When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 8





“There were fewer flowers this morning,” Grace said, sitting astride her bay mare as it plodded along Rotten Row, keeping pace with Lovingdon’s chestnut gelding.

“That should please you,” he said. He’d arrived one hour before the respectable hour for a morning visit and suggested a ride through Hyde Park. As it was not the fashionable hour, few were about. “It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To separate the chaff from the wheat?”

“Yes, but I’m not exactly sure how it came about.”

“Those who sent flowers yesterday but not today care more for your reputation than they do you.”

“That’s the reason you danced with me. You knew that some men would be put off by my being in the company of a rakehell.”

“Don’t sound surprised. You’re the one who pointed out that dancing with me might sully your reputation.”

“But one dance? Not beyond repair, surely. Besides, you’re a friend of the family. If you’re in the midst of reforming, where better to begin than by waltzing with me?”

He laughed darkly. “I’m not reforming, Grace.” Straightening, he took his gaze over her in a slow sojourn. “Is that what this little request of yours is about? Trying to put me back on the straight and narrow?”

“Absolutely not.” Well, maybe a little. Not that she would confess that to him. “I care only about not making a ghastly mistake when it comes to love. Your appearance at the ball did me a great service. If I’m understanding correctly, a man who truly held affections for me wouldn’t give a care who danced with me.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re absolutely certain that you’re responsible for my diminished number of suitors?”

“Without question.”

“Thank God.” She released a tight laugh. “I was fearful someone had seen Lord Somerdale kiss me in the garden and that—”

Reaching out, he grabbed the reins and jerked her horse to a stop. Beneath his hat, his eyes were narrowed slits. “Somerdale kissed you?”

She wasn’t certain why she experienced such triumph. He didn’t seem to have a problem when his behavior was questionable. Why should she not be afforded the same consideration? “During the eleventh dance. He had claimed it, but suggested we cool off by taking a turn about the garden. Then he”—she felt her cheeks warming with a blush—“drew me into the shadows and kissed me. I’d never been kissed before.”

She pulled the reins from his fingers and urged her horse forward. She was irritated by her reaction. He hadn’t the courtesy to blush when he’d opened his door without a stitch of clothing. Why were men so much more comfortable with their bodies than women? He quickly caught up.

“Are you mad?” he asked. “If you want to marry for love, the very last thing you need to be doing is going into the garden with a gent alone at night. If you’d been caught in that compromising position, you would have found yourself at the altar with him.”

Beneath her riding hat, she peered over at him. “Yes, I don’t quite understand that. What in the world did I compromise? A kiss is pleasant enough I suppose, but hardly worth casting aspersions on a lady’s reputation.”

“Then Somerdale doesn’t fancy you as much as you seem to think.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If he fancied you, he would have given you a kiss that would have had you understanding how one could damn well ruin your reputation.”

She shifted her gaze to his lips, plump lower, thin upper. They appeared soft. Somerdale’s had been chapped, rough, cold. Lovingdon’s looked anything but. She swallowed hard. “But you don’t love every woman you kiss.”

“I’ve only ever loved one. As for the others . . .” He shrugged.

“So we’re talking lust, not love.”

A corner of that luscious mouth of his eased up. “What do you know of lust?”

That based upon the way she wanted to squirm in her saddle, she might be experiencing it at that very moment. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, caress her hands over his shoulders, unfasten his shirt buttons and catch another glimpse of his chest. “I’m not so innocent as you might think. I have two older brothers. I’ve listened to some of their conversations.”

“Unknown to them, I take it.”

She despised hearing the censure in his voice. He was the blackguard here, not her. “As though you are without sin.”

His smile faded, his face hardened. “We won’t talk of my sins.”

She would have taken back the words if she could, but more than that she wondered what had caused his reaction. She suspected whatever he was referring to was darker, deeper than his current follies.

“Lady Grace!”

Glancing over, she saw Lord Somerdale sitting astride a bay horse and trotting toward her. This could prove awkward. “Please don’t mention the kiss.”

“Not to worry. I won’t allow rumors to propel you to the altar.”


