He glanced over his shoulder at the doorway where Lynette stood, avoiding Grace’s gaze. “Lynette and I were sorely disappointed to realize you’d slunk away in the middle of the night like some thief.”
“I didn’t—”
“No need to apologize. Obviously, there was some sort of misunderstanding that caused your departure.”
Grace stared at him in disbelief, wondering if he truly believed his own lies.
“We’ll put all that behind us, shall we? Lynette and I are here to guide you. It would be best if we stay with you so we can be available whenever you need us. Society can be quite unforgiving, so it’s important not to make any missteps.”
“No.” Grace closed her eyes in dismay at the squeak in her voice then opened them only to see the smirk on Charles’s face. He obviously thought he’d won.
His gaze swung to the pile of invitations. “We’ll sort through those with you to decide which ones are acceptable. It’s vital that you don’t attend the wrong ball.”
“I am sorry, sir, but her ladyship requests you leave at once.” Paxton entered the drawing room with a cold look of determination on his face, Frederick at his side.
Relief filled Grace at their arrival. As much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t manage Charles. He overwhelmed her in a way that infuriated her yet she seemed unable to overcome it.
Frederick glanced at her as though to make certain she was well then moved to stand between her and Charles, shoulder-to-shoulder with Paxton and another footman, effectively blocking Charles from her view.
“We must ask you to leave now, sir.” Paxton’s tone brooked no argument.
“I will not be treated so rudely,” Charles began.
With a single nod from Paxton, the two footmen stepped forward, forcing Charles back.
“This is unacceptable.” Charles’s outrage was evident, but it didn’t stop the footmen. They continued until Charles was out of the room.
Lynette followed, sputtering protests.
Grace reached for the back of her chair as she heard the front door open, her legs trembling.
Charles’s voice raised even louder. “Grace, this is outrageous and unacceptable. I demand you stop this at once.”
Her knees nearly buckled at his angry tone, part of her tempted to relent and allow him to stay. She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cover her ears. She would not put Matthew at risk. At last, the front door slammed, silencing the sound of his voice.
“My deepest apologies, my lady.” Paxton’s expression was filled with regret when he returned. “Frederick forgot my orders. I shall deal with him at once.”
“Please don’t be too hard on Frederick. He is as new to all this as I am.”
The older man held her gaze for a long moment as though wondering if he should argue.
“I am certain it won’t happen again.” She steeled her expression. Surely in this one small request, someone would actually listen to her. Frederick had good intentions, and she wanted him to have another chance, despite the frightening situation.
“Of course. But we will make doubly certain it doesn’t occur again.”
“Thank you.” She drew a breath of relief as he bowed and closed the door of the drawing room behind him.
Unfortunately, she knew this wasn’t over. Far from it. Unless she was willing to become a recluse, she had to go out eventually. There would be no way for her to have Charles forcibly removed if he approached her outside these walls.
What was she to do when that occurred? How could she learn to stand on her own when the threat of harm to her son was imminent? Yet the only thing that mattered was keeping Charles away from her and Matthew.
An image of Tristan filled her mind. She longed to ask him for assistance and advice.
Dare she?
The footman’s appearance in the doorway of his library had Tristan frowning. “Yes?”
“A lady is here to see you, my lord,” the footman stated.
“I requested not to be disturbed.” Tristan didn’t bother to keep his anger at bay. The last thing he needed was for Samantha to descend and annoy him with some trivial matter.
“Yes, my lord, but the lady insists it’s urgent.”
“Tell Lady Samantha I am on my way out.” It wasn’t far from the truth. He at last had a lead on an acquaintance of Charles’s. He wanted to visit the man to discover what he knew, if anything.
“Very well, but it isn’t Lady Samantha.”
“Oh? Who is it then?”
“She won’t say.”
An idea of who his visitor might be formed in his mind but he dismissed it. He couldn’t imagine Grace calling upon him unless—
“Show her in,” he ordered.
“Of course.” The footman disappeared and moments later the lady in question stepped into his library.
Despite the half-mourning attire, complete with veil, he’d recognize her anywhere. Whether it was because of the way she walked or the tilt of her head or something far more elemental, he wasn’t certain. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, assuming something terrible had happened to cause her to call on him. “Grace?”
She lifted the veil. Her brown eyes met his. Although he could see the worry in them, it wasn’t the sort of panic that suggested immediate trouble.
“What’s happened?” he asked, as he stepped around the side of his desk to take her gloved hands in his.
“How do you always know?” She seemed torn between being grateful that he could read her so easily and disappointed that she wasn’t hiding her feelings better.
He certainly couldn’t claim to do so with others, especially women. He rarely had a clue as to what Samantha or his mother were thinking. But somehow with Grace, it was different. He was attuned to her in a way he’d never before encountered with anyone else. In all honesty, he wasn’t certain what to make of it.
“Something must be amiss to bring you to my door.”
