Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

T he carriage ride home from Gunter's strained the last of Lucien's patience, and he wondered how long it would take for his mother to forgive him if he jumped out right there and then to walk home. Knowing he'd never hear the end of it, he pretended to sleep, instead. How could he not? The confines of the equipage seethed with tension. Grace, arms crossed, a militant set to her jaw, Lady Elliot nattering on about some gift to Grace that was doomed to be hopelessly out of fashion and would spoil the stepmother's plans for an elegant wedding. And his mother sitting gracefully through it all, her gaze on him as if she expected he should do something to put a stop to the turmoil.

God's teeth, he hated feminine drama. Between his mistresses and the women eager to trap him into marriage, he had been subjected to his share and remained unmoved. Why then, was he feeling guilty now? Not guilt. Irritation. Surely they'd all be over it by dinner?

But when Grace pleaded a headache and disappeared for the rest of the day, he sought someone to blame. First on his list was Neville Freyne. The shock on Grace's face on seeing her former beau made Lucien wonder in that moment if she'd harbored any lingering feelings for the man. It didn't take long to discover otherwise. The pompous fool was completely unaware of Grace's growing ire the longer he spoke.

To think Grace's father had ever considered Freyne a suitable match was confounding. But then to write to Freyne and invite him to court Grace even after the man had jilted her? Lord Elliot certainly lacked some common sense, as evidenced by his marriage to his current wife so soon after losing his first. How Grace managed to endure her stepmother was beyond him, recalling the way she prattled continuously about Mrs. Kemble this, Mrs. Kemble that when it came to planning the wedding gown, the wedding breakfast, the flowers and God knew what else. Lady Elliot had no idea how the very name of this so-called friend of hers grated on Grace's nerves.

Lucien paced his bedchamber then looked at the door that separated his room from Grace's. There was one thing he could do for his betrothed. Stop them from tormenting Grace once and for all.

Put her between his shoulder and his shield…

Where the devil had that come from? He hadn't thought of that phrase since he'd been a boy, still na?ve enough to read the tales of King Arthur and the knights he'd once aspired to emulate.

It was ridiculous for him to think of such a thing.

Yet, now that the house was quiet, he stood, stripped to shirt sleeves, two glasses of brandy in his hand. Strange, but he was almost unaware of pouring them. And yet, here he was, standing in front of his future wife's door, propriety be damned. No leash so fragile as Society's dictates could keep him away.

He raised his fist and knocked, heard a clatter of some object falling on the other side of the door.

"Y—yes?" Grace called out, her voice uncertain.

"May I come in?"

A pause. A bit of a scuffle, then again, that voice. "Yes."

He pushed open the door, feeling a strange tightness in his chest.

Grace stood beside her dressing table, clutching a silver-backed hairbrush against her breasts, her expression wide-eyed with a mixture of shock and wariness that he would enter her bedchamber before they were wed. "Is something wrong?"

He stepped into the room, his mouth going dry. Her hair streamed down the back of her nightgown, her bed neatly turned back, but untouched. He imagined what that bed would look like if he made love to her, coverlets in total disarray. He cleared his throat, forced the image from his mind, then held out a glass to her. "I saw the light under your doorway. It seemed as if you might be in need of a bit of fortification after today."

She set down the brush and took the brandy. "I'd offer you a seat by the fire, my lord, but as you know, you didn't think a second chair necessary."

He raised an eyebrow at the subtle barb. "It was not very sporting of you to abandon me at dinner with your stepmother," he said.

"I had a headache." While her expression gave nothing away, he thought he saw the slightest tremble in her fingers as she lifted the glass to take a sip. When she licked away a droplet that clung to her ripe lips, the arousal he'd felt a moment ago tightened its grip.

He dropped his gaze from her mouth. "Perhaps absenting yourself from the dining room was for the best, with your stepmother all aflutter over…whatever it was she was going on about." Was he just imagining it, or could he just make out the faint shadow of Grace's nipples beneath the cloth? "After spending an entire meal with her, I understand your proposal to me on an entirely new level."

She paced toward the hearth, and the firelight filtering through the long skirts of her nightgown cast slender legs in shadow. Her feet were bare, pink and tender. Lucien wanted to scoop them up and warm them in his hands.

