Читать книгу The Naked Baron - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 10

The terrace was markedly cooler, quieter—and darker. The ballroom candles cast only very small circles of light from the door and windows. There were lanterns, yes, but they seemed to create more shadows than they dispelled—if the murmurings Grace heard were any indication, a number of couples were delighted to take advantage of the dim light.

She should go back inside. Now that she considered the matter, she realized it would be rather awkward to try to initiate a discussion with the baron out here. They had never been introduced, after all. Lord Dawson probably had no idea who she was.

She flushed, remembering how he’d looked at her when she’d stood on the ballroom landing. His eyes had seared a path straight to her soul, if her soul was located—

Oh! The place low in her…well, that place throbbed again. It could not be her soul—it was far too physical.

“Pardon me, but are you going out, miss?”

“What? Oh, er…” She was blocking the door, wasn’t she? A short, balding man wished to get through—a short, balding man who was now drooling on her bodice.

She stepped back quickly and caught her heel in her hem.

“Ack!” She flung out her hands to recover her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going down. She would indeed end in an ignominious heap, but at least not in the middle of the ballroom—“Oh!”

A pair of strong arms caught her and hauled her up against a rock-hard chest.

“Are you all right?” The voice was warm, deep, concerned—but with a hint of laughter.

“Ah.” She blinked up at her rescuer—Lord Dawson, of course. “Er.”

She couldn’t form a coherent sentence—she couldn’t think. She’d never been so close to a man before. A host of sensations overwhelmed her: the hard strength of Lord Dawson’s arms holding her as if she weighed nothing; the rough texture of his coat against her cheek; the clean scent of his linen and…him.

She felt small. She had never felt small. Even as a child, she’d towered over the other girls and most of the boys. The feeling was completely disorienting.

She concentrated on Lord Dawson’s face, but that didn’t help. If anything, such a close inspection caused her heart to pound harder and her poor brain to drift further into its stupor.

He did have a slight cleft in his chin. And a dimple in his cheek. And long, dark lashes framing his eyes…

His teeth were white and even in the shadows. Was he laughing at her? It wouldn’t be odd if he were. She was gaping up at him like a complete ninny.

“Are you all right?” The laughter was more pronounced, but there was a different undertone now. The heat was back in his eyes.

“Has she swooned, Dawson? Should I send someone for help?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Delton.”

Good God, what was she thinking? Lingering in Lord Dawson’s arms was bad enough, but lingering on the Duke of Alvord’s terrace with an interested group of spectators gathered round, one of whom must be the husband of Aunt Kate’s friend—She didn’t need her aunt to point out she was flirting with social suicide.

Grace struggled to right herself. Lord Dawson released her, but kept a steadying hand on her elbow. She should shake him off, but she did still feel a trifle in need of support.

She straightened her skirt and lifted her chin. “I’m fine, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

“I’m so sorry, miss. I…” Delton shrugged. He was clearly uncertain what he’d done to cause this particular disaster. Not surprising. He had merely been trying to pass through a doorway. It was unfortunate her bosom was on level with his face, but that was not his doing.

“Please, don’t give it another thought,” Grace said. “It was my fault completely.”

Lord Dawson squeezed her elbow. “Ah, but a lady is never at fault, is she, Delton?”

“No, indeed. I take full responsibility.”

“No, no. I should not have lingered in the doorway.”

David smiled slightly. Was Standen’s daughter going to argue with Delton? He’d best get the girl off the terrace. They were beginning to gather a crowd.

His smile widened. He’d be delighted to take her into the garden and begin his courtship. Very delighted. How fortunate he’d been standing in exactly the right place when the lady had stumbled.

Mmm—very fortunate. Just as he’d expected, she was an entrancing armful. He’d been hard pressed not to steal a kiss in front of Delton and all their interested onlookers. With luck and skill, he might be able to steal one in the foliage. The lady had not been struggling to get out of his arms. No, she’d seemed quite content to remain there.

