Julia Quinn - The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Or maybe it was just that she knew he was looking at her.

Was this what it had felt like for that woman? The one in the painting? She must have been a woman of some experience by the time she’d posed for Monsieur Boucher, but surely there had to be a first time for her, as well. Had she, too, closed her eyes so she could feel a man’s gaze upon her body?

She felt Jack’s hand touching her face, the tips of his fingers softly trailing along the line of her neck to the hollow of her shoulder. He paused there, but only for a moment, and Grace sucked in her breath, waiting for the intimacy that awaited her.

“Why are your eyes closed?” he murmured.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

She waited. She gasped. She even jumped, just a little, when his fingers slid along the outer curve of her breast.

She felt herself arching. It was strange. She’d never thought about this, never even wondered what it might be like to have a man’s hands stroking her in this way, but now that the moment was upon her, she knew exactly what she wanted him to do.

She wanted to feel him cupping her, holding her entirely in his palm.

She wanted to feel his hand brushing against her nipples.

She wanted him to touch her…dear God, she wanted him to touch her so badly, and it was spreading. It had moved from her breasts to her belly, to the hidden spot between her legs. She felt hot, and tingly, and searingly hungry.

Hungry…there.

It was without a doubt the strangest and most compelling sensation. She could not ignore it. She didn’t want to ignore it. She wanted to feed it, indulge it, let him teach her how to quench it.

“Jack,” she moaned, and his hands moved until he was cradling both of her breasts. And then he kissed her.

Her eyes flew open.

His mouth was on her now, on the very tip, and she actually clasped one of her hands to her mouth, lest she scream with the pleasure of it. She hadn’t imagined…She’d thought she’d known what she wanted, but this…

She hadn’t known.

She clutched at his head, using him for support. It was torture, and it was bliss, and she was barely able to breathe by the time he dragged his mouth back up to hers.

“Grace…Grace…” he murmured, over and over, his voice sliding into her skin. It felt as if he was kissing her everywhere, and maybe he was-one moment it was her mouth, and next her ear, and then her neck. And his hands-they were wicked. And relentless.

He never stopped moving, never stopped touching her. His hands were on her shoulders, and then her hips, and then one of them started sliding down her leg, tugging at her nightgown until it slipped off her entirely.

She should have been embarrassed. She should have felt awkward. But she didn’t. Not with him. Not when he was gazing down at her with such love and devotion.

He loved her. He’d said he did, and she believed him, but now she felt it. The heat, the warmth. It shone from his eyes. And she understood now how a woman might find herself ruined. How could anyone resist this? How could she resist him?

He stood then, breathing hard, working at the fastenings of his breeches with frantic fingers. His chest was already bare, and all she could think was-He’s beautiful. How could a man be so beautiful? He’d not led a life of leisure; this, she could see. His body was lean and firm, his skin marred here and there with scars and calluses.

“Were you shot?” she asked, her eyes falling on a puckered scar on his upper arm.

He looked down, even as he pushed off his breeches. “A French sniper,” he confirmed. He smiled, rather lopsidedly. “I am fortunate he was not better at his craft.”

It should not have been so amusing. But the statement was so…him. So matter of fact, so understated and dry. She smiled in return. “I almost died, too.”

“Really?”

“Fever.”

He winced. “I hate fevers.”

She nodded, pinching the corners of her lips to keep from smiling. “I should hate to be shot.”

He looked back at her, his eyes alight with humor. “I don’t recommend it.”

And then she did laugh, because it was all so ludicrous. He was standing there naked, for heaven’s sake, clearly aroused, and they were discussing the relative unpleasantness of gunshot wounds and fevers.

He crawled onto the bed, looming over her with a predatory expression. “Grace?” he murmured.

She looked up at him and nearly melted. “Yes?”

He smiled wolfishly. “I’m all better now.”