She drew some comfort from knowing he was still her champion, but she wondered why she didn’t feel content with the knowledge.

As Somerdale urged his horse around to the other side of Grace, with little more than a curt nod as acknowledgment to him, Lovingdon wondered how the earl would manage without his teeth. He was contemplating knocking every one of them out of his mouth. How dare the man kiss Grace?

When Grace had confessed about her encounter with Somerdale in the garden, the fury that shot through Lovingdon had nearly toppled him from his horse. It was one thing to watch men flirt and dance with her, but to take it further? To woo her into a darkened garden and kiss her—

That she would allow such liberties, that she didn’t realize the risk not only to her reputation but to herself should a man take advantage was beyond the pale. Some man would push her farther than he ought. Vexley for example.

He crossed their path shortly after Somerdale’s arrival. He didn’t acknowledge Lovingdon, but damned if his cold glare when Grace wasn’t looking didn’t count as a challenge. He, too, had wisely sidled his horse on the other side of Grace, keeping a safe distance from Lovingdon, who wondered how Vexley would manage with a broken jaw. It was unlike him to have a penchant toward violence, and he certainly wasn’t jealous of the attention they were giving her. It was quite simply that they were not the proper marriage material for a lady of her caliber. They were wasting their time, hers, and his.

Two other gentlemen came over on horseback, giving him a curt greeting before turning their full attention onto Grace. Their little entourage had come to a stop, and he was anxious to get them going again. It seemed Grace was not of a like mind.

“I’m going to sit beneath the tree for a while. You needn’t stay, Lovingdon.”

Was she dismissing him?

“I know my parents appreciate your serving as my escort.” She glanced around and smiled. “Lest it not be clear, he is not a suitor.”

A few nervous chuckles echoed around them while a couple of the gents eyed him warily. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for wanting to lay out his position in her life so there would be no doubts, not that he thought anyone would see him as a serious suitor. He’d made it quite plain that he had no intention of marrying again.

“I’ve nothing else to do,” he said. “I’ll escort you home before I take my leave.”

Without question she was capable of taking care of herself, but she was still somewhat innocent and naive. A man could take advantage. One no doubt would. Some gent was going to grow weary of competing with the others and seek to force her into marriage by compromising her. A man who was desperately in need of funds. Like the four flocking around her now. He knew their worth, not only in terms of money, but in terms of character. None of them was good enough for her.

But who was? There had to be someone with whom he wouldn’t find fault, someone who would love her as she deserved to be loved. But for the life of him, he could think of no one.

While Lovingdon remained mounted, Lord Vexley dismounted quickly and fairly loped over to Grace, placing his hands on her waist—

Lovingdon’s horse shied away and he realized he was gripping the reins, yanking them. After settling his gelding, he reached into a pocket, removed a coin and began weaving it through his fingers, seeking calm. Using his knees, he urged his horse forward, reached down and grabbed the reins to Grace’s horse. He’d relegated himself to groomsman, but he certainly wasn’t going to play the part of swain, especially after she’d already announced that he was nothing more than a family friend.

Lord Chesney came galloping over, a puppy nestled in his arms. He quickly dismounted, not at all hindered by the creature. As he handed Grace the squirming bundle of fur, she looked as though she would marry Chesney on the spot. Like his father before him, he bred dogs, had bred Lovingdon’s most recent collie. That alone should have at least earned him some favor, but he couldn’t see the man marrying Grace.

Grace’s laughter wafted toward him. She was sitting on the ground, playing with the puppy in her lap while entertaining the gentlemen around her. He studied each and every one. In his more charitable moments he wished them each to hell. In his less charitable moments, he decided hell would be too good for them.

Grace shuffled into her bedchamber and looked at the bed with longing. It was wearying to be always smiling, to pretend to care about subjects that held no interest, to not want to hurt some gentleman’s feelings because she knew with every fiber of her being that he was not the one.

