When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 12





As Grace sat on the blanket, sketching the swans on the lake, she decided that she very much enjoyed Vexley’s company. He seemed not to have a care in the world. He wasn’t brooding or irascible. He didn’t seek to teach her lessons, no matter that she had implied she wanted those lessons from Lovingdon.

Vexley had invited her to picnic with him. Sitting beneath a nearby tree, Felicity was serving as chaperone. Not that one was really needed here at the park. A good many people were about. Vexley could not take advantage—

And neither could she.

She pretended to be fascinated by the swans, because she found herself spending far too much time studying his mouth, striving to envision it moving over hers. It was no hardship whatsoever whenever she thought of Lovingdon, but with Vexley she couldn’t quite see it. He had thin lips. The upper tended to disappear when he smiled, which he did quite often. Would it disappear when he kissed or would it become plumper?

Her own swelled considerably when Lovingdon gave attention to her mouth. It was just that he was so thorough. Whether he was kissing her slowly and provocatively or with a ravishing hunger, he was never brief. He lingered, he sipped, he came back for more. He had done her a great disservice by demonstrating how a man who loved her would kiss her. How could any man measure up to that?

How could she survive a kiss that was not a demonstration but was instigated by love? It would contain an emotional richness, delve deeper—

“You have the most lovely blush.”

Familiar with the sight of her blushes, she suspected it wasn’t lovely, but it no doubt encompassed most of her body, reflecting the path her thoughts had wandered onto. She also suspected with his comment that the rosy hue was darkening. She forced herself to smile at him and not let on that she was embarrassed to be caught musing about things she ought not. “I’ve grown a little warm.”

Understatement.

“You’re a very good artist,” he said. He was resting up on an elbow, peering over at the sketchpad on her lap.

“I inherited my father’s talent for putting images on paper. Although he prefers oils, I like pencils.”

“Most ladies do needlework.”

“Is that what you expect your wife to do?”

“I expect her to do anything she likes.”

She wondered if he intended to stand by those words or if they were just meant to lure her in. Why could she not take them at face value?

“She will be a most fortunate woman,” she said. “Some husbands have keen expectations.”

Sybil’s had, although Grace had seen her the day before and all continued to remain calm within her household. Lovingdon’s influence had made a difference. Would Vexley step up to assist her friends if they were in need of help?

“I want the sort of marriage my father had,” Vexley said. “Very amiable, no discord.”

Amiable might be pleasant but it could also be quite boring. She thought of how she could speak honestly and openly with Lovingdon. She couldn’t imagine posing the same sort of questions to Vexley, nor could she imagine Vexley responding with Lovingdon’s candidness. That was what she desired: someone with whom she could be completely herself.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Lady Cornelia walking with Lord Ambrose. Arms linked, they were both smiling. Grace took satisfaction in her role as matchmaker for them.

“That’s an odd couple,” Vexley said, and she glanced over to see that he was looking in the same direction that she’d been.

“They seem to get along famously.” As though to prove her point, at that moment Lady Cornelia’s laughter floated toward her.

“Her dowry won’t allow them to live with any sort of largesse.”

During all of his courtship, Vexley had never once mentioned the assets he would gain with marriage to her. She had begun to lure herself into believing that it wasn’t important to him—or at least not more important than her.

“And will mine allow you to live more in the manner to which you desire?” she asked.

The change in his features was subtle but she knew he had realized his mistake. “I was only talking about them.” Reaching out, he took her hand. While his was warm, his touch was not as powerful as Lovingdon’s. As much as she wished she didn’t, she felt Lovingdon’s touch all through her body, no matter how slight, how unintentional. “Things are very different between you and I. We are well-suited, dowry be damned.”

“So would we still be here had I no dowry?”

“Without doubt.”

Yet, she doubted. Blast it all.

The mood of their outing changed. He read her poetry, but the poems weren’t written by her favorite poet. They wandered among the trees and along the lake, never touching. She wanted the inadvertent placing of a hand on the small of her back. She didn’t care how inappropriate it might be. He talked at her, not to her. He never sought her opinion. She would not have cared if he asked her what color she thought the sky was. She was merely seeking some evidence that he cared about what she thought.

When she spoke softly, he didn’t lean in. He merely responded with, “Quite right.”

Which didn’t seem right at all considering her comment had been that she thought she had spotted a whale in the pond. Not that she had, of course. She’d simply been testing his interest, and discovered it lacking.

She’d had such high hopes for the afternoon, but found herself quite relieved when he returned her to the residence with the promise of seeing her at her family’s estate later in the week.

When she walked into the foyer, she heard voices coming from the front parlor, one much deeper, one that sent fissures of pleasure spiraling through her. Cursing Lovingdon soundly for affecting her at all, she strolled into the room to find her mother serving tea to the duke.

