When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 13





Several days later, as the coach bounced along, Lovingdon couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to the country for merriment. After deciding not to attend the gathering at Mabry Manor, he received a missive from Grace alerting him that his assistance would be required, as she fully intended to narrow the selection down to one.

Which he supposed meant there were some gents she was beginning to love or perhaps was leaning toward loving.

He wanted that for her, to love and be loved.

So why had he nearly thrown his red and coppery vase across his library?

On her wedding day he would send it to her to complete her collection, as he certainly had no plans to attend the ceremony. He needed no reminders of his own wedding, no reminders of what he had held and lost.

Although he was hit with a sudden jolt of guilt, as he had not thought of his loss in . . . days. He recalled when he counted not thinking of it in minutes. A minute had passed without thinking of them, then two. Sometimes with enough liquor and a woman, he could go hours.

But days?

It was the blasted vase. He would go into his library and see it, and images of Grace would start circling through his mind like a damned carousel. Her smiling, laughing, sipping rum. Then his gaze would drop to the wine stain on his carpet, and he would feel the silk of her flesh against his tongue, hear the cries of her being pleasured.

And here he was thinking of her again. Well, that would end quickly enough when she was married.

He rapped on the ceiling, and the coach slowed to a stop. He leaped out before a footman could open the door. “Prepare my horse. I’m going to ride.”

He always brought his horse to Greystone’s when he came to visit. While they had a fine stable of horses, nothing was better than having one’s own horseflesh beneath him, a horse who knew his moods, his movements, and his hands.

When Beau was ready, he mounted him easily and set off in a hard gallop. The coach driver knew the way, so he didn’t have to wait. He needed to feel the horse beneath him, the wind in his face. He needed to concentrate on keeping the beast in line. He needed something to keep his mind off Grace.

Ever since their carriage ride, she had been a constant in his thoughts. If she wasn’t so desperate for love, if he didn’t care for her as much as he did, if he didn’t want to see her happy, he might have considered taking her to wife.

Without a doubt their nights would be fulfilling. She was as carnal a creature as he’d ever met. But she wanted what he dared not give.

And therein rested his dilemma. He didn’t love her as he’d loved Juliette.

They were such different women. What he felt for Grace was beyond description.

He would not dance with her while at Mabry Manor. He would barely speak with her. He would seriously observe the men who still held her attention, provide what insights he could, and be done with the entire affair. She would be married by year’s end and happy for the remainder of her life. It was what he wished for her, what he would strive—

At the sight of a horse and rider loping over the gently rolling green, he drew Beau up short. He’d forgotten how well Grace rode, how she seemed to be one with the beast. She gave her all to everything she did. She’d do the same with marriage.

It was imperative that he secure her a husband who would give equally.

For half a second, he considered staying on his current path, but she was so damned alluring. What would it hurt to spend a little time with her before the festivities began?

Kicking his horse into a harder gallop, he raced after her.

Her hair had come undone and was flying out behind her. He’d never seen it unpinned. It appeared that it went past her waist. He had an absurd thought that brushing out the tangles would be a pleasurable task, a task that some other man would have the opportunity to relish.

She must have heard the hard pounding of his horse’s hooves as they ate up the ground, because she glanced back. Any other lady would have drawn her horse to a halt, but then he had forever known that Grace was unlike anyone else.

He was near enough that he saw her triumphant grin before she urged her horse into a faster lope. A gentleman would have half heartedly accepted the challenge and then let her win, but he was far from being a gentleman. He gave Beau the freedom to try to overtake them.

“You won’t catch me!” Grace yelled over her shoulder, taunting him.

Impressed with Grace’s skill as she maneuvered her horse over the slight hills and around the trees that dotted the land, he considered letting her have the victory. Then decided against it. He was almost upon them.

After glancing back, Grace barreled on. “Three dances if I get to the top of the next rise first!”

Her laughter echoed around them, and the excitement thrummed through him. He wanted this victory. He wanted her. Stretched out on the green grass among the wildflowers. He wanted to run his mouth over her body with the sun beating down on them. Though that was unlikely to last long with the dark clouds gathering in the distance.


They were neck and neck now. She looked over, and he saw the determination in her blue eyes. It ignited his blood. He was tempted to reach out, snag her from the saddle, settle her across his lap, and take her mouth until she begged for mercy.

To escape those thoughts he gave Beau a final kick, and his horse reached the top of the rise a nose ahead of hers.

