Page 17

“Sorry.” She forced herself to calm down and stop behaving like a mindless ninny.

“I tend to babble when circumstances put me at a complete loss.” Or when I am lying, but she didn’t say that part out loud.

There was no reason to arm the man with even more ammunition against her.

Cringing, she dabbed at his nose again. “Thank you for catching me. Poor old trellis. I suppose I have worn it out over the years.”

He strode over to the bench beneath the balcony, the one sheltered from the rest of the garden by a dense wall of shrubbery.

Behaving as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he seated himself on it and settled her firmly on his lap.

“Might I ask why you were climbing the trellis?” He tightened his arm around her when she tried to scramble off him and get to her feet.

“This is most inappropriate,” she said as sternly as she could. It was difficult to speak with a pounding heart and a level of breathlessness the likes of which she had never known.

“Climbing a trellis is also most inappropriate,” he replied, “as is a woman clad in buckskins and riding astride.”

A hot surge of indignance flashed through her. “I might not be conventional or appropriate at all times, but I assure you I am no lightskirt. Release me at once, Your Grace.”

Wolfebourne jerked his arms out from around her and held them aloft as if stretching his wingspan. “I meant no insult, Lady Grace. Forgive me.”

Since they were once again in the shadows of the cloudy night, she felt more than saw his remorse.

A hopelessness, an endearing sadness in his voice, immediately made her regret the sharpness of her words.

She eased off him, but rather than rising to her feet as she should, she seated herself beside him.

“I was climbing the trellis to escape this ridiculous dinner party my brother arranged because I am the next plump little Broadmere goose to be hung in the window.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My parents’ will decreed that while Chance might inherit the title, he would not receive the fullness of his vast inheritance until all of us are happily married for love—not for societal or political alignment.

” She twitched a shrug. “Two of my sisters have married. Going by birth order, I am the next to be placed on the chopping block, because Seri promised Mama she would marry last so she could take care of the rest of us.”

“I see.”

She doubted that he did, but she would allow him to think so. After all, they both needed to be getting back inside. The rest of the guests would not necessarily miss her, but they would soon miss him. “How did you happen to be out here to catch me?”

“I abhor cigar smoke. The stuff chokes me.” He shifted beside her with a heavy sigh as he sniffed and pressed her lacy handkerchief to his nose once more. “I love a good pipe tobacco, but sadly, the sweet aroma was overpowered by those bloody cigars.”

Unable to resist, she leaned closer and sniffed him. The faint, acrid smell of burned wood came to her. “You smell like the fields when they burn off the stubble after the harvest.”

“I assure you I shall bathe before retiring.”

“I like a man who bathes,” she said before thinking better of it.

What the blazes was wrong with her? Something about him made her feel as if she had known him all her life and could tell him anything.

That was a most dangerous development, since she already possessed a general laxness when it came to curbing her tongue.

“You like a man who bathes, do you?” The shadows hid his expression but failed to hide the amusement coloring his tone. Or was it amazement at her frankness?

“Yes.” She shuddered. “Have you ever met the Marquess of Pellington? The man thinks bathing causes ill health.” She couldn’t restrain a quiet laugh.

“The girls and I call him Lord Smellington because he reeks.” Oh good heavens, why in the world would she say that?

“Forgive me. That was most rude, and I should not have said it.”

“Your secrets are safe with me, Lady Grace. You should know that by now.”

His deep voice poured across her like the most intimate of caresses. It made her ache to be back in his lap, back in his arms. It made her wish—what?

She cleared her throat and scooted away, increasing the distance between them. “You should probably rejoin the guests, Your Grace.”

“And what about you?”

“I have other secret routes up to my bedchamber. I shall not be rejoining the party.”

“And what if I do not wish to rejoin the guests either?”

As much as she hated to remind him, she couldn’t shake the image of Lady Margaret and Lady Longmorten out of her mind. “You are betrothed, Your Grace, and we must not be found for I can’t be the ruin of my family.”

“Connor wishes to marry you,” he said as if she had not spoken. “He swears he shall, in fact. You won his heart when you saved Hector and lauded Connor as a hero for not deserting his little dog.”

That warmed her heart toward the duke even more, dangerously so. “Connor is a treasure. A true gentleman. I value his friendship as well as that of his sister’s.”

“And what of me, Lady Grace?” The clouds skittered away again, and moonlight flooded his face.

He leaned closer and touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her shiver.

His stare, the intensity of his gaze, made it impossible for her to move.

“Lady Grace,” he repeated, his quiet voice a rasping plea, “what of me?”

“What of you, Your Grace?” She allowed the heart-wrenching regret she felt to reach out to him. If only…

Mama once again whispered in her ear, Beware the game of “if only,” child, for it is fraught with danger.

“You belong to another,” she told him, “and I deserve someone free to belong to me alone.”

“That you do, my lady.” But he lowered his head and took her mouth, tenderly nuzzling her lips with a hungry groan that made her wonder if he thought her delicious.

“But I cannot resist you,” he whispered, his mouth brushing across hers as he spoke.

“You are unlike any woman I have ever known.” Then he kissed her again, longer, deeper.

He tasted of port, of forbidden excitement, and a regret she refused to bear.

She broke the dangerous connection, stumbled to her feet, and backed away. “Good evening, Your Grace. Return to Lady Margaret, for it is with her that you belong. Not me. Not ever me, as long as you are promised to her. As I said, I deserve better and will never settle for less.”

He stood, his looming height barely diminished with his bowed head. “Forgive my abhorrent behavior, Lady Grace. I assure you, it will not happen again.” Then he turned and disappeared into the shadows with the same silence of the clouds blotting out the silvery moon’s light once more.

Grace touched her lips. They tingled and throbbed and longed to be kissed again—by Wolfebourne. Or Wolfe, as she had heard Connor call him. The name fit the man well: a lone wolf slipping into the darkness.

Laughter from the intimate ladies’ parlor in the distance startled her into motion. Serendipity must not find her. She caught up her skirts and dashed to the old servants’ entrance hidden behind the lush rose garden Papa had planted the year Mama died.

Teeth clenched so tightly her jaws ached, she vowed to behave as though tonight had never happened. She would completely forget about it, wash it from her mind. As she pushed inside and climbed the servants’ stairs to the second floor, she prayed for the strength to keep that vow to herself.