Although she suspected her tiredness had to do with Lovingdon more than it did the other gents. He kept her alert, aware of every nuance of his movements, every tone of his voice. She’d been acutely aware of him watching her while she flirted with each of the lords who had joined her in the park today. She’d wanted to order him to get off his blasted horse and join her but refrained. If he’d barged into the midst of their group, she had little doubt the others would have scattered. But he maintained his distance, just as he had since Juliette’s passing. Even when he was with her, it was obvious his mind drifted elsewhere.

Felicity entered and without a word began assisting her in removing her riding habit. She had left the dog with the boot boy. He would see to its needs until it learned not to make puddles in the house. It was such a sweet gesture on Chesney’s part, but Lovingdon had grumbled on the way back to the residence, “A man who loves you would know that you prefer cats. Nasty vile creatures that they are.”

He’d made her laugh, naturally and honestly, her first true laugh since Somerdale had arrived. It had felt marvelous to be carefree, to be herself. She never had to worry about impressing him. He’d always accepted her as she was. She was grateful that aspect to their relationship had not changed.

“I’m going to lie down for a while,” she said, once all the outer garments were gone and only a layering of cotton separated her skin from the air.

“Are you feeling well, m’lady?” Felicity asked.

“Yes, just tired. Return in time to prepare me for dinner.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

After the maid closed the door, Grace walked to the bed, stopped, considered, then crossed over to the mirror. Very slowly, she unlaced her chemise. With her eyes on the mirror, she gingerly parted the cloth and, as she had a hundred times during the past two years, imagined her husband doing the same, tried to imagine herself through his eyes. Still, after all this time, when she was completely revealed she felt as though she were taking a punch to the gut. The familiar sight should no longer take her off guard, and yet it did.

“The scars aren’t so bad,” she whispered, but in her mind she heard a man’s voice, deep and rich, roughened by passion. Her husband’s voice, on their wedding night. Mayhap he wouldn’t notice in the dark. She sighed. He’d notice.

Not bothering to lace herself back up, she wandered over to the bed and stretched out on her side. Her cat, Lancelot, leapt upon the counterpane, circled around, and finally nestled against her hip. She slid her fingers through his fur. “Don’t worry, the dog won’t replace you. I suspect he’ll become Father’s more than mine. They seem to have hit it off.”

And then because Lancelot was the one in whom she had confided regarding her first love, her first heartbreak, she said, “What if the man I determine loves me doesn’t love me enough to remain once he learns everything?”


Her scars were such a personal matter. No one outside of the family knew. Her mother insisted that there was no reason for anyone to know. It wasn’t that anyone was ashamed. It was quite simply that things of this nature weren’t talked about.

But Grace knew she would tell the man who proposed to her, on the day he proposed. She could not in all good conscience accept a proposal with secrets between them. But again she asked Lancelot, “What if he doesn’t love me enough?”

She wasn’t aware of going to sleep, but she opened her eyes to darkness warded off by a lamp on the bedside table, and a man hovering near the foot of her bed. William Graves, physician extraordinaire. When he wasn’t serving the queen, he served the poor and those he considered friends.

Her mother sat in a nearby chair, hands folded in her lap, concern in her blue eyes. “Felicity said you weren’t feeling well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “I was tired, that’s all.”

“Will you let Dr. Graves examine you?” her mother asked. “Please.”

Dear God, she wanted to say no. He’d examined her so many times. But she understood her mother’s fears. Reluctantly, she nodded. It was a small thing for her mother to ask. Swinging her legs off the bed, she sat up. Dr. Graves knelt before her, his pale locks curling around his head. She wondered if they would ever turn silver.

“You’ll tell me if anything hurts,” he ordered quietly.

Nothing had hurt before. That was the thing of it. Had Graves not warned her that eventually she would experience excruciating pain and eventual death, she’d have not believed it, but he’d been most adamant about the death part. So, yes, she understood her mother’s fears.

Nodding again, she stared at the corner where shadows waltzed. The doctor was gentle, careful, but thorough. It seemed to take hours, but it was only minutes before he moved away.

“Everything appears to be all right.”

The relief washing over her mother’s face made Grace feel guilty for inadvertently raising an alarm. She’d only been tired. Reaching out, her mother squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Bill.”

