‘I have said this before, but I shall say it again—Grace, how are you still unmarried?’ Lady Elizabeth smiled widely.
Grace refused to throw herself at him. Instead, she said firmly, ‘I have no desire to marry, Lady Elizabeth. Like your brother, I despair of ever finding a loyal and faithful spouse. I would rather live my life peacefully in our cottage.’
‘Nonsense—I am certain you could find someone here,’ Lady Elizabeth insisted.
‘I hear London gentlemen like to keep mistresses. I take the marriage vows seriously, so I am afraid they are not for me.’
With that, she stood and dragged the inebriated Mrs Merriweather with her. The Duke watched her leave, and Lady Elizabeth watched her brother.
Hiccup. ‘How would anyone know she even exists? She does not socialise at all...’ Mrs Merriweather cried as she was manoeuvred through the door.
Grace’s news would have to wait.
DESPITE HER FRUSTRATIONS, Grace still had to convey the news to the Duke.
At midnight, she stood outside his chamber door and knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again. Nothing.
With bold determination, she turned the handle and slipped inside. She could not risk a servant spotting her in the hallway.
The room was dimly lit by the dying fire, and the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and pure masculinity. Before she could take a step—
A low growl stopped her.
She froze.
A massive black-and-white Great Dane stalked toward her, eyes glowing in the dim light.
She held up her hands in surrender. ‘Good dog. Sit... er... sleep?’
The beast sniffed her, then—to her relief—demanded petting before flopping onto its bed.
She blew out a sigh of relief and, for the first time, had the opportunity to examine the room. She felt immediately out of place. Everything was large. His chamber was immense; on the far side, a dying fire flickered in a grand fireplace, and at the centre of the room stood an imposing four-poster bed, its heavy curtains drawn back.
He was sleeping.
Grace stood still, unable to help herself from watching. He looked so peaceful. Irresistible.
Her heart yearned to reach out, to brush the unruly strands of hair from his forehead. She resisted.
Her face twisted in anguish as the memory of the ball crashed over her.
She shook her head to snap herself out of it and cleared her throat.
No movement.
She called his name softly.
Still, he merely turned over, his breathing even, lost in slumber.
Reluctantly, she stepped forward and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.
In an instant, he reacted—swift and instinctive. With one smooth motion, he flipped her onto her back and pinned her beneath him.
She yelped.
