Many fine paintings hung around the house, but the bulk of their collection, amassed over the course of several generations, resided in this long gallery, specially designed to display the works.
Her slippers made no sound on the plush red carpet as she moved from painting to painting, pausing to examine a Cimabue Madonna and child, then moving on to a battle scene by Delacroix. No guests had ventured this far. She was utterly alone, reveling in a few exquisite moments of solitude to spend just how she liked.
She’d tried, early on, to expose Rupert to some of her favorite paintings, but despite his valiant attempts to appreciate them for her sake, he just couldn’t summon any real enthusiasm. It wasn’t as if she had any great love of hunting, so she didn’t fault him. It would simply have to remain something she pursued on her own.
Her favorite of the Longville’s collection, a sumptuous portrait by Gainsborough, was just ahead. She was making her way toward it when footsteps sounded in the hall, approaching the gallery. Why could she not have even a moment for herself? With a deep inhale, she plastered a dreary pleasant smile on her face before she turned, prepared to make some polite small talk with the newcomer.
Lord Knighton leaned on the archway opening onto the gallery, examining her. She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it again when she realized she hadn’t thought out how to handle this. Clumsy mistake. Of course he’d try to corner her, and she should have planned her response in advance. Should she acknowledge France and ask him, politely, to keep it from Rupert? Or should she declare she had no idea what he was referring to and brazen it out?
She was still assessing the best course of action when he pushed off the doorway and advanced on her.
“Miss Godwyn. You seem to turn up everywhere I look these days.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Your Lordship.”
She didn’t at all like the knowing smirk twisting his mouth. “You’ve suddenly become an intimate friend of my good friend. Certainly, we don’t need to stand on that kind of ceremony.”
She didn’t miss the warning note in his voice. “I’ve only just met you. I wouldn’t dream of insulting you with a more casual address.” Her voice sounded so tight and proper to her own ears, she nearly laughed. Except this situation felt entirely too dangerous for humor. Her only defense was to hide behind a wall of starched good manners.
“You don’t exactly seem like the kind of woman to observe the usual proprieties.”
Her eyes blazed and her back snapped upright. How dare he? “I don’t think you know me well enough to make that kind of assumption.”
“Don’t I?”
She hadn’t been sure up until now what she was going to do, but his taunt made up her mind. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging the kiss in France. It—and he—was beneath her notice. “Since I just made your acquaintance this afternoon, no, you don’t.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re going to play it like that, are you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go find my friends.”
She began to brush past him but his hand shot out, closing around her upper arm. Her glove came to just above her elbow. His palm curled around the bare skin above it, his fingertips digging into the soft underside of her arm. She gasped, the shock of his touch rocketing through her body as she spun around to face him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He was looking at his hand, holding her arm, as if he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. “I’m not entirely sure,” he murmured. Then he looked up into her face, so much closer than he’d been a moment ago. “I never seem to know what I’m doing when you’re near. Why is that?”
He sounded truly baffled, his mocking tone from a moment ago erased, along with the accusatory glint in his eyes. He looked at her in almost helpless confusion. Grace felt equally lost, for the animosity of their London meetings had been washed away and she was back in the dark alcove in France, swept up in that moment so out of time and place.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. She didn’t know what fueled his actions regarding her and she didn’t know what fueled her own. Instead of slapping his hand away and fleeing the room, she was letting him move in close, so close she could hear his breathing, so close she could see the faint shadow of his beard beneath his skin. Where were the next words she was meant to utter in her script? She was supposed to deny everything, to convince him he had the wrong woman. Instead, she was standing here, letting him touch her, letting him move in closer, which all but admitted he had the right woman. Her mind had gone blank.
“I forget everything I’m meant to be doing.” He took another step, and a knot of anticipation and need twisted in her belly, making her forget everything important, too.
She began to think she’d imagined his hostile looks and challenging words. There was only this elemental connection they shared, drawing them both into something they didn’t understand.
His grip had turned from a restraint to a caress, his fingertips barely moving over the inside of her arm. No one had ever touched her this way, as if she was something precious, except when he’d done it himself in France.
She wasn’t restrained. If she tugged just once, she’d be free. She could leave.
She didn’t move.
“I forget what I’m doing, too.” Her admission was so quiet it was nearly lost to the cavernous room. But he heard her; she could see it in the battle raging across his features. It was the twin to the battle raging in her, the fight between doing what felt right and doing what was right.
“I shouldn’t... I can never forget,” he said, more to himself than her. A thousand emotions played out in his eyes, too many for her to identify. She knew what she was fighting for. She didn’t know what he fought for.
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Neither do I.”
Then he lowered his head and kissed her.
