Читать книгу Hot Silk - Sharon Page - Страница 9

“Grace, whatever are you doing?”

Grace started guilty, caught in the act of sneaking away by her best friend. There could obviously be no other reason to be lurking beside a carriage on the front drive immediately after breakfast. Though her cheeks flushed with instant warmth, she prayed her shame was not obvious as she turned to face Lady Prudence. Dressed in a fur-trimmed velvet pelisse of sky blue, Prudence looked both lovely and distinctly hurt as she hurried down the sweeping staircase to the gravel drive. Overhead, the sky, as though sensing Grace’s mood, was strewn with dark gray clouds.

Out of breath, Lady Prudence reached her side.

Light drizzle began to fall, cold and reproachful as it struck Grace’s cheeks.

“Are you leaving?” Large gray-blue eyes met hers, revealing Prudence’s frank astonishment.

Grace plucked at the skirt of her dull gray traveling pelisse. The gray ribbons of her worn hat fluttered across her face in the cool, damp breeze as rain pelted her cheeks. “I think I should, Lady Prudence.” How did she even begin to explain?

Her friend’s lips turned down. “Why? Why would you leave without telling me?”

Grace took a fortifying breath as two footmen brought her small traveling trunks outside. One servant hastily followed with an umbrella for her ladyship, but, as Grace sought words that would tactfully explain how gloriously she’d ruined herself, Prudence fixed her with a look of horror. “It is true, isn’t it? You made a fool of yourself with my brother.”

Well, she had, but the censure in her friend’s tone surprised her. Aware of the footman holding the open brolly, Grace said, “Errr…”

Prudence snatched the umbrella and held it above her head, letting the rain drip off onto Grace. “We will have to walk a bit, to where they cannot overhear.”

In those few yards that Grace walked at her friend’s side in silence, she made a decision. She’d intended to lie about the offer of marriage, but now she knew she would not. Why protect Lord Wesley? Yes, Prudence had warned her about him, but Grace had never expected a gentleman to make an offer and then retract it.

Lady Prudence stopped at the end of the south wing and arched a brow.

Grace folded her arms across her chest. “Your brother promised me marriage,” she said flatly. “He offered marriage and then he wanted to…” How was it always so delicately put? “Anticipate the wedding.”

“Oh goodness. You truly did it…” Prudence abruptly dropped her arm and backed away. She tipped her chin up and looked down her nose. “You truly thought my brother would marry you?”

Shock held Grace motionless on the gravel drive. “Of course I did. He made an offer. He asked me to marry him and he asked me to say ‘yes.’ And I did. I accepted before I—”

“Even if he actually had made an offer, you had no right to accept! Of course he did not mean it. You had to know it was only to get under your skirts. Of course it meant nothing to him.” Prudence’s lip curled. “You, the future Marchioness of Rydermere?”

Grace was held stunned, like a beetle caught in amber. She’d thought Prudence was hurt she was sneaking away. She felt her lips part uselessly.

Prudence’s harsh words were like a knife blade to her heart. “You are nothing but a wanton tart! And my brother never said he made an offer.”

“I was not a wanton tart or a liar,” Grace answered. Anger had blown away shock. She was completely fed up. “I was your brother’s lover,” she hissed, “and I am no different a person than I was as a virgin! I am not mean or spiteful. I am not suddenly cruel or vicious or without a shred of kindness.”

“Wesley wished to have you removed from the house immediately since you are hardly fit to be an acquaintance of mine.”

“He needn’t worry. I am leaving.” Lord Wesley really was a swine. He was a liar, a scoundrel, a thoroughly coldhearted, evil snake, and he wanted her ejected from the house? But he was a man and it was quite socially acceptable for him to be a snake. And she was a woman who should be condemned for believing a gentleman’s word.

Lady Prudence’s angry voice caught her attention. “I thought you would at least have the decency,” she was saying, “to beg my forgiveness.”

