by Sylvia Day
“I will see him rid of you before I take my last breath.”
“Good luck,” Isabel muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” The dowager drew herself up.
“I have spoken to Grayson about separation many times since his return. He refuses.”
“You have no wish to be married to him?” The dowager’s complete astonishment would have amused Isabel if she were less distressed over Gray’s behavior since leaving her bed. To be set aside so easily…To be ignored so directly…To have trusted a man who lied to her…
It hurt, and she had promised herself that no man would ever hurt her again.
“No, I do not.” She lifted her chin. “The reasons for our marriage seem foolish and ill-conceived now. I’m certain they always have been and we were both too obstinate to take note.”
“Isabel.” The dowager pursed her lips and fingered her weighty sapphire necklace with a narrowed, thoughtful glance. “You are serious?”
“Yes.”
“Grayson insists that a petition for divorce will meet with failure. In any case, the scandal will be dreadful for all.”
Tugging off one of her long gloves, Isabel reached out and fingered the petals of a nearby rose. So Gray had been considering severing their bond. She should have known.
How unfortunate for her that she was a woman who relished the companionship of others. She thrived on it. Perhaps if she did not, she would not feel such a need to be held and cared for, and she would not be in this position now. Many women abstained. She could not.
She sighed. The censure heaped on them for a divorce petition would be devastating, but how much more devastating would marriage to Grayson be? She’d nearly been destroyed by her last spouse and her attraction to the man Gray had become was just as powerful as what she had once felt for Pelham.
“What do you want me to say?” she asked bitterly. “That I am prepared for and accepting of a future as a woman divorced for adultery? I am not.”
“But you are resolved, I can see it in the set of your shoulders. And I will help you.”
Isabel turned at that. “You will what?”
“You heard me.” A slight smile softened the dowager’s harshly drawn mouth. “I am not sure how I will help you. I only know that I will, in whatever manner I can. Perhaps I will even see you well settled.”
Suddenly, the events of the day were too much for Isabel. “Excuse me.” She would find Rhys and ask him to escort her home. Faulkner scratches wounded her on all sides, and she wished for her room and a decanter of Madeira more than she wished for her next breath.
“I shall be in touch, Isabel,” the dowager marchioness called after her.
“Lovely,” she muttered, speeding up her steps. “I cannot wait.”
Frustrated by his lack of success in finding Spencer, Gerard was about to do violence to someone, when he turned a corner and came to an abrupt halt, his way blocked by a woman backing out of a dark room.
She turned and jumped. “Good heavens,” Lady Stanhope cried, her gloved hand sheltering her heart. “You frightened me, Grayson.”
He studied her with an arched brow. Flushed and slightly disheveled, she was obviously fresh from some assignation. When the door opened again and Spencer stepped out with crumpled cravat, Gerard’s other brow rose to match the first. “I have been looking for you for hours.”
“You have?”
His brother was clearly far more relaxed than he had been earlier. Intimately familiar with Barbara’s sexual appetite, Gerard was not surprised. He smiled. This was exactly how he had hoped to find Spencer.
“I would like to speak with you.”
Spencer straightened his coat and shot a glance at Barbara, who hovered. “Tomorrow perhaps?”
Studying him carefully, Gerard asked, “What are your plans for this evening?” He would not wait if his brother was still intent on some trouble.
Another pointed glance at Barbara settled Gerard’s worries. If Spencer was fucking, he would not be fighting. “Breakfast in my study, then.”
“Very well.”
Lifting Barbara’s bare hand to his lips, Spencer sketched an elegant bow and moved away, most likely to arrange their departure.
“I will be along in a moment, darling.” Barbara’s eyes remained locked on Gerard.
When they were alone, he said, “I am grateful for your association with Lord Spencer.”
“Oh?” She made a moue. “A tiny flare of jealousy would be welcome, Grayson.”
He snorted. “There is nothing between us to warrant jealousy, and there never has been.”
Her hand came up to rest against his abdomen, her green eyes sparkling mischievously through her lashes. “There could be, if only you would warm my bed again. Although our liaison the other evening was lamentably short, it reminded me of how beautifully you and I suit each other.”
“Ah, Lady Stanhope,” Pel said tightly behind him. “Thank you for locating my husband for me.”
Gerard did not have to turn around to know that his evening had, impossibly, taken a turn for the worse.
As the obviously rumpled countess moved away, Isabel stood silently, her fists clenched. Grayson eyed her warily, his powerful frame tense with expectation while she considered what she wanted to do. She had once fought hard for Pelham, and the effort had been draining and pointless. Husbands lied and strayed. Practical wives understood this.
With her heart encased in the icy shell she had learned to rely on, she simply turned her back to Gray with the intent to leave—the ball, his house, him. In her mind she was already packing, her brain quickly sorting through her belongings.
“Isabel.”
That voice. She shivered. Why must he have that raspy bedroom voice that dripped lust and decadence?
Her steps did not falter, and when he caught her elbow to stay her egress, her thoughts shifted to her previous home and how all of her furniture would be sadly out of date.