“Blast you!” Grace yelled, drawing her mare to a halt near his gelding. “I almost had you.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“You could have let me win.”

“You would have despised me for it.”

“True enough.” Her hair a wild mess, she breathed almost as heavily as her horse.

Against his better judgment, he took several strands between his fingers. “You have the most gorgeous hair.”

“Men seem to prefer blondes or brunettes.”

He cocked up a corner of his mouth. “Men are fools.”

Smiling brightly, she pressed her teeth to her lower lip. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

He didn’t want to acknowledge the pleasure it brought him to have pleased her so. “One last effort to help you find the right man.”

“Someone I’ve overlooked all Season, you think?”

“Perhaps.”

“Such a noncommittal response. Still, I’m glad you’re here.”

“You won’t be so glad when I chastise you for being out here with no escort.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s my father’s land, Lovingdon. I’ve ridden out here alone for as long as I can remember. I could walk about blindfolded and not get lost.”

“You have gentlemen arriving, and some of those might seek an opportunity to be alone with you.”

“Not this afternoon. Drake’s keeping them occupied with billiards, cards, and drink until dinner.”

“I suppose I should carry on to the residence then.”

“I suppose you should.” She held his gaze, a question in hers, but more an answer that he recognized.

Slowly he dismounted, removed his gloves, stuffed them in a pocket, and approached her horse. It shied away, but he grabbed the reins and calmed it, before placing his hands on Grace’s waist. “You should give your horse a rest after that jaunt.”

With a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment, she curled her hands over his shoulders and he brought her down, deliberately allowing her body to brush against his. He should have released her then, but he was loath to do so. It didn’t help his convictions any that she neither moved away nor lowered her hands from his shoulders.

Tucking the hair behind her left ear, he wondered how it could feel so soft when it appeared so untamed, but then it seemed to mirror her: bold, yet with an undercurrent of vulnerability that he would have never suspected had he not witnessed it. “My assisting you in your quest isn’t doing either of us any favors. After this affair, I’ll be returning to my debauched life.”

“Are you saying you left it?”

“I’m saying I haven’t been as devoted to it as I once was.” The fingers that had curled her hair around the shell of her ear lingered, skimmed over her cheek, and came to rest near the freckle. He touched it with his thumb. “You’re not quite so brazen this afternoon as you were in the coach.”

Her cheeks flushed. “It’s easier in the dark, don’t you think?”

“Not always.”

Lowering his mouth to hers, he took because he could, because he knew she wouldn’t object, and because he was hungry for the taste of her. Kissing her was wrong on so many levels, but he had ceased to care. No one was about to witness their transgressions.

Her fingers scraped his scalp, tugged on his hair, held him in place while her sweet sighs echoed around them. He wound his arm around her back, and brought her in closer, pressing her breasts to his chest, breasts he wanted to see, touch, taste. Why was she so protective regarding what was beneath her bodice and not what was beneath her skirts? In his experience, the opposite was usually true.

But then again, Grace had never been common, ordinary, or like anyone else.

When she pulled back, her lips were swollen and damp. He wanted to swoop in and claim them again.

“I have the impression that you’re not teaching me a lesson,” she said.

“No, I’m simply being wicked and taking what I have no right to hold.”

“Too much power is given over a kiss.”

“I’ve shown you where they can lead.”

“As long as it’s mutual, I don’t understand why it must be forbidden.” She slipped out of his hold and began walking, swaying her hips slightly.

Grabbing the reins of both horses, he fell into step beside her. “Because women are supposed to remain pure.”

Peering over at him, she scoffed. “But not gentlemen. So unfair. Perhaps I shall stand in the center of the ballroom and invite every gent to kiss me. Surely if he makes my toes curl, he’s the correct one.”

Do I make your toes curl? hung on the tip of his tongue.

“I mean, I can’t possibly wait until my wedding night to discover if he is a marvelous kisser. What if he slobbers or has rancid breath or doesn’t like using his tongue?”

Although he knew he had no right he despised the thought of another man kissing her. Reaching out, he pulled her to him, cupped her face between his hands, and blanketed her mouth with his own. He didn’t want to discuss potential suitors for Grace. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be elsewhere.

Sometimes he thought he might go mad. But at that particular moment, madness was the farthest thing from his mind. Grace took over his thoughts. The feel of her in his arms, the sweep of her tongue through his mouth. He backed up until he landed against a tree that he could use for support while he nestled her between his thighs.

