During their brief conversation, he’d found himself struck by the novelty of not having to crane his neck or stoop downward in order to accommodate a shorter female companion. With Grace he’d been able to remain at his full height, needing to do nothing more than lower his gaze a few scant inches to meet her own.
And while she was clearly not the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, she was far from the gorgon he’d initially feared. Her features were…amiable. Her skin was clear, her cheekbones nicely rounded, her nose neither too long nor too short, with a full lower lip and a chin that reminded him a bit of a button.
Of all her rather unremarkable features, her eyes were her strong point, despite being partially hidden behind a pair of spectacles. A gentle blue-grey, their colour shifted in the most interesting manner from gentian to pewter depending upon the light. He supposed most people never noticed such subtle variations, thinking her irises to be either plain grey or ordinary blue, but he’d found himself intrigued; more so than he might have expected after such a brief encounter.
As for her figure, she had all the right feminine parts. Her breasts appeared more than adequately sized—enough to give a man a good handful to fondle and kiss. Her waist, hips and legs—concealed as they were beneath the drape of her petticoats and gown—hinted at all manner of shapely possibilities. What would it be like, he wondered, to lie atop such a long, agile body? To have legs that must go on forever wrapped around his waist or hooked over his shoulders? How low down his back would her heels touch? And what tricks might he be able to teach her using those lovely hands and feet?
His groin swelled with unmistakable arousal, leaving him surprised. At least bedding her, he realized, was not going to be a problem.
Abruptly he blinked. Lord above, am I really planning to go through with this? Am I really going to make her my wife?
He swallowed, his erection partially subsiding at the thought. Just because he didn’t mind the idea of tupping her didn’t mean he was eager to slip a ring on her finger. But try as he might, he could conceive of no other way out. Danvers had him trapped like a fox in a covert, hounds poised at the ready to make the kill. His only salvation was marriage—to Grace Danvers.
There were other heiresses, he supposed, with finer pedigrees and more beautiful faces. But none of them possessed the kind of dowry necessary to pay off his vowels—not and still leave enough funds for him to support a wife. Besides, if Danvers got wind he was trying to marry some girl other than his daughter, the crafty old man would call in the debt so fast that Jack might as well step into a prison cell right now.
No, it was Miss Danvers or no one.
And so, assuming he was truly determined on this course—and it would seem that he was—he would do well to begin.
First, he would need to woo her. Luckily, he had no doubt as to his abilities in that quarter. He’d been seducing women since he was a green lad, not even old enough to shave. He could have her on her back with her skirts up around her waist before she even knew what he was about. But getting her to trust him, to love him…ah, now that would be the real trick.
With most women he would use flattery and flirtation, appealing to both their vanity and their pleasure. But Grace was no ordinary woman. With her, he knew he would have to take a more subtle approach. Less than half a minute into their acquaintance, he’d sensed her reserve, as well as her insecurity. He surmised she wasn’t used to being boldly pursued by men, so any sudden, overt interest on his part would only provoke her suspicions and put her on the alert.
Instead, his approach would require a deft touch and gentle, patient persuasion. A shy doe required proper coaxing, after all. The key was to figure out what kind of inducement she liked best and be there to offer it.
He watched as she raised her teacup to her lips—unaware of his observation this time. He realized now that he’d been careless before, that despite his efforts at stealth, she had sensed his presence as she wandered among the books. If not for that other man, she would likely have fled from him. Instead, the stranger had inadvertently sent her in his direction, casting him in the guise of saviour. Really, he owed the fellow his thanks. Otherwise, securing an introduction would have required a great deal more effort on his part, particularly since he and Miss Danvers didn’t ordinarily run in the same social circles. But she knew him now, and very soon she would come to know him a great deal better.
He was about to depart, when he saw a man approach Grace. It was obvious from her reaction that she knew him, a friendly smile curving her mouth as she stood to greet the newcomer.
Nearly a match for Grace in height, the man topped her by no more than an inch. His hair was sandy blond, his build rangy and loose-limbed, with features designed to neither excite admiration nor draw disdain. Judging by his attire, he was likely in trade of some sort. Or possibly in one of the professions. A solicitor, maybe, or a physician?
Who is he? Jack wondered. More importantly, who is he to Grace? Danvers hadn’t mentioned any beaux. Of course the fellow could be a relative of some variety, but he didn’t think so. No, the other man had designs on her. What kind, however, remained to be seen.
Well, no matter, Jack told himself. His sandy-haired rival wouldn’t be competition for long. And once he was eliminated from the field, Miss Grace Danvers would be free and ready to step straight into Jack’s waiting arms.
* * *
CHAPTER 2
“My thanks for seeing me home,” Grace told Terrence Cooke a half hour later as she walked through the front door of her father’s house in St. Martin’s Lane.
A frequent visitor to the residence, Terrence strolled inside with her. After exchanging familiar greetings with the housekeeper, who took his hat to set on the hall credenza, he and Grace went into the parlour.
