A huff of reluctant laughter. His warm breath coasted across her ear. “I know,” he said. “And I know when youarelying.”
“You don’t. You couldn’t.” A shiver coasted down her spine as his palm slid over the curve of her bottom.
“I do,” he insisted, bending his head to brush his lips across the curve of her shoulder. “You’ve got a tell.”
Grace surfaced briefly from the sensual shroud that had fallen over her. “What? No, I haven’t!” Had she? “You must tell me what it is immediately.”
“You have. And I won’t. So long as you don’t know it, you can’t lie to me.” He buried a guttural sound against the curve of her shoulder, and his hand pulled itself free of her hair to join its twin. “Christ. This perfect arse. So damned soft.”
An odd warmth sparked in her chest, melting her once more.There was no denying she ran more plump than lean. She had weathered suggestions of slimming regimens, of foregoing sweets. She had suffered the indignity of cruel taunts and whispers. More than a few men—and women—had tried to make her feel ashamed of her body, to suggest that its contours made her less desirable, less worthy.
It had never worked. Grace had long understood that her worth was not measured in the width of her waist or the span of her hips. None of them had ever succeeded in making her think less of herself, or feel less valuable than she knew herself to be.
But it was surprisingly lovely to find herself now appreciated for those features which some had tried to convince her were flaws. His undeniable attraction was evident now, not only in the reverent grip of his hands as he tested the softness of her bottom, but in the bulge behind the placket of his trousers, which pressed against her stomach.
“I have dreamed of this.” It was just a whisper against her temple, so low it was almost as if he had not intended for her to hear it. And she wondered—for how long? The sigh that drifted across his lips sounded like the relief of an ancient longing at last fulfilled. Had the signs of it always been there, just beyond her notice? For weeks? Months?Years?
Her hands drifted up his chest, slid over his shoulders. That dark hair felt cool and soft to the touch of her fingers as she ruffled the fine strands, rendering yet more chaos to what had once been an elegant style, and which he had already ruined with an evening of drinking and raking his hands through it in distress.
His arms tightened about her as she lifted herself onto the tips of her toes in an effort to bring her mouth to his once more. “Grace,” he murmured against her lips. “Go home.”
“What?” He couldn’t mean that. Notnow.
Another sigh; deep and poignant and filled with regret. “Gohome,” he said. “Before it’s too damned late.” And yet for all that, his arms struggled to release her, as if he spoke against his own desires.
Probably he did. She was not so innocent as to not understand what that hard ridge pressed against her stomach signified. “Why?” she asked, her lips pursing into a pout.
“Because it’s well past midnight, my mother and sister are sleeping just upstairs, and I’m half-sober at best.” One hand stroked her hair as if he were loath to release her. “Your reputation is at risk if you stay. I am not the sort of man who could bear to have you on my conscience.” His voice lowered to a regretful mutter. “Much as I might wish otherwise at the moment.”
“I really haven’t much of a reputation anyway,” she said. “That is to say, those that would think poorly of me already do. And the people who matter won’t, regardless.”
A gravelly chuckle stirred her hair. “I have already trespassed well beyond what I ought to have done. I should have sent you home straight away.”
Yes; he probably ought to have done. But she could not say that she had any particular regrets. “Henry—”
“Gohome, Grace,” he said again, and forced himself at last to release her, swiftly stepping away as if he feared she could too easily lure him back in. As if of its own accord, his hand settled over his chest, rubbing like one might to relieve an inconvenient ache. The right-hand corner of his lips twitched up fondly. “And stay out of my damned house, you unrepentant little housebreaker.”
Grace pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips to suppress the smile that wanted to emerge. “But what about Tansy?” she asked.
“She’ll find her way back home. She always does. Likely not without destroying a few pieces of my furniture.” He drew in amassive breath and backed away another step as if to put some distance between himself and further temptation. “Now. I am going back into my study. I am locking the damned door. And I am not coming out again until I am certain you are gone. Am I understood?”
“That seems a trifle excessive. Don’t you think you’re overreacting, just a little?”
“No,” he said, swiftly, with increasing agitation. “No, I do not. You could tempt a damned saint.” He wagged a chastising finger in her direction for a moment before he jabbed it in the direction of the stairs. “Now, get the hell out of my house before I am forced to fling you over my shoulder and deliver you back to your home trussed up like a Christmas goose.”
A snicker slipped out from between her fingers. “Do you know, I am almost tempted to see you try it.”
A feral growl collected in his throat. He cast up his hands in exasperation and turned swiftly on his heel. “Good evening, Grace,” he tossed over his shoulder, and the deliberately forceful enunciation made the words sound like a command.
Grace fluttered her fingers in farewell as he did exactly as he said he would, closing the door of his study behind him and locking the door with a resounding click. He’d meant to make a point of it, she knew, but it was rather difficult to take the one he’d meant to give when her lips still burned with the pressure of his.
Ah, well. She headed for the stairs, resigned to returning home. He could hide all he liked this evening. But tomorrow—tomorrow he would call upon her. She was certain of it.
∞∞∞
Henry had had this dream dozens of times before. A wicked fantasy that had plagued his unconscious mind for years, since Grace had first occupied the house just across the street. It always began the same—the gentle depression of the bed beside him, revealing her presence. Then the soft, warm weight of her as she settled into his arms and against his chest.
Delicious. For the first time the dream possessed a peculiar sense of reality it had lacked before. He knew, now, what she felt like. The satiny smoothness of her hair, the sweet floral scent of it, the way it clung to his fingers. The incredible softness of her lips beneath his own.
