Page 6 of Everything But the Earl
“What makes you ask?”
“You have a curious expression on your face.”
He stepped toward her. She was lush, beautiful, her plump lower lip begging to be kissed, her voluptuous bosom practically spilling out of her gown, those soft tendrils of hair falling around her face wanting to wrap around his fingers.
“Well, if you must know, I think it a shame for a woman to relegate herself to spinsterhood. There are so many experiences she’d be denying herself.”
That seemed to get her back up. She stared at him primly. “Such as?”
He shook his head. “It is not for me to say.”
She pursed her lips. “I think I know what you are implying, but in truth, I am not offended.” She touched her neck, then her fingers drifted slowly across her collarbone to her bosom. Owen doubted she intended to be provocative, but his attention was…provoked. This was a woman with a great deal of sensuality. Of desire. She met his gaze and said, “I will admit to a certain amount of…curiosity.”
Owen felt drawn to her as if he were pulled by a string. He stood before her and gazed into her eyes. He wanted her, even if she was completely off limits.
“I suppose if I followed Beresford’s suggestion and married some nobleman who preferred London to the country,” she said, her fingers tracing patterns on the lapels of his jacket, likely unconsciously, “then we could… have marital relations… a few times a year. Then the rest of our time would be our own.”
“I doubt you would be satisfied with that,” Owen blurted out.
“No?” Her lips parted.
No. Definitely not. There was no way a woman as beautiful and unconsciously sensual as Grace Midwood would be satisfied with a quick tumble on the rare occasions she and her husband were in the same location. Not if her husband were doing it right.
“I do not believe a woman like you, with intelligence and, I presume, some talent at her art, a woman in the prime of her life with desires of her own, would be satisfied with an absentee husband. Nor do I think you would be satisfied with a life as an idle, delicate lady of theton.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Their gazes met and it was like a shock to Owen’s system. Lord, she was beautiful.
She stepped forward and lowered her voice. “You see my conundrum, then. You men always presume to know the right thing, but you do not know the circumstances us women often find ourselves. My options seem to be the nunnery or the glass cage of atonmarriage, and neither tempt me, but here we are. Perhaps I shall never be satisfied.”
Something deep in Owen wanted to satisfy her. Without intentionally meaning to, he stepped forward and cupped her cheek. Her skin was just as soft as it looked.
He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to take his next breath, but he knew he shouldn’t. Instead, he stared at her pouty lips and inhaled her citrusy scent. Her lips parted and he looked up at her eyes. Their gazes met and he felt like something passed between them.
He barely knew this woman. He knew of her, moved in the same circles as she did. His late father had been friends with hers. They’d had casual conversations in the past, perhaps flirted a bit. Helikedher, he was attracted to her, he wanted to kiss her. But he didn’t want to give her the idea thathecould be the poor sucker pulled into her marriage scheme. He had no desire to marry, and he already knew one night a year with her would not be enough.
He kissed her anyway.
It was like a thunderclap. Like something inside Owen lit up like lightning.
She melted against him and parted her lips. She put her arms around his shoulders, as if she was as caught up in this as he was, so he grasped her waist and pulled her closer. And just when he was about to dive in further, he heard a gasp somewhere to his right.
They’d been caught.
He stepped away from Grace and met her gaze again, then looked at who had discovered them. It was the Marchioness Midwood, because of course it was.
“Grace!” she groaned out.
Owen felt as though his fate was sealed.
Chapter Two
“You’ve done itnow,” said Hugh Baxter, the Duke of Swynford, and one of Owen’s closest friends.
Owen groaned and rubbed his forehead. They were in the sitting room of Hugh’s home. Normally on nights like this, they gathered at their club, but Hugh’s infant son had been feverish the day before. Adele, Hugh’s wife, insisted that young master Edward was in perfect health now, but Hugh decided on staying nearby, just in case.
Adele now poured tea for everyone, but Owen could have really used whiskey. He cursed in Welsh, sparing the duchess.
“What has he done?” Adele asked.