Sweet Christ. She writhed against him as though she sought the same surcease that he did. But he wouldn’t take it, couldn’t take it, not with her, not when he couldn’t give her a marriage based on love. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t make her glad that their paths had crossed.

As smoothly as possible, without breaking from the kiss, he turned them around until she was supported by the tree. Her riding habit was perfect for what he had in mind as it lacked the layers of petticoats that would prove bothersome to his quest. Reaching down, he wrapped his hand around her knee and lifted her long leg, settling it just below his hip. Bless her height and long limbs.

“Lovingdon,” she whispered on a breathy sigh, and he gritted his teeth at the thought of her saying another man’s name. She opened her eyes, and he saw the heated passion that was burning inside her. Had he ever known a woman who was so quick to ignite? “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“No, we shouldn’t, but you tend to do things that you shouldn’t. Why stop now?”

“Is this a lesson?”

How he wished it was. “No. I just want to feel you shuddering in my arms.”

“I want to shudder in your arms.”

With a growl, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her sweet fragrance along with the earthy scent of her earlier exertions. She dropped her head back, giving him easier access to the silky, sensitive flesh as her fingers dug into his upper arms.

He slipped his hand beneath the hem of her skirt until he could cup the bare skin of her calf. Firm muscle. He skimmed his fingers higher, along the back of her knee.


She gasped, giggled, sighed.

“Ticklish?” he rasped near her ear, wondering when his voice had grown so rough.

“A little, but don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping.” Although if she asked, he would. He hoped only that she wouldn’t ask. He wanted to give her this, even as he recognized that in the giving he was also receiving. Her happiness, her joy, mattered to him. It was the reason that he’d made this journey, that he would suffer through this deplorable event when he’d much rather be in London focusing only on his needs. But somewhere along the way, she’d become a need, a need not to disappoint.

He trailed his fingers along the marvelous length of her silken thigh. If they were in a bed, she could wrap her legs around him three times over. He fought back that thought before he became of a mind to search out a mattress. He couldn’t put his finger on when she’d become so damned appealing. He’d always liked her, but what he felt now went beyond that. Still, he had no desire to examine it. He wanted only to become lost in her pleasure.

His fingers found her sweet center. She was already so wet and hot. Releasing a tiny moan, she pressed herself against him and clutched his shoulders as though she would soar into the heavens without anchor. Then one of her hands was traveling down his chest, his stomach, lower still—

“No,” he growled.

“Not fair,” she said on a thready breath. “I want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I do feel it.” He slipped a finger inside, and she throbbed around him. She was so tight. He didn’t want to think about how marvelous it would be to be buried inside her. “Let me just enjoy you.”

Grabbing the back of his head, she held him near while her heated mouth worked its way over his neck, stirring him in ways that the most experienced courtesans hadn’t. It took so little with her to build a raging fire of need, a need that would go unfulfilled this day. While he stroked and caressed her intimately, he ran his tongue along the shell of her ear, taking satisfaction in her gasps. Latching her mouth onto his, there was a frenzy to her kiss as though she could not have enough of him.

Her hand dug more deeply into his shoulder. Then she flung her head back, her cry echoing around them, as she pulsed against his fingers. Shuddering, going limp, she fell against him. With one arm, he held her upright, absorbing each tiny tremor. Ironically, for a man who wanted no commitments, he knew he would be content to hold her here all day, into the night and morning.

Unfair to tease her with things he was not willing to give her forever. Very slowly, he pulled his hand away, and lowered her leg.

Gently, she pushed away from him, giving her weight back to the tree. Her skin was flushed, her eyes sultry. With a sigh, she looked up at the branches overhead. “You’ve taught me far too much, Lovingdon. I don’t know how I shall ever be content with another.”

“If he loves you, it will be even more satisfying.”

“If he loves me and I love him. That’s the secret to achieving both the physical and emotional release, isn’t it? Without love, as marvelous as the sensations are, the entire experience is still rather empty.”

Empty. An appropriate word. Had he not been feeling the same lately?

“I’ve upset you,” he stated.

“No. I’m simply greedy. I want it all.” Reaching down, she shook out her skirt. “I need to bathe before the evening.”

An image of wet limbs flashed through his mind. He wanted to see her in the bath, he wanted to see her as he had no right to see her. Turning away, he strode over to where the horses chewed grass and shrubs. Grabbing the reins of her mare, he led the beast over to where Grace waited.

