She could only surmise that her frustration with Henry had caused her to speak so boldly.
"Why spend your time wondering?" His wicked emerald gaze lingered on her lips. "Why not put me to the test? Use me to satisfy your curiosity."
Grace had expected the logical part of her brain to dismiss the idea as ludicrous, yet she found herself intrigued by Elliot Markham.
"I do not think it would do much for your reputation to be seen cavorting with Caroline Rosemond."
"I would not be cavorting with Caroline Rosemond. I would be cavorting with you, Grace. I would be kissing you, sweetly, gently, savouring every single second."
Excitement raced through her. A blazing fire settled hot and heavy between her thighs. The feeling was strange to her. She felt a little dizzy, as though she'd drunk too much punch at Christmas. And she was in danger of becoming lost in the moment.
"Not here," she said, and the words came out more like a gasp.
"Where then?" His chest rose and fell more rapidly as he moistened his lips.
For some obscure reason, she imagined her bed at home in Cobham. Don't think about Henry, she thought, repeating the words over and over in her mind. But he was there again, hot and sweaty, heaving above her as she lay like a cold slab of marble, wanting to cry.
"I can't." She bit down on her trembling lip, aware of his look of confusion.
There was something wrong with her.
She was not like other women.
When he shook his head, she expected him to shout, to berate her for her inadequacy. "We need to get you home," he said, his tone revealing his frustration. "Evelyn and Alexander will be expecting us. We can talk about Evelyn's theory regarding the notes in the diary and decide what we should do next."
Her heart blossomed at his reaction. He had not made her feel awkward or ashamed.
"I need to use the retiring room." It would give her a moment to compose herself.
"I'll wait for you here."
She gave him a weak smile and headed down the hall to the room reserved for ladies to attend to their needs.
The room appeared to be a less formal drawing room; the numerous dressing screens made it seem small and compact. The air was heavy with the sickly sweet smell of a variety of perfumes. She nodded to the two ladies standing in front of the large gilt mirror, only aware of their interest in her when she heard one of them call out her name.
"Miss Rosemond."
Grace groaned inwardly. She was tired of acting, tired of being anything other than herself. But she turned and smiled.
"Good evening," was all she could think to say.
One of the ladies stepped forward, her ebony ringlets framing a petite porcelain-white face. "May I offer my condolences on the terrible circumstance you recently found yourself in." Her tone lacked the sincerity her words conveyed and Grace grew suspicious of her motives. What terrible circumstance was she referring to?
"Thank you," Grace replied, sensing the woman's desperation to reveal all she knew.
"I'm afraid there were a few who witnessed Lord Barrington's poor pugilistic skills." The lady's dark brown eyes scanned her face, focused on the mole on her cheek as if it was a rare artefact in a museum. There was something distrusting about her countenance. Every look was more of an examination, an assessment.
"Hopefully, the gentleman understands I have no wish to entertain him further."
Grace tried to be as vague as possible.
The lady smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "Lord Barrington is an oaf." She leaned forward and whispered, "But do tell all. I am curious to know of Lord Markham's involvement. Some say he is smitten with you."
"Lord Markham is not the sort of man to keep a lover, as I am sure you're aware." Grace refused to offer anything more. "And smitten is a word foreign to his vocabulary."
Grace had no idea how Caroline would react in conversation with women of such quality. Would a courtesan converse with well-bred ladies? In doing so, had she unwittingly revealed her secret?
"If you will excuse me," Grace said and without further comment left the room.