He stepped back slightly, a little behind the girl and closer to the garden stairs.

He definitely needed to retreat to the leafage—his enthusiasm was becoming a bit too apparent. He grinned. Fortunately, he could hide behind the lady’s skirts.

And he needed to discover her given name. He could not keep thinking of her as Standen’s daughter.

“Well, no harm done,” he said, interrupting the polite, but pointless apologies. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Delton? I believe the lady would benefit from a calming stroll through the garden, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed. Don’t let me delay you a moment longer. Just came out to blow a cloud, don’t you know? I’ll step out of the way then. So sorry for the accident. Do enjoy your walk—the greenery is very soothing.”

“But—”

Surely the girl wasn’t going to keep protesting her fault in the silly contretemps? Delton shot him a pleading look. He agreed. Someone needed to take the young lady in hand, and he was more than happy to be that person. He had his hand on her already. He exerted a slight pressure and directed her toward the garden steps.

“We are attracting a small bit of attention, my dear,” he murmured. “I cannot think you will like that.”

“Oh.” The girl glanced around the terrace.

“A few moments admiring Alvord’s plantings will give you time to compose yourself and give the witnesses to our little—our very minor—scene time to lose whatever interest they have in you and your activities.”

Her brows lowered into a frown. “But isn’t walking in the garden scandalous?”

“Not at all. Do you think the Duke of Alvord would have lanterns hung along his garden paths if walking there were scandalous?” Of course, David did not intend to stay on the paths the entire time, but there was no need to mention that.

“Oh. No, I suppose you are correct.”

Aunt Kate would not approve, Grace thought as she descended the steps on Lord Dawson’s arm. Ha—there was an understatement! She had explicitly told Grace not to go into the garden with the baron. But Aunt Kate was overly nervous, and the baron had a valid point. If strolling amongst the plants was so daring, the duke would not have tempted his guests with lantern-lit walkways.

Grace needed to talk to the man—she’d come out on the terrace with that specific goal. The privacy of such a perambulation would be perfect for getting to the bottom of her father’s strange antipathy and Aunt Kate’s odd nervous attack.

She would behave perfectly respectably, and Lord Dawson wouldn’t offer her anything but conversation. Men never did.

But if he did…

She glanced up at the baron and felt a small frisson, a tiny shiver of excitement.

They turned left at the bottom of the stairs and followed the path toward the main section of the garden, leaving the ball’s light and crowds behind. A slight breeze brushed Grace’s cheek. She could almost believe they were in the country now. Almost, but not quite. This was London after all, and London was never really quiet. The noise of the street—the creak and jingle of harnesses, the rattle of wheels on cobbles, the shouts of the coachmen—blended with the drone of conversation drifting from the open ballroom windows.

They strolled past a rustic bench and paused by a small fountain with a statue of Pan capering in its center. Water cascaded from the god’s pipes and splashed merrily from a multitude of fishes’ mouths.

Lord Dawson wandered over to the far side of the fountain to examine a fish that wasn’t spouting. Grace followed him. The vegetation was especially overgrown here—they were almost in a small bower. If John were present, he’d be giving her a lecture on every leaf and twig. She sincerely hoped Lord Dawson was not a botanist.

“Is that a trout?” A stupid question—it was just a stone decoration. It could be a whale for all she cared.

The baron shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not much interested in fish.” He smiled and turned to face her. Somehow her hand had ended up in his—and his was missing its glove. “But I am very interested in you. Will you gift me with your name? My Uncle Alex didn’t know it, and I cannot keep calling you Standen’s daughter or Lady Oxbury’s niece.” He rubbed his thumb over her palm.

“Oh, ah.” Another, larger shiver of excitement teased her. She cleared her throat. “Grace—my name is Lady Grace.”

He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “And I am David Wilton, Baron Dawson of Riverview.” His voice deepened. “I am very, very glad to meet you, Lady Grace.”

Grace withdrew her hand and gave the man a cautious look. They were secluded here, but not completely hidden. Anyone passing by on the walkway could see them, if they looked. Lord Dawson appeared relaxed and pleasant—not at all predatory.

