked upright and pushed away from the wall. She took a tentative step toward the door but then paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. Whatever had happened, she didn’t suppose Grey would thank her for rushing in. He’d made it quite clear he had no desire for her company — in any capacity.
From the top of the stairs came the unmistakable click of a door softly closing. Lucien’s rooms! Oh, dear. Juliet ran her hands over her rumpled dress. No one could see her in such condition, let alone the duke’s eccentric uncle, and outside of Grey’s study to boot. Her gaze darted around the foyer and landed on the hallway leading to the servant’s stairs. Quickly, she headed for those, hitching her skirt and taking them two at a time. When she entered the upstairs hallway, she breathed a sigh of relief to find it empty.
Trembling inside as much as out, she pushed open the door to the suite she shared with the aunts. Charity sat near the fire reading a book, and looked up at her entrance.
“You didn’t find anything to your liking in the library?”
Heat flooded Juliet’s cheeks. “N-no. I couldn’t decide and Gr—that is, his grace was working in there, so I left.”
Charity’s sharp blue eyes focused on Juliet and she narrowed them as she swept her gaze downward, then back up again. Muttering something under her breath about wild animals, she shook her head and returned to reading.
Juliet glanced down, dismayed to discover the pretty pink ribbon that had been secured at her waist had come undone and hung loosely amid the folds of her cream colored dress. Indeed, she looked like she’d been mauled by wild animals.
“Where’s Lady Harmony?” she asked, noting the other aunt was not in her bed.
“She couldn’t sleep,” murmured Charity, keeping her eyes on her book. “She went to the kitchen to see if cook can warm her some milk.”
“But why did she—” Juliet sighed. More than likely Harmony hadn’t sent for a maid to bring the milk because both aunts seemed to prefer to care for themselves.
Charity turned a page and lifted her face, meeting Juliet’s gaze with a smile. “Why did she what, dear?”
“Oh, er… that is, she wasn’t well earlier so I wondered if she felt better.” Juliet crossed to the armoire and pulled open the door, selecting the first nightdress she laid her hands on and drawing it out. “I think I shall retire now.”
“Sleep well, dear.” Charity dropped her eyes to her book again.
Juliet untied the ribbon and drew her gown over her head. As she smoothed the nightdress over her body, she paused at her waist and sighed, and then pushed the fabric over her hip and down. Awareness shot through her and she trembled, unable to stop. Grey had touched those same places, his hands searing her skin even through her garment. He’d taken what he wanted but his touch had brought pleasure as well. What would it like…to be thoroughly loved by such a man?
She hadn’t expected to find him in his study when she’d slipped in to leave her note. And when he’d looked at her with that combination of fury and desire in his eyes, she’d lost her resolve to confess amid a rush of fire burning in her veins. She’d forgotten everything but the two of them.
The note! Oh, sweet saints!
Frantically, Juliet stood and shook out her dress. Where had she left the note? She’d had it in her hand when she stepped in the room, and then Grey had looked in her direction.
Her breathing hitched, causing a sharp ache in her side. Tears picked the backs of her eyelids and then spilled over. She must have dropped the silly note when Grey embraced her…
She groaned. If he found it now, he’d likely not be so understanding as she’d hoped.
But maybe he hadn’t found it. Certainly, he hadn’t stormed into her room demanding she leave. Would he do that at such a late hour?
Juliet paced to her window and looked out onto the street. A thin glowing line escaped from the curtains drawn across the window of the study below, slashing toward the street like a saber made of light. She could think of no excuse to disturb Grey in his study again. But as she watched, the glow from the study was extinguished. Her heart leapt. Had he merely fixed the closure on the drapes? Or had he retired?
Charity cleared her throat and turned a page in her book. If Juliet waited until she retired, perhaps she could sneak through the house and into the study. If she took the servants’ stairs, she would avoid a chance meeting with the duke.
She sat back down on her bed to wait for the proper time, praying she didn’t drift to sleep.
****
Grey lifted his head from his hands and wondered how long he’d sat brooding about his lack of control over his life. Long enough for the fire to have died back again. He slid a glance at the crystal decanter that now lay in ruins against the brick hearth, the coldness of shame whispering through his veins. He should never have touched her. The burn for the stranger in his home had become overwhelming. It was the disturbing news from Will that had caused him to reach for her. Nothing more than seeking comfort. That had to be it. He had no idea of Magpie’s real name. How could he feel such yearning for a stranger?
He stood and crossed to the fireplace. It hardly seemed worth building up the fire. Instead, he used the poker to stir the embers, rewarded by a weak burst of heat. Crouching, he began to pick up the mess he’d made when frustration had driven him to hurl the brandy decanter at the wall instead of immersing himself in the oblivion of the drink. The unbroken stopper lay just out of reach. Grey balanced himself on one hand and leaned forward, stretching his fingers to reach the elusive bit of crystal.
Sharp heat sliced through his left hand, clawing a path upward into his arm and shoulder. He stared at the rivulet of blood streaming from around the small shard of crystal embedded in his palm. How had that happened? He eased the sliver from his flesh with a vicious curse. Then he wiggled his fingers, squeezing more crimson from the deep cut just at the base of his thumb. The crystal had gone deep but nothing pricked when he flexed his hand.
One-handed, he swept the bits of broken decanter into a pile with the stiff-bristled fireplace brush, grateful his father hadn’t been present to see him hurl the thing at the hearth.
A few drops of blood landed on the stone. The crimson flowed over the stone and pooled in the mortar. He cursed again and stepped over to his desk, snatching up his discarded cra
vat. Gritting his teeth, he pressed it to the wound. Immediately blood soaked into the white cloth, staining it deep ruby red. Grey wrapped another layer of cloth around his hand and pressed.
A dull ache radiated from the cut as he slouched in his chair and let the pain wash over him. He sank into the leather chair across from the fireplace and stared into the flames. She haunted him. Her sweet face, those captivating eyes… Who in blazes, was she? You should know, whispered his mind. Why hadn’t Jon mentioned her in his puzzling message?
What game was being played over Wyndham Green? How far did it go? Obviously, his real stepsister knew about the imposter. Did his stepmother? Had she engineered it? How deeply was she involved with Dawes? In what way?
Grey scrubbed his face with his uninjured hand. Too many questions, too few answers.
You don’t want the answers. What if you have to face the fact that this imposter is just another scheming wench out to get money?
He shook his head. He’d always believed his father had made a mistake in marrying Lord Price’s widow. It had been apparent from the start that his stepmother had been after holding a noble title. And now she sought the same for her daughter.
Except it wasn’t her daughter in residence in his home. His stepsister hadn’t been the girl who’d arrived in London intent upon finding a husband.
In point of fact… Grey frowned. The young woman currently staying under his roof seemed not to be interested in a suitor if he could trust her reaction to Lord Michaels.
The log in the fireplace sputtered then broke in half amid a shower of sparks.
He should never have touched her. Never have looked at her… at those eyes.
****
The bottom step on the servants’ stairway creaked and Juliet clutched her hand to her chest, hoping to contain her madly thumping heart. She’d never been more frightened of the dark, not even out in the country. Mayhap the task she sought to complete had been what set the palpitations on her heart. If anyone saw her… she might be able to make an excuse. Should the duke come across her, however… Juliet shuddered.
