by Jo Beverley
“Your grandmother.” She looked over her shoulder. He should learn to say it. He nodded.
“My g-grandmother seems to feel a need to address the issue.”
“She is getting older. She is just out of mourning for her husband. Perhaps she is feeling that time is precious and limited.”
“Perhaps.”
She felt him move. She turned to see what he was about, and found herself quickly trapped between his hard body and the balustrade. They were alone and in the very darkest spot of the terrace. She should have been extremely alarmed.
She was extremely something, but it wasn’t alarmed.
“Thank you, Grace.”
“For what? I did nothing.”
“You listened.” His lips turned up ever so slightly. “You asked the right questions.” There was enough light from the moon—and they were standing so close together—that she could see the softening in his eyes. “You gave me courage when I needed it.”
“No, I—”
He silenced her with his fingertips. The sly man had removed his glove; his skin was warm and slightly rough as he stilled her lips and then slowly traced their outline.
What was he doing? Why did her lips feel suddenly swollen? She parted them slightly.
“Yes.” He pulled her lower lip down just a little with his thumb. “You did give me courage.”
His lips touched hers as lightly as his fingers had. The briefest brush and then brush again.
“Oh.” She inhaled. His scent was all around her—the scent of soap, linen, and…him.
His arms gathered her close—a good thing as her knees had chosen that moment to turn to water. His lips kept playing with her mouth, teasing her with fleeting brushes. She moaned.
That must have been the sign he’d been waiting for. His mouth finally came to rest on hers, and his tongue traced where his finger had earlier. She moaned again, opening wider, and he slipped inside.
Heaven. He was stroking deep and wet, over her tongue, over her teeth, over the roof of her mouth—filling her.
Causing another emptiness to open. An aching, throbbing emptiness, a heat, a madness.
He moved his mouth to her cheek, and all she could do was cling to him, panting, mindless.
“I need you, Grace.”
Yes, need. That was right. He needed her. She needed him.
No…
“I need you, Grace. For this”—he returned to her mouth and leisurely, thoroughly, filled her again—“but also for your wisdom”—he brushed his lips over her forehead—“and your strength.”
He pulled back, cupping her face in his hands. “Marry me, Grace. Please?”
He was asking her to marry him again. Lord Dawson—David—was asking her to become his wife, live in his house, sleep in his bed. Bear his children.
She could say yes and have his wonderful, amazing mouth on her skin, everywhere on her skin, doing things she could barely imagine…
She couldn’t say yes. There was John. There was Papa. There was the history of their families.
Why did none of those things seem particularly persuasive at the moment?
“Grace? Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”
“I…” Could she say yes? “I—”
“There you are, you naughty children!”
Grace tried to jump back and slammed into the balustrade. Miss Smyth and Theo had stepped out onto the terrace. They strolled toward them.
Dear God, could she be more embarrassed? At least all her clothing was in order.
Of course her clothing was in order! What was she thinking?
“Naughty children. Naughty, naughty.”
“Shh, Theo.”
David cleared his throat. “Miss Smyth, I—”
“Oh, you shush, too, Lord Dawson. It’s a house party. The rules are a little looser. Everyone expects young people to have a little fun.”
“Fun! That’s wot we’re ’aving. A spot o’ fun. Naughty—”
“Theo! Behave yourself.” Miss Smyth smiled at Lord Dawson and Grace. “Do I have to say the same thing to you?”
“I—” Grace’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t get any more words out.
“Miss Smyth—” David did not sound the least bit alarmed.
Miss Smyth laughed. “Don’t say another word. You wouldn’t be young and lusty if you didn’t try to steal a kiss in the moonlight. Now come in and join the others. We are trying to get up tables of cards, and we need you to make the numbers even.”
Chapter 15
It was a glum group at the breakfast table. Alex chose some kidneys and toast and took the seat next to David.
David glanced at him, grunted what must have been a welcome, and returned his attention to his plate. Kilgorn didn’t even look up from his coffee.
