That was the first thing he had noticed about her at the Smythe ball. Newly returned from a long journey to the West Indies, he had stepped into an overcrowded ballroom. After months of being deeply immersed in his studies, in the wonder and raw truth of the natural world, London Society seemed impossibly brittle and false. He could no longer bear the artificial codes of the world he grew up in, and he couldn’t find his place amid the maze of balls and routs and theaters any longer.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Melisande. Only his mother’s hand on his arm had kept him from drifting inexorably across the room to try to warm himself at last. She had greeted him with the same laughing gaiety she used with everyone else.
Only in that one strange, silent moment on the terrace had he glimpsed something he had never expected to see—her sadness.
She didn’t seem sad tonight as she sat across from him, telling some animated story as she sampled the meal laid before them. Gray hadn’t heard most of it, as he was so absorbed in watching her face as she laughed, the gestures of her slender white hands. He still could not believe that he was here, with her, that fate had led them both to this isolated inn tonight. Surely it was some kind of dream. He was trapped in a snowdrift, freezing to death and clinging to one last vision of life.
“...do you not agree, Lord Grayson?” she asked, shaking him out of his memories and dreams and into the reality of this moment. Of her, and this warm, bright room.
“Of course, Duchess,” he answered, hoping he wasn’t agreeing to something completely outlandish, and hoping even more that he hadn’t been staring at her like some infatuated schoolboy.
Apparently not, because she smiled. “I wish you would not go on calling me duchess. It makes me sound so stodgy and grand.”
Gray laughed. “I think stodgy and grand are the last two words anyone would use to describe you. Yet it is your title.”
Melisande shook her head and glanced away. For an instant it seemed as if a shadow flickered over her face, a wisp of cloudy unhappiness. She quickly covered it with a laugh. If Gray hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed it, that quick drop of her bright mask.
He remembered how sad and still she had looked that night on the terrace, too, and he wanted to know why.
“It doesn’t feel like it’s mine at all,” she said. “It never has, really. Sometimes it feels as if I’m a character in a play―’the duchess,’ meant to say and move and do certain things. Life is easy enough when I follow the script, but when I go off the proscribed lines―”
She broke off and shook her head. She reached for the wine bottle and refilled their glasses.
Gray laughed ruefully and took a drink. “I know what you mean. I have been given a role since birth that I can’t seem to figure out how to fill.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said merrily. “Aren’t the younger sons of noblemen supposed to be rakes, dashing through Society to provide us all with delicious gossip? You seem to be rather good at that.”
Gray laughed even more. “You are quite correct, duch—I mean, Melisande. We are meant to be a scandalous counterpoint to our responsible older brothers, until we settle down in the church or the army and provide our families with plentiful junior lines.”
“And which will you choose? Church or army?”
“Neither, I think. The pulpit and the sword suit me as little as playing the rake did in the end.”
She was silent for a moment, her long, elegant fingers toying with the stem of her glass. Gray couldn’t take his eyes off them. He noticed she wore no rings, no jewels of any sort. “You recently returned from a long journey, did you not?” she said.
“To the West Indies. My parents thought it would do me good to visit some of the family who reside there.” He had not wanted to go at first, but it became the finest thing that ever happened to him.
“And did it do you good?”
“Not in the way they hoped, I think,” Gray admitted. “My relations wanted me to marry their daughter. But I had other tasks to complete there, and I enjoyed my journey immensely.”
“That sounds intriguing,” Melisande said, sipping at her wine. “What sort of tasks?”
“Well,” Gray said, leaning across the table to smile at her. “Can you keep a secret?”
She laughed, her eyes sparkling. “That is one thing I am very good at, secret-keeping.”
“I’m interested in the natural sciences. Plants, birds, things like that. I have secretly studied it all since I was very young, and I spent most of my time in the islands studying and collecting specimens. It was wonderful.”
Melisande sat back in her chair. A strange expression flickered across her face, looking doubtful and—and impressed maybe. Or perhaps he just wished she would be impressed. But he had told her his secret now.
“So you are a scholar,” she said.
Gray laughed. “An interested amateur, rather. But don’t tell my parents. I don’t want them to discover my rakishness is now a ruse to avoid the church. A few weeks ago I spoke to Lord Travers, the botanist. He is leading an expedition to India soon and I would like to join him.”
Melisande shook her head. “I certainly wouldn’t tell. We’re all entitled to our secrets, Lord Grayson. But I never would have guessed yours.”
“No? Then what are your own secrets?” Gray thought perhaps he had imbibed too much wine to be asking a lady such a question. Yet the snow outside, the firelight, the hush of their little room and Melisande’s very nearness seemed to invite intimacies. It seemed like a moment out of real time, when anything could happen.
“My secrets are very dull,” she said. “I want to hear more about the islands and what you did there. I’ve always wanted to travel, to see such strange, new places, but I doubt I ever shall.”
“Adventure is just there for the taking,” Gray answered. “Yet one doesn’t have to set sail for distant lands to find it. It can be had in some very unexpected places.”