He placed his hands on her waist. Such a narrow waist. If he brought his wrists together his hands would span the width of it. If he were an artist, he would paint a slew of slender women. Her shape was elegant, refined, appealing. Leaning in, he took her mouth gently, lingering, capturing once more the feel and taste of her.

“Why did that seem like good-bye?” she asked, when he drew away.

“Because I can’t distract you from your goal while we’re here. No clandestine meetings, no wickedness. We’re to focus on identifying the man who truly loves you.”

He lifted her up onto the horse, watched as she maneuvered herself onto the sidesaddle. “I should probably arrive from another direction,” he said.

“After chastising me earlier for riding alone? Besides, I believe we’ve made it perfectly clear that you are only interested in serving as guardian. No one would ever suspect that you’ve been naughty.”

He supposed she was right. Where was the harm in his accompanying her home?

He’d slipped away from the others because he wanted time alone with Lady Grace Mabry, time to court her with no one to observe his attempts, time to convince her that she should accept his suit. But finding her was a challenge. She didn’t seem to be in the residence, so he began searching the grounds.

To his everlasting disappointment, he saw her arriving at the stables with Lovingdon in tow. Lovingdon who always seemed to be sniffing about, who appeared to be her unofficial protector.

He claimed to have no interest in marriage, but if he wasn’t careful he was likely to be ensnared by it. It seemed he was forever managing to find time alone with Lady Grace. It was not to be tolerated.

She was the heiress with the largest dowry, a portion of which included land that bordered his own property. He would not be content to marry anyone else, and his own contentment mattered above all else.

He would have to redouble his efforts to convince her that they belonged together.

As she lounged in the copper tub, Grace could not help but reflect that her skin felt particularly sensitive. While she knew that she shouldn’t allow Lovingdon to take such liberties, she couldn’t deny that she relished the liberties taken. She yearned for his touch, his nearness, his kiss. She loved him, desperately. It was a pity she desired the same degree of love in return, that she couldn’t be content to simply love.

Using her sponge, she rubbed it over her foot, between her toes. As lovely as it was, it didn’t elicit the marvelous sensations that Lovingdon did. She imagined herself standing before him completely nude, while he ran his hands and mouth over her. In her fantasy, she had no scars for him to avoid.

She feared tonight’s ball might be an exercise in futility. Shouldn’t she crave the touch of any man she might be considering taking as a husband? Shouldn’t she toss and turn at night with thoughts of his body riding hers? Shouldn’t she want him to meet her in the shadows of a garden and have his way with her?

The gentlemen were all pleasant enough. Some of them she dearly liked. Some made her laugh. Some made her look forward to their next dance. But she couldn’t imagine a single one of them grazing bare hands along her thigh or cupping her intimately. They would do that, of course. But thinking about it made breathing difficult, and not in the pleasant manner that Lovingdon had of taking her breath away.

This love business was such a complicated thing. She feared she might not figure it out until it was too late.

Dinner was turning out to be a dreadful affair, Lovingdon mused as he sat between two ladies who were determined to convince him that it was high time he placed himself back on the marriage market. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the seating arrangements as Grace’s mother was known for not giving a fig about ranking. She treated lord and commoner alike. So it was that Grace was surrounded by the most eligible of bachelors, while he was boxed in by innocent misses for whom he could generate little interest. Not that he could find any fault with them. They were pleasant to gaze upon, possessed sweet melodic voices, but they were too eager to please.


They weren’t stubborn, opinionated, or determined to find love. They seemed in search of one thing—a husband and any lord would suffice for the role. Quite suddenly, it struck him that Grace had standards, that she wasn’t simply in want of a husband, but something more, something with value, something that placed her above all the other ladies of her station. His admiration for her rose a notch.

She might have an odd way of going about gaining what she wanted, but by God she knew what she wanted.

Grinding his teeth, Lovingdon watched as she smiled at Somerdale, laughed with Vexley, and listened attentively to Bentley. Was she seriously considering one of them?

He tried to imagine each gentleman standing at the altar beside Grace, but brought himself up short when he envisioned their wedding night. They would do more than touch her as he had. They would know every aspect of her.

They would bring her joy and happiness that he couldn’t. He wished that she had never come to him, that he had never realized the young girl he had consoled in the stables had become an enticing woman.

He did care about her, dammit, just not as she wished, not with his entire heart and soul. Those belonged to, would always belong to, Juliette.

