Julia Quinn - The Lost Duke of Wyndham

She scowled at him, but he clearly did not care, because he was already grinning and saying, “Are you going to defend the dowager next? I should like to hear you do it, because I’m most curious as to how, exactly, one would attempt such a feat.”

Grace could not imagine that he might actually expect her to reply. She turned, though, so he could not see her smile.

“I could not manage it myself,” he continued, “and I’m told I have a most silver tongue.” He leaned forward, as if imparting a grave secret. “It’s the Irish in me.”

“You’re a Cavendish,” she pointed out.

“Only half.” And then he added, “Thank God.”

“They’re not so bad.”

He let out a chuckle. “They’re not so bad? That’s your rousing defense?”

And then heaven help her, she could not think of a single good thing to say except, “The dowager would give her life for the family.”

“Pity she has not done so already.”

Grace shot him a startled look. “You sound just like the duke.”

“Yes, I’d noticed they had a warm and loving relationship.”

“Here we are,” Grace said, pushing open the door to his chamber. She stepped back then. It could not be proper for her to accompany him into his room. Five years she’d been at Belgrave, and she’d never once stepped foot inside Thomas’s chambers. She might not have much in this world, but she had her self-respect, and her reputation, and she planned to keep a firm hold on both.

Mr. Audley peeked in. “How very blue,” he remarked.

She could not help but smile. “And silken.”

“Indeed.” He stepped inside. “You’re not going to join me?”

“Oh, no.”

“Didn’t think you would. Pity. I’m going to have to loll about all on my own, rolling in all this silken blue splendor.”

“The dowager was right,” Grace said with a shake of her head. “You’re never serious.”

“Not true. I’m quite frequently serious. It’s up to you to figure out when.” He shrugged as he wandered over to the writing desk, his fingers trailing idly along the blotter until they slid off the edge and back to his side. “I find it convenient to keep people guessing.”

Grace said nothing, just watched him inspect his room. She ought to go. She rather thought she wanted to go, actually; all day she’d been longing to crawl into bed and go to sleep. But she stayed. Just watching him, trying to imagine what it was like to see all of this for the first time.

She had entered Belgrave Castle as a servant. He was quite possibly its master.

It had to be strange. It had to be overwhelming. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that this wasn’t the fanciest or most ostentatious guest bedchamber. Not even close.

“Excellent art,” he commented, tilting his head as he regarded a painting on the wall.

She nodded, her lips parting, then closing again.

“You were about to tell me it’s a Rembrandt.”

Her lips parted again, but this time in surprise. He hadn’t even been looking at her. “Yes,” she admitted.

“And this?” he asked, turning his attention to the one underneath. “Caravaggio?”

She blinked. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” he said, in a tone that was somehow both impressed and grim. “It’s a Caravaggio.”

“You are a connoisseur?” she asked, and she noticed that her toes had somehow crossed the threshold of the room. Her heels were still safe and proper, resting on the corridor floor, but her toes…

They itched in her slippers.

They longed for adventure.

She longed for adventure.

Mr. Audley moved to another painting-the east wall was full of them-and murmured, “I would not say that I am a connoisseur, but yes, I do like art. It’s easy to read.”

“To read?” Grace stepped forward. What an odd statement.

He nodded. “Yes. Look here.” He pointed to a woman in what looked like a post-Renaissance work. She was seated upon a lavish chair, cushioned in dark velvet, edged with thick, twisting gold. Perhaps a throne? “Look at the way the eyes look down,” he said. “She is watching this other woman. But she is not looking at her face. She’s jealous.”

“No, she’s not.” Grace moved to his side. “She’s angry.”

“Yes, of course. But she’s angry because she’s jealous.”

“Of her?” Grace responded, pointing to the “other” woman in the corner. Her hair was the color of wheat, and she was clad in a filmy Grecian robe. It ought to have been scandalous; one of her breasts seemed poised to pop out at any moment. “I don’t think so. Look at her.” She motioned to the first woman, the one on the throne. “She has everything.”

“Everything material, yes. But this woman”-he motioned to the one in the Grecian robe-“has her husband.”