Damn Miss Smyth. What had she been thinking? Why in God’s name had she put him in the room next to Kate—a room connected to Kate’s by a blasted interior door? An unlocked door…and yes, he had checked.
Did she wish to torture him?
He’d barely slept a wink; he’d kept thinking of that damn door. It would take but a moment to open it. If he waited until their servants left, no one need know he was visiting Kate in her bedchamber.
He had a good reason to seek her out. He needed to talk to her. He had to find out if David’s suspicions were true. If she was carrying his child…
His knife slid on his plate, making a hideous scraping noise. The other men flinched and glared at him before returning to their own private gloom.
Talking was not the only thing he needed from Kate. His lust was almost unbearable. He’d spent years trying not to imagine her in bed, especially in bed with Oxbury. Now…He stabbed a kidney. Now he knew she was lying in bed alone, just steps from him.
Bloody hell.
He had cured himself of the woman. He had been ready to be finally free of her when he’d come to Town with David. And then he’d seen her at Alvord’s ball—and at Oxbury House.
He’d done more than see her—he’d touched her, tasted her, taken them both to the most amazing climax he, at least, had ever experienced.
Now when he thought of her in bed, he thought of the silky smoothness of her breasts, the slightly tart taste of her nipples, the musky scent of her…
Damn it all, he was as hard as a poker here in Motton’s breakfast parlor with only two other men for company. Thank God his lap was shielded by this sturdy table.
The fact of the matter was he was going to go mad. Even the pain of her rejection had left him, burned away by this all-consuming lust. Did she have the slightest clue what he was suffering? Did she feel it, too?
No. She looked so cool, so self-possessed.
He should leave Lakeland and go home to Clifton Hall.
He couldn’t leave. He had to find out if Kate was increasing.
Damn it all. He shifted position and tried to contemplate Motton’s cultivation techniques.
Cultivation. Planting seeds in well-tilled soil, in fertile fields…
Motton had a lake. He’d seen it when he’d ridden up. With luck, it was cold, ice cold. He would test it after breakfast. Perhaps a plunge into freezing water would cool his damn ardor.
“Good morning, gentlemen!”
He groaned—and heard David and Kilgorn echo him as they all struggled to come to their feet.
“Good morning, Miss Smyth.” Fortunately David was able to locate his voice. Alex merely nodded, as did Kilgorn. Also fortunately, there was no livestock accompanying Motton’s demented aunt.
“I’ll just join you, shall I?” Miss Smyth made a noise that might have been intended as a giggle. “Though I’m certain it’s not my company you’ve all been longing for.”
Alex clenched his teeth to keep from agreeing aloud. David was stricken with a coughing fit; Kilgorn simply glared.
“Be sure I will take the ladies to task for abandoning you.”
All three men came down with coughs.
“My, my, gent
lemen. I’ll have to see if Edmund has any horehound tablets or licorice for your throats. Where is my nephew, by the by?”
“He was here earlier,” Kilgorn said. “He left to attend to some estate business. Ye might find him in his study, if ye look.”
Kilgorn sounded as hopeful as Alex felt. He looked at Miss Smyth’s plate—it was piled high with eggs, toast, sausage, kidneys, and ham. No, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
“Thank you, my lord. I should have guessed. Edmund is very conscientious, you know. He would never let a little fun and frolic distract him from his duty.”
Kilgorn snorted. “And speaking of fun and frolic, where’s your wee monkey this morning, Miss Smyth?”
“Oh, that Edmund is still sleeping.” She tittered. “Edmund the monkey is nowhere near as industrious as his namesake. But don’t worry, I’ll bring him down later. He does enliven a party, does he not?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Kilgorn carefully arranged his knife and fork on his plate. “Have ye managed to find me proper accommodations yet, Miss Smyth?”
“Oh, my lord, I am so sorry, but I haven’t. You’d think in a place this size, there would be rooms to spare, but…” She sighed. “Well, and you’d think I’d have remembered that you and your lovely wife have an…unusual domestic arrangement, but…well, I do apologize.”
