The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham 1)

Chapter Eleven

What Jack saw took his breath away.

"No one comes here but me," Grace said softly. "I don't know why. "

The light, the ripple through the air as the sun slid through the uneven glass of the ancient windows. . .

"In the winter especially," she continued, her voice just a little hesitant, "it's magic. I can't explain it. I think the sun dips lower. And with the snow. . . "

It was the light. It had to be. It was the way the light trembled, and fell on her.

His heart clenched. Like a fist it hit him - this need, this overwhelming urge. . . He could not speak. He could not even begin to articulate it, but -

"Jack?" she whispered, and it was just enough to break his trance.

"Grace. " It was just one word, but it was a benediction. This went beyond desire, it was need. It was an indefinable, inexplicable, living, pulsing thing within him that could only be tamed by her. If he didn't hold her, didn't touch her in that very moment, something within him would die.

To a man who tried to treat life as an endless series of ironies and witticisms, nothing could have been more terrifying.

He reached out and roughly pulled her to him. He was not delicate, nor was he gentle. He couldn't be. He couldn't manage it, not now, not when he needed her so desperately.

"Grace," he said again, because that's what she was to him. It was impossible that he'd known her but a day. She was his grace, his Grace, and it was like she had always been there within him, waiting for him to finally open his eyes and find her.

His hands cupped her face. She was a priceless treasure, and yet he could not force himself to touch her with the reverence she deserved. Instead, his fingers were clumsy, his body rough and pounding. Her eyes - so clear, so blue - he thought he might drown in them. He wanted to drown in them, to lose himself within her and never leave.

His lips touched hers, and then - of this he was certain - he was lost. There was nothing more for him but this woman, in this moment, maybe even for all his moments thereafter.

"Jack," she sighed. It was the first time all morning she'd used his name, and it sent waves of desire pulsing through his already taut body.

"Grace," he said in return, because he was afraid to say anything else, afraid that for the first time in his life his glib tongue would fail him, and his words would come out wrong. He'd say something and it would mean too little, or perhaps he'd say something and it would mean too much. And then she would know, if by some miracle she did not already, that she had bewitched him.

He kissed her hungrily, passionately, with all the fire within him. His hands slid down her back, memorizing the gentle slope of her spine, and when he reached the more lush curves of her bottom, he could not help it - he pressed her more firmly against him. He was aroused, and wound more tightly than he'd ever imagined possible, and all he could think - if he was thinking at all - was that he needed her close, closer. Whatever he could get, whatever he could have - right now he would take it.

"Grace," he said again, one of his hands moving to the spot where her dress touched her skin, just at her collarbone.

She flinched at his touch, and he stilled, barely able to imagine how he would tear himself away. But her hand covered his, and she whispered, "I was surprised. "

It was only then that he once again breathed.

Fingers shaking, he traced the delicately scalloped edge of her bodice. Her pulse seemed to leap beneath his touch, and never in his life had he been so aware of a single sound - the quiet rasp of air, brushing across her lips.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, and the amazing thing was that he was not even looking at her face. It was merely her skin, the pale, milky hue of it, the soft blush of pink that followed his fingers.

Softly, gently, he bowed his head and brushed his lips along the hollow at the base of her throat. She gasped then, or maybe it was a moan, and her head slowly fell back in silent agreement. Her arms were around him and her hands in his hair, and then, without even considering what it meant, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room, to the low, wide settee that sat near the window, bathed in the magical sunlight that had seduced them both.

For a moment, kneeling at her side, he could do nothing but look at her, then one of his trembling hands reached forth to stroke her cheek. She was staring up at him, and in her eyes there was wonder, and anticipation, and yes, a little nervousness.

But there was also trust. She wanted him. Him. No one else. She had never been kissed before, of that he was certain. She could have done. Of that he was even more certain. A woman of Grace's beauty did not reach her age without having refused (or rebuffed) multiple advances.

She had waited. She had waited for him.

Still kneeling beside her, he bent to kiss her, his hand moving down the side of her face to her shoulder, then to her hip. His passion grew deeper, and hers, too; she was returning his kiss with an unschooled eagerness that left him breathless with desire.