“How can you even know she is married?” Grace squinted and leaned in, inspecting her fingers for a ring, but the brushwork was not fine enough to make out such a small detail.

“Of course she is married. Look at her expression.”

“I see nothing to indicate wifeliness.”

He lifted a brow. “Wifeliness?”

“I’m quite certain it’s a word. More so than truthiness, in any case.” She frowned. “And if she is married, then where is the husband?”

“Right there,” he said, touching the intricate gilt frame, just beyond the woman in the Grecian robe.

“How can you possibly know that? It’s beyond the edge of the canvas.”

“You need only to look at her face. Her eyes. She is gazing at the man who loves her.”

Grace found that intriguing. “Not at the man she loves?”

“I can’t tell,” he said, his head tilting slightly.

They stood in silence for a moment, then he said, “There is an entire novel in this painting. One need only take the time to read it.”

He was right, Grace realized, and it was unsettling, because he wasn’t supposed to be so perceptive. Not him. Not the glib, jaunty highwayman who couldn’t be bothered to find a proper profession.

“You’re in my room,” he said.

She stepped back. Abruptly.

“Steady now.” His arm shot out and his hand found her elbow.

She couldn’t scold him, not really, because she would have fallen. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He didn’t let go.

She’d regained her balance. She was standing straight.

But he didn’t let go.

And she did not pull away.

And so he kissed her. He couldn’t help it.

No, he couldn’t stop it. His hand was on her arm, and he could feel her skin, feel the soft warmth of it, and then when he looked down, her face was tilted toward his, and her eyes, deep and blue but so completely unmysterious, were gazing up at him, and in truth there was no way-simply no way-he could do anything in that moment but kiss her.

Anything else would have been a tragedy.

There was an art to kissing-he’d long known that, and he’d been told he was an expert. But this kiss, with this woman-the one time it should have been art, it was all breathless nerves, because never in his life had he wanted someone in quite the manner he wanted Miss Grace Eversleigh.

And never had he wanted quite so much to get it all right.

He couldn’t scare her. He had to please her. He wanted her to want him, and he wanted her to want to know him. He wanted her to cling to him, to need him, to whisper in his ear that he was her hero and she’d never want to so much as breathe the air near another man.

He wanted to taste her. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to drink in whatever it was that made her her, and see if it would transform him into the man he sometimes thought he ought to be. In that moment she was his salvation.

And his temptation.

And everything in between.

“Grace,” he whispered, his voice brushing across her lips. “Grace,” he said again, because he loved saying it.

She moaned in response, a soft whimpering sound that told him everything he wanted to know.

He kissed her softly. Thoroughly. His lips and tongue found every corner of her soul, and then he wanted more.

“Grace,” he said again, his voice hoarser now. His hands slid around to her back, pressing her against him so he could feel her body as a part of the kiss. She was not corseted under her gown, and every lush curve became known to him, every warm contour. He wanted more than the shape of her, though. He wanted the taste, the smell, the touch.

The kiss was seduction.

And he was the one being seduced.

“Grace,” he said again, and this time she whispered-

“Jack.”

It was his undoing. The sound of his name on her lips, the single, soft syllable-it shot through him like no Mr. Audley ever could. His mouth grew urgent and he pressed her more tightly to his body, too far gone to care that he’d gone hard against her.

He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck, moving down to the hollow of her collarbone. One of his hands moved along the side of her rib cage, the pressure plumping her breast up until the upper curve was so close to his lips, so tantalizingly-

“No…”

It was more of a whisper than anything else, but still, she pushed him away.

He stared at her, his breath rushed and heavy. Her eyes were dazed, and her lips looked wet and well-kissed. His body was thrumming with need, and his eyes slid down to her belly, as if he could somehow see through the folds of her dress, down, down to the V where her legs met.

Whatever he’d been feeling just then-it tripled. Dear God, he hurt with it.

With a shuddering groan, he tore his gaze back up to her face. “Miss Eversleigh,” he said, since the moment called for something, and there was no way he was going to apologize. Not for something that good.

“Mr. Audley,” she replied, touching her lips.

And he realized, in a single blinding moment of pure terror, that everything he saw on her face, every stunned blink of her eyes-he felt it, too.