He cared for Grace too much to place her second when she deserved to be some man’s first.

Grace loved the first night because following dinner they held a ball that continued into the wee hours of the morning. The single ladies had rooms in the east wing, the bachelors in the west. Few of the mamas and papas showed, as the event had always been geared with the younger people in mind. It had begun when she was a child and her parents promised her and her brothers that they could bring their friends to share adventures for a few days during the Season.

Over the years, the adventures had changed. Sometimes she missed the games of her youth, when spending time with the boys was fun. Now it was almost a chore.

Although there was a room set aside for cards and one for billiards, the ballroom was rather crowded. None of the rooms were for males only. Here the ladies played cards and billiards. Tomorrow some of them would go shooting.

The orchestra was almost finished warming up. She looked around for her first dance partner and spied him talking with Lovingdon. She was glad Drake hadn’t sought out an excuse not to come. This had always been a family affair, and he was family, even if he was reluctant to admit it. She knew that he knew he was loved. He had no doubts there but had scars to remind him of his time on the streets, and she doubted he would ever be completely at home in these environs.

As she neared the two men, she thought they were the most handsome in the room. Drake had a roughness to him, a toughness that his evening clothes couldn’t hide. In contrast, Lovingdon was elegant, aristocratic. Each man wore self-assurance like a second skin. They were complete opposites, one a lord of leisure, the other hardworking. But friendship bound them.

“Don’t you two look handsome tonight?” she said in greeting.

Drake leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful. I’m surprised some man hasn’t snatched you up yet.”

“It wasn’t for want of trying, but you know me. I was always hard to catch. Even when we played chase I could outrun the lads.”

She turned to Lovingdon to find him studying her intently. He had always been attractive, but tonight he seemed more so. His dark blond hair was trimmed and styled, his face freshly shaven. He had lines formed by sorrow, but she could make out a few shaped by happiness. Sorrow always dug more deeply. His face contained character that it hadn’t in his youth. He had gone through the fires of hell, and while she doubted he would see it as a compliment, to her, he had been forged into a rather remarkable man. He grieved deeply for those he loved; he kept their memories alive. He was keeping his word to help her find love, and she suspected he would assist Minerva as well.

The strains of the first waltz floated on the air.

“Drake, this dance is yours.” She winked at Lovingdon. “You’re next.”

“Not as many suitors here?” Lovingdon asked.

“I have suitors aplenty but I always begin with my favorite gentlemen, so I etched you onto the card days ago.”

“Rather confident that we’d be here,” Lovingdon said.

“No, but I see no harm in sustaining hope that one’s wishes will come true.”

Drake offered his arm and led her onto the dance floor. She knew his habits, knew his reservations. Knew he would dance with her and then make his way to the card room or perhaps even the library to read. He thought he knew his place, but he didn’t really have a clue.

“You know any of these ladies would be more than happy to dance with you,” she told him.

“They’re not for me, Grace. They never have been and they never will be,” he said, discounting her words. “And you managed to get Lovingdon here, but don’t think you’ve put him back together. That way lies heartache.”

It was hardly fair that he wouldn’t discuss his love life but seemed to believe it perfectly fine to discuss hers. “I’m well aware. He’s adamant that he won’t love again.”

“But then you’ve always been a dreamer.”

“I dream that someday you’ll find love.”

He laughed heartily, a deep, rich sound, and she wished the ladies of the Set could see him as she did. She thought of him as a brother too much to ever think of him as anything else, but she knew the goodness in him knew no bounds. Yet she also recognized there was darkness in him that could claim the same.

“Worry about yourself, Grace. My bloodline coming to an end would be no loss, and I’m in no need of heirs.”

“But you could use a wife. I’ve seen the way you live. You need someone to remind you to eat.”

“I make out fine.”

She wanted more than that for him, but she also knew he could be as stubborn as she. They might not have the same blood, but they had been raised in the same household, and they had some of the same traits.

When the dance ended, he escorted her to where Lovingdon waited. He was the only partner she wanted this evening, but she knew he would give her no more than a single dance. Still, it was better to have one dance than to have no dance at all.

She was aware of his gaze roaming over her as she neared, and when those amber eyes returned to meet her blue ones, they were smoldering with an intensity that heated her core. It couldn’t have been more obvious that he desired her if he shouted it from atop the stairs. But in his case, desire was not love. He’d had women aplenty but only ever loved one. She wanted to see evidence that he loved her.

