Oh! She tried to breathe. She must not panic. Oxbury had never complained. He’d seemed to enjoy the exertion. He’d kept at it all those years, even when—
Well, he’d kept at it.
Men needed their release. It probably didn’t matter what female was beneath them. In the dark, surely all women were much the same.
Were all men?
No. Alex would not be like Oxbury…would he?
She would find out tonight. After all the years of wondering and longing, she would finally know. Perhaps she’d learn what she’d longed for was no different from what she’d had.
Good. The point was she could finally put aside her wondering and move on, unencumbered by the “what ifs” and “if onlys.”
Would the experience be different with Alex? Kissing certainly had been. Mmm. She closed her eyes. Just thinking about his lips on hers, remembering the feel of his hard form, the strength of his arms around her started an odd ache in her center.
She flushed. Well, not her center precisely…
“That was quite, um, f-fun.”
Kate’s eyes flew open. Surely Grace hadn’t read her mind?
Grace hiccupped and grinned at her—a rather broad, sloppy grin.
Heavens! Kate squinted at her niece in the dim light. Grace’s eyes did look slightly glassy, and now that she considered the matter, the girl had stumbled a bit getting into the carriage.
“How many glasses of champagne did you have, Grace?”
“Only t-two.” Grace dropped her head back against the squabs and contemplated the carriage ceiling as if the correct number were written there. “Or th-three.” She giggled. “I lost count.”
“Wonderful.” Kate blew out a short, exasperated breath. Obviously she should have been paying more attention to Grace and less—much less—to Mr. Alex Wilton. But how could she have guessed Grace would get brandy-faced at her first London ball? The girl—the woman—was twenty-five years old. “Surely you’ve had champagne before?”
“’Course I have!” Grace snapped her head forward to glare at Kate, but spoiled the effect by losing her balance and slipping sideways. She braced herself on the seat beside her. “Just not s-so much.”
“You’re going to have quite the head in the morning.”
“S-so?” Grace settled back against the squabs again. “I feel sp-splendid now. I’ve never felt so h-happy.”
“Happy’s one way to describe it. Jug-bitten is another.”
“Oh, pooh. Why are you such a crosspatch? Didn’t you have f-fun?” Grace wiggled her eyebrows.
Kate looked out the window in earnest, cupping her hands to block out the dim light of the carriage. Good, she recognized the neighborhood—they were almost at Oxbury House. With luck she would be able to get Grace upstairs and into bed before she fell asleep—or got sick.
“I was not at the Duke of Alvord’s ball to enjoy myself,” Kate said. “I was there to chaperone you. Obviously, I did not do an adequate job fulfilling my duties.”
Grace was contemplating the carriage ceiling again. She giggled and transferred her gaze to Kate. “Is that what you were doing in the g-garden with Mr. Wilton? Chaperoning me?”
More eyebrow wiggling. The girl looked as if she had a pair of dancing caterpillars on her forehead.
The caterpillars would leap off her face if she knew what her aunt had really been up to in the garden.
“I was looking for you.” It was only a small lie. And what was it Oxbury used to say? The best defense was a good offense. “And while we’re on that subject, what were you thinking, going out into the shrubbery alone? You are not some silly, dewy-eyed debutante.” Kate paused. “Well, debutante, yes; silly and dewy-eyed, no—at least I hope not.”
Grace actually sniggered. “I wasn’t alone.”
Good Lord, what had Grace been doing? Certainly nothing as scandalous as her own activities…No, the situations could not be compared. She was a widow; Grace was a virgin.
Surely Grace was still a virgin…
Now she was letting her guilty conscious lead her into the ridiculous.
“Even worse. If you’d been seen, you’d be ruined now. Your Season would be over. London society is full of gossips that delight in shredding young—and not so young—females’ reputations.”
Grace shrugged. “I wished to speak to Baron Dawson.”
“What!” Standen would have Kate’s head if he ever got wind of the fact Grace had been talking to Baron Dawson, let alone promenading in the foliage with him. “You went into the shrubbery with Lord Dawson? I don’t believe it. I told you to avoid him. You know your father does not approve of the man’s family.”