She was in no danger. It was perfectly safe to take advantage of the moment and ask about her father—and her aunt.

Her hand still tingled from the motion of his thumb on her palm. She rubbed it against her skirt.

And what if something besides information was exchanged?

She moistened her lips. If such an opportunity presented itself…well, she would be daring and enjoy her brief window of freedom.

She was twenty-five; she had never in all those years done anything the least bit scandalous. She was too old and sensible to allow herself to be led into complete ruin. There were hundreds of people nearby; if she became alarmed, she had a sturdy pair of lungs.

David watched thoughts of caution flit over Grace’s face. He should not take advantage of her, she was so innocent. She had followed him so trustingly.

But how could he not take advantage? It was dark, and they were in this sheltered spot. He would not hurt her. His intentions were only honorable.

Hmm. Perhaps it depended on how one defined honorable. He would not take her beyond the point of no return, but he would take her as close to that point as she—and the vertical nature of their encounter—would allow. And he meant marriage, of course. He definitely meant marriage.

A few creative uses for this splendid fountain popped into his imagination, but he suppressed them. Lady Grace was a virgin, and there were hundreds of the haut ton just yards away in the ballroom—as well as a few walking in the garden, no doubt. Once they were wed, once he’d accustomed her to marital relations, then they could attempt more inventive activities.

Grace looked serious, as if she meant to get down to business—and not the business he would most like to get down to.

“I came out on the terrace looking for you, Lord Dawson.”

“You did? How splendid—and please call me David.”

Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly. I hardly know you.”

“Oh, you will know me much better shortly.”

She flushed as best he could tell in this dim light.

“I—”

“Shh.” He stepped closer. “Not so loud. Sound carries in the night air, you know.”

“Ah—” She looked adorably confused. Her mouth was agape—He definitely had to take advantage of such an inadvertent invitation.

He brought his head down slowly; he gave her plenty of opportunity to move, but she didn’t dodge out of the way. He saw in her eyes the moment she decided to take the kiss he was offering. He smiled as he closed the last few inches.

Her lips were firm, smooth, sweet. And her mouth! He only used the tip of his tongue, tracing her lips, dipping past them just slightly. He wanted her enthralled, not frightened. She was so still it was clear this was her first time. Gently, he brought her closer until she was touching him from chest to knees.

Who would have thought careful, restrained kissing could be so bloody erotic? He was restricting his lips to her face and his hands to her clothed, corseted back, but he was more aroused than he could ever remember being. And she was so responsive.

Grace panted, making little mewling sounds. Once Lord Dawson’s—David’s—lips had touched hers, all thought had evaporated, leaving her lost in a whirlwind of sensation. His lips moved lightly, briefly, tantalizingly over her mouth, like a butterfly’s wings, teasing. Her own lips felt swollen; his tongue touched them, slid slowly over them.

Heat pooled low in her belly, making everything in that region throb and ache. She wanted…she needed…what?

His hands brought her body against his. Oh! This. She needed this—and still it wasn’t enough.

He cradled her against his chest and moved to explore her eyelids, her cheekbones. Was she moaning? Surely not.

She felt a chuckle rumble through his chest as his hand cupped the back of her head.

“Shh.” His lips brushed her earlobe, his words stirring her hair, tickling over her ear, sending shivers skittering down her spine. “Remember, sound travels at night. We don’t want anyone to find us.”

No, that was right. No one should find them because…because they were…

They were behaving scandalously in the foliage.

She shoved hard against the miscreant’s chest. He loosened his hold immediately.

“What seems to be the problem?” The oaf was grinning.

What wasn’t the problem? She, the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Standen, was alone in the garden with a man her father hated. And not merely alone. No. She had allowed the fellow shocking liberties. She had had her person plastered up against his; she had allowed him to kiss her—

She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hand. She had allowed Lord Dawson to give her her very first kiss. Was she mad? Surely that favor should have been reserved for her intended, John Parker-Roth, and not this rogue. Certainly not this rogue. Perhaps Papa was right to hate his family.