“Send word if you need me, Frannie. Any time.”

With that, he quit the room. Her mother rose, wrapped her arms around Grace’s shoulders, brought her in close to her bosom and rocked from side to side. “Thank God, thank God.”

“Mother, I wish you wouldn’t worry so. I keep a watch just like he taught me. I’d alert him if there was anything amiss.”

Her mother kissed her forehead. “I know, but it is a mother’s job to worry.” Then she returned to the chair, while Grace retied her chemise. “How was your afternoon in the park with Lovingdon?” her mother asked.

“Lovely. Some other gentlemen caught up with us there, so we didn’t have much time to converse about anything other than the weather.”

“I doubt you discuss the weather with any of these gentlemen.” Her mother studied her for a moment. “I was quite surprised he came to call.”

“It’s been two years. His mourning period has ended.”

“Based upon what I heard, it ended some time ago. I’m also aware that he danced with you last night.”

“I don’t know why you’re beating around the bush. I’m sure Father told you. I spoke with Lovingdon. I thought he could provide some perspective on the men who have been courting me.”

Her mother flexed fingers that had once been nimble enough to pick pockets. “Grace, I’m very much aware that you were quite infatuated with him when you were younger.”

“When I was a child,” she said impatiently. “He can be quite charming. Or at least he was. What I feel for him now . . .” She struggled to find the correct word. “I suppose it’s confusion more than anything. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the young man from years ago, but mostly he’s not there anymore. The person he is now is a friend, nothing more.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s also an expert on rakehells. He’s managed to give me some advice there.”

“Are you certain you’re not running a con, striving to snag something that has always been beyond reach?”

“Drake asked me the same thing. I’m not so desperate that I would try to trick a man into loving me. I’m insulted you would both think so poorly of me.”

“Perhaps it is just that I fear a bit of the swindler resides in your blood.”

“My grandfather, you mean. I do wish I’d met him.”

Standing, her mother reached into her pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Lovingdon’s man delivered a missive for you while you were sleeping. Take care, my darling. Games seldom end the way we imagined.”

“I’m not playing a game, and I won’t fall for him.”

“Hmm,” her mother murmured. “Funny thing is, I told myself I wouldn’t fall for your father. The heart will have its way.”

Grace waited until her mother left before opening the sealed envelope and removing the single sheet of paper. The message was short and to the point.

Midnight.

The garden.

—Lovingdon

The garden path was lit by gas lamps, and yet the darkness still dominated. Grace walked slowly, cautiously, searching through the shadows for a familiar silhouette. She wondered what Lovingdon wished to discuss with her and why he had chosen this setting rather than the parlor. He was always welcome in their home. He was well aware of that fact, although she did have to admit that the clandestine meeting appealed to her, the thought of doing that which she shouldn’t.

And why so late at night? What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning? She was not usually lacking in imagination, but she was quite stumped.

“Grace.”

She swung around. In the darkest recesses of the rose garden, she thought she could make out the form of a man. Her heart was hammering so strongly that she feared it might crack a rib. “Lovingdon?”

She watched as the shadows separated and he strolled toward her. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”

“I’d never ignore a summons from you. What’s this about? What’s—”

His strong arms latched around her as he pulled her from the path, into a corner where light could not seep. Before she could scream or utter a word of protest, he latched his mouth onto hers with such swiftness that she was momentarily disoriented. His large hand was suddenly resting against her throat, tilting up her chin as he angled her head, all the while urging her lips to part. She acquiesced and his tongue swept forcefully through her mouth, as though aspects of it needed to be explored and conquered.

With a sigh and a soft moan, she sank against him. She had thought about kissing him for far too long to resist—and his skill made resistance unappealing. His other arm came around her back, pressed her nearer. As tall as she was, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised by how well they fit together, thigh to thigh, hips to hips, chest to chest, and yet she was taken off guard by the intimacy, the heat radiating off him.

His roughened thumb stroked the sensitive flesh beneath her chin, near her ear. No gloves, just bare flesh to bare flesh. A slight alteration of position and his fingers were working her buttons. One loosened. Two. Three.