Her friend no longer looked like a friend. Prudence looked every inch the arrogant lady, and Grace bit her tongue. By adhering to her mother’s story that her father was respectable and her parents were legally wed, she had lied to Prudence. She had used a false story to enter a world in which she didn’t belong, lying all the while to a woman who had honestly wished to be her friend.

In her heart, she did not believe that making love without marriage made her an evil woman, but in the eyes of Prudence’s world it did.

She wanted to turn and run to her modest carriage, run away without a word, and let the tears come, but she tried to stand as straight as a lady should.

“I would not think of begging for your forgiveness,” Grace said firmly, “but I do owe you an apology.” For what, though, really? For simply wanting to be a friend? For being a human woman, foolish enough to lose her heart? But she quelled the burning need to defend herself and said, “I am sorry.”

Turning abruptly, not meeting her friend’s haughty eyes, Grace walked away from Lady Prudence and out into the rain.

Prudence said nothing, and Grace did not turn back. It was humiliating to be striding through the rain. But humiliation was an emotion she would come to know well very soon. This was just a taste and soon she would have it rammed down her throat.

In weeks, Prudence, her former friend, would be in London, Grace thought as she reached the waiting carriage and the carefully impassive servants. Would Prudence join in the gossip that was certain to erupt when Wesley spread his tales?

Mr. Sharpe promised he had Wesley under his control, but Wesley was a peer of the realm. And a damned arrogant one. Why would he obey Mr. Sharpe?

As she stopped at the side of the carriage, she could not resist—she began to turn, to look for Prudence. Her hand trembled. What would happen in London? Would Prudence even admit to being her friend, or would she deny it?

But as she twisted her head, she saw nothing but the empty drive. Without a word, Prudence had gone.

The liveried footman reached Grace with Lord Wesley’s message before she stepped up into the simple black carriage.

“From Lord Wesley, Miss,” the young servant said.

Had he actually put his gloating to paper? Could it be an apology?

Irritated at the flare of warm hope in her heart, Grace unfolded the simple page. A summons to meet him at the summerhouse—the lovely stone building that sat upon a landscaped hill overlooking the garden.

Only a fool—or a glutton for punishment—would go.

But she had to know what he was going to say. Her future depended on it.

“Have the carriage wait,” she instructed the footman. Lifting the hems of her skirts, she crossed the drive to the narrow path that wound through the famed gardens of Collingsworth and led to the stone steps ascending to the summerhouse.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed, and her heart fluttered in her chest as she reached the marble portico. Where was Wesley? Inside? Or had he not come? Had he made an idiot of her one more time?

“Come in, Miss Hamilton.”

The bold, arrogant drawl drifted out of the open doorway. The lazy, sinfully aristocratic voice had once enticed her—now it set her teeth on edge. But she pushed open the door and stepped within.

This was a summerhouse?

With the luxurious padded benches, inviting chairs, and exquisite carvings and paintings, it was more beautiful than Grace’s home. Wesley lounged on a chaise, one booted foot braced against the floor, the other marring the taupe silk of the seat. His greatcoat was flung open; his snug-fitting buff trousers and dark waistcoat gave him the immaculate look of a gentleman in the country.

A grin revealed dimples—just like Devlin Sharpe’s. His eyes glinted with wickedness. But she read more than lust there. It was power that excited him and it sickened her.

He crooked his fingers, but she ignored the summons.

Pulling off his beaver hat with one hand, he raked back his fair, straight hair with the other. “Ah Grace, I do not want to leave you in trouble. Prudence has hinted that your family is in dire straits.”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and of course he looked there. “I am perfectly fine, my lord.”

“You aren’t. And I’m sorry for hurting your feelings, but truly, love, what did you expect?”

Hurting her feelings? He had called her a whore; he had laughed at her! He’d broken her heart for a wager, had threatened her with ruination. How hard it was to be cold with him when hot anger raged! “I did not expect anything of you, my lord. But you did promise marriage.”