“Well, P-Papa’s not here, is he?” Grace blinked at Kate. “You aren’t going to s-snitch on me, are you?” She waggled her finger in Kate’s direction. “Because I can snitch, too. You were also in the garden with a Wilton, auntie.”
“But you are unmarried. You should have remained sedately on the terrace,” Kate said, rather weakly to her own ears.
It didn’t matter. Grace was too foxed to concern herself with nuances.
“M-maybe I don’t want to be s-sedate. Maybe I want to have some f-fun before I shackle myself to Mr. J-John P-Parker-Roth and his damn roses.”
“Grace—”
Grace leaned forward, catching herself on the seat edge before she toppled face first into Kate’s lap. “I like Mr. Park—John. I like his mother and his father and his brothers and his sisters. I like the whole blasted lot of them.” She waved her finger in Kate’s face this time. “But I like Baron Dawson, too. I really, um, like him.” She sat back, put her head against the squabs again, and wrapped her arms around herself. “He makes me feel all…tingly.”
“Good God!” Tingly? Tingly would never do. She had felt tingly all those years ago. Tingly too often led to thoughts of marriage, and Standen would dance naked at Almack’s before he’d let his daughter marry a Wilton. She knew that from bitter experience.
Why did Alex and his nephew have to choose this Season to come to London?
Because the old baron had died, of course. So was Lord Dawson in Town for a wife or to lure a few young women—including the daughter of his enemy—down the primrose path?
She straightened. He’d best steer clear of Grace if he had nefarious purposes. If he hurt Grace—
She sighed and collapsed back against the squabs. Even if he meant marriage, the baron must look elsewhere—Standen truly would never accept his suit. When Alex came tonight, she must have a few serious words with him about his nephew.
If he came. Certainly good sense and caution would convince him, on further reflection, to stay home. He had never been a wild, careless man. Climbing into a lady’s bedchamber window—or sneaking up the servants’ stairs—was not an activity Alex Wilton would engage in, she was sure.
Or was she? She must remember she’d only known Alex for a few months many years ago. Perhaps he was adept at getting in and out of ladies’ bedrooms without detection. And, truthfully, inviting a man to her bed was not something she’d ever have believed she’d do—and yet she had.
But it was Grace’s amorous activities—dear God!—that she needed to attend to at the moment.
“Grace—”
But Grace interrupted. “Lord Dawson told me his uncle asked you to marry him before you married Oxbury.” Grace frowned, sounding much too sober. “Why didn’t you share that bit of information with me, Aunt Kate?”
Thank God for concealing shadows. “It was a long time ago.”
“Hmm. The last time you were in London. Is that why you came back, to see Mr. Wilton again? Now that you’re free and he’s free…” Grace sighed. “How r-romantic.”
“It is not romantic.” She didn’t need Grace interfering in her…in whatever she had with Alex. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Grace leaned forward—and almost fell into Kate’s lap again. She pushed herself back to a more upright position. “You know, this time Papa can’t stop you.�
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True, Standen couldn’t stop her. A little thrill of defiance shivered down her spine. She was no longer seventeen. She was a grown woman—a merry widow. She had lived her life to please her brother and her husband. Now, finally, she could choose to please herself.
Except she couldn’t. She wasn’t the heroine of a fairy tale, living in a castle by herself. She couldn’t marry Alex—even if he asked her, which he wouldn’t. It wasn’t just that Standen would explode with anger. Society would flock like vultures to feast on the scandalous stories in the Belmont-Wilton past. She couldn’t bear that—and she certainly couldn’t consider the possibility at the beginning of Grace’s Season.
“It’s not that simple, Grace.”
An affair, though, that would be permitted as long as she was discreet. Very discreet. If even a whisper of Alex’s visit to her tonight—if he did indeed come—reached the ton’s ears, the gabble-grinders would resurrect the stories of Alex’s brother and Alex’s own ill-considered, short-lived courtship of her.
“Why would Papa want to keep you from marrying Mr. Wilton, Aunt Kate? He must see you’d be vastly more comfortable with a husband than living in the dower house, watching the new Lord Oxbury ruin the estate.” Grace grinned. “P-Papa thinks the man’s an ass, you know.”