Very slowly, he shifted his gaze to her, and she felt as though she’d been smashed in the ribs with Drake’s cricket bat. In a smooth, feral way, Lovingdon unfolded his body from the chair.


Her mother glanced over. “Oh, you’re here. Lovingdon was just telling me about a lecture on the American hummingbird that he’s taking his sister to this evening. He thought you might be keen to learn about it.”

“I believe you’ll find a lecture far more interesting than an exhibit,” he drawled laconically, and she couldn’t help but believe there was more to his invitation than her mother realized.

“I thought you’d come around regarding the merits of exhibits,” Grace said. Had he not purchased the red glass? Had she not found him studying it? Warmth swept through her with the thoughts of how much he had seemed to appreciate it—had appreciated her—that night.

“They have their place, but I prefer the opportunity to listen as knowledge is shared.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she caught an undercurrent to his words, a warning. Had she somehow managed to upset him? That seemed unlikely as she’d not seen him since Minerva’s party. But something was amiss. If she were smart, she would no doubt decline the invitation, but when it came to Lovingdon, she’d never been terribly brilliant. She suspected she might regret the evening, but then she decided it was better to regret doing something than not doing it. She’d once thought there were a great many things that she’d never have the opportunity to do. She wasn’t going to shy away from experiences simply because she wasn’t certain how they might end.

“I’d be delighted to go. May I have some time to dress properly for the occasion?”

“Take all the time you require.”

The undercurrent became a raging river of fury. Or at least that was the sense Grace had as Lovingdon’s coach traveled through the city. Glaring out the window, he sat opposite her, his back straight and stiff. Had she brought her parasol, she might have whacked him on the head with it.

She was acutely aware of the direction in which they traveled—the incorrect one. “Are we not stopping off to retrieve Minerva?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are we going to a lecture?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“So you lied to my mother? For what purpose?”

His gaze landed on her then with the full weight of it taking her by surprise. He was fairly smoldering. “To get you into my carriage alone. Men lie. Often. When they want something.”

“And you want something?”

“I want you to stay clear of Vexley. I’ve already told you that he doesn’t love you.”

“I like Vexley.”

“So you’re going to ignore my advice? Why ask me for it if you’re going to discount it? My time is valuable—”

“So valuable that you’ve hardly given me any, in spite of your promise to be more involved. You didn’t attend the ball last night. Are you even going to bother with our affair at Mabry Manor?”

He returned his attention to the passing scenery visible through the window. “I haven’t decided.”

“It seems there is quite a bit you haven’t decided.” She sighed. “Come to Mabry Manor, stay a few days, make your observations, give me a report. I shan’t bother you anymore after that.”

“You’re not bothering me now.”

“I find that difficult to believe considering how disgruntled you sound.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. She longed to hear him laugh. “Come early. We’ll go riding,” she said.

“How will that help you find a husband?”

Maybe it would help her find her friend. “Blast it all, Lovingdon, don’t be so cantankerous. Come to our estate, and I promise you can do it without making observations or presenting me with a report. Just enjoy yourself. When was the last time you truly enjoyed yourself?”

He was enjoying himself at that very moment, dammit all. He’d never had harsh words with Juliette. They’d never argued. She’d never been short with him or looked as though she were on the verge of reaching across the expanse separating them in order to give him a good hard shake.

It was odd that igniting a fire within Grace was such fun. He was riding through the park when he spotted her with that scapegrace Vexley. He almost interrupted them there and then, probably should have, but he feared he would come across as some sort of jealous lover. He wasn’t jealous, not at all. He was simply disappointed she didn’t have the cunning to see Vexley for what he was—completely undeserving of her.

The problem was that he had yet to meet a man whom he thought was deserving of her. He didn’t like imagining her laughing with some other fellow, sharing exhibits with him, growing warm beneath his touch, saying his name on a soft moan as passion burned through her.

“Did he kiss you?” he asked, immediately hating that he posed the question.

She appeared surprised. “Vexley? Of course not. He’s a perfect gentleman.” She released a great huff of air. “The trouble is that I’m not certain I want a perfect gentleman. None of the gents courting me excite me the way that you do.”

An inappropriate fissure of pleasure shot through him with her admission.

“I spend far too much time thinking of red vases and what transpired near one,” she said. “I think of your kisses and wonder if all men kiss with as much enthusiasm.”

“I assure you that if he loves you, he’ll kiss you with more enthusiasm.”

“And if I love him—”

He stiffened in surprise as she breached the distance separating them and sat beside him. She grazed her hand along his cheek, his jaw. When had she removed her gloves? “I’ll want to kiss him, won’t I?”