He swung his other foot to the smooth floor of white marble veined with glittering black. “But you knew I couldn’t marry one such as you.”

“No.” And thank heaven for me, she thought.

“But I have a proposition, my saucy lover. A most generous offer.”

Absolute confidence shone from his blue eyes, as though he believed she was holding her breath, waiting on his every word.

“I do not wish to hear it.” She turned and walked out. The last sound she heard was a startled, ‘bloody hell’; then she ran down the wide steps, wearing a grin. Not much of a victory, but something. Lord Wesley was apparently not accustomed to being discounted.

But Wesley caught up to her by a grove of apple trees—she heard the harsh expulsion of his breath before he grasped her by the elbow. His fingers dug in, forcing her to stop.

Gritting her teeth, she swung around. “Let me go.”

“You haven’t heard my proposition yet, you little fool.” He backed her against a tree—branches ripe with early buds surrounded her. One brushed against her cheek, drawing a fine scratch. Lord Wesley leaned his arm above her head, effectively trapping her.

A predatory smile curved his lips. “I want you to become my mistress. I’ll keep you in London. I’ll rent you a house, buy you pretty clothes to show off those lovely tits, drape your neck in jewels. And I will visit you now and again, my love, and tutor you in erotic arts.”

Flabbergasted, Grace could find no rejoinder. And Wesley bent forward, waiting with his lips mere inches from hers, obviously certain she would cry, “Yes, yes, yes!”

She would like to plant her hands on his chest and shove him back but refused to even touch him for that. She clenched her fists, certain her fingernails were cutting through her cotton gloves. “Why would you make me such an offer? Was I not just one on your list of conquests for a wager?”

“I want you. For your beauty. For your spicy lovemaking.”

“I’d starve before I ever accepted an offer from you.”

“Now is a very foolish time for pride, Grace.”

“Perhaps, but I could not swallow it now without choking on it. Being with you tends to make things want to come up.”

He jerked back. “Stupid witch.” He spun away and stormed off down the narrow path until he vanished around a bend, and his golden hair, beaver hat, and immaculate greatcoat disappeared.

A familiar protective growl startled her. “What did he say to you, Grace?”

Devlin strode to Grace, who stood with her back to a gnarled apple tree, her hands behind her, her head tipped back against the bark. This had to be a highwayman’s fantasy—finding a beautiful, gently bred lady alone in the woods, one who possessed a perfect face worth swinging for and a voluptuous body that was carnal temptation personified.

But for the first time in his life, Devlin felt guilty over focusing on a woman’s sexual attributes. He liked Grace Hamilton. “What did he say?” he repeated. “If Wesley insulted you, I will—”

She turned, treating him to the pink flush in her cheeks and the sparks of tempestuous anger in her green eyes. “Spank him again? Perhaps he enjoys it,” she muttered.

Feisty, still. But he could not for the life of him understand why she had followed Wesley out here.

“Tell me what he said, Grace.”

She would not look at him. Offended or hurt, he couldn’t tell.

For a moment, she chewed the thumb of her white cotton glove. Then she groaned, a very unladylike sound, and, like her snorting laughter, this charmed him too.

“Lord Wesley made a very generous offer. A house in London, enough jewels to choke me, and lessons in lovemaking from the master.”

“Did you accept?”

Without looking to him, without a word, she began to stalk away.

Blast, what had he done now? He’d asked a simple question; she was in trouble, she might have accepted. “Grace, stop.”

Even his dangerous tone had no effect on Grace. She reached the first set of steps cut into the rock of the ridge and was hurrying down, skirts in her hands. The wind that hurtled over the ridge ripped at those skirts and threatened to steal her hat. Bare branches swooped toward her, and the gray clouds seemed to press closer as though drawn by her fire and heat.

Damnation.

She had stood there and listened to the twaddle his bloody titled brother had fed her, but she ran away from him.

