by Noelle Mack
“I know.” And Grace did. She knew she was a fool to imagine that Lord Wesley, a wealthy heir, a devastatingly handsome man, would want to marry a nobody like her. But she knew, even after only a week, that she could not bear to settle for anything less. It was not his title she wanted—it was him. The man.
Grace tapped her lips with her torn fan. She wanted it all. Could she not only marry well, but also marry a man she loved and desired? Or was she simply hoping for too much, when her family’s security was at stake?
Prudence had adopted a motherly air. “There are many gentlemen who are already besotted with you, Grace. Lord Ornsbrook, who is a viscount, and a wealthy one, is a thoroughly respectable catch. Pelworth hangs on your every word, and he is an earl!”
Grace swallowed hard. Either man should be perfect: young, reasonably attractive, and tongue-tied around her, which should be a good sign.
Prudence pointed with her fan at a lanky blond man laughing his way through the dance set. “Even Sir Randolph Thomas, over there. He possesses a fortune! Yes, he’s an atrocious dancer, but, really, a woman never dances with her husband.”
“Prudence, no—”
“Or Lord Wynsome. Such a suitable name. He melts every woman’s heart. And he’s heir to the Earl of Warren. He’s delicious, isn’t he? I’m certain he would take one look at you and—”
“Stop!” Grace cried. The Earl of Warren was her grandfather—her mother’s father. He had thrown her mother out and barred all of them from his house. Lady Prudence, of course, knew not of that. Like everyone else, Prudence believed the lies Grace had carefully cultivated—the lie learned by her and her sisters. Her mother was respectably married, her father, a sea captain who was away, far across the world, hoping to make his fortune. But that father was her mother’s fictitious creation.
She would never dare tell anyone that she was Lord Warren’s illegitimate granddaughter and that her father was really Rodesson, the famous and scandalous artist of erotica. Or that her eldest and talented sister was the one now painting the erotic works that bore Rodesson’s name.
Lord Wynsome had no idea she was, in fact, a cousin to him. There was no way he would guess, but it was still her greatest fear that he somehow would, that he would expose the truth to Lady Prudence.
Prudence was her entry to the ton, to the world of rich and titled and delicious gentlemen—
She couldn’t dare risk Prudence’s friendship. And, in truth, she dearly loved her friend.
“But, still, there are more,” Prudence said cheerfully. “Over there—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh good heavens, what is he doing here?”
Grace never heard that tone of voice from Prudence. Low, serious…fearful. Surprised, she strained to look.
A gentleman stood at the entrance to the ballroom—he towered head and shoulders above the crowd. He must have been over six and a half feet in height. And his hair—it was a wild mane of dark blond that streamed past his shoulders, unruly and wild. She knew, by instinct, that it suited the man.
He gave an enormous grin, which revealed deep dimples framing his handsome mouth and brilliant white teeth. Several servants were trying to push him out. With his arms crossed over his huge chest, he appeared to be an immovable wall.
The butler hastened up to the fray, but the mysterious guest merely amiably punched the servant in the shoulder.
Laughing, openly amused, the gentleman refused to budge. To Grace’s shock, she saw his head turn and his gaze slide over the crowd. Toward her. She was staring, but so was everyone else. There was no reason he should feel her curious gaze out of the hundreds of others.
Polite decorum decreed she should look away, but she could not stop watching him. His skin was golden bronze, close in color to his luxurious hair. He was obviously a man who exposed his body to the sun. Even bathed in the light of a chandelier, he stood too far away to reveal the color of those penetrating eyes, but she guessed they would be blue.
A silly fancy. She forced her gaze to move demurely away. But she was still aware of him; it was as though the music had stopped and the dancers had whirled away into the night, and there was no one in the ballroom but the handsome stranger and her.
The strangest sensation gripped her, along with a heat that threatened to set her skin on fire.
She’d desired Lord Wesley, but she’d felt nothing like this—
Every forbidden erotic picture, every one of her father Rodesson’s erotic drawings—those she’d secretly looked at—spilled through her heated mind.
She wanted this man, this powerful, compelling stranger. She wanted to know what it would be like to lie underneath him and part her legs and take him inside her. She wanted to know how his skin would taste to her lips and her tongue. To know if he would be rigid and big and if he would fill her completely and make her scream in pleasure. She wanted to see him naked, taste him naked, and make love to him until they were both sweaty and senseless—
He was staring at her.
Grace felt it. Felt an answering fire rush over her skin.
Preposterous! How could he even see her? But she glanced up, enthralled by the moment, knowing their gazes would lock—
Or was he looking at Prudence? Wouldn’t that make more sense?
He was not looking at either of them. Abruptly he turned on his heel and strode out through the gilt and ivory doors.
Her fan was in tatters beneath her fingers and her heart felt two sizes too big for her chest. Her throat was tight and dry. Her drawers were indecently wet.
She had to know. It was like a sudden addiction. “Who was that?” she cried.
“My half brother.” Prudence’s voice shook with…anger? Fear? An emotion Grace could not quite define.
“You have a half brother?”
“He’s a bastard,” Prudence continued, her voice contemptuous, using a word she should not. “My father’s by-blow. His first-born child, in fact, and my father is stupidly fond of him.”
Grace shook at the revulsion on her friend’s face. She was a bastard. Would Prudence feel the same way about her if she knew the truth?
Suddenly Grace felt as though she stood on a tightrope, balancing over a pit of wolves. No, this was the ton. Not wolves—mocking jackals with slavering jaws.
“He should be hung,” Prudence spat. “He’s a highwayman. Can you believe he is so bold as to come to this house? He’s probably robbed half the people here! And he was a pirate. Why the British Navy did not kill him, I cannot imagine. He’s a murderer, a scoundrel, and…” Prudence took a shaky breath.
Grace moved forward, startled by tears in her friend’s eyes.
“And our father loves him best!” Prudence cried and stamped her foot.
Grace hugged her friend. “Of course not!”
Prudence pulled out of the hug, shaking. “He does. His mother was a love affair, ours a duty marriage. Of course, he loves dashing Devlin Sharpe. But I hate him.”
“Why? Because of what he is?” Grace could hardly believe she wanted to press this. Why should she want to hear about the horrors of being recognized as a bastard?
“He murdered the man I loved. If I wouldn’t hang for it, I’d grab one of my father’s pistols right now and shoot him where he stands.”
Grace blinked. “How could he murder a man and escape punishment?”
Prudence balled her hands into fists, and Grace heard her fan snap. “I cannot tell you what happened. Not even you, my dear friend.”
She reached out and stroked Prudence’s arm as her friend turned red-rimmed eyes to her and asked, “Do I look awful? I have to dance with Lord Wynsome next.”
“You look fine.” But a chill washed over Grace as she watched Prudence stroll away. Prudence’s movements were controlled, precise, and lovely, belying her emotional outburst. If her illegitimate half brother had murdered the man she loved, how could he have dared walk into the house?
And even after hearing what a beast he was, she still ached between her legs. She was
still flushed and anxious with desire.
She was supposed to meet Lord Wesley at midnight…After feeling all that mad, delirious passion and hunger and need.
She couldn’t bear to stand in this crowded, overheated ballroom one moment longer. She needed to escape.
APHRODISIA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2008 by Noelle Mack
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ISBN: 0-7582-3667-0