“Naturally.”

“I’ll want him to be keen on having me kiss him again, so I’ll want to ensure that I do it in such a way that he’ll be unable to resist begging for more. Mayhap I should practice with someone for whom I haven’t a care.” She leaned in.

“Grace,” he cautioned.

“What’s the matter, Lovingdon? Afraid you’ll be enticed into wanting more?”

He was already enticed. What he feared was that he might not be able to resist taking more than she was offering. “You play with fire, m’lady.”

“I’m not afraid of getting burned. Are you?”

It wasn’t the burn she should fear but the aftermath, for it could be painful indeed. But before he could even think of a way in which to explain that to her, she had covered his mouth with hers as though she owned every inch of it, inside and out.

Practice, indeed. If he hadn’t experienced her enthusiasm the first time he kissed her, he might well believe she had spent considerable time practicing, but passion seemed to be such a natural part of her. What amazed him was how well she managed to hold it in check. When she released it, God help the man she loved. At that moment, however, God help him.

He knew he should show shock at her boldness, but too much honesty resided within their friendship for him to feign surprise or castigate her for doing what he had been contemplating since he first saw her with Vexley. Publicly claiming her mouth, however, would have resulted in her having the one thing she didn’t want: a husband incapable of loving her.

He wished he could reach past the shards of his broken heart and find a fragment of love that remained unclaimed that he could offer her, but she deserved so much more than a scrap. She was worthy of the whole of a heart and then some.


She would give to a man all she had to give and she deserved to receive no less in return. A man would be better for having loved her. She would cause him to rise above mediocrity. Of that he had no doubt.

She skimmed her hand along his thigh.

“Grace.” It seemed to be the only word he was capable of uttering.

“You’ve touched me intimately, Lovingdon. Why shouldn’t I be able to touch you?”

“Because you’re a lady.” Thank God, he managed to find more words, not that they were particularly adequate.

She laughed against his mouth, and he breathed in the scent of cinnamon. He wondered if she’d enjoyed a hard sweet while she prepared herself for the lecture.

Then she nipped at the underside of his jaw, and he groaned. Her fingers tugged at his cravat. “This is in the way,” she said. “I want to kiss your neck. Everything is in the way.” She reached for the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Grace, we’re traveling in a coach through the London streets. Your reputation—”

“Who’s to see? When did you become such a prude?”

He’d been born one, had lived as one until two years ago. He’d certainly never taken Juliette in a moving conveyance. He wasn’t going to take Grace either, but he could damn well enjoy her, and if she wanted to explore him in the sheltered confines so be it. His neck cloth had disappeared, and she was suckling at his flesh, nipping the tender skin along his collarbone. He might bare evidence of her conquest on the morrow. Wicked, wicked girl.

Bracing a foot on the opposite bench, he drew her across his lap. Her hands were in his hair, traveling over his shoulders, touching, touching, touching. Her mouth slipped inside his unbuttoned shirt collar. “So what can you tell me of hummingbirds?” she asked.

Hummingbirds? “Who the bloody hell cares?” he asked, just before reclaiming her mouth. With her, he had no rules about kisses. He kissed her and wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to touch her, be touched by her. Lust, it was only lust, and yet it was a fiery need unlike any he’d ever possessed.

She pushed back slightly, dragging her mouth across his bristled jaw and he wished he’d shaved recently. “My mother will care,” she whispered. “She’ll ask me what I learned this evening. I can’t very well tell her the truth of it.”

“They hum,” he answered, distracted as she wedged her hand between them and began caressing him through his trousers.

“When they sing?” she asked.

“I suppose. No, that’s not right.” He couldn’t think. “Perhaps it comes from their feet. Is it important?”

“Depends what Mother asks.”

“It’s a sound they make, when they fly, I think.”

“Their wings, then?”

“Yes, all right.” He should take her to the lecture but how could he possibly sit contentedly beside her when he knew he could have her sprawled over his lap?

Reaching for the laces on the back of her dress, he began to make short work of the knots and bows. She straightened so quickly that her head nearly sent his jaw out the window, snapping his head back. The suddenness of her movement, with no warning, allowed him only enough time to bite back part of a harsh groan.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gently rubbing his chin, massaging his cheeks. “But you can’t undo my bodice.”

“Grace, I’ve seen you below the waist.”

“Yes, I know. I was there when you did.”

Had his passion frightened her? That made no sense as she was the one who instigated what was happening between them now. “You can tear off my clothing, but I can’t reciprocate?”

“No. I . . . I apologize. I think I lost sight of myself there.” She scrambled off him, returned to her side of the coach, and gazed out the window. “I’m sorry.”

“They have a name for women who lead a man on a merry chase and then leave him in agony. It’s not very complimentary.”