Melisande laughed, and he suddenly realized that this was a real laugh, not the social sound of false merriment that it seemed she tried to hide behind. Her whole face seemed lit from within.
“Adventure like being lost in a snowstorm?” she said. “Yes, I’m beginning to see that. This evening has turned out most unexpected.”
And so it had. Gray had traveled to strange places, to deserted islands, vast oceans, beautiful jungles and barren deserts, yet he had never found himself feeling quite as he did tonight. He had never met a woman like Melisande before. So beautiful, so mysterious, so changeable.
She rose from her chair and drifted past him to the fireside. The soft fabric of her s brushed against his arm, and he could smell the sweetness of her perfume.
She sat down in an armchair near the hearth and smiled back at him over her shoulder. “Come sit with me and tell me more about your journey,” she said. “Unless you are bored with me.”
Bored with her? Gray felt sure she could never bore him even if they sat in this room for the next forty years. Just watching the different colors of her hair—dark autumn-red, gold, amber—as the firelight played over it was fascinating. Listening to her talk, seeing the emotions flash like quicksilver in her eyes—yes, he could do that for hours. Days.
It seemed he had hesitated too long in answering her. Her smile faded, and she turned away to stare into the fire. And he found he would do anything to make her smile again.
He pushed back from the table and went to sit beside her. Her smile returned, but it seemed wary.
“The first thing you notice in the islands is the quality of the light,” he said, trying to paint a picture of the wondrous places he had visited so she could see it too. “There is nothing like it here. Even on sunny days in London the light is soft and diffuse, but then it’s blinding. There is nothing between you and that light, it’s almost as if you could step into it, dissolve into its heart and be a part of it.”
Melisande slid a bit closer to him, watching him as he talked. “Th
at must be the most wonderful thing. To be always warm, always in the light.”
Gray smiled at her. “It’s much better than today, true.”
She laughed, and he was sure he had never heard anything sweeter. “And what does it smell like there? Where it’s always warm?”
Gray closed his eyes and remembered the stretches of sandy beaches, the cool, damp shade of the trees that lined the shore. And in that vision he could see Melisande, walking along the sand, laughing, her red hair loose on her shoulders, the sun shimmering through her thin white muslin gown. “It smells like flowers, and like the salt of the ocean...”
Melisande eased a bit closer, her body soft and warm next to his, her perfume sweet and intoxicating. “Tell me more.”
That he was happy to do. He was sure he could talk forever if it meant she would just stay right there next to him.
Chapter Five
Melisande was lost in the world Gray created with his words. A strange, exotic world she had only read about, dreamed about, but which seemed to be right there before her now, thanks to him.
He was not at all what she expected him to be. She had been in the midst of the ton for too long perhaps, and it had made her cynical about people, about their hopes and dreams and motives. She had begun to think everyone and everything was artificial and selfish. She had built up an armor herself, to hold away any foolish longing for something more, until complete ruination seemed the only solution.
But as Grayson Sanbourne spoke of his time in the islands, she could see the light of real, deep passion in his eyes. She heard the love of ideas and knowledge in his words. She had first assumed he was the usual sort of young Society nobleman, spoiled, careless, debauched, only to find that he was so much more.
And she was dangerously drawn to him, this handsome, extraordinary man years younger than herself. Or maybe it was merely the wine, the firelight, the blanket of silencing snow outside.
“Then what have you been doing since you returned to England?” she asked.
Gray laughed. A wave of his hair fell over his brow, and Melisande wanted to smooth it away. He looked so much freer with his hair and clothes awry. Sensual, like a pagan lord.
“I have been trying to organize all the specimens and notes I brought back with me,” he said. “But my family duties have taken up too much time.”
Melisande sighed. “I know well how duty can overtake so much else. Until we don’t know who we are apart from that, deep down inside.”
He gave her a piercing glance. “Exactly so. That was why I went away in the first place, to try to find out who I am. Now that I’m home, my family wants to put me back in their box.”
“That will never work,” Melisande said with a laugh. “Once we have glimpsed precious freedom, we will only want to fly away again.”
“What happened to you, Melisande?” Gray asked quietly. He watched her so intently it felt as if he reached out and touched her, drew her close. Part of her felt that old primitive instinct to flee, to not let anyone see her. Yet part of her only wanted to be closer and closer to him.
Feeling vulnerable, she rose from her chair and went to the fire to take up the poker. As she stirred at the kindling, she could sense that he watched her.
She made herself give a careless laugh. “La, but what happens to any of us? We learn to fulfill the roles we are given.”
“Who gives us those roles?” he said. His tone was light, as if he merely made whimsical conversation, but Melisande could somehow sense that his question wasn’t whimsical at all.
“What is your place, Melisande?” he said.
The poker slid from her fingers to clatter on the hearth stones. She closed her eyes tightly, but the words were still there.
“Nowhere,” she whispered.
There was the merest rustle of fabric behind her, and suddenly she sensed that he stood by her side. The warmth of his body wrapped around her, banishing the cold. His hand slid lightly down her arm until he held her fingers entwined in his. His touch was gentle, but Melisande knew she could no longer run.
“Can’t we belong here, now?” he said.