She knew she should pull back now, should insist that he stop, but when his warm, moist mouth trailed along her throat, she did little more than tip her head back to give him easier access. Another button granted freedom, and his tongue dipped into the hollow at her throat. Fire surged through her, nearly scorched her from the inside out. Desire rolled in ever increasing waves.


He groaned, low and deep, his fingers pressing more insistently into her back as though he wished for her to become part of him, as though he couldn’t tolerate even a hairbreadth separating them.

He dragged his lips up her neck, behind her ear. Then he was outlining the shell of her ear with his tongue, only to cease those delicious attentions in order to nibble on her lobe. She was close to sinking to the ground, her knees growing weak, her entire body becoming lethargic.

“Do you understand now,” he rasped, “how, when a man desires a woman, his kiss might very well ruin her reputation?”

He desired her. A sensation, rich, sweet, and decadent coursed through her. He desired her. The words echoed through her mind, wove through her heart.

“But he is not likely to stop here,” he murmured.

He? Who the devil was he talking about?

“He will leave no button undone, no skin covered. He will remove your clothes, lie you down on the grass, and have his way with you. You will cry out with pleasure only to weep with despair because you’re ruined. If you’re discovered, you’ll be forced to marry him. If not discovered—”

He gave her a tiny shake and she realized his fingers were digging into her shoulders, jerking her out of her lethargy. She opened her eyes, and though they were in darkness, she could still feel the intensity of his gaze.

“You play with fire when you go into gardens with gentlemen.”

Abruptly he released her and spun away. Three steps later his silhouette was visible from the faint light of the lamps. She saw him plow one hand through his hair.

“You said you desired me,” she whispered.

“I was demonstrating how a man who desired you would kiss you. If Somerdale didn’t kiss you until your toes curled, then he doesn’t desire you and it is very unlikely that he would ever love you.”

“Demonstrating.” Forcing her legs to regain their strength, she strode toward him. “How could you kiss me like that if you didn’t desire me?”

“I’ve desired enough women to know the particulars.”

Without thought, she swung her hand around and slapped him with all her might. He staggered back. Her palm stung. “How dare you! How dare you lure me out here and kiss me as though it meant something, as though I meant something.”

“You need to understand the danger you place yourself in when you allow men to take liberties. And you need to understand that you will never be happy with a man who kisses you as Somerdale did.”

“You place too much emphasis on his kiss. Perhaps he simply possesses the wherewithal to hold back his passions.”

“Not if he loves you.”

“You don’t love me and yet you kissed me as though your very life depended on it. I should think that a man who cared deeply for me would be able to accomplish the opposite.”

He sighed heavily. “Little Rose, I’m trying to impart a lesson—”

“Well I don’t bloody well want your lessons.” She hadn’t gone to him all those nights ago to seek his assistance because she wanted his love, although perhaps her mother and Drake had the right of it. Perhaps she had been striving to rekindle what she had felt as a child. It had made her feel such joy, made her believe there was nothing she could not conquer. But what she had felt then was composed of childish things: simple and without basis.

She didn’t love the man standing before her. She longed for the young lad of her youth, and he was nowhere to be found.

She marched past him. He grabbed her arm and she wrenched free of his hold. “Do not touch me when it means nothing to you, when I mean nothing to you.”

“You mean . . . you mean a great deal to me. I want you to be happy, to have this man you want who will love you.”

“Why can’t it be you?”

The swirling shadows created an illusion of him jerking back as though she’d struck him again, but she knew her words meant little. He was helping her because she’d been insistent, not because he had any true desire to be of service. He didn’t care what happened to her.

“I don’t have it within me to love like that again.” His voice was somber, reflective, filled with pain and anguish.

Although she knew the words would slice, she couldn’t seem to hold her tongue. “Perhaps you never truly did love.”

“You know nothing at all about love if you believe that.”

Spinning on his heel, he disappeared into the shadows. She’d meant to hurt him, because he’d hurt her, the one person whom she’d thought would never cause her pain. Her father was right. She wasn’t going to find love where she was looking for it.

