A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls)

by Amanda Weaver

  It doused her desire like a bucket of cold water. In his letter, his reckless passion for her seemed to have run its course. But here he was, kissing her, and sounding as if he wanted her as much as he ever had. Which changed a great many things.

  Gently, she twisted in his arms until he drew back. “Come inside. We should talk.”

  He didn’t argue as she retrieved her bag and the key from the floor and let them into her flat. It was not a large place, just three rooms, cheaply but comfortably furnished with an odd assortment of cast-offs. The sitting room was small, holding no more than a sofa, a sagging armchair, and a little round table, draped with an embroidered shawl. The windows overlooked the street, and she’d left the shutters open so the sun and fresh air could enter. The walls were hung with a ragtag assortment of art Madame Duvernay had deemed not worth displaying in the gallery.

  Off the sitting room was the small kitchen and the even smaller water closet. Recently she’d been attempting and failing to learn to cook. Thankfully she could buy fresh loaves of bread and cheese at the shops downstairs or she’d have starved. Her bedroom faced the quiet courtyard in back.

  Julian glanced around as he followed her in. No doubt to him this set of rooms looked shabby and purgatorial, but to her, they were precious. This was her space, paid for with her own labor. She was no longer desperate to find someone who could offer her security. She’d acquired it for herself.

  “It’s very...snug,” he said at last, and she had to stifle a laugh.

  “Well, it’s no Knighton House, but I like it.” She loved it. She loved everything about these three humble rooms, because they were hers.

  His eyes found hers again and he smiled, a warm, gentle smile she hadn’t seen on his face nearly enough in the time she’d known him. “I’m sure giving all this up for Knighton House will be a hardship indeed. But I know how important your security is to you, and now, you’ll be secure for the rest of your life.”

  Here it was, the offer she knew he’d come and make. In all her imaginings, she hadn’t thought this moment would hurt quite so much. She had to make him understand, he owed her nothing.

  “I’m secure now, and I’ve done it on my own.”

  Julian smiled at her. “Of course you have. Being a countess will, no doubt, pale in comparison.”

  “Julian—”

  But he closed the small distance between them before she could finish. Pulling her into his arms, he stroked his fingertips down her cheek. “I know I’m charging in too fast again, but I can’t help it. There’s nothing standing between us, Grace. We can be married next month. Or if you prefer, we could be married here in France before the week is out, and then—”

  “Julian, no.” Wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she drew it away from her face and held it in both of hers.

  “Grace, I’ve spoken to Honor. We’re both free. We can marry.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  He blinked, then his expression shut down and he pulled his hand free from hers. “Are you telling me there’s someone else?”

  In spite of the tension of the moment, she let out a soft huff of laughter. “No, there’s no one else.”

  “Then what? You don’t wish to marry me?”

  She raised her face again, meeting his gaze with hers. “It’s you who doesn’t want to marry me. Not really.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m here, asking you. I know what I want. And what I want is you.”

  “For now.”

  “Forever. Grace, do you think me so fickle?” His voice turned sharp at the end.

  “No, I don’t. I think you’re one of the most steadfast people I’ve ever met. Which is why I can’t marry you. Right now, your feelings have overset you, but that won’t always be the case. And when your reasoning reasserts itself, I don’t want you to be tied to me for life, the product of a questionable choice made in the heat of desire.”

  Julian closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t understand. You declare me steadfast, and yet you’re sure I’m not thinking rationally right now. Grace, I assure you, I know my own mind.”

  “I know you do. But you’ve always been frank about your views on marriage. And my station in the world is unchanged. Indeed, it’s worse now, considering the broken engagement and the way I’ve chosen to live.” She waved a hand to indicate her tiny, shabby set of rooms. “Julian, you have to see that. We’re not equals, in your own estimation.”

  “I don’t care about any of that.”

  “Not now, you don’t, but you will. Now there’s this whiff of scandal which will forever be attached to me as well. After everything you’ve experienced in your life, you can’t possibly think to open yourself up to further scrutiny. You might not mind now, here in Menton, but in time, I’m sure you would.”

  “No, I won’t,” he insisted, frustration evident in his face. She didn’t know how to make him see reason. Julian, always so calm and rational, now wanted to throw all his logic out the window.

  “Passion cools. And I couldn’t bear for you to look at me as a mistake you made in the heat of it.” She looked down at her hands, so he wouldn’t see the pain on her face. “I don’t want to be anyone’s regret, most especially yours. It would kill me.”

  “You think I could grow to regret you?”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  He stared at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth together in frustration. “So that’s it, then? Once again, you’re going to send me away? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She hesitated, turning something over in her mind. Before he’d come to Menton, when his eventual appearance was still hypothetical, she’d fully intended to do just that—to send him away and set him free. But now he was here in the flesh. Now he’d touched her again, kissed her...and turning him away had suddenly become an impossibility. She couldn’t marry him, but perhaps she could keep him for a time. They could share more than one moment of furtive, deceitful pleasure. If Julian stayed, she could take her time, explore him thoroughly, revel in him, and then sleep in his arms until morning.