“Will you stay for tea?” she asked, laying her brown-paper-wrapped parcel of books on the sofa before taking a seat beside it. “You know Martha will be here, as soon as the kettle can be set to boil. She’ll bring a tray of sandwiches and sweets, then make you up a big plate, all the while fussing about how thin you are, and why don’t you eat better at home.”
“She forgets sometimes that I have a mother of my own.”
“Who lives by the seashore in Lyme. An excuse such as that will never do, not in Martha’s estimation at least.”
He smiled and took a chair opposite. “I’ll stay long enough to appease her, but then I ought to be going.”
Grace paused, well aware of his preference for not tarrying. “Papa won’t be home until after seven. You know he meets with his investors every Thursday night.”
“True. Still, it’s easier not to chance an unexpected encounter. I’m not high on your father’s list of favourites, you know.”
Sadly, on that point, Terrence was correct. For reasons Grace had never understood, her father did not approve of her friendship with Cooke and barely tolerated her continued association with him. She assumed his dislike stemmed from the fact that Terrence was the publisher of a small press—successful in his way, but nothing to compare with the immense achievements and ambition of her father.
She should surround herself with a better class of people, Papa liked to complain. Do everything in her power to move up in the world by marrying a man of wealth and rank, instead of dabbling in the silly, nonsensical pursuits in which she insisted upon squandering her time. “I didn’t send you to that fancy ladies’ academy so you could rub shoulders with the likes of paper-inkers and wood-cutters!” he would rail every so often after one of Terrence’s visits. If he could have bullied Grace into severing the connection, she was sure he would have banned Terrence from the house long ago.
“You may not be on Papa’s list of favourites,” she admitted, “but you are on mine. Therefore you have every right to stay as my guest. In fact, why do you not remain for dinner? Martha would relish the chance to stuff you full of turtle soup, roast chicken and peach tart; all selections on tonight’s menu, if I remember correctly.”
His brown eyes warmed. “It sounds delectable. However, I really do need to be leaving shortly. A prior engagement, you see.”
“An engagement, hmm?” she teased in a soft voice. “This wouldn’t happen to involve a lady, now would it?”
His expression grew serious. “No, not at all. Besides, you know you’re the only woman for me.”
“I most certainly hope not,” she said, trying to laugh off the remark.
But he leaned forward in his chair and stretched out a hand. “Just say the word, Grace, and I’ll set matters in motion. You’re of age, so there’s no impediment to obtaining a special license. Tell me yes, and we can be married in less than a week.”
Her smile dropped away. “Terrence, don’t, please. We’ve been through this before and you know my feelings—”
“And you know mine,” he interrupted. “I won’t ever be as rich as your father, but I have money, enough to keep you in a nice house and fine gowns. I would see to it you never wanted for anything.”
Just so, she thought, lowering her gaze to the floor. With Terrence, I would be comfortable, contented even. With him, I would have everything. Everything, that is, except love.
How often she’d wished things might be different, that she could wake up one morning and find herself in love with him. How simple everything would be, then. For despite her father’s certain displeasure, she would have weathered the storm for Terrence if she truly loved him. But she did not, and to her great sorrow, she knew she never would.
She sighed. “Please, let us speak no more of this. Can it not be enough that we are friends?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, acceding to her wishes. “For now anyway. But I reserve the right to hope that someday you’ll change your mind. When you do, I will be waiting.”
Desperate to move on and put their conversation back on its earlier, easier footing, she rose and crossed the room. Taking a small key from her pocket, she unlocked a drawer in her satinwood writing desk. “I…um…I nearly forgot. I have these finished for you.” Reaching inside, she withdrew a leather-bound folio, which she carried across to him.
Silently, he accepted the case, untying the strings that held the sides closed. One by one, he studied the illustrations inside, careful as he turned the large paper sheets with their fine watercolour renderings of birds. “These are your best yet,” he pronounced. “Stunning, Grace. Absolutely stunning.”
Her cheeks warmed with pleasure. “The chimney swallow turned out best, I think. I would like to have added a bit more green to the mallard, but I suppose he’ll do.”
Terrence smiled. “He’ll more than do. It was my lucky day when we met at that ornithology lecture four summers ago. If not for that fateful introduction, I would likely never have thought of producing a series of illustrated nature books. I have no doubt this new one is going to make us a nice little profit.”
Pin money, Grace thought. At least that’s what Papa liked to call it, since her earnings never amounted to much more than her quarterly allowance. Nonetheless, the money she received from the publication of her “little watercolours” provided a small reserve for her use. More importantly, the money was hers. All hers. Derived by means of her own skills and efforts.
“We’re receiving advanced orders already,” Terrence confided as he carefully straightened the group of drawings inside the folio, then retied the strings. “Lord Ast-bury is taking two dozen this time. Told me he plans to give them out as gifts to his hunting friends.”
Her lips parted as the implication sank in. “Why, that’s dreadful. This book is supposed to be an ornithological reference guide.”
“Apparently he and his toff friends don’t care about such niceties. They like to study the birds, then go out and shoot them. Of course, what is it you said your cook is serving for dinner tonight? Roast chicken, I believe.”
She glared at him for a moment, then released a laugh. “Point taken. Are you certain you won’t stay to enjoy the carnage?”