"Grace, Grace," he moaned, his voice lost in the warmth of her mouth. His hand found the hem of her dress and then slid under, grasping the slender circle of her ankle. And then up. . . up. . . to her knee. And higher. Until he could bear it no longer, and he moved to the settee himself, partially covering her with his own body.

His lips had moved to her neck, and he felt her sharply indrawn breath on his cheek. But she did not say no. She did not cover his hand with hers and bring him to a stop. She did nothing but whisper his name and arch her hips beneath him.

She couldn't have known what the movement had meant, could never have known what it would do to him, but that ever-so-slight pressure beneath him, rising up against his own desire, brought him to the very peak of need.

He kissed his way down her neck, to the gentle swell of her breast, his lips finding the very spot at the edge of her bodice that his fingers had so recently traveled. He lifted himself away from her, just a bit, just enough so he could slide his finger under the hem and slide it down, or maybe push her up - whichever was needed to free her to his devotion.

But just when his hand had moved toward his destination, just when he'd had one glorious second to cup the fullness of her, skin to skin, the stiff edge peaking in his palm, she cried out. Softly, with surprise.

And dismay.

"No, I can't. " With jerky movements she scrambled to her feet, righting her dress. Her hands were shaking. More than shaking. They seemed filled with a foreign, nervous energy, and when he looked in her eyes, it was as if a knife had pierced him.

It was not revulsion, it was not fear. What he saw was anguish.

"Grace," he said, moving toward her. "What is wrong?"

"I'm sorry," she said, stepping back. "I - I shouldn't have. Not now. Not until - " One of her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

"Not until. . . ? Grace? Not until what?"

"I'm sorry," she said again, confirming his belief that those were the worst two words in the English language. She bobbed a quick, perfunctory curtsy. "I must go. "

And then she ran from the room, leaving him quite alone. He stared at the empty doorway for a full minute, trying to figure out just what had happened. And it was only when he finally stepped into the hall that he realized he hadn't a clue how to get back to his bedchamber.

Grace dashed through Belgrave, half walking, half skipping. . . running. . . whatever it was she needed to do to reach her room with the most equal balance of dignity and speed. If the servants saw her - and she couldn't imagine they didn't; they seemed positively everywhere this morning - they must have wondered at her distress.

The dowager would not expect her. Surely she would think she was still showing Mr. Audley the house.

Grace had at least an hour before she might need to show her face.

Dear God, what had she done? If she had not finally remembered herself, remembered who he was, and who he might be,

she would have let him continue. She'd wanted it. She'd wanted it with a fervor that had shocked her. When he'd taken her hand, when he'd pulled her to him, he awakened something within her.

No. It had been awakened two nights earlier. On that moonlit night, standing outside the carriage, something had been born within her. And now. . .

She sat upon her bed, wanting to bury herself in the covers but instead just sitting there, staring at the wall. There was no going back. One couldn't ever not have been kissed once the deed was done.

With a nervous breath, maybe even a frantic laugh, she covered her face with her hands. Could she possibly have chosen anyone less suitable with whom to fall in love? Not that this was the measure of her feelings, she hastened to reassure herself, but she was not so much of a fool that she could not recognize her leanings. If she let herself. . . If she let him. . .

She would fall in love.

Good heavens.

Either he was a highwayman, and now she was destined to be the consort of an outlaw, or he was the true Duke of Wyndham, which meant -

She laughed because really, this was funny. It had to be funny. If it wasn't funny, then it could only be tragic, and she didn't think she could manage that just now.

Wonderful. Perhaps she was falling in love with the Duke of Wyndham. Now that was appropriate. Let's see, how many ways was this a disaster? He was her employer, for one, he owned the house in which she lived, and his rank was so far above hers as to be nearly immeasurable.

And then there was Amelia. She and Thomas certainly did not suit, but she had every right to expect that she would be the Duchess of Wyndham upon her marriage. Grace could not imagine how crass and overreaching she would appear to the Willoughbys - her good friends - if she were seen to be throwing herself at the new duke.

Grace closed her eyes and touched the tips of her fingers to her lips. If she breathed deeply enough she almost relaxed. And she could almost still feel his presence, his touch, the warmth of his skin.