Page 61 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

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…

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