So she’d damned well find it elsewhere.

Whipping around, she headed to the residence.

Why can’t it be you?

What had prompted her to ask such an absurd question? He had only himself to blame for tonight’s debacle. Meeting her in the garden had been a mistake. A colossal mistake. Five minutes after sending the message, he’d known it, and yet had been unable to not make the rendezvous.

From the moment he learned that Somerdale had kissed her, Lovingdon had thought of nothing except her lips, what it might be like to press his against them.

It had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He was so young when he married Juliette, so untried, so blasted naive. He had been determined never to offend her with a man’s lustful cravings. Oh, certainly passion had characterized their lovemaking. He had adored and desired her.

But with Grace it had been something else, something more. She responded with fervor that matched his own. And while his original intent had been to teach her a lesson, he feared he was the one tutored.

She held nothing back. As in all things, she was fearless.

Had she not been a friend, had he not cared about her, he would have done exactly what he’d predicted a man who didn’t love her would—he would have taken her to the verdant grass and had his way with her. He would have slowly loosened her buttons, her ties, her bows. He would have bared her body—

His mind came to a screeching halt. Grace. These lustful thoughts centered on Grace.

She wanted love. He could give her lust in abundance, but not love. He had closed his heart to the possibility. He would never again experience the devastating pain of loss. He would not love. He would not.

Perhaps you never truly did love.

How he wished that were true, because he was so damned tired of the agony of loss. He never wanted to experience it again. It wasn’t just losing the physical presence of Juliette and Margaret. It was losing the memory of them as well that tormented him. Sometimes he couldn’t remember the exact shade of their hair or the peal of their laughter. Sometimes he would go days without thinking of them, and when he did, the guilt blasted into him because he was beginning to accept their absence. That hurt worst of all.

But he was thinking of Juliette now, with a vengeance, as he slowly sipped the whiskey while in a darkened corner in the sitting room at Dodger’s. He’d considered returning to his residence, but he couldn’t stand the thought of facing the many portraits of Juliette that adorned his home. She would look down at him from above the mantel and judge him, no more harshly than he judged himself.

In his mind she began to recede and Grace came to the fore. Grace who had no qualms whatsoever about displaying her ill temper to him. Juliette had certainly never been angry with him. They’d never exchanged harsh words.


Grace frustrated him to no end with her quest for love. Did she think he could pull it out of his pocket and hand it to her?

“Contemplating murdering someone?”

Lovingdon jerked his head up to find Drake studying him intently. Drake was older by three years, and Lovingdon had once trailed after him like a faithful pup. Drake never seemed to mind, but he had taught Lovingdon some skills that he suspected his mother would rather he not know. He could pick a lock, lift a treasured piece without being caught, pilfer a pocket. With a sleight of hand, he could pluck out the cards that would ensure he won.

“Why would you think that?”

Drake lifted a shoulder. “I’m accustomed to your dark expressions, but this one seems to be almost black.” He sat in the nearby chair. “Want to talk about it?”

Lovingdon shook his head.

“Doesn’t have anything to do with my sister, does it?”

Lovingdon stilled. While Drake and Grace were not joined by blood, they were as close as any siblings who were.

Drake lounged back. “I thought so.”

“She’s trying to find love, and making poor choices in the process. She’s asked for my assistance, but I don’t understand why she has doubts about her ability to recognize love when it arrives.”

“She has an air of confidence about her that can be misleading.” Drake scratched his thumb over the fabric, studying the motion as though it could help him gather his thoughts. “She’s not certain that a man can truly love her. Her, for herself.”

“That’s ridiculous. She has much to offer a man.”

“While I agree—unfortunately she is not as confident.” With a growl, Drake leaned forward and planted his elbows on his thighs, his head hanging as though the weight of his thoughts was too much. “Take care with her, Lovingdon. She’s always admired you the most, thought you the smartest, the cleverest, the kindest. Without meaning to, you could devastate her.”

Based on her reaction in the garden, the warning may have come a tad too late. “You could marry her.”