“What is it, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

Something about the way he said “tongue” made her flush. She tried to respond, but the noise she made was incoherent—a sound somewhere between a gulp and a growl. She tried again.

“Lord Dawson, I…I…” What was the appropriate thing to say in this situation?

There was no appropriate thing.

She should slap him soundly, but that seemed unfair. He hadn’t been forcing his attentions on her—she had been a very active participant.

“Ohh.” The thought caused a slow snake of shame to curl through her stomach. She dropped her face into her hands.

“Grace.” She felt his arm come around her shoulders. He pulled her close. She should struggle, but she didn’t have the spirit to do so. Besides, his touch was comforting.

“Grace, it’s all right. We did nothing wrong. My intentions are honorable.”

She lifted her head. “Honorable?”

He grinned. “Definitely. I know it’s a bit precipitous, but…Will you make me the happiest of men?”

“What?” Surely she had misheard.

His grin widened. “Will you marry me?”

She felt her jaw drop. This might be her first time in London, but she could not believe every excursion into the foliage there resulted in a marriage proposal. No one had seen them, and while she most certainly shouldn’t have been doing what she’d been doing, no permanent harm had been done. “Are you a lunatic? You’ve just met me.”

He shrugged. “I could tell from the moment you stepped through the ballroom door, you would be the perfect baroness for me.”

The man was a lunatic—a very attractive lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless. Or perhaps he was destitute? “I’m not a notable heiress, you know.”

He looked at her as if she were the lunatic. “I don’t need to marry money—I’m quite plump in the pocket.”

“Oh. Well, I can’t marry you in any event.” And why did she feel a pang of regret when she said that? All she knew of Baron Dawson was that Papa hated his family—and that he was tall, handsome, and skilled in the amatory arts.

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Besides the fact that I don’t know you—”

He grinned. “That’s easily remedied.”

Grace tried not to roll her eyes. “—I already have an understanding with a gentleman.” Papa certainly understood she would marry John, and John definitely had his eye on that patch of Papa’s land bordering his estate—he wished to plant roses or rhododendrons or something on it.

She started walking back to the ballroom. Lord Dawson fell into step beside her. She had to admit it felt very nice to be beside a man who, well, fit her. She allowed him to place her hand on his arm again.

“You didn’t kiss me as if you had an understanding with anyone,” he said.

She jerked her hand back. “I didn’t kiss you at all.”

His dratted eyebrow flew up.

“You kissed me.” Her face must be glowing again. She should rent herself out as a lantern.

“That’s true. And you struggled mightily to free yourself from my unwanted attentions, didn’t you?”

“Er.” No, she hadn’t struggled; she’d welcomed his advances in a totally shocking fashion. Yes, that was it. Shocking. “I was so shocked I couldn’t move.”

“Hmm.” Baron Dawson just looked at her. “So, this understanding…are you betrothed?”

“Ah, not precisely…” And why was she prevaricating? She was as good as taken.

“Oh? What—precisely—are you?”

“Well, er…” She just couldn’t say the word “engaged.” And she wasn’t engaged—not quite. Technically, she was free for the moment, for these precious few moments she was in London.

“You are undecided.” Lord Dawson took her hand again and raised it to his lips. He smiled slowly. “I shall help you decide.”

“No. I…”

He picked a leaf out of her hair. She was perfect for him. He was so tired of tiny women. He was always afraid he’d hurt them. Grace on the other hand…he would wager she could meet him thrust for thrust.

Zeus, what a thought! His anatomy sprang to attention, eager to begin thrusting posthaste.

He would persuade her to have him. She might think she was committed to this other fellow, but her body told him differently. She would not have kissed him with such innocent yearning if she were in love with someone else.

“You know, you never told me why you came out looking for me,” he said. He sent her a sidelong glance. “I suppose it wasn’t to drag me into the shrubbery?”

