The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Chapter Eight

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.

But no, that was impossible. He’d just met her, and beyond that, he did not do love. Amendment: he did not do the heart-pounding, mind-fogging, overabundance of lust that was so often confused with love.

He loved women, of course. He liked them, too, which he was aware made him rather unique among men. He loved the way they moved, and he loved the sounds they made, whether they were melting in his arms or clucking their disapproval. He loved how each one smelled different, and how each moved differently, and how even so, there was something about them all as a group that seemed to brand them together. I am woman, the air around them seemed to say. I am most definitely not you.

And thank heavens for that.

But he had never loved a woman. And he did not have any inclination to do so. Attachments were messy things, given to all sorts of unpleasantries. He preferred to move from affaire to affaire. It fit his life-and his soul- much better.

He smiled. Just a little one. Exactly the sort one would expect from a man like him at a time like this. Perhaps with a little extra tilt in one corner. Just enough to lend some wry wit to his tone when he said, “You stepped into my room.”

She nodded, but the motion was so slow he couldn’t be sure she even realized she was doing it. When she spoke, there was a certain dazedness to it, as if perhaps she was talking to herself. “I won’t do it again.”

Now, that would be a tragedy. “I wish you would,” he said, offering her his most disarming smile. He reached out, and before she could guess his intentions, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It was certainly,” he murmured, “the most pleasant welcome of my day here at Belgrave.”

He did not let go of her fingers as he added, “I very much enjoyed discussing that painting with you.”

It was true. He had always liked the smart women best.

“As did I,” she answered, and then she gave her hand a gentle tug, forcing him to relinquish his hold. She took a few steps toward the door, then paused, turning partway around as she said, “The collection here rivals any of the great museums.”

“I look forward to viewing it with you.”

“We shall begin in the gallery.”

He smiled. She was clever. But just before she reached the door, he called out, “Are there nudes?”

She froze.

“I was wondering,” he said innocently.

“There are,” she replied, but she did not turn around. He longed to see the color of her cheeks. Vermillion, or merely pink?

“In the gallery?” he asked, because surely it would be impolite to ignore his query. He wanted to see her face. One last time.

“Not in the gallery, no,” she said, and she did turn then. Just enough so he could see the sparkle in her eyes. “It is a portrait gallery.”

“I see.” He made his expression appropriately grave. “No nudes, then, please. I confess to a lack of desire to see Great-Grandfather Cavendish au naturel.”

Her lips pressed together, and he knew it was with humor, not disapproval. He wondered just what it would take to nudge her further, to dislodge the laughter that was surely bubbling at the base of her throat.

“Or, good heavens,” he murmured, “the dowager.”

She sputtered at that.

He brought a hand to his forehead. “My eyes,” he moaned. “My eyes.”

And then, bloody hell, he missed it. She laughed. He was sure that she did, even though it was more of a