Melisande stared up at him in the firelight, and for an instant she saw her own longing and passion etched on his handsome face. She had never known anyone like him; had never wanted to be so close to another person in her life.
Gray backed her up against the rough plaster of the wall and braced his arms to either side of her to keep her from running from him. He held her prisoner without even touching her, but he was so close she could feel every inch of his hot, lean, hard-muscled body brushing so close to hers.
She curled her fingers tight into her skirts to keep from wrapping her arms close around him. She tilted back her head to stare up at him. His face looked so solemn, carved from granite in the flickering firelight. He watched her closely, as if he could see everything about her. And somehow she didn’t even care. She wanted to be open to him, to give him her secrets. And she wanted his in return.
“I’ve never known anyone like you at all,” he said roughly. “Why do I want you so much? Why do I want to be the only one you talk to, look at? The only one to make you laugh, to earn your kisses. You make me feel crazy...”
Melisande shook her head, her thoughts spinning. He was the one who made her crazy. This whole thing between them, whatever it was, was wild madness she couldn’t seem to escape. She had thought herself past such romantic folly, the widowed duchess, independent at last. Gray Sanbourne was so completely wrong for her, so young, so handsome, so perfect. And she was completely wrong for him.
Yet she couldn’t turn away from him. She only wanted to be closer and closer to him. “We—we shouldn’t...” she managed to whisper.
Gray tilted back his head with a groan, his eyes brilliantly bright in the shadows. “I’m through with shouldn’t,” he said, and his head swooped down over hers. His open mouth met the soft curve of her neck, and her knees collapsed at the touch of his kiss. His arms came around her and caught her as she fell.
“Gray,” she gasped, and his mouth came hard over hers to catch the sound.
His tongue slid over hers, and she met him passion for passion, need for need.
She twined her arms around his neck and curled her fingers through his hair. The silken-rough strands twined around her skin as he lifted her up higher against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his hips as her skirts fell back around them to bind them together. She felt his erection beneath his fine woolen breeches, like iron between them. It took only that, a touch, a kiss, a look, to ignite the flames that had been growing between them all night.
And she knew Gray felt it too. As he held her braced hard against the wall, his lips met hers roughly, urgently, again and again. She felt the light sweep of his tongue against her lips and she opened to him eagerly. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him to her. He tasted of wine and the chill of the night outside, and of something dark and intoxicating that was only him.
He groaned deep in his throat, and the proof of his desire made her want him even more. She had never felt like this before, so lost, so wonderfully careless. All she knew, all that mattered, was him and how he made her feel.
She pushed his coat back off his shoulders and clumsily unlaced his cravat so she could feel the heat and hard strength of his body through his thin shirt. She wanted more, more of him.
“Melisande,” he whispered hoarsely, and his kiss deepened. There was no practiced, seductive art to it, as she would have expected from a handsome young man with a rakish reputation. There was only a hungry, desperate need that answered her own.
His arms tightened around her and he swung her away from the wall, still kissing her. Melisande held on to him, her legs still wrapped around him. He laid her on the sofa by the fire and knelt down on top of her as she pushed away his coat and untangled the cravat.
He sat back just enough to tug the shirt up over his head and toss it away. As he looked down at her, his beautiful eyes wer
e hooded and dark with passion, his hair tousled. The firelight played over the hard angles of his body, turning his smooth skin golden.
But his perfection was surprisingly marred by a jagged scar over his right shoulder. It was white against the fading sun-glow.
Melisande couldn’t stop herself from touching it. As her fingertips gently caressed that crooked line, he drew in his breath sharply and threw his head back. She pushed herself up on her elbows and pressed her lips to the scar. It was rough under her kiss, and his skin tasted salty and sweet at the same time.
“How did you get this?” she asked softly.
As he told her a tale of being lost in tropical jungles, Melisande rested her forehead on his shoulder and closed her eyes to breathe deeply of his dark, spicy-sweet scent, drawing it into herself. A sad, deep longing swept over her, so overwhelming. She had thought such feelings were gone from her life, that she had conquered them, but they surged upward, overwhelming.
She wrapped her arms around Gray and kissed the pulse of life that beat strongly at the base of this throat. She kissed his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw, that tiny, enticing dimple set low in his cheek that only appeared with his rare smiles. He gasped as she touched it with her tongue, and her desire flamed even hotter, higher, threatening to consume her.
She slid lower and traced a soft kiss over his bare shoulder. She felt his fingers twine in her hair, holding her close against him.
“Melisande,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I can’t fight against this between us. I’ve thought of you, dreamed of you, ever since that night on the terrace. I wanted to touch you so much then.”
He had thought of her—as she had thought of him? Melisande felt a rush of tenderness that swept over her like a warm summer breeze. She needed it, craved it, even when it frightened her.
“I’ve thought about that night too,” she whispered. “I don’t know what this is between us is either, but I—I...”
“I know,” he answered. His bright gaze never wavered from her face, and it was as if he could see to her very heart. “I’ve never known a woman like you. It’s as if you cast a spell over every room you enter.”
An Improper Duchess Page 3