He would not stand for it.

All he wanted to do was help her.

Heedless of the wet rock, he took the steps three at a time. She reached the small terraced plateau before he caught her.

Not there. He was not about to have a confrontation in this place—so he scooped her into his arms. She squealed and pushed against his biceps. “Don’t struggle, love. If I drop you here, you’ll roll down the steps.”

God, she was a delicious weight in his arms. Her lush bottom rested against his forearm and his hand splayed over her shapely back. Instead of taking the path down, he took a narrow track away from the edge of the ridge and found his father’s folly. Bushes now obscured the path, but the branches were only budding and the white columns and oriental roof peeked through.

Slowly, Grace slid her hands up to his shoulders and held on as she twisted in his arms. “What is this?”

“Where I was conceived,” he said with wry humor.

Pushing open the door with his boot, he gave a sigh. The daybed cushions bore stains and mildew, and dirt and dust coated everything. “Apparently my father hasn’t been trysting with the same regularity he used to.”

“You are not taking me in there. It was bad enough that I went to the summerhouse at his lordship’s summons—I will not be carried in against my will.”

Her breath brushed his face, warm and sweet.

“Is it against your will, Grace? Is that the truth?”

God, but her scent drove him mad. Rock hard, aroused to the point he could barely think, he refused to press his interests. He was not going to seduce her. He was not going to act like his damned brother.

“You thought I would be willing to become his mistress. After what he did. What he said. You think nothing of me—of course, you don’t—”

Putting her on her feet stopped her words. He touched his thumb to her lips in the doorway of the once sumptuous room where a hundred women had fallen in love with his randy father. Even through the leather of his glove, he caught his breath at the softness of her mouth, the sheer velvet perfection of those rose-pink lips. “I was afraid you felt forced to accept, love.”

Her breath hitched—he heard it—and she brushed a soft kiss to his black gloved thumb. “I turned down your offer, Mr. Sharpe. I would never accept his.”

Grace could not believe she said the words with such a steady voice. Mr. Sharpe’s magnetic blue eyes held her with far more power than Lord Wesley’s intimating stance. She could not look away—his sapphire blue irises appeared rimmed with a thin circle of violet, unusual and arresting.

They were alone and it would be so very easy to touch him. Everywhere. His chest. His shoulders. If she wished, she could reach down with both hands and greedily explore the hard length of his cock.

Mystified, she looked up into his blue eyes again. They’d shared one night and it felt as though all barriers had dropped away. But then he knew more about her than anyone. He knew she was capable of going to a man’s bed with a broken heart, desperately searching for…for hope, she realized.

Was that it? Hope that she had not lost everything with one stupid mistake? Hope that she could still be desired for who she was? Confused, she blinked, now aware that she had no idea what she had wanted from making love with Devlin Sharpe, except a few fleeting moments of connection.

But they had a connection now. It was undeniable.

“I want you, Grace.”

His voice was molten sin, his lips smiling in conspiracy as though he could read her very thoughts.

Perhaps he could. Perhaps she was that transparent. Lust showed. Desire showed. She’d spent years trying to be proper—to be from her mother’s world, not her father’s—and she’d thrown it all away in one night.

The instant his knuckles skimmed her cheek with tantalizing pressure, she tipped her head back, shut her eyes, and moaned. Lazily, his fingers stroked back and forth, and suddenly all she could think of was her quim. How hot she suddenly was. How tight and tingly she felt. She swallowed hard and touched him in return.

Cupping her palm, she cradled his strong chin, the sort of chin that promised strength a woman could rely upon. Firm, slightly squared, a slight cleft in the middle. Smoother than it had been. Devlin…Mr. Sharpe had shaved this morning.

Where had he slept? In the house, where he was not accepted? He looked far too immaculate and clean and perfect to have slept rough. Where would he find a bed?