Just a little. That was all she would need.

He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on it, relishing the firmness of his muscles bunched beneath her fingers.

“No lessons tonight,” she said. “Don’t teach me anything or demonstrate particular behaviors. Just dance with me to dance with me.”

She peered over at him to find him watching her steadily. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“All I want is a dance,” she assured him, wondering when their relationship had transformed into one where she could not be totally honest with him.

His eyes never leaving hers, he swept her into the fray of dancers. No words, no conversation to distract. She was aware of every aspect of him. The dark blond locks rebelling to fall over his brow. The smoothness of his jaw, which she wanted to scrape her lips over. The perfectly knotted cravat that she wanted to unknot. His bergamot scent that wafted toward her. The heat of his touch, the nearness of his body.


By all appearances, by all actions at the moment, he loved her. It had been one of his axioms.

He will look at you as though you are the only one in the room.

If he were anyone else, she would have thought, He wants me not my dowry. But she knew that her dowry was nothing to him.

And he wasn’t anyone else. He was Lovingdon, haunted by his first love, by the woman he insisted would be his only love. She could not imagine an emotion so great that it dwarfed all others. Yet even as she thought it, somewhere in the back of her mind she heard, Oh, but you can.

She would always love him, but it didn’t prevent her from loving another. Why could he not do the same?

She wasn’t even aware of the music drifting into silence until he stopped moving. He tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and they strolled leisurely toward the edge of the dance floor.

He won’t be in a hurry to be rid of you.

All the signs pointed toward love, and yet—

I can’t give you what you want.

His lessons had been for naught. He couldn’t help her determine if a man truly loved her, because the signs could be misread, misinterpreted.

Trust your heart.

Hers was the heart of a fool.

Never taking his gaze from hers, he lifted her hand to his lips. The heat of his mouth seared the skin through her glove. She swallowed, licked her lips. His eyes darkened.

“Enjoy your next dance,” he said, before releasing his hold on her and handing her off to Vexley.

She watched him walk off, then with determination turned to Vexley and smiled. She very much intended to enjoy the entire evening, Lovingdon be damned.

Standing in the gazebo, smoking a cheroot, Lovingdon looked out over the stream where the dappled moonlight danced over the water. The smoke he released momentarily clouded his vision. He wished it would cloud his mind.

He wanted Grace to find love, knew she wouldn’t find it with him, but the acknowledgment didn’t stop him from wanting her. He had watched her dance with one gentleman after another, and each gazed at her adoringly. He could hardly blame them. Her smile was the sweetest, her laughter warmed the soul. It was when he saw her slip into the garden with Somerdale that he decided he needed to leave, because his first inclination had been to follow them out and plant his fist in the center of the man’s face.

He wasn’t jealous, but merely being protective. She was wise, smart, able to look out for herself. He had given her enough warnings that she would not find herself forced into marriage by an overzealous suitor.

Hadn’t he taken Juliette for walks in the garden at night whether the moon was full or absent, and behaved himself? A kiss on the back of her hand. Twice he leaned over for a kiss on the cheek. Once he had grazed his mouth across hers in much the same manner that Grace had described Somerdale’s kiss. Innocent. Respectful. Boring as hell.

Only now did he realize how dull his courtship had been. He had loved Juliette. He held no doubt. He had been a boy on the cusp of manhood, eager to please her, terrified of frightening her with his passions, so he’d held them in check.

Why could he not do the same where Grace was concerned?

He caught the whiff of her rose and lavender fragrance before he heard her slippers crush leaves, before the floor of the gazebo vibrated as she stepped upon it. He felt her warmth as she neared. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her reach for his cheroot. She plucked it from his mouth, turned, leaned back against the railing and took a short puff. He was mesmerized watching the smoke escape through her slightly parted lips.

She extended the cheroot toward him. He took it, studied it. “Does your father know about your bad habits?”

“There are a good many things about me that my father doesn’t know.”

He wondered how many of those things were secrets kept from him? A lifetime of exploring her would never be enough. There would always be something new to learn, something new to relish. He couldn’t travel that path. “Shouldn’t you be inside dancing?”

“I’ve worn out three pairs of slippers. I’ve had enough of the ball. I think I’ve had enough of the Season.”

He shifted his position until he was facing her squarely. “What do you mean by that?”

“If one of those gentlemen loves me, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t love him. I enjoy them. I enjoy them all. But my heart fails to speed up, my skin doesn’t grow warm. I don’t anticipate their nearness.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t come to love one of them.”