The tension stringing her tight all night released with all the power of an arrow unleashed from a bow. Heat exploded through her. She hadn’t misremembered a single thing about his kiss, not his strong lips moving over hers, not the enthralling heat of it, not the slick glide of his tongue against hers. Unable to help it, she reached for him, too, curling her hands around his neck and arching into his kiss.
His hand came up to grip the back of her neck and he tugged her closer, until her body was pressed against the length of his. Far flung parts of her came alive, tingling in anticipation. That same lethargic heat stole through her limbs, the kind which burned away every rational plan she’d ever made. She forgot everything she’d been doing for the past month in London, all the progress she’d made with Rupert, all her hopeful plans for the future. There was only Julian, his mouth, his hands, this kiss.
He moaned into her mouth, the sound both a visceral thrill along her nerves and a sharp rebuke to her brain.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
What was wrong with her? This man could ruin everything for her. He was not her friend. He’d followed her here with no good intent, and here she was forgetting everything because of a stupid kiss.
Planting her hands against his chest, she shoved hard, until his grip on her loosened and he stumbled back. As she raised her hand to her mouth and her reason returned, a chilling thought took root. He’d kissed her on purpose, to shake her up and insult her. And she’d fallen for it.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He blinked in surprise and slowly his expression cleared, hardened. The gentle confusion from a moment ago was gone. No doubt he’d manufactured it just for her, to get past her defenses, to get her to tumble back into his arms so he could call her out as a harlot.
He straightened, his haughty noble bearing settling down
over him like a shroud. “Only what we’ve done before.” His heavy breathing was at odds with his smirk. He might have thought to discompose her with that kiss but it was clear he’d been shaken as well, at least physically.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come now, Miss Godwyn, it’s you, no doubt about it.” Languidly, he swept his thumb across his bottom lip, slick and wet from her mouth. “I remember how you taste.”
Fury and mortification ripped through her. She didn’t think, she acted on instinct, pure and full of rage. One minute he was grinning at her, all smug, righteous satisfaction, and the next, her hand was connecting with the side of his face with a loud and satisfying whack. Too bad she was wearing her gloves. Flesh against flesh would have stung a lot more.
His head snapped to the side with the impact and he staggered. She stepped back and drew herself up, employing every drop of her breeding and every minute of her training. Her voice dripped with all the disdain of a grievously insulted viscount’s daughter.
“How dare you insult me this way?”
Julian rubbed a hand over his injured jaw. It probably hurt a great deal. Amelia had taught her how to hit to inflict maximum damage, and she’d learned her fighting skills on the docks of Portsmouth.
“You seemed more than willing to indulge me, just as you did in France.”
She was done pretending it wasn’t her. He clearly wasn’t going to be a gentleman and let it go. “It’s exceedingly boorish of you to refer to that moment when I clearly wish to leave it in the past.”
He turned to face her again, now recovered from the shock of her slap. His jaw was still red. It would likely bruise. Good. “Of course you’d like to leave it in the past. You’re set on selling yourself as a proper young lady and proper young ladies don’t kiss strangers in alleys and galleries.”
She gasped in outrage. Who was he to impugn her reputation? “You seem to have forgotten, you kissed me, too. I was hardly alone in the act.”
“No, you weren’t alone, were you? Was he really chasing you or was it just some game, and I stupidly stumbled into the middle of it?”
She blinked and drew back at the insult, the implication she’d been involved with the man chasing her, the one who had turned out to be the odious Frederick Musgrave. Suddenly she was exhausted. Why did she always have to prove herself to everyone at every turn? First Frederick’s insult and now Knighton’s. Why was she never respected on her own merits, without forcing it out of people? “That horrible man was set on assaulting me. Men like you, you’re all the same.”
“Men like me? You think to class me with him?”
“You’re the one who sought me out tonight. You’re the one who put your hands on me. You’re the one who kissed me. You’re no better than the man in the alley.”
All these arrogant men who thought they could just take what they wanted from her because she was poor and alone.
Shock registered in his face, as if her words had hit him with as much impact as her hand had.
“As for what happened in France and just now,” she continued, all the fire seeping out of her voice. “I was swept up in a moment, and I thought you were, too. I see now I made a dreadful mistake. Both times. Please don’t approach me again, Your Lordship.”
Picking up her skirts, she turned away, but his hand caught her arm again.
“Miss Godwyn, wait—”
She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “Oh, now I’m ‘Miss Godwyn’ again? Please, don’t trot out your manners for me, Lord Knighton. As you’ve made so clear, you don’t think I’m worth them.”
“Grace—”
“And I do not recall giving you leave to use my Christian name. Now, I’m going back to find my friends. I assume you won’t attempt to stop me?”
He held up his hands in supplication. “I’m very sorry.”
She laughed, a humorless chuckle. “Don’t waste your apologies on someone as undeserving as me, Lord Knighton. I bid you goodnight.”