Alex could swear he heard Kilgorn’s teeth grinding across the table. The man did have dark circles under his eyes. Obviously he wasn’t getting much sleep—and not for the reasons a man would hope. Miss Smyth had put him in the same small bedroom as his estranged wife. A bedroom with only one bed.
Frankly, it was hard to believe Miss Smyth was being completely honest about the situation. Even he, who hadn’t been to Town in twenty-three years, knew the Earl of Kilgorn and his countess had lived apart for the last decade. He’d never met Kilgorn before, though. The man was only David’s age—he must have married very young.
“I sent word to the inn, Miss Smyth, but I was told it was full up.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not a very large place, and I believe there’s some…some event or something going on. There is no space to be had.”
“I could sleep in the stable.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Lord Kilgorn. You’d have all the stable boys in a dreadful pother. No, no. Please be patient just another day or two. Mrs. Gilbert, the housekeeper, is working on the problem. I’m sure she’ll have a solution as soon as may be.”
Kilgorn shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “It is not very…comfortable for Lady Kilgorn, ye understand.”
“Oh, yes, I understand completely. I have apologized to her most sincerely. As I say, I’m sure Mrs. Gilbert will have a solution shortly.” Miss Smyth smiled brightly and popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth.
Lord Kilgorn nodded. He clearly had more to say on the subject, but just as clearly recognized any further discussion was futile.
“I believe I’ll take a bit of a walk. If ye’ll excuse me?”
“But have you looked outside, Lord Kilgorn? It’s rather nasty—damp and drizzly.”
Kilgorn grinned. “Aye. It reminds me of Scotland.”
“Oh, well, do enjoy yourself then.” Miss Smyth waited until Kilgorn was out of the room to shrug and say, “Those Scots. They are a bit different, aren’t they?”
Alex felt Kilgorn had dealt with Miss Smyth in a remarkably restrained way. Having to share quarters with your estranged wife must be exceedingly awkward. He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of kidneys.
He’d give anything to be forced to share a room with Kate. To be forced to share a bed with Kate. All night, every night. To—
“Now, Mr. Wilton, what is putting such a smile on your face?”
David helpfully thumped him on the back as the kidneys tried to go down his windpipe. At least Miss Smyth must think his heightened color was due to his choking.
“N-nothing,” he gasped. David stepped in to rescue him.
“Miss Smyth,” David said, “I have an appointment this morning with Lady Wordham. Do you happen to know if she’s come down yet?”
Miss Smyth clapped both hands to her cheeks. “Oh, dear, my dreadful memory. Yes, indeed, Lord Dawson, she came down when I did, and she particularly instructed me to tell you she’d be waiting for you in the yellow parlor. I’m so sorry. Please apologize to her for me and tell her it’s all my fault you didn’t appear sooner.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand.” David stood. “I’m afraid I must leave you two alone.”
Over his dead body. Alex leapt to his feet. “Regretfully, I, too, have to go.”
“Oh? Where are you off to?”
Trust Miss Smyth to ask awkward questions. He looked out the window for inspiration and saw a dog run by in the wet. Dogs. Wet.
“I thought I’d see if I might be of assistance to Lady Oxbury. I might walk her dog for her, so she doesn’t have to go out into the damp.”
Miss Smyth beamed at him. “How chivalrous. That is an excellent idea, Mr. Wilton. Don’t let me detain you.”
Lady Wordham was on the settee staring out the window at the rain.
David stepped into the yellow parlor. She didn’t turn. Did she not know he was there? Perhaps she was as hard of hearing as Grandmamma had been. She must be about the same age, though she looked very little like Grandmamma.
Grandmamma. Damn. Thinking of her still opened a gaping emptiness in his chest. Ridiculous. He was a grown man. It had been a year. He should not still feel this…loss.
She had been old; old people die.
But not so suddenly, not when they were healthy—laughing and teasing and gossiping one day and gone the next, caught in the twisted mess of a wrecked carriage.