A parching tightness claimed her throat. Men who had no bed often seduced their way into a woman’s, as a way to have a roof over their heads, a fire to warm them, and a willing companion to entertain.

He was a highwayman—a man who thought himself above the king’s laws. Why should it surprise her that he might have spent the rest of the night with another woman? He knew she had been with Wesley before him and he did not care.

Oh God—had he only slept with her because he’d hoped to spend the night in her bed?

Brushing her lips, his fingers unleashed fireworks in her chest. “Don’t think, Grace. I can see it in your eyes. You are thinking too much.” He pressed a small, quick kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“I’ve a room at the local inn.”

“Alone?” The word spilled out before she could stop it and she jerked back from his caress, ashamed she had shown how vulnerable she was. But she could not stop thinking.

“Alone.”

“Why?” She could think of so many reasons. It was too late to find a woman. None took his fancy. All were in other men’s beds.

His broad chest lifted on a deep breath, and he gripped the doorjamb tightly. Was he frustrated by her prying question, frustrated to waste the time on a lie? Did women bother to question him—or was that the point at which the pursuit lost its allure? That was apparently the way it worked for men, or so she had seen. At dances, she had seen the quick, desperate look that mounted in a man’s eyes when a woman began to show her possessiveness.

He leaned over her, so tall that she had to tip her head right back to watch his eyes for a glimpse of his true emotions. “I didn’t want anyone else, so I lay awake all night and thought about you.”

An enigmatic answer that told her nothing. His eyes were far too carefully shuttered to reveal a thing. He’d bluffed the Navy, for heaven’s sake, and surely more than a few magistrates. How vain she’d been to think she could see through his words. “What did you think about me?”

“A lot of very naughty thoughts. Would you like to hear them?”

“No!”

“I think you would.” His dimple winked, and she saw his chest move as he visibly relaxed. “Why don’t you undress me while I tell you?”

It was as though an entirely different man had taken possession of this beautiful, broad body. Even his voice had changed—it had been a gruff growl when he’d admitted to thinking about her. Now it was a deep, sensual purr, as though he’d relaxed into the role of unrepentant rake.

She made no move to obey and strip him. He took a step forward, and his sheer size forced her to take one back. The door had only just clicked shut behind him when he sank to his knees in front of her.

Frank, yet playful, his dancing blue eyes teased. “I thought about this—about lifting your skirts in a public place, a place I should never dare take such a liberty.”

“This is not a public place. Not exactly.”

“In June, her ladyship used to hold an al fresco luncheon, an annual tradition. Imagine we are there. Imagine that I found you there, and I turned your chair away from the table, much to the shock of all the gentle guests. Without a word I drop to my knees on the soft grass and I lift your skirts to your hips, just like this—”

Winking, he grasped her hems and pushed up the weight of her sturdy wool skirts and the white petticoats beneath. Cool air brushed her thighs, a sharp and exciting contrast to the heat of her body.

“The whole world is going to know how much I desire you, how damned tempting you are.”

“I wouldn’t—” She was caught up in imagining, until she thought of all the guests looking as condescending and judgmental and angry as Prudence. “Of course you could do that. You are a highwayman—and a man—so you can get away with anything.”

“And with me as your champion so could you, Grace.” He bent and touched his mouth to her drawers, letting his tongue touch the fabric and his hot breath slide through. He opened the lace-trimmed slit and buried his face there, and she almost jumped. His tongue slicked all over her quim, bathing her with pleasure, tasting her most intimate flavors.

“I would sit you up on the table like the sweet, sumptuous dessert you are, and eat you this way. And all I would care about is tasting you and pleasing you. And all you would want is to come on my face.”

He flicked her clitoris with his tongue and sensation streaked through her. Her legs shook, her muscles straining, and she drove her fingers into his hard, wide shoulders. Wet, hot, so shockingly intimate, his tongue circled, stroking the side; then he twirled its tip against the very top of her clitoris and she screamed, “Mr. Sharpe!”

