The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

Lady Greywick gave a wide smile as they approached where they stood, just on the edge of the dance floor.

  “Lady Greywick.” Samantha gave a welcoming smile.

  “Ah, Lady Kilpatrick, a pleasure to see you again.” She glanced to her husband, a secretive smile on her lovely face as she looked at the man beside her.

  “Ah, Lady Kilpatrick.” Lord Greywick gave a knowing grin. “I do believe this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of calling you by your married name.” He arched his brows meaningfully.

  Grace decided that there was more to the story of their acquaintance than she had previously thought.

  “Yes, and it’s a delight to hear you say it.”

  “I would think so,” he replied. “And this must be your husband’s ward?” He turned to Grace with a charming smile.

  “Indeed. Please allow me to introduce Miss Grace.” Samantha released Grace’s hand so that she could curtsey.

  Grace smiled as she stood from the formality. “A pleasure, Lord Greywick. We are deeply indebted to you and your lovely wife for the vouchers, thank you.”

  He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was merely convenient for us to obtain them; you didn’t need our help. Not with your connections.” He gave a smile to Samantha. “But we were happy to be of service.”

  The conversation continued, and Grace tried to keep invested in it, but her eyes continued to wander, searching for one man.

  The music ended for the cotillion, and a reel began to play. It was then that a shiver ran down her back and she caught her breath, a smile teasing her lips as she turned.

  How was it that she knew? Was she already so aware of him to realize his presence before she even saw him? Was that love? It was devilishly good whatever it was, and she couldn’t help but widen her grin when she met his familiar gaze.

  “Good evening,” he said, but his expression conveyed so much more than just a mere greeting. His gaze was warm, consuming, and made her feverish.

  “Good evening,” she returned, biting her lip as he took her hand to kiss it. He lingered in the welcoming kiss, then slowly released her. “Dare I hope you’re pleased to see me?”

  Grace’s face flushed with heat as she tried to remain composed. “You’re free to think whatever you wish. I, however, am free to conceal my reactions if I please,” she teased, flirting.

  “A woman who knows her mind—what a pleasure to discover so rare a creature.”

  “Sir! I cry foul. How dare you be so harsh on my sex. We ladies are not so easily lumped into one category,” she countered with a smile.

  “You simply outshine them all.” He bowed graciously, as if apologizing.

  “Such flattery.” She glanced up, then returned his affectionate gaze. “I’m rather fond of it.”

  “I am well versed in finding ways to flatter, my lady. It turns out you make it simple,” he returned.

  An arm grasped hers, and she turned, expecting to find Samantha, only the arm she grasped was that of the viscount. “Westhouse,” he greeted soberly.

  “Kilpatrick,” Westhouse offered with more than necessary graciousness in his tone.

  Grace was proud of such humility in his expression, and turned to the viscount, curious as if such a display could touch his heart concerning his ideas on Lord Westhouse’s merit.

  The viscount’s expression remained unchanged. “If you’ll excuse us.” The viscount returned, beginning to lead Grace away when Lord Westhouse stepped forward. “Would it be too bold to request the next dance from Miss Grace, that is, if she is not already engaged for it?” he asked the viscount, his expression openness and kindness itself.

  Grace’s heart melted a bit more. It was one thing to be kind to someone who returned the kindness, but for Westhouse to continue to be graciousness itself to the viscount when he was so stoic and cold in his replies, that was truly well bred of Lord Westhouse. It spoke of his character, and she adored him for it.

  “Of course,” the viscount replied after a few moments. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  Lord Westhouse bowed, then gave a quick wink to Grace before stepping aside to allow them more room to pass by.