Gray’s gloved hand cupped her cheek. Forced her gaze to meet his. She registered blue eyes of a striking color and thought of her parlor settee, which was of a similar tone. She would have to throw it out.
“Christ,” he muttered harshly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Her gaze dropped to where his large hand gripped her forearm.
Before she realized it, he had pulled her into a dark room that reeked of sex and closed the door behind them. Her stomach roiled, and feeling the overwhelming urge to flee, she hurried across the moonlit space toward a room on the other side. It was a library where windowed doors led outside. There she paused and leaned her hands upon the back of a leather wingback chair, sucking in deep breaths of untainted air.
“Isabel.” Gray’s hands gripped her shoulders, moved down to tug her grip free of the chair back, and then linked his fingers with hers. His body was feverishly hot against her back. She began to sweat.
Green, perhaps? No, that wouldn’t do. Gray’s study was green. Lavender, then? A lavender settee would be a change. Or pink. No man would want to visit a pink parlor. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
“Would you talk to me, please?” he coaxed. He was very good at coaxing. And wheedling and charming and fucking. A girl could lose her head over him if she lowered her guard.
“Tassels.”
“What?”
He turned her to face him.
“Pink with gold tassels in the parlor,” she said.
“Fine. Pink flatters my coloring.”
“You will not be invited to my parlor.”
His lips pursed, his frown deepened. “The hell I won’t. You are not leaving me, Pel. What you overheard does not mean what you think.”
“I do not think anything, my lord,” she said evenly. “If you will excuse me…” She sidestepped.
He kissed her.
Like candle-warmed brandy the kiss hit her stomach first, then spread outward. Intoxicating. Making her thoughts and blood run sluggishly. Needing air, she took a deep breath through her n
ose and smelled Gray. Starched linen. Clean skin.
His embrace tightened, lifting her slightly until only the tips of her curled toes brushed against the Aubusson rug beneath them. Against her belly she felt his cock stir, but his mouth connected sweetly with hers, his tongue tasting and licking, not plunging. As the ice inside her melted under the heat of his ardor, she moaned. His lips were so beautiful, so soft against hers. The lips of an angel…with the skill and ability to deceive like the devil.
Clean skin.
Gray’s mouth traveled along her cheekbone until he nuzzled against her ear.
“As impossible as it is, I want you again.” He rounded the chair and sank into it, holding her in his lap as if she were a small child. “After this afternoon, my hunger should have settled down to a minor craving, yet at this moment it seems worse than before.”
“I know what I heard,” she whispered, refusing to believe what her nose suggested was the truth.
“My brother is brash,” he continued, ignoring her. “And I wasted hours looking for him tonight. Still, despite the knowledge that he could be wounded, or could seriously wound someone else, it was the desire to be with you that created my unholy impatience.”
“You have been with that woman intimately. Recently.”
“I was relieved to learn he’d vented his earlier anger with a quick rut in the next room.”
Isabel stilled. “Lord Spencer?”
“I was even more pleased to see him departing with Lady Stanhope to continue their activities in a more appropriate venue. His doing so frees the rest of my evening to seduce you.”
“She wants you.”
“So do you,” he said smoothly. “I am an attractive man with an attractive purse and an attractive title.” He pushed her gently away so he could meet her gaze. “I also have an attractive wife.”
“Have you fucked her since you returned?”
“No.” His mouth brushed across hers. “And I know you find that hard to believe.”
Strangely, she didn’t.
“If I were you, Pel, I am not certain I would believe a scoundrel like me either, especially with your past.”
Her spine straightened. “My past does not signify.” She’d had enough pity to last a lifetime, she did not require any more. Certainly she did not want any from Gray.
“Ah, but it does, as I am beginning to see.” His face was stark in its perfection, his eyes narrowed and considering. The hard edges to his lips and mouth he’d shown when he first returned were back. Signs of a deep sadness.
“I am not a good man for you, Pel. I am not good at all. All men have faults, but I’m afraid I am nothing but faults. Still, I am yours and you must learn to bear with me, because I am selfish and refuse to let you go.”
“Why?”
She held her breath, but it was his next words that made her dizzy.
“You heal me.”
His eyes closed and he pressed his cheek to hers, the tender gesture startling her to the very marrow of her bones. The Marquess of Grayson was known for a great many things, but tenderness was not one of them. The fact that these displays were becoming more frequent in number terrified her. She could not be the salve that mended him for another woman.
“Perhaps I can heal you, too,” he whispered against her mouth. “If you allow me to.”
For a brief moment, she pressed her lips to his. Exhausted by the stresses of the day, she longed to curl into his chest and sleep for days. Instead, she wiggled off his lap and stood. “If healing means forgetting, I want no part of it.”
He heaved out a breath as weary in sound as she felt.
“I have learned from my past mistakes, Gray, and I am glad to have learned.” Her fingers twisted together restlessly. “Forgetting is not my aim. I never want to forget.”
“Then teach me how to live with my mistakes, Pel.” He stood.
She looked at him. Studied him.
“We should leave London,” he said urgently. Coming to her, he caught up her hands.