“Grace, your language!” Had Standen let Grace grow up like a weed? He should have remarried. Everyone had thought he would after he’d mourned his countess for the requisite year. He’d needed an heir. Still did, but it was unlikely he’d get one now, with fifty-six years in his dish.
“Well, that’s what Papa said when your husband died.”
“I’m sure he did. He never cared for Oxbury’s heir—few people do—but that doesn’t mean he would want me to wed Mr. Wilton. Another man—any other man—but not Mr. Wilton. If Lord Dawson explained our history, you must know that.” Kate looked down and smoothed her skirt. “And in any event, Mr. Wilton has not mentioned marriage.”
“But he will.”
Kate snapped her head up and glared at Grace. “He will not.”
“Don’t be s-silly, Aunt Kate. I saw you waltzing with him. Of course he will.”
“You had consumed a significant quantity of champagne by the time you made that observation, hadn’t you, Grace?”
“Well…”
Kate shrugged. “It makes no difference. If Mr. Wilton offers—which he won’t—I must decline.”
Grace must still think love conquered all—or perhaps it was only the champagne talking. Real people didn’t live happily ever after; they had to face—daily—society’s or their family’s censure. Love was wonderful, but friendship, respect, and companionship would do, perhaps better than love in a hermit’s cave.
“But—”
The coach stopped and Kate was spared further fruitless argument. Her butler-cum-footman, Mr. Sykes, opened the door and peered into the carriage cautiously.
“It’s safe, Mr. Sykes. Lady Grace made it home without casting up her accounts.”
“Ah. I am very glad to hear it.” He extended his hand. “May I assist you to alight, Lady Grace?”
“C-certainly.” Grace climbed out of the carriage quickly, but the moment her foot touched the pavement, she collapsed against Sykes.
“Grace!”
“Don’t be alarmed, my lady.” Sykes slid his arm under one of Grace’s. “If you could disembark and take Lady Grace’s other side, I believe we can manage nicely.” Sykes was able to brace Grace’s not-inconsiderable weight against his body while offering Kate his free hand.
“I’m f-fine, Aunt Kate. I j-just need a minute to get my b-bearings—oh.” Grace pressed a hand to her lips.
“I believe the sooner we get Lady Grace to her room, my lady, the less chance we have of a Regrettable Occurrence on the street.”
“Very true, Mr. Sykes.” Kate scrambled out of the carriage. “Let’s get you up to bed, Grace.”
Grace nodded and took a step, supported mostly by Sykes.
“The n-night air…seems to…d-does, actually, have an unfortunate—” Grace paused and pressed her hand to her lips again. She was definitely taking on a greenish cast. “Ohh.”
That sounded distinctly like a moan. Kate shot a glance at Sykes. He nodded. “Yes, my lady, I would say time was indeed of the essence.”
They hustled Grace into the house and up the stairs, making it to her room without disaster, and propped her up against the bed.
Kate heaved a sigh of relief. She did hope Grace would not be too sick. Now that she thought about it, her one and only episode of overindulgence in spirits had come after her first Alvord ball as well. She’d stolen a bottle of Standen’s brandy after he’d enumerated in excruciating detail all the reasons she could not—could never—wed Mr. Alex Wilton. She had never felt so ill—she had never been so ill, especially when her brother had bundled her into the carriage at first light. She’d had to ride in the dreadful rocking conveyance all the way to Standen.
She’d best have Sykes fetch their maid. She would know just what to do to make Grace more comfortable. “Mr. Sykes, will you—”
“Ohh, w-why is the room sp-spinning?”
“What?” Kate whirled around. Grace had decided to try lying down—a poor decision. Her face was now a ghastly shade of white.
“I think I’m going to be—” Grace turned on her side and struggled to push herself up.
Kate grabbed a basin from the cabinet next to the bed. “Get Marie, Sykes—and hurry.”
As she thrust the basin under Grace’s chin, she remembered one key task she had left undone.
Bloody hell. She hadn’t unlocked the servants’ door for Alex.
