by Julia London
Grace was not offended by it. She was, surprisingly, sorry for him. “It’s only a game, my lord. I promise not to delve too deep.”
He clenched his jaw, tapped his finger against his leg. “Very well,” he said at last.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS ANOTHER small victory and Grace was a little astonished that she’d won again. She moved before Merryton could change his mind, a hop and a step around him, to her writing table. She gave it a tug, dragging it from the window to the hearth.
“What are you— Allow me,” he said brusquely, and stepped in, lifting the table up and swinging it around. Grace hurried ahead of him and pushed the chaise from in front of the hearth. Merryton put the table down in that spot.
“There we are!” Grace said, and hurried to fetch the chair. She handed it to Merryton, and then picked up the bench from her vanity, placing it on the other side of the table.
Merryton looked at her, then at the table, and with a sigh, he swept his hand in the direction of it, indicating she was to sit.
Grace took the bench, leaving him the chair. He walked around to the other side of the table, flipped his tails and sat. The ends of his neck cloth dangled down his chest and his hair curled around his ears. He had the dark shadow of a beard and, as always, the piercing green eyes. He braced one hand against his knee, his other arm on the table. “Well, then? Have you any playing cards?”
“Yes!” She’d found them rummaging about the writing desk. Unfortunately, they were on his side of the table. Grace stood up and leaned across the table, aware that his gaze was now on her bodice and, more specifically, affixed to her cleavage. As she leaned forward, drawing closer to him, he did not move, so that when she finally reached down to open the drawer, he was only a very few inches from her breasts.
Grace could feel his breath on her skin, could feel her blood warming under his scrutiny. She quickly reached down and pulled the drawer open, grabbed the cards and sank back onto her bench. “Not yet,” she said silkily. “Would you care to deal?”
“After you.”
With her back rigid and straight, Grace shuffled and dealt the cards.
They played the first round in silence, with Grace winning easily. Merryton’s gaze came up when she turned over the winning card.
“I win. My first question—”
“First?”
“First,” she said firmly. “You didn’t think I’d be satisfied with one, did you?”
He smiled faintly at that. “Quite the opposite. Go on, then. Ask.”
“I should like to know if you are still angry with me for the circumstances of our marriage.”
He hesitated. “No.”
Grace clucked her tongue. “You promised to be truthful.”
“You doubt me?” he asked incredulously.
“Oh dear,” she said with mock concern. “You think me naive.”
His lips twitched, and for a brief moment, Grace thought he might actually smile. “I hardly think you naive. That is the furthest from what I think you.” He arched a brow, as if daring her to challenge him.
“Then you may as well admit it. I ruined your life, quite plainly, and your anger is evident.”
He suddenly leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. “Any anger that is evident is not aimed at you, but at myself.”
Grace blinked. “It’s not your fault. Why should you be angry with yourself?”
“That is two questions.”
“But related to the first, so really only one,” she countered. “Why should you be cross with yourself? It was all my doing.”
His gaze was so steady, so unyielding, that it was a bit unnerving to her. “Quite simply because I do not generally allow myself to lose control.”
“Yes, well, that is clear. But I kissed you. In the dark. Ardently, I might add,” she said, blushing. “But it was all my doing.”
He frowned slightly and gestured for the cards. She handed them to him. “Not all,” he softly admitted. “There were two people in that room.”
Grace glanced down as he dealt, trying to sort through her own feelings about that night. She felt guilty. In fact, the guilt she felt was worse than before, especially now that she understood he blamed himself.
The next game went quickly; Merryton won easily. He tossed his cards onto the table and leaned back in the chair, his fist pressed against the edge of the table. “Your hair,” he said quietly. “Take it down.”
The command, spoken with such authority, yet so softly, sent a shiver of anticipation down Grace’s spine. She slowly lifted her arms, pulled one pin free and a thick tress of her hair tumbled down, falling over her shoulder.
He motioned for her to continue. She removed two more pins, helping her hair to fall, untangling it from the binds until it was completely down.
Merryton swallowed; the grip of his hand tightened. He silently pushed the deck of cards across the table.
Grace was so flustered by his visceral reaction that she lost the next hand, too.
“Stockings,” he said roughly.
Heat rushed to her face as Grace leaned over, dipping her hand under her gown.
“No,” he said, and with his foot pushed the table aside. He nodded at her gown. “Lift the hem so that I may see you.”
Grace was reluctant to be so bold. But at the same time, the power her flesh and bone seemed to hold over him excited her. She kept her gaze on her husband and slowly lifted her hem up over her knees. She removed one shoe, then the other, and rolled down her stocking.
She could see how quickly desire sparked in his eyes, and heard the sharp intake of his breath. She lifted the other leg and rolled down the stocking. She tossed it at him.
He caught it deftly in one hand, touched it to his nose, and Grace’s blood rushed.
“Deal,” she commanded.
But Merryton suddenly leaned forward and covered her hand with his, curling his fingers around hers, and a hot jolt of awareness shocked through her. “I’ve lost interest in the cards. Ask what you want, but ask it quickly. My patience is waning.”
