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“We will make it ourselves.”

There were so many moments when Grace could have said no. When his hand touched hers. When he pulled her to her feet.

When he’d asked her to dance, despite the lack of music—that would have been a logical moment.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

She should have. But she didn’t want to.

And then somehow she was in his arms, and they were waltzing, in time with the soft hum of his voice. It was not an embrace that would ever be allowed in a proper ballroom; he was holding her far too close, and with each step he seemed to draw her closer, until finally the distance between them was measured not in inches but in heat.

“Grace,” he said, her name a hoarse, needy moan. But she did not hear the last bit of it, that last consonant. He was kissing her by then, all sound lost in his onslaught.

And she was kissing him back. Good heavens, she did not think she had ever wanted anything so much as she did this man, in this moment. She wanted him to surround her, to engulf her. She wanted to lose herself in him, to lay her body down and offer herself up to him.

Anything, she wanted to whisper. Anything you want.

Because surely he knew what she needed.

The painting of that woman—the French king’s mistress—it had done something to her. She’d been bewitched. There could be no other explanation. She wanted to lie naked on a divan. She wanted to know the sensation of damask rubbing against her belly, while cool, fresh air whispered across her back.

She wanted to know what it felt like to lie that way, with a man’s eyes burning hotly over her form.

His eyes. Only his.

“Jack,” she whispered, practically throwing herself against him. She needed to feel him, the pressure of him, the strength. She did not want his touch only on her lips; she wanted it everywhere, and everywhere at once.

For a moment he faltered, as if surprised by her sudden enthusiasm, but he quickly recovered, and within seconds he had kicked the door shut and had her pinned up against the wall beside it, never once breaking their kiss.

She was on her toes, pressed so tightly between Jack and the wall that her feet would have dangled in the air if she’d been just an inch higher. His mouth was hungry, and she was breathless, and when he moved down to worship her cheek, and then her throat, it was all she could do to keep her head upright. As it was, her neck was stretching, and she could feel herself arching forward, her breasts aching for closer contact.

This was not their first intimacy, but it was not the same. Before, she’d wanted him to kiss her. She’d wanted to be kissed.

But now…It was as if every pent-up dream and desire had awoken within her, turning her into some strange fiery creature. She felt aggressive. Strong. And she was so damned tired of watching life happen around her.

“Jack…Jack…” She could not seem to say anything else, not when his teeth were tugging at the bodice of her frock. His fingers were aiding in the endeavor, nimbly unfastening the buttons at her back.

But somehow that wasn’t fair. She wanted to be a part of it, too. “Me,” she managed to get out, and she moved her hands, which had been reveling in the crisp silkiness of his hair, to his shirtfront. She slid down the wall, pulling him along with her, until they were both on the floor. Without missing a beat, she made frenetic work of his buttons, yanking his shirt aside once she was through.

For a moment she could do nothing but gaze. Her breath was sucked inside of her, burning to get out, but she could not seem to exhale. She touched him, laying her palm against his chest, a whoosh of air finally escaping her lips when she felt his heart leaping beneath his skin. She stroked upward, and then down, marveling at the contact, until one of his hands roughly covered hers.

“Grace,” he said. He swallowed, and she could feel that his fingers were trembling.

She looked up, waiting for him to continue. He could seduce with nothing but a glance, she thought. A touch and she would melt. Did he have any idea the magic he held over her? The power?

“Grace,” he said again, his breath labored. “I won’t be able to stop soon.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do.” His voice was ragged, and it made her want him even more.

“I want you,” she pleaded. “I want this.”

He looked as if he were in pain. She knew she was.

He squeezed her hand, and they both paused. Grace looked up, and their eyes met.