“But it would be a passionless love.”

And she so deserved a passionate love, a man who could not live without her. A man who woke up each morning and smiled because she was in his bed, a man for whom she was the sun and the moon.

Without looking at him, she held something toward him. He snatched the bottle from her. “You little minx. No glasses?”

In the light of the full moon he saw her slight smile. “I was attempting to escape from being so civilized.”

“Well, you accomplished that.” He removed the top from the bottle and offered it to her, not at all surprised when she took it. Too many shadows prevented him from observing the minute movements of her delicate throat as she swallowed, but he could see her faint skin washed by moonlight. His blood thrummed.

He retrieved the bottle from her and enjoyed several gulps, barely savoring the flavor of whiskey. She’d brought his preference, not hers, had known his preference. Juliette had never imbibed with him, nor smoked, nor used profanity. But then he’d kept all his vices on a short leash when she was alive. He hadn’t wanted to offend her. He’d loved her, there was no denying that, but in being true to her had he been true to himself?

“You look as though you’re deep into heavy thoughts,” Grace said.

“Berating myself for failing to discover a man who loves you more than he loves your dowry.”

“My father says I’m searching too hard. Perhaps I am.”

She grabbed a beam, swung around and stepped through an opening onto the ground.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I want to walk along the stream.”

“I smell the scent of rain on the air. You should head back to the manor if you’re going anywhere.” Taking another swallow of whiskey, he didn’t want to admit his disappointment because she was leaving him already.

“You’re hardly made of sugar,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t melt if you get wet.”

No, but he’d get chilled. So would she. Dammit. “Grace, you don’t know what creatures are about.”

“When did you become a coward, Lovingdon?” she taunted.

Blast her. He leapt off the gazebo and trudged after her, aware of the occasional raindrop pinging off him. “I’m a grown man, not a young boy in search of adventure.”

“Are there adventures to be had here, do you think?”

Chuckling, he caught up to her. “Most assuredly. Especially if your father finds us out here. Rifle in tow, he’d no doubt hunt me down.”

“He trusts you to behave, at least where I’m concerned.”

“Yet you know that I don’t always behave where you’re concerned.”

In spite of the gathering clouds, he could see her smile in the moonlight. The rain began to fall in earnest. He needed to get her back. He didn’t want to risk her catching her death. “I think you’re out here trying to tempt me into wickedness again.”


“It’s crossed my mind that wickedness without love is better than no wickedness at all.”

“I thought you valued love above all else. If you’ve been wicked, it’ll be harder for him to love you.”

At the water’s edge she faced him. “Will it? If he truly loves me, shouldn’t he love every aspect of me? That’s what I want. A man who will love every aspect of me, even the imperfections.”

“A woman who admits to imperfections, a rare find indeed.”

She abruptly spun about, presenting her back to him, and he had the sense that perhaps she hadn’t been teasing and that maybe he shouldn’t have either. He moved up until he could see her profile and the tears glistening in her eyes.

“Grace?”

She shook her head. “There’s something I haven’t told you, something that’s not talked about, and yet there are times when I feel this overwhelming need to shout about it.”

“You can tell me.”

She shook her head.

With one hand, he cradled her cheek. “Sweetheart, whatever it is—”

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, the air reverberated, and frigid rain poured from the heavens.

Grace hunched her shoulders. Lovingdon tore off his jacket and draped it over her head to shelter her from the rain as much as possible. “Come along, we need to get back to the manor.”

“There’s an old crofter’s cottage just beyond the trees. It’s nearer.”

He didn’t argue as she began trudging away from the river, but worked to keep pace and keep his jacket over her. The wind picked up, slapping rain against them. Blast it! Where had this come from? A flash of lightning guided their steps. Another rumble of thunder cracked above them.

As they passed into a clearing, Lovingdon caught sight of the silhouette of a small building. It looked sturdy enough. As long as it had a sound roof, he’d be happy.

With a bit of fumbling, he found the latch, shoved open the door, and guided Grace inside.

“There’s a lamp on the table just inside the doorway,” she said, and he felt more than saw her moving away from him.

He found the table, realized he’d clung to the whiskey the entire time. Lightning arced through the sky, provided him with a glimpse of the items spread across the table. He set down the bottle and snatched up the box of matches before all grew dark. He struck a match, lit the lamp, and turned to the room, the only one in the dwelling. Grace was crouched before the empty fireplace. To his right was a bed, neatly made. As a matter of fact, everything appeared tidy. Drawings were pinned on walls around the room.