He was watching her like a cat. Grace took him at his word, dispensing with polite conversation. “Are you in love with Mary Gastineau?”
His eyes widened with surprise, and miracle of all miracles, he smiled at her. The effect was astounding; the man was stunningly handsome when he smiled—it transformed his face, gave him tiny little fans at the corners of his eyes and dimples in his cheeks. He didn’t look distant, he looked...warm. Approachable. Human. Grace’s heart skipped; she couldn’t find her breath.
“I wonder where you might have heard of her,” he said curiously, tilting his head to one side.
“I’ve made a few acquaintances.”
“Quite industrious of you. You surprise me.”
“Do you love her?” she asked, and a small part of her desperately wanted the answer to be no.
“She was as proper a match as I might have hoped for. I esteemed her. But I cannot say that I loved her.”
That answer, which should have satisfied her, only served to perplex Grace more. She didn’t know what he meant by “as proper a match as he might have hoped for.” An earl with his wealth could have anyone he might want. “Does she know that you’ve married?”
His gaze settled on her mouth. “Yes.”
Grace could feel the heat of her shame creeping up her neck. “I beg your pardon. That must have been difficult for you.”
“It was,” he agreed. “I called on the morning we were wed and explained my situation. I had given her certain expectations.”
Now guilt would swallow her whole. Had Mary Gastineau been attached to Merryton? Had she destroyed that woman’s happiness, too? Grace had not considered the possibility that she’d ruined even more lives, and the idea distressed her. How shameful she’d been, toying with the lives of others.
“What more do you want to know?” he asked, and turned her hand over, brought it to his mouth and kissed the center of her palm, drawing a
small line with the tip of his tongue.
“Do you have a mistress?”
“That’s personal.”
“But fair.”
He smiled again. “I swore a vow of fidelity to you, did I not? I am a man of my word.”
What did that mean? She didn’t know if she could trust anything he was telling her, really, but, oh, how she wanted to trust him now. She wanted to believe that there was some hope, no matter how small, that they might find their way to a happy future. She wanted him to be faithful to her. She knew it was common for men like him to keep mistresses, but she wanted to be the mistress. She wanted to be the only one.
“No more questions—”
“Wait,” she said, and pulled her hand free to remove her necklace, putting it on the table between them. “I am still dressed. A question for an article of clothing.”
“You are determined,” he said, amused.
In response, she removed her bracelet and earrings and added them to the necklace.
Merryton chuckled softly, and settled back in his seat, clearly enjoying her slow disrobing. “The gown, then.”
Grace put her hands on the table and pushed herself to stand. She felt conspicuous as she reached behind her to unbutton the gown.
“Come here,” he said, gesturing to her. At Grace’s skeptical look, he added, “You can’t reach all the buttons.”
That was true. She walked around to his side of the table; he was sitting with his legs casually sprawled, and Grace had to step in between them to present her back. Merryton made quick work of the buttons, and with his hands, he slowly pushed it from her shoulders, his fingers following the trail of the gown down her arms. As the gown slid down her body, he put his arm around her abdomen and pulled her onto his lap. He pushed her hair aside and kissed her nape.
More liquid fire slipped down her spine. Grace closed her eyes, wanting to feel more of it, but she remembered her goal, and pushed his hand away from her middle. She stood up and moved out of his reach. “Why are there no paintings, no portraits, on the walls in this house? No adornment at all?”
He clasped his hands together, and Grace had the feeling that it was to keep himself from tapping. She had no reason to suspect it, but she would have wagered a fortune on it.
“I prefer a certain symmetry,” he said, his voice having lost the lightness. “But as no two frames are alike, it is impossible to achieve. I prefer bare walls to misaligned portraits and paintings.”
Misaligned paintings! She had expected him to say he’d given the paintings to his sister, or he’d sold them to pay some debt. But the frames lacked perfect symmetry? It was illogical, too exacting. It was a quest for perfection so perverse that it was completely imperfect.
Oddly enough, Grace couldn’t help but think of her mother. How could she ever survive in a house like this? Her entire world was misaligned and imperfect, with no hope of ever being aligned, or made proper. She felt a swell of sorrow, but in that moment, she wasn’t certain who she mourned. Her mother? Or her husband?
“The stays,” he said, referring to the corset she wore. His gaze was on her breasts now.
Grace didn’t move straightaway, still stunned by his response to the paintings. He didn’t like her hesitation, for he suddenly surged to his feet. He put his arms around her, his fingers pulling the ties of her stays free, then pushing it off her shoulders.
The stays fell away. Grace stood before him wearing only a thin chemise now. She could see the hunger in his gaze, could see his body responding to hers, and the power she felt was intoxicating.
His eyes were dark and unreadable. “Do you fear that I will harm you?”
There it was again, the fear of harming her, which also seemed illogical to Grace. If he was fearful of it, he would be mindful not to hurt her. Wasn’t that how everyone behaved? Managed their behavior so as not to harm or offend? “I don’t fear that you will harm me, Jeffrey,” she said, and noticed the flutter of his lashes when she said his name. “I fear that you will abandon me.”
