Chapter Twelve
Grace had found herself embroiled in any number of risky ventures across her twenty-four years of life. She had pick-pocketed the well-to-do, had burglarized homes, had experienced a brief stint in jail. She and danger were old friends; they had walked hand-in-hand more times than she could count.
But nothing had ever felt quite so dangerous as this—this ineffable attraction that sizzled along her skin as if she’d been struck by lightning.
As Lord Lockhart towered over her, his broad shoulders blotted out the light, casting her into shadow.
A muscle in his jaw flexed, as if his teeth were clenched behind the seam of his lips around some words of chastisement that he could not quite make himself speak.
She could smell the faint astringency of liquor that clung to him, knew herself to be spry enough to evade him if she wished to.
It would be easy. A simple duck beneath his arm, a pivot, and she would be free.
But she didn’t wish to. Her heart fluttered like a caged bird, and her palms were hot and damp.
Any moment now, he was going to kiss her, and she—she wanted to know what it would be like.
How far, exactly, he had unraveled from the stern, starchy gentleman he had always presented himself as.
How much of his leash he had slipped. How far she might push him still.
She swiped the tip of her tongue across her lower lip. “You knew what I meant to do at your uncle’s house,” she said. “You can hardly complain of it now.”
His brows lowered, dark slashes over the glacial blue of his eyes. “I don’t want you taking such risks again,” he said. “Is that clear?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!” Grace unfolded her hands, threw them up in a wild little gesture. “Sometimes, there is risk involved in such things—”
“Not your risk. Not on my account.”
“But I wasn’t caught,” she protested. “And what’s more, I was successful. It’s true that I had only a few minutes to be about my business, but—”
“I don’t care that you were successful,” he interjected. “I care that you were nearly caught, and it would have been my fault. That you were forced to climb down a damned tree during a dinner party to escape.”
“It was the safest route to take!”
“It won’t happen again.” His voice had pitched to a guttural tone, rife with agitation. “Or your involvement in this is at an end.”
Her mouth dropped open in shock. “You can’t just—just unilaterally decide such a thing!”
“I can and I am.” His head dipped. She heard his swift, sharp inhale near her ear. “Your hair smells like jasmine.”
Grace’s heart tripped through a few frantic beats. “I have got a stack of correspondence pilfered from your uncle’s desk,” she said, her voice quavering. “You’ll never get it if”—had he sniffed her hair again?—“if you shut me out.”
“I’ve already proved myself reasonably competent at sleight of hand,” he murmured. “I suppose I might as well add housebreaking to my criminal repertoire.”
Criminal repertoire? Despite herself, a hysterical giggle fluttered in her throat. “You’ll never find them,” she said. “I have hiding places you could never dream of.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” He lifted his free hand, and the tip of his finger traced a burning path across her collarbone. “It doesn’t matter. You’re going to give them to me.”
Had a simple touch ever felt quite so evocative? A shiver slid down her spine as he nudged the shoulder of her wrapper aside. Grace swallowed hard, her mouth gone dry. “I am?”
“Yes. And furthermore, you are going to agree not to take such risks in the future. If anyone’s freedom should be at risk, it must be mine.”
Chill bumps broke out upon her flesh at the sensation of his fingertips grazing her skin as they meandered toward the nape of her neck.
Her hair slid through his fingers like silk as he combed it away from her neck, catching up a handful of it in his fist to pull her head back gently.
She pursed her dry lips. “Let’s—let’s discuss this rationally. ”
A low laugh. “God, no. You could talk circles around me. And half the time, you’re lying.”
Grace gave an offended sniff. “Not half. I only—”
“Not tonight.” His cheek scraped hers, the scant growth of beard that had bloomed upon his jaw in the hours since his last shave grazing her skin. “Not tonight, Grace.”
The touch of his lips at the corner of her mouth seared her straight to her soul. Oh, she was weak—weak enough to turn her face to his, to invite further liberties. Her hands lifted, settling upon the wall of his chest, his bare flesh burning her palms.
“Henry.” She had never called him by his name before. She’d never even thought of him by it. He had always been Lord Lockhart; he of unassailable dignity, of unwarranted feline disparagement, of stern demeanor and frequent disapproval.