Drake shook his head. “I was raised within the bosom of a noble family, but I am not nobility. I know my place in the world.”

“It’s standing beside the rest of us.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you can take a boy out of the streets but you can’t take the streets out of a boy. And our topic of discussion is Grace, not me. She’s more vulnerable than you might think. Help her if you’ve a mind to. Otherwise walk away. I value your friendship, but I value hers more. I could destroy you within the blink of an eye.”

Sitting in a rocking chair, cradling a sleeping infant who had been left on the foundling doorstep a month earlier, Grace relaxed into the rhythmic motion and gave her mind freedom to wander. As it most often did since the kiss in the garden four nights ago, she found herself thinking not only of lips but of every aspect of a man’s mouth.

She had not expected a kiss to encompass so much. Somerdale’s lips had been chapped and remained sealed as tightly as a lady’s corset, not that she had attempted entry into his mouth—the thought had not even occurred to her. But now it was all she could think of.

Three of his teeth overlapped, which gave him an endearing grin. She imagined kissing him as Lovingdon had kissed her. She would notice the little imperfections, just as she’d noticed Lovingdon’s perfections. His teeth were as disciplined as he, lined up perfectly.

She had never thought beyond the lips, but now everything seemed important: breath, tongue, size. Chesney’s mouth covered the area of a small horse’s. It would swallow her up. Lord Branson was fond of onions. She didn’t think he would provide as flavorful a kiss as Lovingdon’s, which was rich with the lingering taste of brandy.

Could she love a man whose kiss did not tempt her into kissing him again? She’d never wanted to break away from Lovingdon’s mouth. She had wanted to stay there until the lark warbled and the nightingale went to sleep. She had wanted—

“Hiding out?”

She looked to the doorway. Lovingdon stood there in his evening attire, so blasted handsome that he fairly took her breath. She felt the unwanted heat sweep through her as she noticed his lips, as straight as a poker, not curling upward or downward, and yet so frightfully kissable.

“What are you doing here?” She was rather pleased that her voice didn’t betray the turmoil burning inside her at the sight of him. She wanted to remain aloof, uninterested. She wanted to leap from the chair and throw her arms around him. She’d feared after their encounter in the garden, after her unkind words, that she’d never see him again. She’d written him a dozen lengthy letters of apology but none seemed quite right. In the end, she’d merely sent him a note that read:

I’m sorry.

—G

“Looking for you,” he said. “Do you have any notion as to the number of balls I’ve slipped in and out of, searching for you?”

A spark of joy should not be rekindled by the words, and yet there it was struggling to burst into a full-fledged flame. “How many?”

“It seemed like a thousand.”

The joy ignited and she smiled. “I doubt it even came close to that number. How did you know I was here?”

“Spoke with Drake. He said you spend considerable time at the foundling homes and orphanages your mother has built. Naturally you would be at the last one I visited.”

“So what did you want?”

He studied his well-shined shoes. “To apologize for the kiss.”

“No need. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

His head came up. “You slapped me.”

“Because of the reason behind it. I don’t fancy your lessons.”

“I thought demonstrating would be more efficient than explaining. Why don’t you put that little one to bed and I’ll escort you home? We can discuss a different strategy on the way.”

“What sort of strategy?”

“One that will ensure that you marry a man who loves you.”

“I’m beginning to think that can’t be assured.”

“Only if you focus on the wrong man.”

And that would be you, she thought.

He walked across the room and sat on the floor at her feet, but his attention was not on her, but rather the babe she held. Her heart lurched as he skimmed a long, narrow finger along the child’s chubby cheek. As thin as the child was elsewhere, her cheeks had remained rosy and fat.

“I can’t love again, Grace,” he said quietly. “It hurts too damned much.”

“I think it sad that you would go the remainder of your life without love. You are not old, Lovingdon, and you have years ahead of you, years to be lonely.”

“Just because I don’t have love doesn’t mean I will be lonely.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I don’t want for women.”

“And I don’t want for men circling about, but it’s not enough. It’s superficial, it’s—”

“Undemanding.”

“Juliette never struck me as demanding.”

