“Yes.” She shuddered. “Have you ever met the Marquess of Pellington? The man thinks bathing causes ill health.” She couldn’t restrain a quiet laugh. “The girls and I call himLord Smellingtonbecause he reeks.” Oh good heavens, why in the world would she say that? “Forgive me. That was most rude, and I should not have said it.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, Lady Grace. You should know that by now.”
His deep voice poured across her like the most intimate of caresses. It made her ache to be back in his lap, back in his arms. It made her wish—what?
She cleared her throat and scooted away, increasing the distance between them. “You should probably rejoin the guests, Your Grace.”
“And what about you?”
“I have other secret routes up to my bedchamber. I shall not be rejoining the party.”
“And what if I do not wish to rejoin the guests either?”
As much as she hated to remind him, she couldn’t shake the image of Lady Margaret and Lady Longmorten out of her mind.“You are betrothed, Your Grace, and we must not be found for I can’t be the ruin of my family.”
“Connor wishes to marry you,” he said as if she had not spoken. “He swears he shall, in fact. You won his heart when you saved Hector and lauded Connor as a hero for not deserting his little dog.”
That warmed her heart toward the duke even more, dangerously so. “Connor is a treasure. A true gentleman. I value his friendship as well as that of his sister’s.”
“And what of me, Lady Grace?” The clouds skittered away again, and moonlight flooded his face. He leaned closer and touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her shiver. His stare, the intensity of his gaze, made it impossible for her to move. “Lady Grace,” he repeated, his quiet voice a rasping plea, “what of me?”
“What of you, Your Grace?” She allowed the heart-wrenching regret she felt to reach out to him. If only…
Mama once again whispered in her ear,Beware the game of “if only,” child, for it is fraught with danger.
“You belong to another,” she told him, “and I deserve someone free to belong to me alone.”
“That you do, my lady.” But he lowered his head and took her mouth, tenderly nuzzling her lips with a hungry groan that made her wonder if he thought her delicious. “But I cannot resist you,” he whispered, his mouth brushing across hers as he spoke. “You are unlike any woman I have ever known.” Then he kissed her again, longer, deeper. He tasted of port, of forbidden excitement, and a regret she refused to bear.
She broke the dangerous connection, stumbled to her feet, and backed away. “Good evening, Your Grace. Return to Lady Margaret, for it is with her that you belong. Not me. Not ever me, as long as you are promised to her. As I said, I deserve better and will never settle for less.”
He stood, his looming height barely diminished with his bowed head. “Forgive my abhorrent behavior, Lady Grace. I assure you, it will not happen again.” Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows with the same silence of the clouds blotting out the silvery moon’s light once more.
Grace touched her lips. They tingled and throbbed and longed to be kissed again—by Wolfebourne. Or Wolfe, as she had heard Connor call him. The name fit the man well: a lone wolf slipping into the darkness.
Laughter from the intimate ladies’ parlor in the distance startled her into motion. Serendipity must not find her. She caught up her skirts and dashed to the old servants’ entrance hidden behind the lush rose garden Papa had planted the year Mama died.
Teeth clenched so tightly her jaws ached, she vowed to behave as though tonight had never happened. She would completely forget about it, wash it from her mind. As she pushed inside and climbed the servants’ stairs to the second floor, she prayed for the strength to keep that vow to herself.
Chapter Seven
What the devilis wrong with me?Wolfe exited the side garden, shoved through the hedging, and returned to the wide terrace outside the library’s open doors. As he stepped inside to the cigar haze and the men’s quiet, rumbling conversations, he realized he still clutched the lovely Lady Grace’s handkerchief in his hand. He hurried to tuck it deep inside his jacket’s innermost pocket, then patted the garment in place, ensuring no bulge betrayed the precious memento he intended to keep. It didn’t matter that it was stained with his blood. It smelled of her. Even with his poor beak throbbing from the glancing blow of her elbow, the alluring scent had made its way to him—the soft, tempting sweetness of lilacs and a deliciously entrancing young woman. It had immediately both soothed and inflamed him.
“There you are, Wolfebourne,” Broadmere called out from across the room. “My apologies for the lingering smoke. Even with the doors and windows open wide, the place never airs well. Must be all the bookshelves. Are you better settled now? Would a brandy help?”
Wolfe was not settled at all, but it had nothing to do with the lingering cigar smoke. However, he couldn’t very well tell the young Duke of Broadmere that Lady Grace possessed the sweetest mouth this side of heaven. “I am much better now, thank you. But I do believe it is time to gather the ladies and bid everyone goodnight. I enjoyed this evening very much and thankyou for your hospitality. Perhaps you would consider joining me for a hunt sometime?”
Broadmere stiffened and rolled his shoulders, appearing as uncomfortable as if Wolfe had suggested something as treacherous as treason. “Thank you for the invitation, but I dare not accept out of fear for my life.”
“Fear for your life?” Sir Andrew asked before Wolfe could.
“Wolfe’s not that bad of a shot.” Strath grinned and lifted his glass in a mock toast.
“Old Broady’s sisters would draw and quarter him.” The Earl of Middlebie chuckled, then feigned a horrified expression. “Fiery lasses, the lot of them. Especially Lady Grace when it comes to hunting. And her sisters would unite to protect her, I grant ye that. Even her Papa bent to her will and forbade hunting on Broadmere lands. ’Tis a wonder the lady even eats meat.”
“If you ever bothered to observe her at the table, Middlebie,” Broadmere said, “you would see that meat never touches her plate. All the servants know better, and if they don’t, they soon learn.” He turned back to Wolfe. “Thank you for the invitation, but I do not relish sleeping with my eyes open to ensure Gracie doesn’t do something horrid to me while I sleep.”
The enlightening conversation made Wolfe remember a gentle nudge and inquisitive snuffling against his leg under the table during dinner. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. He’d been too amused by the fact that he and Lady Grace shared a mutual hatred for pea soup. “Did one of her dogs dine with us this evening? Under the table, perhaps?”
