Chapter 20

Twenty

The guest room at Lindstrom House was ten paces across, from door to window, and eight paces long, from fireplace to the head of the tester bed. An hour after Cassie had been installed in the room, she had measured the width and length several times over with her restless walking. A maid had helped her undress and had given her a shift and dressing gown, the second night in which she'd needed to borrow such items.

Outside, the winds had increased to a howl. Icy snow pelted the glass windows. A fire in the small hearth was giving out some heat, but Cassie was producing enough for herself as she moved from one corner of the room to the other. The encounter with Lord Lindstrom had left her twitchy and impatient, her nerves frayed. But if she was being honest, the dinner had become an irreparable mess the moment she'd raised her glass of whisky and announced their betrothal.

Her sole aim had been to lash out at Grant for his wretched behavior in the carriage, to force him to sweat a little. His father wanted a wedding and moving from a mere courtship to a formal betrothal would certainly put the scare into him. She would cry off, of course, but the move had been shortsighted, made in the rush of anger. And perhaps also in the offense she'd felt at his coldness toward her. He'd hardly even looked at her on the way to dinner, his dismissiveness pointed and intentional.

How dare he treat her that way after such an inflamed encounter…one that would have been enough to ruin any unmarried woman. But she was already ruined, wasn't she? Grant knew it, too. Perhaps that was what had made him think she would not mind his advances in Hugh's study.

In the carriage, Cassie had nearly demanded that he take her back to Grosvenor Square. But if he could so swiftly turn on her, how much more swiftly would he follow through with his threat to tell Michael about Hope House? No, she could not trust him. So, she'd busied herself conjuring ways in which to convince Grant's father of the veracity of their courtship, as Grant wanted—and to make the scoundrel suffer for it.

However, even though she would cry off before any gossip could spread, as she must, Michael would likely still hear of it. And then there would be hell to pay.

She'd been rash and reckless, and to make everything worse, the effect she'd wanted had not come to pass. Instead of fulminating anger, Grant had been oddly subdued. Once seated around the table, and Lord Lindstrom began to impart his coarse and revolting opinions about his fourth son, Cassie began to understand his quiet restraint.

She couldn't comprehend the marquess's treatment of his son. It wasn't merely that he disliked that he was a physician and worked for a living; he seemed to view Grant as a complete failure. An embarrassment. And worst of all, Grant had taken his verbal mauling on the chin, without so much as a complaint. He'd sat back and waited for it to be over. Not one of his brothers or his sister had tried to stand up for him either, which had only spurred Cassie on to do so.

The instinct to tell the marquess that he was wrong, that Grant wasn't a selfish profligate, had filled her so swiftly that she'd been near to bursting with it. But…wasn't he exactly that? Running a charity clinic did not in and of itself make him a good man, especially when he would lower himself to coercion for his own benefit. And to kiss her the way he had…and then turn cold as iron, as though it had not affected him at all. Had that been his true character showing? Could Grant simply kiss women in such a fashion and then treat them as if it was nothing?

Cassie stopped at the fire, the tiled floor around the hearth warming her bare feet. She stared at the flames, shaking her head. If not for her conversation with Audrey earlier that morning, about people using anger and antagonism to protect themselves from true feelings, she might have believed Grant to be the emotionless and cold man he'd been in the carriage earlier. But Audrey's observation had wiggled into Cassie's mind all day. She didn't believe Grant had been unaffected by their kiss. She couldn't, not when she remembered so vividly the way he'd nearly lost control. It had not been just a kiss; it had been as though he was trying to possess her. As though he'd been trying to absorb her.

She put a flat hand to her stomach, to the spiraled tension that kept fluttering between her hips whenever she thought of it. It could have been the darkened corners of the room, or the ripping snowstorm outside, or the fact that they were stranded away from Town for the night, but try as she did, Cassie could not put the image of bidding Grant a good night earlier from her mind.

They'd climbed the stairs together, behind a maid with a lantern. At the landing, Cassie turned right, following a maid toward the guest room. After a few steps, sensing Grant was no longer with her, she turned. He'd gone left at the landing and was standing at the open door to another room down the hall. For several protracted moments, he'd watched her. Then, he'd gone in and closed the door.