Chapter Seven
Julian stayed in bed until an unacceptably late hour the next morning. He’d have liked to blame exhaustion, but the truth was, he was as wide awake now as he’d been nearly all night. The ghastly encounter with Grace Godwyn in the Longville’s picture gallery played out over and over in his mind, and still, he couldn’t come to terms with what he’d done.
Yes, after everything he’d learned in France, he still thought her a woman of loose morals. And knowing she was penniless and without family, he suspected she was a gold digger, as well. But it didn’t excuse his behavior.
He’d kissed her. Again. The moment he’d touched her, all his accusations and anger had deserted him, leaving him prey to some mystifying need for her. What had been going on in his head?
Nothing. That was the problem. There had been no thoughts, only desires. And he’d followed them blindly into yet another forbidden encounter. Perhaps there was more of his father in him than he’d ever realized, and Grace seemed to be the spark which brought it to life.
Ashamed of himself, he’d fallen back on his anger and outrage. But whatever her actions and motivations, she was right—he had no right to touch her that way. When she compared what he’d done to the actions of the man who’d been chasing her, the mortification felled him in his tracks.
Everything he’d done in Grace Godwyn’s presence was beneath him. He was not a man who treated women—any woman—cavalierly. She might be Musgrave’s mistress and a fortune hunter, but it didn’t give him leave to accost her. He’d meant to pull Rupert aside last night and tell him just what sort of woman Grace was, but considering his own actions, it felt highly hypocritical of him. The way he’d spoken to her, what he’d implied, and of course...that kiss. He covered his eyes with his hand and groaned.
He was the Earl of Knighton now. The path before him was clear—to take his place in Parliament, to attempt to use his position to do some good, something of worth, and, in doing so, restore the honor of the Knighton title. What he’d done at the Longville’s held no honor at all.
Perhaps there was a way to bring up Musgrave and France without revealing his own shameful part in it. If he could plant the seed in Rupert’s mind, he might ask the difficult questions himself, saving Julian from the task. He’d take him to White’s for lunch today.
Sighing, he pulled himself out of bed. It was a new day, a new opportunity to regroup. He would see to Rupert and then he’d call on Honor. An afternoon in her steady company, working toward their goals, would surely banish the last of Grace Godwyn from his mind.
Downstairs, his mother had finished her breakfast but lingered at the table, drinking her coffee and reading the paper.
“Good morning, Mother.” He bent and kissed her cheek before taking his place at the head of the table. It should have been his father’s spot until his death this winter, but Julian had been sitting in his father’s seat, literally and figuratively, since he was a boy. Someone had to, and there had been no one but him.
“You’re up late today, Julian. Are you well?”
His mother was still an attractive woman, but the difficulties of her married life—or rather, her less than married life—had leeched all the brightness out of her long ago. Her features were youthful, and the black hair he’d inherited from her didn’t hold a strand of silver. But she’d been old in spirit for as long as he could remember, even when he was a boy and she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. As the years passed, she only grew older, sadder. The boundless confidence of her American family faded away in her the moment she stepped foot in England to marry the former viscount.
Even though his father’s public disgrace was not her fault, the whispers followed her everywhere, and had for years. Eventually the gossip had worn her down, and beaten the Brennan fire out of her. Her circle of acquaintances was very
small, and she attended only one or two private events every Season. Julian, wanting more than anything to protect her from any further injury, didn’t urge her to do more.
He cleared his throat as the footman poured his coffee. “Just toast,” he told the man. “Quite well, Mother. Perhaps still a little tired from the trip home.”
It was subtle, but he didn’t miss his mother’s slight flinch at even an implied mention of France. After all this time, and the man dead and buried, his father had the power to wound her.
“What are your plans today?” she asked, making an attempt at cheer.
“Lunch with Rupert, if he’s free, and then I’m going to pay a call on Honor. I’ve had some thoughts about the housing works while I was away which I want to discuss with her.”
“She’s been a tremendous help to you, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, she has. Her volunteer work has given her invaluable insight into what’s needed to improve conditions. And Lord Dorney has been helpful in singling out who might be of aid to us politically.”
He would need all the assistance he could get in that quarter, but he didn’t voice his concern to his mother. While his father held the title, it had been all but written off by Society. With scrupulous attention to his personal conduct, he’d managed to convince most people he wasn’t a copy of his father, which was a start, but it wasn’t enough. The damage his father had done, to more than his own family, meant many men would never wish to associate with him. He was starting from nothing, with no allies and several powerful men positioned to oppose him on principal. Honor’s father would be able to ease his entry a bit, but it would still be rough going.
“You two make an excellent team. I’m so glad you’re back home, Julian. I’m sure Honor is, too.”
Was Honor happy to have him home? Had she even missed him while he was in France? Doubtful. Theirs was not that kind of friendship. Passion had nothing to do with the business.
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 8