But now, with his fingers in her hair and his lips pressed to hers—he was Henry.
His heart beat beneath the palm of her hand; an escalating pound.
He eased closer still, and she felt a tremor ripple through the arm he slid about her waist. She knew well enough the flavor of whisky, and it wasn’t only that she tasted on his tongue.
It was fear. Not that he had nearly watched his claim to his title go up like so much smoke, but fear for her.
Probably he didn’t know it, but with one arm about her waist and the other raking through her hair, pressing her back to the wall, he had wrapped himself about her.
Not like a cage to keep her prisoner, but like a shield to keep her safe.
Somehow that realization curled around her heart and squeezed. That his overbearing demand had not come from a lack of faith in her abilities, but instead a place of concern for her welfare.
“I don’t lie half the time,” she murmured as his lips parted from hers at last and blazed a path across her cheek.
A huff of reluctant laughter. His warm breath coasted across her ear. “I know,” he said. “And I know when you are lying.”
“You don’t. You couldn’t.” A shiver coasted down her spine as his palm slid over the curve of her bottom.
“I do,” he insisted, bending his head to brush his lips across the curve of her shoulder. “You’ve got a tell.”
Grace surfaced briefly from the sensual shroud that had fallen over her. “What? No, I haven’t!” Had she? “You must tell me what it is immediately.”
“You have. And I won’t. So long as you don’t know it, you can’t lie to me.” He buried a guttural sound against the curve of her shoulder, and his hand pulled itself free of her hair to join its twin. “Christ. This perfect arse. So damned soft.”
An odd warmth sparked in her chest, melting her once more.
There was no denying she ran more plump than lean.
She had weathered suggestions of slimming regimens, of foregoing sweets.
She had suffered the indignity of cruel taunts and whispers.
More than a few men—and women—had tried to make her feel ashamed of her body, to suggest that its contours made her less desirable, less worthy.
It had never worked. Grace had long understood that her worth was not measured in the width of her waist or the span of her hips. None of them had ever succeeded in making her think less of herself, or feel less valuable than she knew herself to be.
But it was surprisingly lovely to find herself now appreciated for those features which some had tried to convince her were flaws.
His undeniable attraction was evident now, not only in the reverent grip of his hands as he tested the softness of her bottom, but in the bulge behind the placket of his trousers, which pressed against her stomach.
“I have dreamed of this.” It was just a whisper against her temple, so low it was almost as if he had not intended for her to hear it.
And she wondered—for how long? The sigh that drifted across his lips sounded like the relief of an ancient longing at last fulfilled.
Had the signs of it always been there, just beyond her notice? For weeks? Months? Years?
Her hands drifted up his chest, slid over his shoulders.
That dark hair felt cool and soft to the touch of her fingers as she ruffled the fine strands, rendering yet more chaos to what had once been an elegant style, and which he had already ruined with an evening of drinking and raking his hands through it in distress.
His arms tightened about her as she lifted herself onto the tips of her toes in an effort to bring her mouth to his once more. “Grace,” he murmured against her lips. “Go home.”
“What?” He couldn’t mean that. Not now.
Another sigh; deep and poignant and filled with regret. “Go home,” he said. “Before it’s too damned late.” And yet for all that, his arms struggled to release her, as if he spoke against his own desires.
Probably he did. She was not so innocent as to not understand what that hard ridge pressed against her stomach signified. “Why?” she asked, her lips pursing into a pout.
“Because it’s well past midnight, my mother and sister are sleeping just upstairs, and I’m half-sober at best.” One hand stroked her hair as if he were loath to release her.
“Your reputation is at risk if you stay. I am not the sort of man who could bear to have you on my conscience.” His voice lowered to a regretful mutter.
“Much as I might wish otherwise at the moment.”
“I really haven’t much of a reputation anyway,” she said. “That is to say, those that would think poorly of me already do. And the people who matter won’t, regardless.”
A gravelly chuckle stirred her hair. “I have already trespassed well beyond what I ought to have done. I should have sent you home straight away.”
Yes; he probably ought to have done. But she could not say that she had any particular regrets. “Henry—”