She now knew where his room was. Had that been his intention? Had he wanted her to see where to find him that night? The idea of going to his room made her dizzy and hot, and yet, so did just standing here thinking of him undressed. In bed. Knowing that he was sleeping just down the hall would make her own slumber impossible.

Was he thinking of her in the same way?

Cassie wanted to throttle herself. All this time, she'd accused Grant of being a libidinous ingrate, and yet, look at her now. She was nearly panting with thoughts of him in his shirtsleeves—or less. Get ahold of yourself, Cassie! No self-respecting woman should suffer breathlessness from mere thoughts. However, as much as she chastised herself for it, she could not lie to herself any longer. Grant infuriated her. He was unscrupulous and impulsive and held some questionable principles.

Yet, she could not bring herself to care about those things now that she knew what it felt like to have his mouth against hers. His hands on her body. Now that she knew what the corded muscles of his abdomen felt like beneath her own hands, her mind had come alive with progressively more unvirtuous imaginings.

Heaven help her, she wanted to feel it all again. All of it and more.

Cassie eyed the door to her room. An unrelenting whisper of a notion had plagued her since Grant had gone into his room. Had it been invitation in his eyes, or a warning to stay away? To go to him would be unconscionable. It would be reckless and hypocritical of her. This was a staged courtship, and one she had battled against. Now, it was a false betrothal that would end the next day. Soon, they would no longer see much of one another.

The drop of her stomach propelled her feet from the tiled hearth and toward the door. Commands to stop, turn back, be sensible, streamed through her mind as she peered into the hallway. It was dark, the candles having all been doused, but the leaded windows at the turn in the stairwell cast some bluish light on the landing. As softly as she could, Cassie latched her door and padded along the carpet toward it. If she were to be found right now, she could always whip up some excuse as to why she had left her room. But if she were found standing outside Grant's door, or worse, knocking upon it, there could be no acceptable justification. That was why, as she came to the door he'd gone through earlier, Cassie forwent bringing her knuckles down on the wood. Instead, she put her hand to the knob and gave it a twist. Unlocked. Her heart strummed in the base of her throat as she pushed the door open a few inches, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

Grant sat on the edge of his bed, his back to her. The fire in the hearth was the only source of light in the room. Without taking a breath, she stood immobile. For the briefest moment, in a surge of doubt, Cassie wondered if she could slip back out again without him noticing. But his back stiffened. He cocked an ear toward her, and his eyes swiftly followed. Grant sprang from the bed and faced her, unable to mask his astonishment.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked before coming around the large bed, toward her. "Are you insane?"

She stepped away from the door. "I might be."

He'd undressed for bed, tossing off his jacket and waistcoat, and his cravat and stock. He was now in his shirtsleeves, untucked from his trousers. At his open collar, a triangle of his throat and chest drew her attention. He was barefoot, too, completing his look of dishabille.

Grant took in the sight of her in her dressing gown and his mouth tightened. So did his jaw. "Announcing our non-existent betrothal to my family was one thing, but this… Cassie, you need to go."

She'd expected him to say as much. "I know it was rash, and I'm sorry, but I wanted to make you angry."

"You never fail to succeed in that." He huffed and shook of his head. "Why did you want to make me angry?" He hitched his hands on his hips, looking discomfited. "Because I kissed you?"

"No. Because of how you treated me afterward."

His brow pinched, and he lowered his hands. "How I treated you?"

"On the way here, you were cold and dismissive." She shrugged. "You acted as if…as if you wished you hadn't."

"That is my wish, and it should be yours as well." Cassie jerked back at his harsh rejoinder. "I lost control for just one moment, and now the only thing in my mind is the memory of what you taste like. Damn it, I can't look at a glass of whisky without thinking about your tongue."

The air thickened in her throat. She shouldn't have doubted her instinct. He had been affected. Grant turned away and released her from his stare. She took a half breath, but it wasn't enough. She was still lightheaded.

"You regret the kiss because you…liked it?"

He looked askance at her. The firelight cut through the thin linen weave of his shirt, revealing the silhouette of his chest and stomach. "You thought I didn't?"

"I didn't know what to think when you began acting like a stranger."

"To keep you at arm's length." He let out a gruff laugh and gestured to the room. "Apparently, it didn't work. Cassie, if you're found here, you won't be able to cry off. You need to go. Now."