“She demanded that I not let her and Margaret die.”

With that admission, her stomach fairly fell to the floor. She realized there was more to his change in character than loss. There was the burden of guilt, horrible guilt. It was a wonder he managed to get out of bed at all with the weight of it. “Oh, Lovingdon, do you not see? You could not have stopped their deaths. You’re not God.”


“I brought the typhus to them. Juliette asked me not to go into the poorer sections of London, but I felt I had a duty to help the less fortunate. I’d contributed money for improvements and felt I needed to oversee the work. In addition, I was striving to collect data, to provide reports to Parliament. I wanted to change things, I wanted to do something worthwhile. Instead I fell ill.” His voice caught, turned ragged. “I should have been the one to die, but I survived. My darling wife and precious daughter died, because I put others before them.”

“No, no.” Her need to ease his suffering was a physical ache that threatened to crush her chest. “You don’t know that it was being in the slums that caused your illness. Maybe you came too close to someone at the opera or your tailor or a man you strolled past outside your home. Maybe all three of you were at a park together. Someone, not realizing he was ill, stopped by to say good day. People fall ill for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes it’s little more than Nature’s cruel ways.” She was far too familiar with the truth of those words. “You can’t blame yourself for something that’s not your fault.”

“I can. I do.” His voice sounded stronger, as though he’d found his way onto a path that he’d traveled far too frequently. “But I have an even greater sin.” He gently, so very gently, combed his fingers over the infant’s hair, as though the motion could calm his wretched soul. “I lied to Juliette, you see. She asked me to protect our child, not to let Margaret die. I promised her that I would do all in my power to see that our daughter got well.” She saw tears welling in the corner of his eye. “I promised her, and in that promise resided my lie, because our daughter was already gone, and I hadn’t the courage to tell Juliette, because I knew she would hate me and I didn’t want her leaving this world hating me.”

“Lovingdon.” Grace wasn’t certain how she managed it, but she slid from the rocker to the floor without losing her balance, without toppling over, and she carried the babe with her. Cradling her in one arm between herself and Lovingdon, she wound her other arm around him. “Courage had nothing to do with it. It was your love that stopped your words. You let Juliette go in peace, without having to grieve.”

While the whole of the grieving was left to him.

She held him, listening to his harsh breathing, willing him to unleash the tears that she was certain he had been holding at bay ever since his wife and daughter died. She understood now the burden he carried, the life he led, the reasons behind his determination not to love again. Within her breast she wept for him, but she knew if he were aware of the secret tears she shed, he would distance himself further. He was too proud to welcome her sympathy. He was lost in guilt, grief, and remorse, and she didn’t know how to convince him that he was forgiven.

Leaning back slightly, he cupped her cheek with his hand, his eyes reflecting his sorrow. “You deserve someone who loves you with every bit of his being. But he is not me. Still, if you wish me to assist you, I will do it with more enthusiasm.”

She thought more enthusiasm might very well kill her if that enthusiasm included another kiss. She dropped her gaze to his lips. It was all she could do not to lean in, not to taste them one more time.

“Nothing improper between us,” he whispered as though he read her thoughts.

The babe began to mewl and squirm, and she realized she was holding the girl much too tightly, that she had wedged her small body between hers and Lovingdon’s. She welcomed the reprieve, the distraction.

She eased away, turning her attention to the child, so he wouldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. “Yes, I still welcome your assistance, along with your proper behavior.”

He chuckled low. “You forget that I knew you as a child. Proper was not what you relished then.”

“But now I’m grown.”

She dared to look at him then, keeping all her yearnings buried. He would not love again. She was certain of it now. She did not agree with his reasons, but then it was not her place to agree. Unfortunately, as much as she cared for him, she thought too much of herself to settle for less than she deserved. She deserved a man who loved her wholeheartedly. “I believe my plan to approach you was misguided. I will truly understand if you prefer to return to your debauched life.”

“Helping you doesn’t mean I have to leave my debauched life behind.”

Pushing himself to his feet, he helped her up. “Tomorrow we will begin our earnest quest for your love.”