“Are you in agony?”

He was close to dying. He was angry, but more so at himself for not stopping things before they got to this point. Shifting on the seat, he straightened himself. He would most assuredly be taking a frigid bath when he returned to his residence.

“I’ll survive,” he said harsher than he intended. “But I suggest you not take such liberties with any gentleman courting you. He might not stop when you ask.”

“He will if he loves me.”

“It’s the ones who don’t love you who cause the problems.”

“You stopped,” she pointed out, and he wondered if she was hoping for some declaration of affection. No, she was too smart for that.

“I stopped because it never should have begun,” he told her.

“You care for me.”

“Of course, I do, but I don’t love you as I loved Juliette. And that’s what you’re seeking, isn’t it? A love such as I had?”

“You judge love by her,” she stated. No question, and yet he felt obligated to answer.

“I judge everything by her.”

She’d known that of course, which made her wanton actions incredibly embarrassing. His desire for her didn’t go below the surface, and while the sensations were incredibly lovely, they left her wanting.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked.

Her heart hammering with trepidation, she snapped her gaze over to his. “Pardon?”

In spite of the shadows, she could feel his gaze homed in on her like a physical presence.

“Sometimes I have the sense you’re not being quite honest with me, that there’s something more going on here than a quest for love.”

She clutched her hands tightly together until they began to ache. She couldn’t tell him everything. She didn’t want her truth revealed in a coach, especially with a man who loved another and not her. Love was the key to acceptance. She was sure of it. Yet she knew she must tell him something. “If you must know I don’t much like this life you lead. I thought that in your helping me, you might also help yourself to again become the man you were.”

“He no longer exists.”

“So I’m beginning to realize. You’re never going to return to Society completely, are you?”

“No.”

His certainty was disheartening. Although she should have expected it.

Reaching up, he rapped on the ceiling. The coach slowed, and she was aware of it turning down another street. She had little doubt he was returning her home.

“I should fasten you back up,” he said somberly.

“Yes, all right.” While she turned slightly to give him easier access to her back, he crossed over to sit beside her.

With a solitary finger, he caressed her nape. Closing her eyes, she wished she possessed the courage to give him permission to undo all the fastenings.

“I apologize for what I said earlier,” he whispered softly. “You’re an incredibly beautiful woman, Grace. You entice me, but I am not yet blackguard enough to take complete advantage. I would have stopped short of ruining you.”

“But you don’t think Vexley will.”

“Do you really like him?”

“He seems nice enough. They all seem nice enough. I should be content with that, I suppose.”

He began tying her laces. He’d loosened so many so quickly. She fought not to consider where he might have obtained that experience.

“You deserve more than contentment,” he said. “You deserve a man who smiles every time he sees you.”


“Unlike you, who scowls.”

“Precisely. A man who loves you will want an accounting of every moment when you’re away from him—not because he’s jealous but because he missed you dreadfully and wants to assure himself that your time apart brought you a measure of happiness, because the price he paid was loneliness in your absence. Nearly everything he sees will remind him of you. No matter what he is doing, he will wish you were there to experience it with him. No matter how boring he may find the things that interest you, he’ll willingly be there to share them with you.

“Within a pocket, he will carry something that reminds him of you. It can be the silliest or seemingly most inconsequential item: a button from a dress, a handkerchief that carries your perfume, a locket of your hair, a petal from your favorite flower, a missive that you penned. Not a particularly endearing missive, but it’s from you and so it matters.

“He’ll hoard every smile you give him. He’ll want to make you laugh. He’ll awaken in the middle of the night simply to watch you sleep.”

“How will I know that he’s doing all these things?” she asked.

Done with his task, he folded his hands over her shoulders. “You probably won’t.” He pressed a light kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear. “Just as he’ll never know the myriad ways in which you privately express your devotion to him.”

The coach came to a halt, and she couldn’t help but believe a good deal remained unsaid, that the task of knowing that a man loved her for herself was an impossible one.

A footman opened the door, and Lovingdon stepped out, then handed her down. He offered her his arm and escorted her up the steps.

At the door, he faced her. “When he leaves you, he’ll count the moments until he’ll be with you again. He’ll find excuses to delay saying goodbye.” He touched her cheek. “Good night.”

Abruptly, he turned and jaunted down the steps. No delays, no excuses. He might not have intentionally done it, but he’d provided her with another lesson.

“Will you be coming to Mabry Manor?” she called after him.

“I still haven’t decided.”

“I wish you would.”

“Unfortunately we don’t always get what we wish for.”

No, she thought, as he leaped into the carriage and she watched it disappear onto the street, we don’t always get what we wish for.

But it seldom stopped one from wishing.