Chapter One #3
Grace drank the rest of her lemonade and placed the cup on a tray held by a footman walking by. She waved her hand dismissively. “Men are always presuming to know what is best for women.”
“So you mean to tell me that in this hypothetical future in which you are a woman of means, you wish to deny yourself male companionship? Children?”
That seemed to give her pause, but she shrugged. “If I have my art, I do not need children.”
“All right.”
“Besides, this future is not so hypothetical. Beresford himself pointed out that I could marry a willing man who preferred to stay in the city while his wife retired to the country. I do not see anything wrong with this plan as long as both parties agree to the terms in advance.”
Owen shook his head. He thought her naive.
That was, he was sympathetic, as he was not interested in becoming ensnared in a marriage himself.
His work at Parliament was far too important, and he enjoyed partaking in female companionship when it availed itself.
Lady Grace, as a virginal miss, may not have realized the carnal pleasures she was choosing to forsake for her independence.
Owen had always felt people should experience all life had to offer before resigning themselves to their fate.
Perhaps he should introduce Grace to the Duchess of Swynford.
Her Grace was married to Owen’s dear friend Hugh, and she had been resigned to a life of solitude until she and Hugh fell in love.
The Duchess had thrived at Hugh’s side and had recently given birth to the duke’s heir, a child that, by all accounts, she doted on to an unseemly degree, insofar as women of the ton were generally not supposed to care for their children if they had money to throw at nannies.
Wealthy aristocratic women were too delicate to care for children, according to Owen’s own mother, although the Duchess of Swynford was sturdy enough.
Owen sighed. Why was his mind wandering all over?
“I find it a bit stifling in here,” he said to Grace. “If I recall correctly, Rutherford has a terrace near the back of the house that offers some decent fresh air. Would you like to accompany me?”
“Not to state the obvious, but if I walk out of the room with you, people will get ideas.”
“Let them. We’ve done nothing wrong. And I intend to do nothing wrong by you. You can trust me.”
She raised an eyebrow, but said, “All right.”
Owen knew he was being self-indulgent. He wasn’t ready to let Grace go just yet because he was enjoying her company—particularly the wry expression on her face, as if she was in on whatever he was up to—but she made a reasonable point that people might assume they were courting.
Well, as long as neither put the other in a compromising position, it didn’t matter. All he wanted was fresh air and her company.
Back in the corridor outside the ballroom, Owen paused to try to remember which doorway led to the terrace. “I think it’s this way,” he said, leading her down the hall.
“Would the Rutherfords approve of us wandering around their house?” she asked.
“If you invite five hundred people to your home, you must assume some of them will wander. I think this is it.”
Owen opened a door that led not to a terrace but to a sitting room. He laughed. “Well, this is as good as anything. Far fewer people in here.”
“What is your aim here, my lord. Do you intend for the maddening horde out there to believe you have an interest in me?”
“I do have an interest in you.” Which was the truth. He found her so charming, he wanted to have a conversation with her in a room where he could hear her speak.
“Not in marrying me, though.”
“No. But I enjoy your company and hoped to prolong our engagement this evening. You say you do not wish to marry, so can I extrapolate that this means you do not wish to mingle among the eligible bachelors with the other debutantes?”
“I came because my mother insisted, if you must know.”
He could not bed her, and he would not say anything scandalous enough to offend her, but part of him wanted to use their bodies to make what he assumed would be a persuasive argument about why she should perhaps not give up on marriage.
“What are you thinking, my lord?” she asked.
“What makes you ask?”
“You have a curious expression on your face.”
He stepped toward her. She was lush, beautiful, her plump lower lip begging to be kissed, her voluptuous bosom practically spilling out of her gown, those soft tendrils of hair falling around her face wanting to wrap around his fingers.
“Well, if you must know, I think it a shame for a woman to relegate herself to spinsterhood. There are so many experiences she’d be denying herself.”
That seemed to get her back up. She stared at him primly. “Such as?”
He shook his head. “It is not for me to say.”
She pursed her lips. “I think I know what you are implying, but in truth, I am not offended.” She touched her neck, then her fingers drifted slowly across her collarbone to her bosom.
Owen doubted she intended to be provocative, but his attention was…
provoked. This was a woman with a great deal of sensuality.
Of desire. She met his gaze and said, “I will admit to a certain amount of…curiosity.”
Owen felt drawn to her as if he were pulled by a string. He stood before her and gazed into her eyes. He wanted her, even if she was completely off limits.
“I suppose if I followed Beresford’s suggestion and married some nobleman who preferred London to the country,” she said, her fingers tracing patterns on the lapels of his jacket, likely unconsciously, “then we could… have marital relations… a few times a year. Then the rest of our time would be our own.”
“I doubt you would be satisfied with that,” Owen blurted out.
“No?” Her lips parted.
No. Definitely not. There was no way a woman as beautiful and unconsciously sensual as Grace Midwood would be satisfied with a quick tumble on the rare occasions she and her husband were in the same location. Not if her husband were doing it right.
“I do not believe a woman like you, with intelligence and, I presume, some talent at her art, a woman in the prime of her life with desires of her own, would be satisfied with an absentee husband. Nor do I think you would be satisfied with a life as an idle, delicate lady of the ton.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Their gazes met and it was like a shock to Owen’s system. Lord, she was beautiful.
She stepped forward and lowered her voice.
“You see my conundrum, then. You men always presume to know the right thing, but you do not know the circumstances us women often find ourselves. My options seem to be the nunnery or the glass cage of a ton marriage, and neither tempt me, but here we are. Perhaps I shall never be satisfied.”
Something deep in Owen wanted to satisfy her. Without intentionally meaning to, he stepped forward and cupped her cheek. Her skin was just as soft as it looked.
He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to take his next breath, but he knew he shouldn’t. Instead, he stared at her pouty lips and inhaled her citrusy scent. Her lips parted and he looked up at her eyes. Their gazes met and he felt like something passed between them.
He barely knew this woman. He knew of her, moved in the same circles as she did.
His late father had been friends with hers.
They’d had casual conversations in the past, perhaps flirted a bit.
He liked her, he was attracted to her, he wanted to kiss her.
But he didn’t want to give her the idea that he could be the poor sucker pulled into her marriage scheme.
He had no desire to marry, and he already knew one night a year with her would not be enough.
He kissed her anyway.
It was like a thunderclap. Like something inside Owen lit up like lightning.
She melted against him and parted her lips. She put her arms around his shoulders, as if she was as caught up in this as he was, so he grasped her waist and pulled her closer. And just when he was about to dive in further, he heard a gasp somewhere to his right.
They’d been caught.
He stepped away from Grace and met her gaze again, then looked at who had discovered them. It was the Marchioness Midwood, because of course it was.
“Grace!” she groaned out.
Owen felt as though his fate was sealed.