She stared at the flames for several long moments. "Sometimes I feel like a clockwork Helen keeps winding until my spring is about to break. I know she means well, but when she disparaged the gift my mother left me, it was more than I could bear at the moment."

"A gift from your mother…?"

"Apparently, Mama commissioned it at the modiste's shop during my first season." Her voice cracked with emotion and it was a moment before she continued, her gaze still on the flames. "She left instructions for…"

"For what?"

Grace turned to face him, the firelight reflecting off tears that threatened to fall. "My wedding gown. She asked that it be delivered just prior to my marriage. She must have known she would not live to see me wed."

Once again, Lucien was struck by an absurd wish to shield Grace. It was damned disconcerting. "Clearly, you have had an overabundance of shocks today. Your mother's gift. Rescuing urchins. Colliding head on into a man you thought to marry."

He'd thought it better to have the subject out in the open, yet the moment he said the words, he wished he could take them back. Her cheeks went scarlet, and he imagined the pleasure he'd take in throttling Freyne and Lord Elliot.

She set the brandy on a small table. "I'm so sorry for my father's interference."

"No need for you to apologize for his actions. My own father's interference is nigh on legendary."

"But to think my father wrote Neville that I was in London and still on the marriage mart? Who does that?"

He recalled how his father had tried to marry a far-too-young Cassandra to Thornsby, something far worse in his mind. "You'd be surprised."

"Perhaps, but I know it was awkward for you as well."

"Not nearly as awkward as the conversation I had with my valet," Lucien observed, attempting to lighten her mood. "I'll have you know that he found no less than three fleas on my coat. I fear he may never recover."

The corner of her mouth tipped up. God, that smile was like the sunshine after rain. It reached past darkness inside him.

"Merely three fleas?" she said. "You should have passed them on to Neville. He could do with an itchy bite or two."

He suppressed a smile at the spice in her tone. "Did you love him? Freyne?" The words slipped out, startling Lucien as much as they did her.

"I thought I did," she said softly, turning back to the flames dancing in the hearth. "After the conversation today, I feel as if I didn't even know him." She was so close, he could almost touch her. But before he could do so, she paced back to the dressing table, laughing without mirth. "I seem to have a penchant for becoming engaged to men I don't really know. It is a trifle alarming, realizing how little I know about you."

"Judging from some marriages I've observed, that might be best." He'd intended it as a jest, but somehow, he didn't find it amusing. "What do you wish to know? Ask and I will tell you, if it's in my power." Dangerous territory, and yet he found he would risk it to ease her mind.

She fidgeted with the ribbon at the neckline of her nightgown. "I don't know…What—what is your favorite color?"

"I've never taken the time to choose one."

She regarded him with a curious look in her eye. "What about your favorite book?"

"Treatise on Law."

"I meant a novel." That smile peeked out again. "Something that touches your emotions."

"I don't read novels."

Her eyes went wide with something akin to horror. "Never?"

"Being occupied with parliamentary business and running estates, I have never had time for frivolous pursuits."

"How sad." She sank down into the chair, a pensive shadow falling over her lovely face.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asked, needing to distance himself from the pity in her eyes.

"Oh, so many! Jane Eyre, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall…" Enthusiasm sparked, as if he'd struck flint to tinder. "Sir Walter Scott and Jane Austen are delightful. And I just began a remarkable novel by Mr. Charles Dickens." She gestured to where a book lay, open amidst the neatly turned bedsheets. "From the time I was small, my family would gather at night and read a chapter of some book aloud. We'd sit by the fire, sharing the stories, and when the chapter was done, my brothers and I trying to guess what would happen next. Sometimes," she said, her eyes lighting with the memory, "I even crept into the room and read ahead on my own. When Papa discovered it, he put the book on a high shelf I couldn't reach."

Lucien pictured her as the child he'd known all those years ago, hair ribbons askew and jaw set with determination as she clambered onto a chair to reach the forbidden book, eager as if she were trying to steal sweetmeats. "So your rebellious streak did not begin with thievery in Everdene Hall's kitchen?"

She actually laughed. "Indeed, no."

"Well, as my viscountess you may order however many books you like and race through them."