He was rewarded—she stopped. She was almost emitting sparks when she turned to face him. Regretfully, they were now in view of the terrace, so he could not do anything more than admire the sight she presented.

“It was not, you clod pole! I came to ask you about my aunt and Papa. Do you know why there is such enmity between our families?”

Perhaps it was fortunate Grace’s back was to the house. She didn’t see her aunt and his uncle slip out the ballroom door. Her aunt didn’t see them either, but Alex did. He paused momentarily and then guided Lady Oxbury in the opposite direction. They disappeared behind an overgrown tree.

“Enmity?” He almost laughed. He’d guess hostility was not the motivation urging those two into the foliage. Good for old Alex.

“Yes. Aunt Kate had such a strong reaction when she saw your uncle, she had to withdraw to the ladies’ retiring room to regain her composure. Do you know what the connection is between them?”

He could guess what the connection was about to be. “I believe my uncle asked your aunt to marry him the last time she was in London.”

Lady Grace gasped. “No! Aunt Kate never mentioned such a thing.”

“Uncle Alex never mentioned it, either, until your aunt entered the ballroom this evening.” Odd. Why hadn’t Alex told him before? They’d certainly got drunk together enough times over the years. And they’d been discussing matrimony—his need for a wife and heir—frequently since he’d inherited the title. It would have been natural to bring up a blighted marriage proposal over a bottle of port.

Had Alex suffered a broken heart? Now that he considered the matter, it was odd his uncle had never married. Alex wasn’t the sort to enjoy casual liaisons—and he was certainly well past his salad days. True, he didn’t have a title to pass on, but he did have his own estate—had had it for years. He should have had a wife and children as well.

Grace’s aunt had married Lord Oxbury…

Dash it, if Lady Oxbury had been cruel to Alex…well, he might have to have a private word with her on that subject.

Lady Grace was shaking her head and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. It quite sent thoughts of Lady Oxbury and Alex from his head.

“How could that be the reason Papa holds all Wiltons in aversion? A marriage proposal is not an insult—unless your uncle is as busy in the bushes as you are.” Grace shot him a most pointed look.

He was willing to bet Uncle Alex was being very busy in the bushes at the moment.

“But an offer would have addressed any question of scandal.” Grace frowned. “Are you certain your uncle did actually offer?”

“Oh, yes. And your father turned him down. He hated Wiltons long before Alex asked for your aunt’s hand.”

“Why? Though if your relatives are all as annoying as you, I quite understand it.”

“Very funny. Did your father never tell you about Lady Harriet, the daughter of the Marquis of Wordham?”

She frowned. “No. Who is she?”

“Was. Who was she.” He smiled slightly. “She was my mother.”

Grace’s expression changed in a blink. The frown vanished; her eyes and mouth softened. She touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry.”

An odd warmth spread through his chest. Stupid. Grace’s compassion was misplaced. He’d had Grandmamma. She’d probably spent more time with him than his mother would have. By all accounts, both his parents had been headstrong and wild, setting things whirling and tumbling like a windstorm, leaving everyone else to clean up the debris.

He didn’t have Grandmamma any longer, of course. Riverview was empty now.

But it wouldn’t be empty when he married Grace. They would fill it with their children—with their sons and daughters. It would be far livelier then than it had ever been when he was a child.

Grace had to accept him…and reject the man in the country.

He pushed aside the guilt that threaded through his gut at that thought. He needn’t feel guilt. Grace didn’t love the fellow.

And was this how his father had reasoned when he’d planned his elopement, stealing Lady Harriet from Standen?

God, no! He was nothing like Luke Wilton.

Grace was frowning again. “Why would Papa have told me about your mother?”

“Ah…” He would consider any parallels—and there were none—between his father and himself later. He was alone in the garden with a beautiful woman, even if he was only giving her a history lesson now. “Because thirty-one—well, thirty-two years ago, to be precise—my mother jilted your father to run off to Gretna with the notorious Luke Wilton.”