“Devlin,” he murmured against her sticky nether lips. Then his lips played on the swollen, throbbing nub, his teeth grazed it, and she pumped against his mouth and sobbed.

He stopped again and she suddenly found her fists punching his shoulders. “Oh don’t…don’t.”

Feasting on her cunny had mussed his hair, and the dark honey-colored locks tumbled over his eyes. Eyes that gleamed with delight at her desperate plea. “I want to learn what delights you, what thrills you, what you fear to try…I want to learn how to make you come.”

Learn? He spoke as though it took a long time. As though there were lessons. She would be going away today. This was her last time with him…her last chance to look into his mesmerizing eyes and share sighs and moans and laughter.

There was nothing to learn about her. She would be gone.

With a low chuckle, he teased her nether lips with his tongue and gently touched his finger to her juicy entrance. She was so wet his fingers filled her. He thrust them in and out and she moaned over and over. Whimpered when he moved his fingers away.

His big hands closed on her derriere and pulled her to his face. He rocked her and she found her rhythm, stroking her clit against his hot, raspy tongue over and over. Stars burst behind her lids and she could barely suck in breath for moaning.

She was grinding on him, but he worked his mouth against her and she gave her body to the tension coiling inside—

He drew back and she surged forward. He wanted to leave her there, on the brink, but she couldn’t—

Even as his mouth drew back, her orgasm burst inside. She couldn’t stop it. Her body seemed to melt into a puddle of molten cream, and she flowed all over his face, crying his name. Sobbing with thrilling delight. Moaning and moaning until her lungs were empty, her throat was dry, and she was certain that if she spread her arms, she’d fly.

She collapsed but he was there, lowering her into his embrace. Her salty, ripe, erotic taste teased her lips as he kissed her. He kissed her hard and passionately, and she was a boneless, silken, languorous puddle held in his arms.

“Grace, love—” Husky, raw, his voice washed over her.

“I thought,” Grace whispered. “I thought I wanted memories that would keep me happy when I went to bed alone—”

Devlin felt Grace change in his arms from a melting, well-pleasured woman to a stiff and awkward lady in an instant. Brushing back unruly strands of her pure gold hair with a jerky motion of her pretty hand, she gazed up at him.

Rigid, thick, swollen to the limits of its skin, his cock was pulsing, and desire and lust and need nagged in his head, harder to ignore than cannon fire. Her head had dipped and he licked his lips, savoring the taste of her wet, hot, fragrant quim. He doubted his selfish half brother had done that to her.

He bent to capture her lips again. It would be better if they did not speak, but she shook her head. “I want—”

She pulled from his embrace, tugged down her skirts. “Oh, but I was wrong. So very, very wrong. These memories are much worse than those of Wesley! These make me hot and frustrated. They will make me yearn.”

He couldn’t help the surge of pride. The bloody grin that came to his lips.

She glanced up. “You would smirk, wouldn’t you?”

“I like to hear that I pleased you, Grace.” Her curls fell about her neck, and he brushed them aside to put his lips to her damp throat. He had not had enough time with Grace.

He wanted days with her. Weeks with her.

With a shudder that went to his soul, he remembered the last time he had been unable to live without a woman. What a bloody mistake that had been.

Grace pulled away, stealing her luscious vanilla-scented skin from his hungry mouth. “You did,” she muttered. “How you must know that you did.”

“I am your champion, Grace, and my world is about sexual pleasure. Free, unfettered carnal exploration. Anything you desire, any way you wish—no judgment, no pain.”

“For you perhaps. It would never be that way for me.” She shut her eyes and groaned. “And my coach was waiting to leave! What will they think?”

Skimming his hand up, he pushed up heavy skirts and lace-trimmed petticoats. Grazing his thumb lazily around her quim, he said, “With me as your champion, Grace, you do not have to worry.”

“But you cannot be my champion, Mr. Sharpe. I can never see you again.”