  She held her head high as she navigated the ballroom beside the viscount. His demeanor was kind and friendly to everyone else he greeted. How was it that he was so utterly unable to spare such equanimity on Lord Westhouse? It was irritating. He released his hold and offered his arm to Samantha as they came up beside her as she spoke with another acquaintance. When had Samantha left the conversation with Lord and Lady Greywick? Her quick mind put the puzzle pieces together and she was tempted to give Samantha a disbelieving stare. As soon as Lord Westhouse approached, Samantha must have excused herself to find the viscount! That’s how he found her so quickly and whisked her away! It was quite efficient, even if it was frustrating. The music shifted, and her heart picked up his cadence. Forgotten was the meddling of her beloved guardians, and all that remained in her mind was the glorious expectation of a dance with Lord Westhouse.

  She turned and watched him approach, appreciating the fine figure he cut in his dark evening kit, and offered her most engaging smile—or so she hoped. He bowed smartly when he arrived and took her hand with the utmost tenderness, and led her to the dance floor. She could almost feel the tension in the viscount, but she disregarded it immediately, focused on only the pleasure ahead that was sure to come when dancing with a promising suitor.

  The fast-paced dance didn’t offer much opportunity for conversation, but it was fascinating how much a mere glance, a simple look could convey without any words. Lord Westhouse’s gaze was warm, appreciative, and made her heart feel light. Far too soon the dance ended, and as he led her from the dance floor, he circled in the opposite direction from where they entered.

  Grace glanced over her shoulder to see if the viscount was watching them, but his back was turned and a shiver of excitement flickered through her body at the prospect of a few stolen moments with Lord Westhouse. She expected him to lead her along the back wall of the ballroom, maybe circle back leisurely to the viscount so that they might engage in some conversation. Delight filled her, but Lord Westhouse simply gave her a wink, then led them past the ballroom doors into a darker hall.

  Several people milled about in the hall, so it was perfectly respectable, but Lord Westhouse didn’t linger in the hall; rather, he continued toward the exit of the hall, and for the first time since meeting Lord Westhouse, trepidation mixed with excitement and she wasn’t sure which emotion was strongest.

  “Forgive me my forwardness, but I’m quite certain that your guardian won’t let you out of his sight, and I’m convinced that he’s told your butler never to admit me to your residence either. So I’ve resorted to rather bold behaviors.” Lord Westhouse spoke in gentle tones, abating her trepidation. As his words sank in, anger burned in its place.

  “Not admit you?” She paused before the door that opened to a lovely garden with a few other couples in quiet conversation.

  Her words carried louder than she expected, and several of the couples paused, glancing at her with various levels of disapproval.

  She gave an apologetic expression to each and then calmly walked through the door to the stone patio of the gardens. Two of the couples regarded her then left, implying that she was rather loud for their quiet tête-à-tête.

  So be it.

  Grace still had enough residual anger from the revelation that she wasn’t in any mood to be accommodating for anyone.

  “I’m making an assumption, and it could be incorrect,” Lord Westhouse responded softly, as if wounded.

  Grace frowned. How could the viscount not see how his actions wounded others? Especially Lord Westhouse! It was horrific.

  “You can be sure that I will mention—”

  “Shh . . .” he whispered and stepped closer to her, his other hand grasping hers and facing her fully. “I didn’t risk his wrath in stealing you away that I might tattle on him like a child. I simply wanted time with you. I
t seems to be rarer than a fine emerald, and just as precious.” He whispered the words like a caress.

  Her temper melted, and a new fire took the place of the frustration. Out of the corner of her eye she noted the last couple leaving them, making the garden area quite private, quite secluded, quite tempting.

  Would he kiss her? It would be a terrible risk, to her reputation and to his health, if she assumed the viscount’s reactions correctly, but the real question was: did she want him to?

  The moonlight made his eyes seem darker, deeper and more mysterious. The gentle circles he drew in her gloved hands were invitingly sweet, and his voice was like a spell, woven over her as he spoke her name so softly.

  Grace.

  He took the smallest step forward, meeting her gaze with intensity, with purpose, with resolution as his head lowered ever so slightly.

  Yes!

  No!

  Yes!

  No!