She favored him with a brighter smile than he'd seen since the debacle at the modiste's shop.

Unable to resist, he crossed to where she sat, and curved his strong hands over her shoulders. The warmth of her seeped into his palms, the scent of jasmine drifting up from her hair. He meant only to give her a goodnight kiss, something simple to close out their day, but he was surprised by how stiff her shoulders were. "You really have had the devil of a day," he said, every fiber of his body aware of hers.

"The past week has been more strain than I realized," she confessed. "My father trying auction me off like a mare at Tattersall's. My brothers feeling as if I betrayed them. Helen up to her neck in elaborate plans I loathe…And the absence of my mother is like a hole in my heart. I'm buying all of these new clothes, but all I can think about is that nothing about my old life fits."

"You are so tense your muscles are like iron. After a match at the swordsmanship academy, we knead out the tightness like so." He pressed his thumbs into her rigid shoulders. "Allow me?"

She nodded and he began to work the knots out. Her skin was creamy velvet, so smooth beneath the pads of his fingers. Her hair streamed over his knuckles like silk ribbons. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed an inch or two. Her head drooped forward to allow him better access and he stared down at the dainty curve of neck, the vulnerable bumps of spine.

"Better?" he asked.

She gave a soft moan. "I'm so very tired of it all…The truth is, I wish this wedding were over."

"Then I will make it so."

Her head snapped up. He could see the faint pink marks of his fingers on her skin and wished to hell he still had her beneath his hands. "Would you?"

"If you truly wish to forgo the formal ceremony, I can have a special license in hand by tomorrow. Of course, if you wish to be married from the chapel at The Willows…"

"I keep picturing my family glowering in the pews and my father interfering and Helen making all of these elaborate plans I do not wish." She scrabbled for her glass, took a deep drink of her brandy and coughed. Finally, she nodded. "Marrying now would put an end to it, would it not?"

"If you are certain, I will see to the arrangements in the morning," he said.

Perhaps some men would feel insulted that she wanted to get the wedding over with, but that would only hasten bedding his bride.

Then it would be too late to change course.

Too late for Neville Freyne or any other man to interfere.

A surge of possessiveness such as he'd never known jolted through him. He closed what little space was between them so the back of her head brushed his chest. He could see both of their reflections in the mirror, his dark, saturnine face, hers a fine porcelain touched with peach. A pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat. Unable to resist, he reached over her shoulder to touch that fragile hollow, trailing his finger down. He slipped his hand beneath the lacy neckline of her nightgown, exploring the warm secrets that were hidden beneath the cloth. The wing of her collar bone, the topmost curves of her breasts. He felt her heart race as he edged his hand lower but she didn't pull away.

"Pink," he said softly as he traced a circle on the velvety skin.

Her gaze locked with his in the mirror, breathless and confused. "What?"

"Now that I think on it, pink is my favorite color. Ever since our encounter with the cake."

He could feel her shiver in awareness. "Now you are teasing me," she managed to say. "If we were still at dancing lessons, I would step on your toe."

He leaned closer to press his cheek against hers—faint stubble brushing smooth silk. "I am quite serious. I keep picturing pink icing against your skin. Indeed, I am hungering for it, and I never particularly liked sweets before."

Silence filled the room, then he spoke, his voice low. "I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since we met in the kitchens that night. I could not forget the taste of you when I kissed you…" His thumb brushed over her nipple, and he felt it pearl as if eager for his mouth. "I wondered what it would be like to sample every inch of you."

Her throat convulsed. "I—I wondered, too."

The confession surprised him. The fact that she wanted to explore what lay between them was the headiest aphrodisiac.

He drew her to her feet and turned her to face him, the desire flooding his body burning into something hotter than he'd ever felt.

"Imagination is no match for the reality, sweet," he promised. He'd seduced his share of women, but this was different. Deeper. Dangerous as diving into black waters with fathomless depths. He felt off balance, so unlike himself.

But she was his .

Some primitive drive made him need to wipe any memory of Freyne away. Taking hold of the satin ribbon tie of her nightgown, he pulled it slowly through the loops, laying the delicate fabric open to her waist.