“You don’t have to leave on my account, David.” Alex watched the Duke of Alvord waltz by, Miss Sarah Hamilton in his arms. Alvord was staring down at his partner as if there were no one else in the room. Miss Hamilton’s face was flushed—she looked just as adoringly up at the duke.
There was no question in Alex’s mind—or the mind of any other man present, he’d wager—exactly what Alvord wished to be doing at that moment with his American guest. Which was precisely what Alex would like to be doing with Kate. It had been heaven waltzing with her tonight—he hoped his thoughts then hadn’t been as apparent as Alvord’s were now.
Hell, if the waltz had been danced twenty-three years ago, he’d have been certain to have found a way to get Kate to Gretna, damn the scandal. He would have gone mad otherwise.
And tonight he’d finally be able to—
If he went, that is.
“Why would I wish to stay?” David was saying. “My future wife has departed.”
The man was as bad as a terrier with a rat. “I’ve told you—Standen will never give his consent.”
“And I’ve told you, I don’t care. Grace is of age. I don’t need the earl’s permission.”
“You assume Lady Grace is willing.”
The cocky bastard grinned. “I assume I can persuade her.”
Alex grunted. “Good luck with that. Women’s minds are beyond my poor comprehension.” Like Kate’s. What had she been thinking, inviting him to her bed? Yes, she was a widow, but still, she was Kate, shy, quiet, reserved, modest Kate.
Or was she? Twenty-three years changed a person. And truthfully, how well had he known her?
David drained the last of his champagne. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“All right.” He wished David would stay. It would make it that much easier for him to slip away to Oxbury House undetected. He didn’t want anyone—even David—knowing where he was going tonight.
Was he going?
His head said he shouldn’t. The Kate he knew—well, the woman whose memory he’d cherished all these years—would never invite a man to her bed without first securing the church’s blessing. If the merest whisper of her indiscretion got out, her brother would be livid…and society would feed on the tale like jackals on carrion.
Another organ insisted—strenuously—that he should. K
ate had haunted him all these years, her face always lurking in his mind, even when he was busy in another woman’s bed. She had stolen a part of his heart and he needed it back.
Kate was a widow. For all he knew, she’d been welcoming men into her bed before Oxbury was cold in his grave. Had she even been faithful while the man was alive? Oxbury had been close to seventy when he’d cocked up his toes. Likely he hadn’t been able to attend to his marital duties for years.
But this was Kate.
And he didn’t have to trust his gut. His butler’s sister-in-law’s cousin worked at an inn near Oxbury’s country estate. If Kate had been taking lovers, he would have heard.
Alex collected his hat and cane from a footman and stepped outside with David into the hubbub of horses and carriages and coachmen.
“I’d say Alvord is going to get himself an American duchess, wouldn’t you?” David headed down the street toward their townhouse, passing the long line of coaches waiting to pick up their aristocratic owners. Alex fell into step with him, but didn’t reply. His mind was elsewhere.
David didn’t care if Alvord married a trained monkey, but he had to say something. He was too full of frustrated energy to keep still. Watching the duke waltz with Miss Hamilton had been torture—almost like being forced to watch sexual congress. True, some men enjoyed being spectators to such activity, but he much preferred being an actor—and he’d especially like acting with Lady Grace on a nice, soft bed.
Waltzing with her had been heaven, though not as heavenly as their too-short interlude in the garden. She was just as wonderful to hold and kiss as he’d imagined.
And if he didn’t keep talking, he would imagine in painful detail exactly what bedding her would feel like—and look like and taste like and smell like. He’d much prefer to wait until he reached the relative privacy of Dawson House to indulge in those fantasies. Walking in his damn breeches would become much too uncomfortable otherwise.
“How long do you think it will be before we read of the duke’s engagement in The Morning Post?”
“What?” Alex looked at him blankly.
Poor Uncle Alex’s imagination had clearly wandered in exactly the direction David was trying to avoid, though Alex seemed capable of walking and thinking of Lady Oxbury at the same time. Still, he’d wager the level of sexual anguish in his library tonight was going to be much higher than that of a roomful of randy schoolboys. Fortunately he had a ready and ample supply of brandy with which they could drown their desires.
The Naked Baron Page 7