She knew he was right. But his confession had emboldened her. It had made her certain about what she wanted, especially before this charade of a courtship was over.

"I will," she said with a shaky breath. "After you make love to me."

She held still, air trapped in her lungs as delayed comprehension dawned on Grant's face. His lips parted, and a furious, mystified stare drilled into her, sealing her feet to the carpet. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I do. I'm not a simpleton, Grant. I'm also not a virgin."

He clenched his jaw and emitted a soft growl, stepping back and to the side as if her comment had been the glance of a fist. "I do not want to think of you with him."

The strain of jealousy gave her wings, but she pretended otherwise. "My point is, I cannot be ruined twice."

Grant scrubbed a hand over his chin, then hitched it on his hip. He breathed hard. "Why are you doing this?"

"The other night, the way you kissed me…" She hesitated. But so far, she'd been utterly honest with him. She'd made herself vulnerable. It frightened her as much as it exhilarated her. "It did something to me, in a way nothing else ever has."

Though he'd turned to granite, his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. "It was just a kiss."

He was still trying to keep her at arm's length. She could see through it this time.

"I know you felt it too." She then reconsidered. "Maybe with all your mistresses, you've felt it before, but I haven't. And I want to."

He cocked his head. "All my mistresses?"

"I hear you have several, not just Miss Devereaux."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, and what is one more, for just one night?"

Grant shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair as he strode away from her. "Do not push me, Cassie. I might be a gentleman, but I am no saint." He faced her, looking undone. "Are you trying to drive me mad? Is this revenge for bullying you into a courtship?"

"No!" That hadn't even gone through her mind. Though perhaps it should have. "I want—" She cut herself off, suddenly unsure. She'd hoped that once in his room, once she'd presented herself, he would accept her without challenge. But challenge was all he'd been doing.

"Tell me," he said softly, his green eyes now glimmering jet. "Tell me what you want."

Cassie's voice shook with nervousness, but she forced out the words. "I want to know what it feels like to be with a man and feel pleasure rather than…indifference."

Grant's breathing visibly escalated, his chest swelling with every breath. He bowed his head, but his eyes stayed on her.

"If I take you to my bed, I'll need to marry you, and that is something I cannot do."

She twisted her fingers into the sides of her robe as irrational envy spiraled through her stomach. "Because of your late wife."

"I barely survived," he whispered. "I refuse to go through something like that again."

Why hadn't she seen it before? The anguish from losing his wife had burrowed into him so deeply that it was now a part of him. It had found a home within him, and it had settled with permanency. In that moment, Cassie wished she could magically steal away all his pain. Free him of the burden.

"I would never force you to marry me."

Rather than setting his mind at ease, it only seemed to offend him. "I am not Renfry," he growled. "I will not use you and set you aside."

"What if I ask you to?" Incomprehension swept his face, but she only felt a new stroke of clarity. "Renfry lied. I gave myself to him because he told me he would make me his wife. With you…you're not making a false promise to lure me in. I choose to give myself to you simply because I want it."

Grant scrubbed his palm over his mouth again. And with his unbroken reluctance, pangs of shame began to heat her cheeks. Here she stood, practically begging him to make love to her…and yet he hadn't wavered in his resistance. The great Lothario, the debauched physician lord, the man who was rumored to chase anything in a skirt…would not have her. She licked her lips, the desire to flee formidable. But her pride was too fierce to run back to her room in humiliation. No, she would go with her pride intact.

"I see," she said, her voice tight. "The risk is too great for you. I understand. Forgive me."

Cassie turned and with her back straight as an arrow, reached for the door. A hand slammed up against it, holding it shut. Grant had crossed the room and come up behind her at lightning speed.

"Please," she said, the presence of him hot against her back. "If you don't want me, let me go."

"You have no earthly idea how much I want you." Each rasping word scraped up her spine and pressed underneath her skin. Her legs went soft as the hand not bracing the door curled around her waist. He hauled her against him, and her eyes fluttered shut as the hard wall of his chest caught her, his thickly muscled thighs bracketing her legs. Cassie gasped, and the sound was joined by another: the unmistakable click of the door's lock as Grant engaged it.