And with that, there were no more words. When he kissed her this time, it was with an intensity and fervor that she knew would carry them through to completion. She felt it, too-this desire, this relentless need-and when he nudged his leg between hers, she opened to him immediately, without reservation, without fear.

How long he kissed her, she couldn’t possibly have known. It seemed like nothing. It seemed like forever. It felt like she had been born for this moment, with this man. As if somehow, on the day of her birth, this had all been preordained-on October the twenty-eighth, the year of our Lord 1819, she would be in Room 14 of the Queen’s Arms Inn, and she would give herself to this man, John Augustus Cavendish-Audley.

Nothing else could possibly have happened. This was how it was meant to be.

She kissed him back with equal abandon, clutching at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere she could gain purchase. And then, just when she thought she could handle no more, his hand slipped between her legs. His touch was gentle, but still, she thought she might scream from the shock and wonder of it.

“Jack,” she gasped, not because she wanted him to stop, but because there was no way she could remain silent amidst the onslaught of sensation brought forth by that simple touch. He tickled and teased, and she panted and writhed. And then she realized that he was no longer just touching her, he was inside of her, his fingers exploring her in a manner so intimate it left her breathless.

She could feel herself clench around him, her muscles begging for more. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know anything except that she wanted him. She wanted him, and something only he could give her.

He shifted position, and his fingers moved away. His body lifted off hers, and when Grace looked up at him, he seemed to be straining against some irresistible force. He was holding himself above her, supporting himself on his forearms. Her tongue moved, preparing to say his name, but just then she felt him at her entrance, pressing gently forward.

Their eyes met.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Just wait…I promise…”

“I’m not scared,” she whispered.

His mouth moved into a lopsided smile. “I am.”

She wanted to ask what he meant and why he was smiling, but he began to move forward, opening her, stretching her, and it was the strangest, most amazing thing, but he was inside of her. That one person could enter another seemed the most spectacular thing. They were joined. She could not think of any other way to describe it.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “I like it,” she whispered back.

He groaned at that, and thrust forward, the sudden motion sending a wave of sensation and pressure through her. She gasped his name and grabbed his shoulders, and then she found herself in an ancient rhythm, moving with him, as one. Moving, and pulsing, and straining, and then-

She shattered. She arched, she moaned, she nearly screamed. And when she finally came down and found the strength to breathe, she could not imagine how she could possibly still be alive. Surely a body could not feel that way and live to repeat it.

Then, abruptly, he pulled out of her and turned away, grunting and groaning his own satisfaction. She touched his shoulder, feeling the spasms of his body. And when he cried out, she did not just hear it. She felt it, through his skin, through her body.

To her heart.

For a few moments he did not move, just lay there, his breathing slowly returning to normal. But then he rolled back over and gathered her into his arms. He whispered her name and kissed the top of her head.

And then he did it again.

And again.

And when she finally fell asleep, that was what she heard in her dreams. Jack’s voice. Soft, whispering her name.

Jack knew the exact moment she fell asleep. He was not sure what it was-her breathing had already softened to a slow, even sigh, and her body had long since stilled.

But when she fell asleep, he knew.

He kissed her one last time, on her temple. And as he looked down at her peaceful face, he whispered, “I will marry you, Grace Eversleigh.”

It did not matter who he was. He would not let her go.

The drive to Butlersbridge was everything Jack remembered. The trees, the birds, the precise shade of green as the wind ruffled the grass…These were the sights and sounds of his childhood. Nothing had changed. It ought to have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

When he opened his eyes that morning, Grace had already slipped from the bed and made her way back to her own room. He was disappointed, of course; he’d been awakened by his own love and desire for her, and wanted nothing more than to gather her back into his arms.

But he had understood. Life was not as free for a woman as for a man, even a woman of independent means. Grace had her reputation to consider. Thomas and Amelia would never say a word against her, but Jack did not know Lord Crowland well enough to guess what he might do if Grace were caught in his bed. And as for the dowager…

Well, it went without saying that she’d happily destroy Grace now, if given the chance.