“It appears to be clean,” he said.

“It’s where I come to draw.”

He glanced back at the bed.

“Sometimes late into the night,” she explained, as though she knew he was confused by the out of place furniture. “Father had it redone for me a few years back.”

He wanted to examine the drawings, especially the one that appeared to be a bunny with only one ear. He wondered if it was a sketch from her youth, as it seemed an odd choice for a woman. He remembered often seeing her, when she was younger, with sketchpad and pencil.

Crossing the distance separating them, he placed the lamp on the floor and crouched beside Grace. “And you have some firewood and kindling.”

“The servants keep it tidy, as I never know when I might want to come here alone.”

He worked diligently to get a fire going. “If I didn’t know you so well, I would think you’d led us here on purpose.”

“Only to escape the rain. I assure you that I’m well aware you’ll never love me, and without love how can one make love?”

The fire caught and began to crackle. He wished he could make love to her, could give her what she wanted. He turned to find her simply sitting there, rocking back and forth. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. The fire is not going to provide you with enough warmth.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Humor me. Health is a fragile thing.” Standing, he strode over to the bed and pulled off the quilt. “You can use this to cover yourself.”

He walked back over and held the quilt up so it served as a curtain between them. “Come on now, Grace.”

“I’m not going to disrobe in front of you.”

“You’re not in front of me. I can’t see you.”

“The fire will warm me.”

“It’ll warm you faster if you’re not drenched, and I don’t intend to stay in sodden clothes. You’ll catch your death and I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

She sneezed, sniffled. Blast her!

He crouched beside her. “Grace, don’t be so stubborn. You’re safe with me.”

She was staring at the fire, refusing to look at him.

“I’ve seen plenty of women.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked, and he could not mistake the pique in her voice or the way it made him want to smile.

“I’m not boasting, but merely pointing out that I’m skilled enough around women’s clothing that we can do this without me seeing you at all.”

He moved around behind her and began to work on the fastenings. She wiggled her shoulders. “No!”

She started to get up, and he wrapped his hand around her arm, bringing her back down. “You’re pale, you have chill bumps that I can see, and your skin is like ice. Perhaps I’m overprotective, but by God, I’ll not have you ill on my watch.”

She studied him for a moment. He thought she might argue further. Instead, she nodded and presented her back to him. He quickly unfastened her dress and slipped the shoulders down her arms. He should have stopped there. He knew he should stop there. Instead he rubbed his palms briskly up and down her arms.

“How can you be so warm?” she asked.

“I have more meat on me.” He moved away, stood, and lifted the blanket until it hid her from view. “Come along now. Discard the clothing.”

He could hear her moving about, and fought like the devil not to imagine the bodice skimming down her torso, past her hips, her thighs—

The blanket was snatched from his fingers and she draped it around herself.

“There is little point to removing your wet clothes if you’re going to get the blanket equally soaked.” He knelt so he could glare at her on eye level, but she once again averted her gaze. He reached for the ribbons of her chemise. She shoved his hand away and it accidentally brushed over her breast.

Something wasn’t right. It was too soft, too malleable.

“Grace—”

“Please leave me alone.”

He should do as she asked. He’d never forced himself on a woman, but something was going on here. He retrieved the whiskey from the table where he’d left it earlier. “Here, drink this.”

She upended the bottle as though her life depended on it. The blanket slid down, pooled at her hips. He could see the beginning of a scar, or perhaps it was the end. It peeked out above the lace of her chemise. To the side something else peeked out.

With his forefinger and thumb, he took hold of the rumpled linen. She grabbed his wrist. Holding her gaze, he saw the discomfort in hers. He was so accustomed to her confidence and boldness. He almost released his hold but realized that he had to know the truth.

She licked her lips, swallowed, gave the barest of nods. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled out the long strip of linen. Without it, her chemise appeared painfully empty on the left side.


Calmly, not wanting to startle her, taking the same sort of care that he took with a nervous filly, he tugged on the ribbon of her chemise.

“Lovingdon—”

“Shh.” Cautiously, he untied the ribbon, then the next, and the next, the material parting. With great consideration, barely breathing, he moved aside the cloth to partially reveal one side, to reveal the thick rigid scars where once a left breast had been.

“Now you know why it is so important that he love me, for me.”