Her blood bubbled as he wrapped both arms around her and sealed her to him.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he whispered against her neck. Then, with his lips against the lobe of her ear, "Are you absolutely certain?"

She nodded, or at least tried to. Her body wasn't responding to what she wanted it to do.

"I need to hear it, Cassie." His hands curved inward around her hips, splaying wide and reaching lower.

"Yes," she sighed, the pitch broken and pleading. It would have embarrassed her to have sounded so undone—if Grant had not spun her around and smothered her half-formed answer with his mouth. He chased it with a coarse groan of his own.

She draped her arms around his shoulders and clung on as the assault of his kiss began. The last of his resistance cracked and dissolved. Grant's tongue twined around hers, the kiss claiming and desperate and she couldn't breathe. Nor did she want to if it meant parting from his mouth. Carnal sparks lit off inside her as he walked them in small steps closer to the bed, his fingers tugging roughly at the sash on her robe.

She took in a gulp of air as Grant shifted his mouth to her throat, where he pressed hot, openmouthed kisses.

"Cassie." His teeth abraded her skin, and his hands pushed the robe from her shoulders. It fell to the floor. "My God, the things I want to do to you." He filled his palms with her backside and kneaded her through the linen shift. He lifted his head to look at her. Firelight played over his face, his eyes dark with craving.

"I want those things too," she whispered.

His gaze dimmed with a glint of warning. "You might come to regret saying that."

She went still, though her heartbeat thrashed. Was he still trying to push her away? She wouldn't allow it. "I'm not afraid," she said. "Tell me. What are you going to do to me?"

With a devilish grin, Grant released her. She lurched, despondent, as he took a step backward and put an arm's length between them.

"As you were the one to come to my room, I believe I am yours to command tonight. So, you tell me, my lady—what do you want me to do?"

Cassie's mouth went dry, and she was suddenly nervous again. "Isn't what I want clear?"

He shrugged, attempting for nonchalance. But his eyes were busily devouring her, the firelight likely rendering her shift near transparent, as his was.

"I'm a man who likes detailed instruction."

She faltered. It had taken more courage than she'd imagined just to come here and tell him that she wanted to feel pleasure with a man. To tell him every detail? Cassie's stomach flipped. She couldn't do it.

Grant saw her doubt and winked. "Might I make a suggestion?"

She nodded, slightly embarrassed by the eagerness of it.

"Perhaps I am wearing too many articles of clothing," he said, pulling at his shirt with his thumb and forefinger.

Oh. She licked her lips, her pulse stuttering again as she understood. "I…I want you to…" She could not believe she was going to say it. "Take off your clothes."

A slow, sinful grin bowed his lips, and with languid motions, Grant gathered his shirt with both hands. Lifting his arms, he peeled it up, over his head, and then discarded it onto the floor. Cassie's pulse quivered in her throat. Firelight gilded his taut shoulders and the chiseled lines of his chest and abdomen. Her breath ceased entirely when she realized his fingers were moving at the buttons on the fall of his trousers. He wasn't stopping. He was heeding her command. On the next unsteady throb of her heart, his trousers and smalls were on the carpet, his feet stepping free of them.

There was no longer a single drop of air in the room. Heat stole over her as her eyes roved over the gloriously muscled figure standing proudly erect before her. He was beautiful, his brawn a revelation, and instinctively, she reached for him. Her fingers touched down on his chest, and instantly, he covered her hand with his, flattening her palm to his skin. She felt the powerful thudding of his heart.

"Next," he said, his voice a rasp.

It took her distracted and sluggish mind a moment to understand his meaning. He wanted his next command. There was only one thing she craved, and that was to feel his bare figure against her own.

"Remove my shift?" she asked.

Grant did not move slowly this time. He bundled the shapeless linen in his hands and hauled it over her head and off the tips of her fingers. The material disappeared behind her, and his eyes wolfed in the sight of her. Cassie felt a change in him as the intensity of his stare narrowed.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he groaned, the coarse word signaling his disintegrating control. His flexed his hands, but he didn't reach for her. Instead, he lifted his searing gaze to hers and growled, "Next."

In that moment, she knew she could say anything, demand anything, and he would give it to her.

"Take me to your bed," she whispered. "Make me yours."