Smiling, he shook his head. “No, but it is tempting. Look now, here is Martha with our tea.” Setting the folio aside, he stood and helped the housekeeper with the heavy tray.
A crumpet and a slice of meat pie later, Terrence wiped his mouth on his napkin, then laid his plate aside. “So will I see you next Tuesday at the theatre? They’re doing Midsummer, I think.”
Grace returned her teacup to its saucer. “Oh, did I not tell you? I am to go to my aunt Jane’s in Bath for a few weeks. Apparently she wrote to Papa asking if I could stay with her. She wants to take the waters and hates the idea of being in the city alone, despite her wide circle of friends. I didn’t see any way I could refuse.”
“No, nor should you,” he agreed, a slight frown on his brows.
“Not to worry,” she assured him. “I shall take everything I need to begin work on the flower illustrations. You needn’t have any concern that I shall be late in completing the new renderings.”
“I know you won’t. If there is anyone upon whom I can count, it is you. I will only miss you, that’s all.”
“Ah.” She knew she should not encourage him. Still, he was her friend. “And I you,” she said with sincerity. “And I you.”
Late the following evening, Jack claimed his release, his body shuddering, as he lay locked inside his mistress’s arms. She glided her hands over him, her satisfaction plain. He’d taken care to make sure she peaked first, her cries of satisfaction loud enough to awaken the entire household. Luckily her servants were far too well-trained to react, even if they had noticed.
Striving to recover his breath, he rolled onto his back in the wide, satin-covered bed, unabashedly naked, the sheets and counterpane kicked to the floor long ago.
“Heavens, darling, you do that so-o-o-o-o well,” she cooed, reaching out a delicate hand to smooth over his chest. “How soon do you imagine we can do it again?”
He chuckled. “Give me a minute and we’ll see.”
She smiled, her fingers drifting downward with the obvious intent of helping him along. For a moment, he allowed her to play, his interest only mildly reawakened. Then with a gentle touch, he captured her hand and folded it inside his own. “Philipa,” he began, “about the country party next week…”
“Yes?” she said, leaning up so that he had an unobstructed view of her bare breasts and the tendrils of long, dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders in a most enticing way. “Just think of all the fun we’re going to have. I can’t wait to sneak into your room. Or would you rather sneak into mine?”
“I am sorry, but there isn’t going to be any sneaking at all. At least not with me.”
“What do you mean? Of course it will be with you.”
He shook his head. “Not this time. I am afraid something else has occurred. I won’t be attending the party.”
Her smile fell away. “But I don’t understand. You always go into the country this time of year.”
“This year is different.”
Sitting up, he propped himself against the pillows. As he did, he thought about the message he’d received this morning from Danvers advising him about Grace’s plans for the remainder of the summer and fall. Considering all the implications, he set another few inches between himself and Philipa.
“I am going to Bath,” he stated on a solemn rumble.
A hearty laugh rolled from her bow-shaped, cherry-pink lips. “Bath! As in the city? Oh, you’re joshing me. Jack Byron in Bath, that will be the day. I suppose next you’re going to tell me you are journeying there for the waters.”
He lowered his gaze. “Actually, I’m going there for a bride.”
Philipa’s green eyes grew wide. “What! You’re getting married?”
“So it would appear.” Careful to make no mention of names or share the specific details of the agreement he’d struck with Danvers, he confided the basics of his situation to her.
“As you see,” he concluded, “it’s the only viable solution. I wish I could have found an easier
way to tell you this, but the unvarnished truth seemed best.”
Sliding from the bed, she retrieved her cream, flowered silk dressing gown from the floor and slipped into it. Tying the fastening at her waist, she turned back. “I can’t say I am glad of the news, but I understand. Obviously, it is the prudent choice. I just never envisioned you entering into a marriage of convenience. This girl. What is she like?”
“She’s…” He broke off, finding himself oddly reluctant to talk about Grace Danvers. She’s interesting, he thought. And unusual, not at all like the women he knew. She was…complex.
Realizing the direction of his thoughts, he brought himself back to the topic at hand. “What does it matter what she’s like?” he said in a cool tone. “I am marrying her because it’s what I must do. Anything else is irrelevant.”
“Poor creature,” Philipa remarked, strolling around to his side of the bed. “But knowing you, she’ll probably fall instantly under your spell and count herself lucky to be your wife, whatever the circumstances. And I am sure, in your way, you’ll be kind, even generous, to her.”
Shifting her hip, she sat down next to him. “As for me, I know how to be patient. After all, I waited ten long, dreadful years for the death of that lecher my father forced me to wed. At least this girl will be getting a virile man in his prime rather than some dried-up goat, old enough to be her grandfather. Knowing what a fine lover you are, she is fortunate indeed. No woman would object to giving up her maidenhead to you. Would that I could have done so myself.”
“Philipa—”
“Shh,” she murmured, reaching up to feather her fingers through his hair. “Not to worry. When a suitable amount of time has passed, and you find yourself weary of playing husband, come back to me. You will always be welcome in my bed.”
Seduced By His Touch Page 2