  She couldn’t make up her mind. For this to be her first kiss, she wanted it badly, but the implications and the risk if they were to be caught . . . as much as she was angry with the viscount and Samantha for their treatment of Lord Westhouse, she didn’t want to let them down by behaving poorly; she loved them too much.

  She had only a moment to make a final decision.

  Licking her lips, she took a breath and parted her lips.

  “Beautiful evening, is it not?” an oddly familiar voice asked, startling Grace as she nearly hopped back from Lord Westhouse to see Lord Sterling lazily leaning against the door frame of the garden entrance. He was regarding her coolly, studying her for a moment as if assessing her worth.

  Shame flooded her, not because she had done something wrong, but because she had the sinking suspicion that her estimation in his eyes had just plummeted. And his approval was surely not given easily.

  And another reason filtered through her mind a moment later.

  He would most certainly tell the viscount.

  It wouldn’t matter that she was going to step back anyway. It wouldn’t matter that she wasn’t going to let him kiss her.

  She let out a deep sigh, keeping it as silent as possible. She turned to Lord Westhouse, but his attention wasn’t on her, it was on Lord Sterling. His kind and open expression was closed off like a vault, and she could almost feel the animosity radiating from him.

  Curious, she glanced to Lord Sterling again, wondering if he would radiate the same perturbation. But his stance remained relaxed; the only telltale indication of his intensity was the clench of his jaw as he regarded Lord Westhouse with a placid expression.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Lord Westhouse bowed slowly, then with very deliberate movements offered his arm to Grace.

  She glanced to it, then turned to Lord Sterling, raising her brows as if asking for his opinion on whether she should take it or stay. In the end, she would do what she wished, but some part of her wanted to know his preference. He was still such a mystery, and she was curious by nature.

  Most of the time to her own detriment.

  Lord Sterling gave his head the smallest shake, and then waited, clearly wondering what she would do.

  Turning to Lord Westhouse, she gave a slight bow of her head. “Thank you for the dance. I’ll return to the ballroom shortly.”

  Lord Westhouse frowned, his arm remaining extended as if expecting her to change her mind.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she added, wanting to give him some sort of assurance of her regard.

  He merely blinked, turned to Lord Sterling with a cold expression, and then tugged on his coat and departed without a backward glance.

  Or a good-bye.

  Grace was irritated at his lack of good-bye, but she had larger problems to deal with.

  Lord Sterling being number one.

  There was no way through it but merely through it, so she turned to Lord Sterling and waited for whatever lecture on proper behavior was brewing behind his stormy gaze.

  He leaned from the doorframe and walked toward her. Not one to back down from a challenge, she took a step toward him, meeting him halfway. She was no wilting flower; if he had something to say he could say it without fear she’d become a watering pot.

  Squaring her shoulders, she tipped her chin up defiantly.

  Was it wrong that she was looking forward to a bit of a verbal sparring match?

  His gaze met hers with an intensity that gave her a slight shiver.

  Apparently she wasn’t the only one with a temper.

  The garden was about to experience fireworks, just of a different variety.

  Vauxhall was about to get some competition.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ramsey wasn’t the violent sort. He had seen his father’s temper too often so he tended to avoid the more confrontational discussions.

  Working at Temptations had taught him to conceal his emotions well. While he wasn’t charming like Heathcliff, he was able to school his reactions just as smoothly, if not more so. Which was why he offered to go after Miss Grace when the viscount learned that she and Lord Westhouse had disappeared into the hall that led to the gardens. After all, he could easily claim his upcoming waltz and not make a scene. If Heathcliff went after her, there would most certainly be talk as to why a guardian had to chase down his missing ward. Her reputation could be questioned.

  And with the gentleman in question being Lord Westhouse, that was certainly an avoidable outcome.

  So he’d quickly traveled down the hall, toward the open door that led to the garden. But with each step, his chest grew tighter with dread. It didn’t appear as if anyone else were in the garden; in fact, couples seemed to be vacating the premise.