For weeks—months—afterward, he’d expected to see her or Grandda every time he turned a corner at Riverview. Every time he entered the library or the breakfast parlor or passed their favorite bench in the garden.
He sniffed and pulled out his handkerchief. He’d got a speck in his eye.
“Lord Dawson.” Lady Wordham must have heard him then. Damnation. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket.
“My pardon. Got a bit of soot in my eye.” He cleared his throat. “It’s rather dark in here, isn’t it? I’ll just light a few candles.”
Hell, she was watching him as if he were a bloody miracle or something.
She had disowned her own daughter, for God’s sake, and her own grandchild. Him.
Well, perhaps she had not done so, but she had allowed her husband to do so. She’d never written, never marked a single one of his birthdays, never given the slightest indication that she knew he was alive.
“Thank you for consenting to meet with me, Lord Dawson.”
“My, ahem, my pleasure, ma’am.” God, he wished Grace were here now. It was her fault he was facing this uncomfortable interview.
Lady Wordham smiled slightly. She looked rather familiar all of a sudden, rather like…
Like the person who stared back at him from the mirror every morning.
No. There was no family resemblance whatsoever. He’d always been told he looked just like his father and just like Grandda’s younger brother who’d died of smallpox.
“Well, I know it can’t be a pleasure, but I do appreciate you doing so. I also know it must have been a very nasty surprise seeing me here. I told Winifred you would not like it, but I was desperate to meet you and I wasn’t certain you would agree to visit me if I extended the invitation. After all, you had not sought me out when you came to Town.”
He cleared his throat again. Good God, this was worse than he’d imagined. He should feel righteous anger, but Lady Wordham just seemed so old and sad.
She shook her head. “Do not prevaricate. I understand, I think, why you would not wish to see me. Well, why would you? I am a stranger to you—”
“Not just a stranger—” He pressed his lips together. Surely he hadn’t sounded as hurt as he feared?
Lady Word
ham sighed. “Will you please sit down, my lord? I promise to be brief, and if you do not care to hear from me again—”
Lady Wordham’s voice caught, and she had recourse to her handkerchief. Could this get any more awkward?
“Lady Wordham, it isn’t necessary—”
“Yes, it is.” Her voice was surprisingly firm. “I am seventy-five years old, my lord. My husband has recently died. It is very clear to me that I shall not live forever. It is time—past time—to address a few…regrets while I still can. Please, sit down.”
He sat. This interview could not last forever, and then he could spend the rest of the house party avoiding Lady Wordham. If it was as embarrassing as he feared, she would probably wish to avoid him as well.
He could manage it. She didn’t look much like Grandmamma. Grandmamma had been plump and soft, always smiling. Lady Wordham was almost gaunt and serious. Sad.
Why should she be sad?
He pushed the thought away. Her happiness or sadness was none of his concern.
Lady Wordham sighed again. “This is harder than I expected.”
“Don’t feel—”
She held her hand up to stop him. “Hard, but necessary, Lord Dawson, if not for you, then for me. Please indulge an old woman.”
“Of course.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then leaned forward. “Harriet, your mother, was our youngest and somewhat spoiled, I’m afraid. She was too much like her father—very strong-willed and stubborn. She was also a little wild.”
He caught himself nodding and stopped. He had surmised as much, but he didn’t wish to give Lady Wordham the impression he was agreeing with her about anything.
She studied her hands. “I’ve thought about this over and over, why Harold—my husband—insisted Harriet wed Lord Standen, when anyone with half a brain could see they were not well matched.” She looked up. “And yes, I saw it, too, and tried to reason with Harold, but he would not be swayed. I did say he was strong-willed and stubborn, didn’t I?”
David smiled slightly. “Yes, I believe you did.”
“I think Harold was of the opinion Standen would settle Harriet down. Harold had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday that Season, and it hit him hard. His father had died at fifty-one. I believe he was all too aware of his mortality and wanted to ensure that his baby, his pet, would be taken care of.”
