Hot Silk Page 5

  Devlin wanted to help her, but he was offering her money because he’d shared her bed.

  It wasn’t that she’d expected anything. She hadn’t. But he’d discounted her just as Lord Wesley had done. Not as cruelly, but it hurt.

  Wesley had wanted to insult her and forget about her.

  Mr. Sharpe wanted to pay her and forget about her.

  He reached for her, but she stepped back, almost tripping over the sheet.

  “Grace.”

  “You can leave with your purse intact, Mr. Sharpe. All I wanted from you was—” What? Excitement? Better memories?

  Now, she wasn’t certain.

  “I only want to help you, Grace. How can that be wrong? How can that hurt you?” He raked his hair back. “Damn it, I don’t understand. What bloody crime did I commit?”

  This time she could not run away. Not from her own bedroom without a stitch of clothing on.

  The mattress creaked as he jumped to the floor. He stalked toward his clothes. “I’ll go, Grace, because I won’t hurt you or scare you by staying. But this is not over, love. It wasn’t my intention to make you angry or hurt you.”

  She turned away as he flung on his clothes—most of them, at least.

  Her heart had been broken again. The hurt she’d hoped to erase burned even stronger within her, a hot ache around her heart.

  She had turned to Mr. Sharpe, certain her heart would not be engaged, but the minute she’d tumbled into intimacy with him, she’d let herself fall in love. Well, not exactly love…a hope, a need for connection, a want for partnership.

  Now she knew—she couldn’t make love without involving her heart. It was as simple as that.

  The moment her bedroom door shut with a click, she was no longer sure why she’d driven Devlin Sharpe away.

  4

  “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, Pr
udence 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.
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  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.