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“What?” Something akin to horror washed over her. “Oh, Thomas, you’re mad.” But she knew what he really meant. A duke could not marry Grace Eversleigh. But if he wasn’t…If he was just plain Mr. Cavendish…Why not?

Acid rose in her throat. He didn’t mean to insult. She didn’t even feel insulted. She knew the world she inhabited. She knew the rules, and she knew her place.

Jack could never be hers. Not if he was the duke.

“What do you say, Gracie?” Thomas touched her chin, tipped her face up to look at him.

And she thought—maybe.

Would it be so very bad? She could not stay at Belgrave, that was for certain. And maybe she would learn to love him. She already did, really, as a friend.

He leaned down to kiss her again, and this time she let him, praying that her heart would pound and her pulse would race and that spot between her legs…Oh, please let it feel as it did when Jack touched her.

But there was nothing. Just a rather warm sense of friendship. Which she supposed wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“I can’t,” she whispered, turning her face to the side. She wanted to cry.

And then she did cry, because Thomas rested his chin on her head, comforting her like a brother.

Her heart twisted, and she heard him whisper, “I know.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jack did not sleep well that night, which left him irritable and out of sorts, so he dispensed with breakfast, where he was sure to run into persons with whom he might be expected to converse, and instead went directly outside for his now customary morning ride.

It was one of the finest things about horses—they never expected conversation.

He had no idea what he was meant to say to Grace once he saw her again. Lovely kissing you. Wish we’d done more.

It was the truth, even if he’d been the one to cut them off. He’d been aching for her all night.

He might have to marry this one.

Jack stopped cold. Where had that come from?

From your conscience, a niggling little voice—probably his conscience—told him.

Damn. He really needed to get a better night’s sleep. His conscience was never this loud.

But could he? Marry her? It was certainly the only way he’d ever be able to bed her. Grace was not the sort of woman one dallied with. It wasn’t a question of her birth, although that certainly was a factor. It was just…her. The way she was. Her uncommon dignity, her quiet and sly humor.

Marriage. What a curious notion.

It wasn’t that he’d been avoiding it. It was just that he’d never considered it. He was rarely in one place for long enough to form a lasting attachment. And his income was, by nature of his profession, sporadic. He wouldn’t have dreamed of asking a woman to make a life with a highwayman.

Except he wasn’t a highwayman. Not any longer. The dowager had seen to that.

“Lovely Lucy,” Jack murmured, patting his gelding on the neck before dismounting at the stables. He supposed he ought to give the poor thing a man’s name. They’d been together for so long, though. It’d be hard to make the change.

“My longest lasting attachment,” Jack murmured to himself as he walked back to the house. “Now that’s pathetic.” Lucy was a prince, as far as horses went, but still, he was a horse.

What did he have to offer Grace? He looked up at Belgrave, looming over him like a stone monster, and almost laughed. A dukedom, possibly. Good Lord, but he didn’t want the thing. It was too much.

And what if he wasn’t the duke? He knew that he was, of course. His parents had been married; he was quite certain of that. But what if there was no proof? What if there had been a church fire? Or a flood? Or mice? Didn’t mice nibble at paper? What if a mouse—no, what if an entire legion of mice had chewed through the vicarage register?

It could happen.

But what did he have to offer her if he was not the duke?