  He’d arrived just as Westhouse was going in for the kill.

  Ramsey had seen red.

  How many maids had to be sent off from the Westhouse estate because they were carrying by-blows? How many ladies had been ruined by his careless dealings with their hearts and bodies? Glenwood Manor bordered the lands of Westhouse’s estate, and word traveled quickly within the region. He was a scoundrel of the worst sort.

  More than anything, he wanted to grab Westhouse’s shoulder, wrench him back onto his ass, and bloody him up with a right hook. But a stronger impulse stayed him.

  He wanted to see if she’d follow through.

  Would she kiss him?

  Would she allow him the liberty? Had she fallen for the snake in the grass? He was charming, to be sure, and a good liar, but that didn’t mean that she had bought it.

  He watched her pink tongue dart out and lick her full lower lip. Her lips parted and she drew in a breath.

  He couldn’t wait longer, he had to prevent the damage before it happened. Clearly, she wasn’t about to tell him to go to hell, not with those inviting movements. So he spoke up, something mundane like the weather, or moon, something benign. Her gasp rent the air.

  And now that Lord Westhouse had stomped away like a spoiled child, he was faced with the very real threat of losing his temper.

  With a lady, no less.

  One that was not about to back down, not if the expression in her emerald eyes were any indication.

  No. If he were a betting man, which, ironically, he was not, he would bet at least a thousand pounds that she was hoping for a fight.

  “That was interesting.” He spoke through his teeth, his jaw tense as he regarded her. He didn’t remember her being quite so beautiful. It was bloody distracting and he forced the unhelpful realization away.

  “Depends on your perspective. Some might have called it rude,” she returned, arching one light brow.

  “Or scandalous,” he countered.

  “Adventurous.” Her lips broke into a smile. “If I were more daring, but I’ll have you know that your intervention wasn’t necessary.”

  He couldn’t help the sarcastic laugh that escaped his lips. “I’m sure. You looked as if you had everything well in hand. Reputation be damned. Do you have any idea what that would have done to
your guardians? How you would have broken all the faith they have in you, clearly unwarranted.” He closed his eyes, hating how much he sounded like his father in that last statement. He was about to apologize when a finger poked him in the chest. He blinked down at the offending appendage.

  “Don’t,” she bit out.

  “Why not?” he asked in the same tone.

  She sighed and removed her finger from his person, leaving a slight achy spot where she poked. “I was about to say no. I’m aware that Samantha and the viscount wouldn’t approve, though I can’t for the life of me understand why, but I wouldn’t harm their faith in me this way.” She sighed.

  He wasn’t buying it. “You’re almost as skilled a liar as he is. Maybe you do deserve one another.”

  Her gaze shot up to meet his, anger burning beneath her green irises. “What did you just say?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard it, I just wanted to give you the opportunity to apologize for being such an ass,” she replied.

  He half expected her to cover her mouth at such a word, but she glared at him, brazen and bold and utterly beautiful. How was it that he was just as aroused as he was angry?

  He swallowed down his reactions. “You were going to kiss him,” he accused.

  She had the audacity to roll her eyes. “I was not. I had considered it . . . but I wasn’t going to.”

  “You can’t convince me otherwise.” He gave his head a slight shake.

  “Why ever not?” She had the most offended expression on her face, as if shocked her word carried so little weight.

  He was about to reply, and then glanced to the open door. So far no one had come out into the garden to see their argument, but his luck would only last so long.

  Luck never stayed.

  He frowned, then closed the open door, knowing that he was playing a dangerous game but he wanted—no, he needed—to make a point.

  When he turned back to her, she was watching him with a very dubious and irritated expression.

  He stomped back to her, angry with her for not being honest. Was it so difficult to admit her weak moment?

  “You wouldn’t have denied him, you would have ruined yourself, and in that, sealed your future! Why would you risk such a thing?” he asked, his tone accusing.