Chapter 34

Thirty-Four

GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 17, 1816

WILLIAM

Celine was nowhere to be found when I returned to the ballroom. Not that I knew what, precisely, to say to her when I did find her.

The last lingering burn of jealousy warred with worry and fury. This woman was determined to give me a fit of apoplexy, rushing around confronting absolutely everyone she suspected of murdering her husband—alone and unarmed. A bleeding death wish.

Unlike at Wayland's, there was no second level of this room to hide away in. Instead, I made my way to the drinks table. It seemed safest over there with the spinsters, chaperones, and wallflowers. There was still another set before the supper set, but I hadn't the slightest interest in dancing with anyone but the infuriating woman my heart had claimed.

Distractedly, I rubbed my chest where she had branded me with rouge and lips. Surprisingly, the motion did soothe my worry—just a little. Not as much as if it had been her delicate hand instead of my own, but enough.

Rumor must have circulated through the room because no match-making mamas or debutants found their way to my side. That, at least, was a relief.

I was left to sip my lemonade in silence and prop up the wall alone. Or as alone as one can be in a ballroom.

It took no more than a minute before I was joined by the oversized form of Lord Grayson. He was tall, dark, and broad in every way that ladies swooned over. Physically, he reminded me very much of Gabriel. How he and his diminutive wife managed was the subject of occasional musing. Where he was imposing physically, in personality he was more restrained. His wife, though tiny in form, was bold and vivacious in manner. It was an intriguing pairing to be sure. One that vexed her brother to no end.

"Hart," he said. We had spoken on a few occasions, but certainly not with any regularity or particular friendship.

"Grayson."

"You lose your lady?"

"Something like that. I was in the study with your brothers drinking your scotch. I assume she's off with the ladies now."

"Not the good scotch I hope."

"No idea."

"Remind me to rap Tom against the head later. Do you have brothers?"

"Just me, I'm afraid."

"Consider yourself lucky."

I had no response to that. I didn't consider myself lucky or unlucky. It was difficult to miss what you did not have.

He continued. "So, I'm trying, very unsuccessfully I might add, to discuss Lady Rycliffe."

And there it was… The beginning of the disaster I knew was coming. "What about her?"

"My wife wants to know your intentions."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Kate. She is very fond of Lady Rycliffe."

"And she wishes me to leave her alone?"

"Certainly not. As long as your intentions toward her are honorable."

"Has your wife met Celine?"

"Yes?"

"Then your wife would know precisely who is managing this situation. And your Lady Grayson would also know that it is entirely impossible to meet Celine and not love her."

"So… I should tell her your intentions are honorable." It was inappropriate to roll one's eyes at a viscount. Wasn't it?

Glancing the other direction, I caught sight of Kit across the room, staring forlornly at Lady Davina dancing with some dandy I didn't recognize.

"Yes," I snapped. "Shouldn't Lady Grayson be worrying about her brother? Instead of me?"

"She does. Constantly. No one has caught his eye."

"I don't know about that," I countered.

"What do you know?"

"Officially? Nothing. Unofficially…"

"Tell me."

"I didn't say a word. But he's brooding in the direction of a certain Lady Davina."

"Lady Davina... That is a… bold choice."

"A choice that might keep your wife occupied."

"Might indeed."

"Will?" A familiar husky feminine voice called from the other direction. "Oh, Lord Grayson, good to see you. I don't suppose I could borrow Will? He promised me the next set."

"Of course. I believe I'm due on the floor as well." He nodded to me. "Hart."

"Grayson."

Celine's warm hand found mine, and she pulled me brazenly to the floor with little concern for the spectacle. Couples were lining up for the waltz, eyes fixed firmly on us instead of their partners. Confidently, she settled my hand on her waist before grabbing the other and lacing our fingers together inappropriately.

My person and her gown fussed with to her satisfaction, she finally met my gaze. Something was wrong. Something about her eyes, perhaps a bit more downturned than usual? Or the divot between her brows? Her lower lip worried slightly more? Maybe the prissy way she adjusted her gown? Or the tight way she held herself?

It was very, very wrong.

"Love?"

She swallowed, shaking her head. "Not here."

The music began and as promised, she led me through the rusty motions.

"Just tell me you're all right," I begged.

"Physically, I'm unharmed. But not here." Her words were low under her breath. Barely audible over the orchestra. She caught my eyes once more, holding them, willing me to understand.