She released his hands as she bit her lip. Her hesitation made him worry.
“Matthew is well?”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she looked up at him again. “Yes.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell you what it means to me that you would ask after him. But I am once again worried for his safety. Charles called upon me.”
“I thought you weren’t going to allow him admittance.”
“A new footman allowed him in. He practically had to be forced out the door.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “It was all quite frightening.”
“I would be happy to speak with him on your behalf.”
She pursed her lips as though seriously considering the idea. “Not yet. I’d hate to put you in that situation. Charles is unpleasant to say the least.”
Tristan raised a brow. “Do you think him more unpleasant than me?”
The look of confusion on her face took him aback. “Of course. You’re one of the kindest people I know.”
“Then you must not know me well.” He had to look away, wishing he could be a different person. For her. He’d rather she didn’t know that part of him.
“Oh, but I do.” She stepped forward to place her gloved hand on his arm, her gaze holding his. “I know you very well. I would venture to say I know you better than most others due to the unusual circumstances we’ve been through together.”
He couldn’t help but study her once again as awareness filled him. The idea of having a unique connection with Grace appealed to him on every level.
Did she have any idea how alluring she was? She wore a slightly different shade of grey today with diagonal stripes of blue that made him think of the sea. Her hat perched just above her elegant chignon, boasting a small feather the same shade of blue. She had changed so much compared to the woman lying alongside his coach on the muddy road.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You look far unlike the lady I first met a few weeks ago.” He studied her familiar features, wishing things were different. That he were different.
“I should hope so.” Her lips curved into a smile. “I have you to thank for much of it.”
“You give thanks where none is due.” He whispered the words, hoping she’d be forced to remain close to hear him. Terrible of him to use such a ploy, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her so much closer.
Her gaze dropped to his lips, and the desire that hummed beneath the surface whenever she was near took flight.
“Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“Might I ask a favor?” The warmth in her tone had him thinking things he shouldn’t.
“Of course. Anything.” He swallowed hard, trying to hold back his desperation. He reminded himself of the topic at hand—Charles. She couldn’t possibly be thinking what he was thinking, which had nothing whatsoever to do with Stannus.
“Truly? Anything?” The heat in her eyes had desire forming a tight ball in the pit of his stomach, threatening to erupt.
Perhaps he’d underestimated her—surely that was passion in her eyes. Surprised, he studied her closer.
While he realized she’d been married several years, there was an innocence about her that both enflamed his senses and held him back. Yet he still couldn’t convince himself she wanted him to kiss her as much as he wanted to. Determined to test the waters, he eased forward, certain she’d retreat, his attention focused on her rosy mouth.
Her lips parted ever so slightly. The invitation was subtle but held him transfixed. Her lilac scent enveloped him, clouding his thoughts even as the heat of her body mingled with his.
“Yes.” The word came out as more of a growl than an answer. Appropriate, considering he felt like a lion about to devour its prey.
“Thank you.”
Before he could digest her words and find some meaning to them, she rose up to press her lips to his. Her mouth was sweet and warm beneath his. That single taste wasn’t nearly enough. He shifted closer only to realize she’d stepped away.
The startled look in her eyes suggested she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for with their brief kiss. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve been wondering what that might feel like.” A delicate pink blush filled her cheeks as she dropped her gaze. “I realize, of course, that it was completely inappropriate of me when you—”
The buzzing in his head wouldn’t be silenced. Not until he had another taste of her. He took her mouth with his, consuming her in one greedy gulp.
To his surprise and delight, she responded with enthusiasm, acting unlike the prey he’d envisioned her as. For a moment, it felt as though she’d turned the tables. She clearly knew what she wanted.
He reached for her waist, wishing fashion didn’t require the female form to wear so many layers. Touching her was sweet torture as it satisfied one need but created so many more.
And he wanted so much more.
Her gloved hand curved along his face and her mouth moved beneath his. A soft sound—part sigh, part moan—escaped her lips.
Unable to resist, he deepened the kiss, his tongue meeting hers, as he wondered how he’d waited this long to taste her. But within moments, he realized he was in peril. His need for her was growing by the second. A deep burning need that tightened his body until he pulsed with it.
He eased back to look at her, wondering if she felt the same way he did.
Her eyes fluttered open, her lashes sweeping up to reveal her warm brown eyes. He recognized the conflict he saw in their passion-filled depths for he felt it as well—desire and caution.
Not yet ready to listen to the voice inside him calling for him to stop, he captured her lips once more, sinking into the sensation. Almost at once, he realized his mistake.
Passion didn’t build layer upon layer but burst into flame, taking over his entire being.
Grace moved her hands to his chest and gently pushed. He resisted, not wanting to release her and end this bliss. When she broke the kiss, he couldn’t help but sigh with regret.
“I’m sorry.” She lowered her head, her breathless words barely audible.
“I am not.”