He slid one side off of her shoulder, and it caught in the crook of her elbow, draping there, baring one perfect breast. He cupped that lush swell, and it was even sweeter than he'd imagined, the nipple puckering, berry pink, as he teased it with his fingers.

Grace moaned and arched into his hand, her body warm, her skin fragrant from her bath, smelling of jasmine…

He slipped the nightgown off of her other shoulder. She met his gaze, and slowly let her arms fall to her sides so that the sleeves slipped down, past her elbows, her wrists, then slid free. A cloud of cloth drifted to pool around her bare feet.

God, she was beautiful. Her skin glowed, pale gold with candlelight, her areoles ripe for tasting. He wanted to curve his hands around her waist, slide his palms down the flare of hips to where the dark curls beckoned at the apex of her thighs. His cock strained against his trousers. "I want you," he said, his voice passion-rough. She blushed, and he half expected her to pull away with maidenly shyness.

But her fingers went to the fastenings of his shirt and for a moment, Lucien couldn't breathe. She'd unbuttoned the placket before tending his wound, but this was far different. She concentrated so hard, catching her plump lower lip between her teeth as she spread the shirt open, exploring his chest by touch, lightly stirring the dusting of dark hair, the flat disc of his nipple. She traced his scar, all but healed. Her tenderness undid him.

He kissed her, coaxing her lips apart, his tongue sweeping inside. She twined her arms around him, her fingers threading through his hair at his nape, her mouth opening to him, as eager as he was. Impulsively, Lucien swept her off of her feet, feeling her naked side against his own bared chest, skin to skin. The need to bury himself inside her beat a wild rhythm in his veins.

Why wait? Why shouldn't he carry her to the bed? Make damn sure he drove thoughts of any other man out of her head, out of her heart…He could lose himself in her. Draw from her the responses he wanted…no needed …He needed to taste every inch of her, suckle her breasts, explore her sex, lose himself in her—body and soul…

He stilled, with something akin to alarm. No. He couldn't need anyone, lose his iron grip on control. Any weakness was a weapon to be used against him. And this woman…she could have the power to make him lower his shield, if he let her in…

Lucien broke the kiss, drew back so that he could stare down into Grace's desire-hazed eyes. He forced emotional distance between them, willing her soft, beckoning warmth away from him, closing the dangerous gate deep inside him that had begun to slip open. When had it happened? During the time she'd cared for his wound? When she'd had the courage to propose marriage to him? When she'd looked to him for help with those ragged children? Or afterwards, when she'd gazed up at him with gratitude that warmed him to the cold center where his heart should have been?

He lay her gently on the bed, but remained standing beside it. His whole body clamored to join her.

"I have disturbed you long enough," he said with a coolness he didn't feel.

Hurt flared in her gaze, mingled with confusion as he drew coverlets over all of those tempting feminine curves.

"Did I…do something wrong?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

"No."

You did something far too right…

He loathed the edge in his voice. "This marriage is to be a business arrangement. As such, we must honor the parameters agreed upon. We will negotiate a schedule for conjugal visits that is agreeable to us both. After the wedding."

She gathered the coverlets above her breasts. It didn't help. The memory of her nakedness was imprinted on Lucien's mind.

"Oh…Yes," she faltered. "I see."

He doubted it. Fear thrummed in his chest. It was as if the world he'd inhabited had been shadowed, gray and still, and had suddenly become so bright it hurt his eyes. He knew full well what a true bond with such a woman would cost, a price he wouldn't pay.

"I will inform you when the special license is in hand," he said with a detachment he didn't feel.

He bowed, his gaze fixing for a moment on the nightgown pooled upon the floor. It was all he could do to turn and walk away. His own bedchamber was dark, spartan, empty of silver hairbrushes, the soft, feminine scent of flowers, the warmth that Grace seemed to bring into every room. But the wanting, deep in his core, remained. "I should have the license tomorrow by noon. Will that be enough time for you to…ready yourself?"

She clutched the bedsheets even tighter, nodding.

He shut the door behind him, leaned against it, his heart racing. Surely he wasn't falling in love. Whatever this strange sensation in his chest was, he could feel it luring him toward the cliffs like a siren song. He would have to be careful. Very careful to get control of it.

Before it was too late.