It went against every instinct I had. To let her distress lay there, untouched. It was a near physical ache. But I nodded. I clenched my teeth and swallowed the knot in my throat before I managed the motion, but I did.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling me closer. The unfamiliar steps were loosening once more and I was able to take the lead. Breathing her in helped. She was safe, warm, and vanilla-scented. She slipped her hand from my shoulder to rest above her mark on my chest, and my heart gave an approving thump beneath her hand.

With a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders back slightly. It did nothing to improve her already flawless posture but seemed to fortify her.

"Do you know, I think this is the grumpiest anyone has ever looked dancing with me."

"Lies. Gabriel was always brooding. And Wayland? Certainly grumpier than me."

"I never danced with Michael."

"No?"

"Never. I can't remember the last time I waltzed. It seems too… intimate for someone I don't particularly care about."

"Don't know if what we're doing counts as a waltz, love. It's a miracle I haven't crushed your foot."

"If you do, it will be a worthy sacrifice. But I doubt it. You're quite good actually."

"Not too embarrassed?"

"Never." That was enough to pull a smile from me. "Would you be devastated if we left before supper?"

"I've never wanted anything more."

"Nothing?" She raised a teasing brow.

"I've only wanted one thing more."

"We can slip out when everyone heads for the dining room."

"No one will mind?"

"All the better to gossip about us."

"Wonderful."

The dance came to an end eventually and gentlemen escorted ladies into the dining room. Celine led me, her arm tucked in mine, to follow at the end of the pack. Once we escaped the room, we turned the opposite direction.

The carriage awaited us just outside the door. At my questioning glance, she explained, "I didn't think you would object. I had it called before I found you."

I handed her in, then followed and clambered onto the seat across from her. No sooner had the door shut behind us than she was in my arms.

She was in my arms and she was frantic . There were a thousand reasons this was a terrible idea. The practicalities of a moving carriage. The intricacies of our apparel. The fact that I was still somewhat infuriated with her. That I had no idea what upset her so earlier. All very valid justifications to stop her.

But her fingers were clenched on my jaw dragging my lips to hers and the other hand was knotted in my hair, pinning me in place.

There was nothing tentative, sweet, or gentle in her touch or her kiss. It was hard and fast and ferocious. In an instant, it went from the bearable, everyday arousal I had come to call a friend in her presence, to an inferno. I caught her knee where it was braced on the edge of the seat, and yanked it to meet my hip. She collapsed in a desperate heap on my lap, her lips never leaving mine.

I pulled back to taste her jaw while she panted my name. Her hand finally left my jaw, dropping to the nonexistent space between us, industrious fingers searching for the falls of my trousers. Her obvious intent was the only thing that could dampen my lust even slightly. Catching her fingers, I laced them with my own and distracted her with a nip to the freckle behind her ear.

That earned me a whimper as her hips rocked against mine. The free hand left my hair to continue its twin's efforts. I caught that one too.

"Will…" It was a beautiful and far too loud whine that certainly left no doubt as to our occupation at the moment—if there had been any before.

"Not here, love."

"But…" It was an impressive feat, to claw my way through the fury of lust to deny her. I pulled away from the tempting curve of her neck to meet her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. She stopped struggling to free her hands and resumed her effort toward my trousers with a squeeze of my hands.

I released her hands, trusting the promise in those clenched fingers. "You're fine, sweetheart. I've got you." I caught the back of her neck with one hand, dragging her décolleté to my lips, the other found her hip. She had managed to create her own instinctive rocking motion, and I made it ours.

Her hands still clutched at me desperately, hair, jaw, back, shoulder, arm. But she allowed me the control. With each jolt of the carriage and our bodies, she gifted me a new whimper.

I slipped a hand underneath layers of skirts and petticoats and delicate fineries and drew a finger across where she was aching for me. Oh, that was a heady thought. An equally heady sound ripped from her mouth, caught by mine, as I slowly continued my ministrations.

"Will, please."

"What do you need, love?"

"You."

"You've got me."

"Don't stop," she begged.

"Never." She was close to her peak. Her hands clutched my hair and my shirt—right over her mark. Her hips stuttered. I rocked against her once, twice, three times before she cried out into my shoulder with a shudder.

One by one her fingers unclenched and her breathing slipped back to normal. I slid my hand free and straightened her gown, then tucked both legs over my waist.

It only took a minute, perhaps two, before the carriage stopped outside her house. The convenient timing was more than a little suspicious, and I wouldn't have been shocked to learn that the driver had gone around a time or two.

Celine was still flushed and tired, and she whined a bit when I jostled her. But she stepped willingly out of the carriage.

I was forced to rip off my great coat and hang it awkwardly over an elbow in front of me while I valiantly strode into the house, her arm in mine.