  Surely a short time with him as her lover would be worth the pain of losing him later? She’d have some small part of him to hold dear for the rest of her life.

  Her need for him made her bold, otherwise she never could have entertained the outrageous idea she was about to give voice to.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t marry you,” she said, still keeping her eyes on her hands. “But that doesn’t mean you have to leave.”

  It took a moment for Grace’s meaning to sink in. And when it did, Julian’s shock was followed rapidly by arousal. But she was fooling herself if she thought he’d take what she was offering without question.

  “You mean you won’t marry me, but you’ll take me to your bed?” he asked baldly.

  Heat flared in her cheeks when he spelled it out. Then she tilted her chin up and looked him in the eye. “Why not? I live on my own here, and I do as I please.”

  Her bravado was just that—all show. He knew Grace, and taking him as her lover wouldn’t be enough, any more than it would be for him. He couldn’t resist poking at her to see how soon her resolve would crumble. “Musgrave wanted to take you as a lover and you turned him down flat, but you’ll agree to become mine?”

  She recoiled at the mention of Fredrick Musgrave. “I could never accept that pig. This is different because it’s my choice. I didn’t want Frederick. I want you. So I’m yours...if you want me.”

  He laughed, a soft chuff of disbelief, as he shook his head. “You must be joking. I came back to England ready to tear my life to pieces to have you, Grace.”

  “You see?” she said. “The man I know you to be would never do something so rash. And even if you wanted to,
I couldn’t help you destroy your life—your own happiness—that way.”

  “And you think my marrying you would destroy my happiness?” He shook his head in bemusement. It was the one thing that would ensure it for the rest of his life.

  “You know it would.” She remained implacable. So serene as she gently turned his own words back on him like a knife and skewered him with them. It was nothing less than he deserved, after everything, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  “So this is your offer? You won’t be my wife, but you’ll take me as your lover?”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed nervously. “Yes. Will you stay?”

  “Grace, you know how much I want you.”

  She took a tentative step closer to him, reaching out to lay her palm on his chest, over his thundering heart.

  “Then have me,” she whispered, so breathless she barely made a sound. But it was impossible to miss a single breath the other person took in this small room, when they were so painfully aware of each other.

  Finally, he looked up, meeting her uncertain gaze. “All right.”

  He had her in his arms, his mouth on hers, before she could even draw her next breath. She wanted to take him as a lover? Then she could have him. He’d overwhelm her with his body and his heart, until she forgot why she was resisting him as a husband.

  Then, of course, he would marry her. She was not leaving France without his ring and his name. It might take a bit of time to convince her, but if she wanted to pass that time in bed with him, he wasn’t going to argue with her. He was the one who’d worked so hard to prove he could never be happy in a partnership like this. Now he’d have to work doubly hard to prove to her he’d changed, that no one could ever make him happier than her.

  Her mouth opened for him with soft readiness, and for the first time, he kissed her without guilt, without urgency. Languidly, he explored her, taking the time he’d never had before to savor her, to learn the delicate shape of her lips, the supple movement of her tongue on his. This kiss would lead to a slow unraveling for both of them, pleasure freely given and taken.

  As much as his body wanted to sink into her and find blissful completion, he would not rush this first time with her. The hotel in London, the frantic, furtive coupling, didn’t count. There was only this, a slow, sensual kiss in the middle of her small, sunny flat in France, the summer air blowing in through the open windows, teasing wisps of her hair free and warming their skin. No one would stop them and nothing stood between them now.

  The long, slender length of her pressed against him, hip to hip, breasts against his chest. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, then her arms to twine about his neck, and then her fingers to plunder his hair. Shudders of pleasure raced down his spine as her nails scraped across his scalp. The hard edge of sensation made him close his teeth on her perfect lower lip, biting gently.

  His hands traced her body through her clothes, starting with her waist, and then up her back to her neck and face, and down again, over her hips, teasing the backs of her thighs. But there were far too many clothes still between him—all his layers of wool and starched cotton, all her layers of petticoats, chemise, corset and dress. He wanted all of her bared to him at last.

  Bending slightly, never breaking their kiss, he swept her up in his arms. Grace’s breath left her in a startled sigh, lost in his mouth and down his throat. He found his way through her tiny flat, to her bedroom, without hesitation and with only half a dozen long strides. It was quieter, since her bedroom faced the private courtyard. The shutters were flung wide to let in the breeze, and thin white curtains billowed gently inward as he set her down beside the bed.

  It was a small room, white-plastered and wood-floored, dominated by the white metal-framed bed covered with a worn, flowered quilt. A little table beside the bed held a pottery vase full of lavender.

  A kind of dreamlike bliss wrapped itself around his senses. There was only him, only her, in this sun-washed bedroom filled with flower-scented air. The warm fragrance wound its way through his head as he looked down at Grace, in his arms at last. He wanted to remember every look, every touch, every sensation, no mindless passion blurring the edges of their actions this time.

  Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands to the row of tiny pearl buttons down the front of her blouse and went to work on the first one, just under her chin. A heady mixture of desire and nerves fired her eyes, but she didn’t stop him.

  “I’m taking your clothes off now,” he said, so there would be no mistaking what he meant to do.

  Grace’s breath hitched and her lips, her soft pink lips, parted on an exhaled breath. A lover had privileges, which he meant to fully enjoy. She wished to be his mistress? He would undress his mistress and revel in the sight of her naked body in this bright, afternoon sun.

  Button after tiny button came free, and her white cotton blouse, with its tucks and dainty lace inserts, began to gap away from her body. Underneath, a corset cover, made out of white cotton batiste so thin as to be nearly transparent, and edged with lace, lay against the pale swells of her breasts.

  The blouse, like all women’s clothes, was complicated, with equally long rows of buttons up the inside of each wrist holding it closed all the way down to her hands. He raised one of her hands and bent his head, pressing a long, open-mouthed kiss to the palm, letting his tongue slip out to take a taste of her skin. Grace watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, her hand slack in his. Slowly, he began to work those buttons free, too, his lips tracing a slow line of heat up the sensitive skin of her wrist as it became exposed.

  It was quiet. The chatter of voices from the street out front was far away. Back here, there was only the soft whisper of the breeze, and Grace’s increasingly labored breathing as he gently worked her free of her clothing. When the first cuff was dealt with, he began on the other in just the same way, first kissing her palm, then kissing her arm as he unbuttoned her blouse and exposed her.

  When it was done, he straightened and looked her in the eyes as he drew the blouse over her shoulders and down her arms. Grace dropped her arms to her sides, letting the blouse fall away. Still so many clothes between them and his cock was already hard and aching with need. But he would not be rushed, not this first time with her truly in his arms.

  His eyes skated over her, and Grace, trembling, made no move to cover herself. Chest rising and falling with each breath, she let him look, offering herself up to his lust-filled gaze.

  “This too,” he murmured, beginning to unbutton the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons of her corset cover. His fingers felt too large, too clumsy, to handle such a fragile garment. The filmy, insubstantial garment fluttered to the floor, and his mouth went dry at the sight of her breasts straining against the edge of her corset. Bending his head, he kissed first one pale swell and then the other. Her breath caught and her hands came to his head, holding him against her. He lingered, letting his breath wash over her breast and the stubble of his cheek, grown rough in the many hours since he’d shaved, scraped her tender skin.

  It was all he could do to not lift her skirts and sink inside her without further ado. But that was not what this was about. She’d given herself to him as a lover, and he would take her, with exquisite slowness, savoring every inch of her.

  “Turn around,” he rasped against her breasts.

  She complied, presenting her back to him. Kissing her bare shoulder, and the slope where it blended into the graceful curve of her neck, he worked free the button at the waistband of her skirt. Beneath it, there were ties, so many, holding petticoats in place around her waist. His breath warming her shoulder and neck, her back resting on his chest, he tugged them all free, one by one. When the last one loosened, he placed his hands on her corseted waist and slid them slowly downward, shoving layers of cotton and silk down over her hips and thighs, until it puddled in a heap around her calves. He turne
d his hands, pressing his palms against the front of her thighs, warm underneath the thin cotton of her bloomers. She let out a tiny, helpless sound of desire as he dragged his hands slowly up her thighs and back to her waist. Gently, he turned her to face him again and presented a hand to her, as proper as if they were beginning a waltz at a ball. She grasped his fingers to steady herself as she stepped out of the mountain of her skirts.

  Down to just the corset and her bloomers, she gazed up at him with her cool gray eyes, just watching him as he watched her.

  “Take your hair down,” he commanded softly. She lifted her arms immediately to comply, her nimble fingers winding through her hair, tugging pins out and shaking sections loose. He’d always loved her hands, so graceful, and he loved her hair, the thick, satiny, sable curtain of it, reaching nearly to her waist. Unbound, falling around her shoulders like a waterfall, it was magnificent. A sight only a lover would see. Or a husband. He meant to be both.

  Reaching up, he speared his fingers into it, scraping along her scalp, and then he drew it through his fingers, from root to tip. Her eyes slid closed and her head lolled on her neck.

  “I love your hair,” he muttered, his cock swelling. Slowly, he wrapped the extraordinary length of it around his wrist like a rope, until her head was held firmly in his grasp. Then he brought her face to hers and he kissed her, a long, greedy exploration hinting at all the ways he meant to plunder the rest of her. Her hands gripped his wrists, as if she was uncertain where else she might touch him. By the time they were done, she’d know. Those hands would be as familiar with his body as they were with her own.

  Releasing her, he leaned back, raking his eyes down her body, the breasts pushed up high, the waist nipped in tight. He bracketed her waist with his hands and bent his head to kiss the tops of her breasts again. She swayed and he steadied her, kissing along the edge of her corset, licking her creamy flesh, nipping it. It would leave a mark. Skin like hers marked so easily. There was something obscenely pleasing about it, knowing that even when they finished, he’d linger on her skin.