His admission had her gaze meeting his.
“I have been wanting to kiss you for a long time now.” He trailed his finger along her cheek, appreciating the skin-to-skin contact.
“You have?”
Damn. There it was again. That light in her eyes that practically shouted her goodness, her gentleness. How long would it take for him to snuff out that glow?
With much regret, he dropped his hand. Reality and all its complications came crashing back. He was engaged to another woman. One kiss with Grace didn’t change that. He could be her friend but nothing more. Not without destroying the best part of her.
“Now that we’ve both satisfied our curiosity, why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?” He did his best to keep his tone casual, willing away the desire that continued to throb through his body. He could only hope Grace didn’t want to discuss what had just happened. Surely she was as anxious as he to set it aside and pretend like it never happened.
She studied him, one brow raised, her expression an odd mix of emotions he couldn’t read. He dearly wanted to know what she was thinking but refrained from asking.
No good could come of that.
Chapter Twelve
“It [Mendicity Society] is a poor’s-relief association on an extensive scale. It has its labour-sheds for testing the genuineness of the mendicants that apply at the office, to say nothing of a real treadmill of its own. Moreover it proclaims its ability to offer suitable employment to every able-bodied mendicant referred to it.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Grace studied the fabric swatches spread over the drawing room table then turned once again to look at the gowns the modiste had brought with her. Despite the attentive gaze of the woman and her assistant, Grace realized she had no idea what to pick.
“Um...” She studied each of the items in turn again but was frozen with uncertainty.
After meeting with the solicitor several days ago, she now had a better understanding of the estate, which was as wealthy as Daniel had hinted. She felt comfortable purchasing several new gowns along with some furnishings. The few times she’d ventured out, she’d watched for Charles, certain he’d make an appearance. Thus far, he hadn’t done so.
But she knew he soon would.
After discussing the matter further with Tristan and weighing the advantages and disadvantages of taking her place in Society, she’d decided to dip her toe in the waters by attending one ball.
First, she needed an appropriate gown or two.
That hadn’t been the only thing they’d discussed. She’d never been able to speak with Daniel the way she did with Tristan. Conversation with him was stimulating, amusing, and left her longing for more. Along with more of his kisses. Where she’d found the courage to take what she wanted remained a mystery, but she was glad she had.
Although it couldn’t happen again. After all, the man was engaged. She had no desire to cause any harm to Tristan or his fiancée. Her feelings for him needed to stay firmly on the side of friendship. Nothing more.
“None are to your liking?” Mrs. Danby, the modiste, was an intimidating woman with strong opinions. Older than Grace by perhaps a decade, she had a robust figure that drew the eye. She enhanced her strong features with a delicate touch of rouge and eyeliner, as though not ready to relinquish her battle with aging.
While Grace admired her flare for style, she preferred something more unassuming for herself, but she didn’t want to be considered dowdy or out-of-fashion. Where did that leave her?
The modiste’s assistant, Miss Flitchard, had been so kind and thoughtful during Grace’s visit to the shop. Her calm, patient demeanor was reassuring. Grace had taken an instant liking to her.
Today she wore a well-cut but modest gown of golden brown. It was easy to overlook the clever ruching in the bodice and the darker brown needlework along the neckline and cuffs until one looked closer.
Spectacles perched on the end of her nose, her dark hair drawn into a tight bun. Grace guessed she was a year or two younger than herself. A tiny scar marked the outer corner of one eye, making Grace wonder what had caused it.
But it was the intelligent amusement in her dark eyes, especially when Mrs. Danby started in on one of her tirades, that made Grace wonder about the young assistant. She was obviously talented with a needle and thread, but there was something more to her. A few of her comments had made Grace realize Miss Flitchard had received an excellent education.
From what little Grace had learned, she had the unusual combination of a head for business and creativity. She was the one who should be running the dressmaking business rather than Mrs. Danby. What circumstances had forced her into a position as an assistant when she was obviously capable of so much more?
Mrs. Danby cleared her throat, a sure sign that Grace should’ve made a decision by now.
Pressure built in Grace’s chest, clouding her thoughts, making her even more uncertain as to which style with which fabric with which trim might be the right choice. She knew little of fashion. While she had grown weary of wearing mourning shades, she was reluctant to pick anything with color. Drawing attention was not her goal.
“They’re all lovely,” she began, hoping to break the silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Danby ran a hand along the gown nearest her as though it were one of her prize possessions. Unfortunately, that particular one was Grace’s least favorite.
“So lovely that it’s difficult to choose,” Grace continued with a tentative smile.
The compliment prodded a return smile out of Mrs. Danby, releasing some of the tension in the room.
Perhaps the modiste had misunderstood Grace’s silence, taking it for disapproval rather than indecision. Though the idea eased Grace’s worry, it didn’t solve her dilemma.
Rescuing the Earl (The Seven Curses of London Book 3) Page 13