She wasn’t certain he’d even heard her, for his eyes had gone dark, and he reached for her—
Grace backed several steps away. “I have one more question—”
“No more,” he said sternly, reaching for her again.
“Answer one more and I will remove the chemise.”
He paused. He reached for a tress of her hair, rubbing it between his finger and thumb as he considered it. “One more,” he said silkily. “But then the game is done.”
It wasn’t a game to Grace. “Why do you do so many things to the count of eight?”
He looked as if she’d struck him, had punched him in the soft belly. He dropped her hair. Grace was struck with the thought that she had somehow trampled on something important to him, although she couldn’t possibly guess what that was. “I’ve seen you,” she said, suddenly feeling the need to explain, and mimicked the tapping he often did with her finger and thumb. Eight times, pause. Eight times, pause.
“What of it?” he snapped. “It is an anxious habit.”
An anxious habit would not garner a response like this—if it were only an anxious habit, he would dismiss it, make light of it. Grace saw something in his eyes that she had yet to see in him—fear. Fear! But what could he possibly have to fear? What had the number eight to do with it? No, no, it wasn’t fear, she suddenly realized as he shoved his hand through his hair, his eyes wildly searching her face. It was shame. The man was utterly ashamed.
Something about that twirled uncomfortably about her heart. Merryton was a noble man, a proud man who, by all accounts, demanded perfection. And yet there was something terribly imperfect about him. There was pain in him, so different than anything Grace had ever seen in another person. He looked embattled, bewildered, and he looked, she thought with shock, very much like her mother had looked before she’d gone completely mad. As if she were bewildered by the betrayal of her mind.
Was that what Merryton was feeling? What was wrong with him, what was he hiding?
He watched her apprehensively, as if he expected her reaction to be bad.
In truth, Grace had to fight the urge to physically recoil from him. She had enough madness in her life and the idea of being married to a madman frightened her. And yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom how a number could be the source of madness. Surely she was making too much of it. And yet she could plainly see that no matter how uneasy she was feeling, he seemed to be feeling worse. Her heartfelt instinct was that to show him any negative emotion at this moment would be the very wrong thing to do. If anything, he needed her compassion just now.
Grace felt as if she were slipping and sliding along a very slender beam here, uncertain of what she was doing, moving by raw instinct alone. She made a decision in that single moment; she pushed the straps of her chemise from her shoulders and down her body. She stepped out of it, tossed it aside and stood before him, completely bare.
Merryton breathed in so deeply his nostrils flared with it. His gaze moved down her body and up again, and at his side, his fingers did the strange bit of tapping.
When he lifted his gaze to hers, he opened his mouth to speak. It seemed difficult for him, but he said roughly, “You are beautiful, Grace. My God, but you are beautiful.”
The compliment, so rawly offered, took her breath away. How this man baffled her! There was so obviously a need in him—not for her, or her body, precisely, but strangely, she thought she understood he needed not to be judged. That was a need born from pain, and Grace could not bear to see it in a man’s eyes.
She moved without thinking, putting her arms around his neck. He stiffened, but she pulled his head down to hers and kissed him. It was meant to be a soothing kiss, and her fingers skirted lightly over his jaw, feeling the stubble of a day’s beard.
She felt his body fill with his breath, felt the tension in him ease a little. His arms went around her, squeezing her to him. She could feel his cock harden and lengthen against her, and lon
ging took hold of her thoughts. She pulled his neck cloth free, then opened his collar.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, his breath coming in deep draws.
Grace unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed it open. She pulled his shirt free of his trousers and slipped her hand under his shirt. His muscled stomach rippled beneath her fingers, as if he couldn’t bear to be touched. She ran her hands up his chest, over his nipples, and kissed his chest through the open neck of his shirt.
Merryton pushed her back until she bumped up against the bed. He suddenly shifted her around and sat on the bed, pulling her onto his lap, guiding her to straddle him. He pushed both hands into her hair as he kissed her. His mouth was warm and wet, as tormenting as it was pleasurable. Heat pulsed in her, pooling between her legs. Grace desired him more than anything.
His response to her was powerful and demanding, as it always was, but tonight it felt different than it had before. In his caresses, in the way he looked at her, really looked at her, it felt to Grace as if he was feeling something beyond the physical pleasure.
That jolted Grace, rattled every bone and nerve in her. Her body responded from some primal place, and she pressed against him after he hastily discarded his shirt, fitting into his embrace as if she had been there all along. His tongue swirled around hers, and his hands caressed her sides, her torso, her breasts. Grace could forget everything that had happened in the past few weeks. She saw, she felt, only Merryton. She was emboldened by his desire for her and her need began to clash with his, then entwining with it and demanding as much from him as he demanded from her.
He eagerly explored her mouth while his hands moved on her body, sliding down one curve, up another, and in between her legs. He stood up, still holding her at his waist and, with one hand, discarded his trousers. When he sat again, he nestled his erection in the wet valley of her sex.
Pleasure and prurience engulfed her, and Grace dropped her head, her hair forming a curtain between them. Merryton pushed her hair back, sought her breast with his mouth. White-hot shivers slammed through her, and when Merryton pressed the hard tip of his erection against her, her breathing turned ragged.