“What?” Her eyes widened and she shivered. Alone with Gray.
“We cannot function together as a couple here.”
“A couple?” Her head shook violently.
The door opened, startling them both. Gray pulled her to him with lightning speed, protecting her in an all-encompassing embrace.
Lord Hammond, the owner of the library in which they stood, blinked in the doorway. “I beg your pardon.” He began to back out, and then stopped. “Lord Grayson? Is that you?”
“Yes,” Gray drawled softly.
“With Lady Grayson?”
“Who else would I be consorting with in a darkened room?”
“Well…Ah…” Hammond cleared his throat. “No one else, of course.”
The door began to swing closed again, and Gray took the opportunity to cup her breast. His mouth lowered toward hers, taking ruthless advantage of her inability to pull away.
“Er, Lord Grayson?” Hammond called out.
Gray sighed and raised his head. “Yes?”
“Lady Hammond has arranged a house party this weekend at our country estate near Brighton. She would be beyond pleased if you and Lady Grayson would attend. And I would relish the opportunity to reacquaint myself with you.”
Isabel gasped as Gray’s grip flexed rhythmically around her breast. Without the aid of candlelight or a fire, they could not be seen clearly. Still, the fact that another individual stood inches away from where she was being fondled so intimately made her heart race.
“How large is the party?”
“Not large I’m afraid. A dozen at last count, but Lady Hammond—”
“Sounds perfect,” Gray interjected, his fingers tugging at her hardened nipple. “We accept your invitation.”
“Truly?” Hammond’s portly frame drew up to the limits of its inconsiderable height.
“Truly.” Clutching her hand, Gray dragged her from the room, squeezing past the viscount, who was too surprised to move quickly enough.
Her emotions a morass, Isabel followed with only a slight drag.
Hammond followed quickly behind them. “Friday morning we set off. Is that acceptable?”
“It’s your party, Hammond.”
“Oh, yes…That’s true. Friday, then.”
With a deliberate flick of his wrist, Gray signaled a nearby footman to fetch cloak and carriage, and turned to another servant who hovered nearby. “Tell Lord Trenton I said his obligation has been met.”
It was not lost on Isabel how easily her husband had managed to achieve his aim to spirit her away. She almost wished she could be angry about it, but she was too stunned.
Her husband had not lied or strayed.
But whether that was a blessing or a curse, she could not yet say.
Chapter 13
As the Grayson carriage pulled into the crowded drive of the Hammond residence, Isabel could not bite back her groan. One guest in particular filled her with dread.
Sitting across from her, Gray arched his brow in silent query.
Your mother, she mouthed, showing caution so as not to anger Lord Spencer, who shared a squab with her husband.
Gray pinched the bridge of his nose with a loud sigh.
Suddenly all the anticipation she’d had for the upcoming long weekend party fled. Stepping down from the carriage with Gray’s assistance, she managed a smile and took inventory of the assembled guests. She shuddered when the Dowager Lady Grayson gifted her with a conspiratorial wink. There was no avoiding the fact that Isabel had liked the woman better when they had been at odds.
“Bella.”
The relief she felt at the sound of the voice behind her was dizzying. Turning, she caught Rhys’ outstretched hands like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. His smile was brilliant, his rich mahogany hair capped by a dashing hat.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, well aware that tame country parties were not his preference.
He shrugged. “I feel the need for a littl
e respectable company.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you ill?”
Laughing, he shook his head. “No, though I do believe I’ve caught a bit of melancholia. Something I’m certain a few days of fresh country air will do wonders to cure.”
“Melancholia?” Tugging off her glove, Isabel pressed her wrist to his forehead.
Rhys rolled his eyes. “Since when does a bad mood cause fevers?”
“You have never been in a bad mood in your life.”
“There is a first for everything.”
A firm grip at her waist drew her attention.
“Grayson,” her brother greeted, his gaze lifting above her head.
“Trenton,” Gray returned. “I would not have expected to find you here.”
“A temporary bout of insanity.”
“Ah.” Gray tugged her closer, a motion which had her gazing up at him with wide eyes. They’d had an unspoken accord to avoid touching each other in public, since it seemed to spark a flare of lust neither could control. “I appear to be suffering from the same ailment.”
“Grayson. Isabel. Lovely to see you both here,” the dowager said as she approached.
As Isabel opened her mouth to reply, Gray squeezed the upper swell of her buttock. She jumped, startling his mother. Reaching behind her, she swatted at his hand.
“Are you unwell?” the dowager asked, frowning in disapproval. “You should not have come if you are ill or out of sorts.”
“She is perfectly healthy,” Gray said smoothly. “As I can well attest.”
Isabel stomped on his booted foot, although doing so caused no damage at all. What was his intent? She could not collect. To tease her so openly…
“Crudity is common,” his mother reproved. “And beneath a man of your station.”
“But, Mother, it is so enjoyable.”
“Lord and Lady Grayson! How lovely of you to come.”
Turning her head, Isabel found Lady Hammond descending the stairs from her front door. “We are delighted to be invited, of course,” she replied.
