Chapter Twenty
G race knew the moment the Duke entered the room. Of course she did. He was dressed to perfection, he carried himself as if he were the Emperor himself, and yet in his eyes she saw a clear hunger. She felt it across the room, she knew it every time their eyes met, and she burned with it whenever she heard his voice.
He burned for her. And she for him.
She could not forget his touch, his kiss, or the low rasp of his voice as he had instructed her. He had not touched her most intimate places, and yet last night she had felt as if every stroke had been made by him. She’d tried to recreate the experience alone, but it was not nearly as satisfying without him.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries. He was one of a throng of men who apparently wished to further their acquaintance with her. She knew it was because of her dowry, but that didn’t stop her from appreciating the flattery. Never before had she been the subject of such approval—even if it was false. Even Lucy seemed to glow from the attention. She had been allowed to join the salon, and her normally composed demeanour was flushed pink.
This was heady stuff for two girls who had lived in constant danger of being killed just because they were neither white nor Chinese.
When the Duke’s face tightened with anger whenever she smiled at someone other than him, she felt a surge of satisfaction. It was petty of her, but he had consumed her thoughts for so long there was a measure of satisfaction in seeing him think he was only one among many. It wasn’t true, of course. She saw only him. She felt only him. But she pretended to be fascinated by all the others, including his cousin.
Her walk to Hyde Park later was uneventful, probably because the Duke did not join the crowd that went to promenade. And the ball she attended that night was equally boring.
The Duke arrived late, so she had no dances left for him. He arrived on time the next night and managed to write his name down twice on her card. But when he swept her into his arms for the waltz they said not one word to one another.
They didn’t need to.
When his hands touched her body she was right back in the kitchen. She was touching herself as he told her what to do, what to feel. It all rushed back into her mind and body, such that their waltz left her breathless with need.
When the dance was done, he slowly released her body. His gaze roved over her, burning everything it touched, and then he spoke.
‘I cannot stop thinking about you.’
‘I am the same.’
Her words didn’t make logical sense. But when he looked at her like that she became too lost to think clearly in another language.
And then the chance was over as her next partner claimed her.
He left soon after that.
The next night was an excursion to the theatre. At the Duke’s invitation, both her father and Lucy were allowed to attend too. Grace had never seen a theatre before, and the experience enchanted her. Best of all was the way he walked with her during the interval. They went from box to box, with her on his arm. She was introduced to important people who greeted her kindly merely because he stood beside her. She exchanged pleasantries with powerful Englishmen and their haughty wives. Another time, she might have trembled at their reluctant acceptance. She knew how quickly that would change if ever she was away from the Duke.
But she was not apart from him, and so she stood tall and spoke clearly.
When the interval was over, the Duke patted her hand and smiled at her.
‘You did very well,’ he murmured as they headed back to his box. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘That was nothing to do with me,’ she said. ‘That was about your power here in England. They sought not to offend you.’
‘And they found no fault with you.’
She doubted that. There would be whispers, but with him beside her she didn’t care.
She cared even less when he abruptly ducked them into a side corridor. It was dark, and secluded, and she should have been terrified to be caught like that.
She wasn’t.
She was thrilled as he pressed her against the wall.
‘Grace... Nayao.’ He spoke her name reverently as he caressed her cheek, framing her face with his hands. ‘I dream of you every night.’
She nodded. He hadn’t even asked her if she did the same, but she answered nonetheless. ‘You are in my thoughts always.’
Then their lust overcame their senses as he slowly, inexorably, pressed his full body against hers.
She gasped at the feel of him on top of her. She could not run, she could not escape, and all she wanted to do was raise her knee along his flank as he kissed her.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, the heat of his breath stirring the hair along her face and neck. He said nothing, though she was tensed for words. Instead, he stroked his tongue along her flesh, her jaw, her neck.
She felt his thickness against her groin. She knew when it pulsed with need. She didn’t even realise she had pressed upwards against him until she heard his hiss.
‘What am I to do?’ he murmured.
As if she knew.
‘I cannot stay away from you.’
He kissed her then, deep and hard, while his hands roved over her breasts. She arched into his touch. She ached to give him everything. And when they broke apart to breathe he continued to touch her everywhere, even as he whispered into her ear.
‘You cannot marry any of those men. They want only your fortune.’
She knew that. ‘No one wants me for myself.’
He pulled back. He looked her in the eyes. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I think this is love.’
He spoke the words as if they terrified him. As if loving her were a terrible thing.
‘Why do you say it like that?’ she asked. ‘Why is love so awful?’
His head drooped then, setting gently against her forehead. ‘Is love enough?’ he asked, and the words sounded more for himself than for her. But then he raised his head up to look her in the eye. ‘Do you want to be part of this world? Do you know how people will treat you when I am not by your side?’
She did. After all, she’d been to balls, teas, and musical evenings. He hadn’t been at all of them, and he certainly hadn’t been at her side the whole time. Most people were polite to her. A few said mean things. Several wanted to further their acquaintance with her. But she didn’t know if it was for herself or because they wanted the connection to him.
In his world, she had only him as a bulwark against hate. And yet that was still more than she’d ever had in her life. There’d been people who had supported her, else she never would have survived. But he was different. He loved her. She could feel it in his touch. She knew it in his desperation to be with her. And she felt in her thrumming heart.
She loved him.
The knowledge rolled through her with the force of a tidal wave, and she embraced the feeling as new and exciting.
But one look at him destroyed all her budding happiness.
He saw it as a disaster. For him, the truth was obvious.
‘Love is not enough for you,’ she said. It might be for her, but clearly it wasn’t for him. ‘You don’t want a wife who detracts.’
‘You don’t detract from anything!’
And yet in his eyes she saw doubt and fear.
‘I feel so much when I am with you,’ he said. ‘It’s not you I fear,’ he said. ‘It’s myself.’
She couldn’t help him, then.
He had to resolve this in his own mind before they could have a future.
But still she couldn’t resist touching his face, stroking his lips and whispering her own words into his mouth. As if she could make him say the words to her.
‘I love you,’ she said, but she didn’t think he heard it.
He was too busy kissing her throat, stroking her breasts, making her insane with need. And then he plundered her mouth, twisting his tongue around hers, teasing the roof of her mouth and thrusting in and out as if they could make love right there in the theatre.
Her knees weakened and she gripped his shoulders to hold herself upright. He curled an arm around her back. He supported her as he thrust against her—above and below—over and over. Was it possible to attain bliss from just this? A kiss and a thrust through thick layers of fabric?
She thought it was.
Her heart was thundering, her body willing. He could have done it. He could have lifted her skirts right then and she would not have stopped him.
How he found the strength to resist, she didn’t know.
But, with a growl that reverberated from his body into hers, he drew back. Then he slammed his palm down hard on the wall beside her body. He hung his head as his breath heaved in and out.
‘I cannot,’ he growled.
He could have. She would have allowed it. And what madness was that?
She didn’t argue with him. What good would that do? But she could ask him what he meant by this. By kissing her in a dark corridor and then stopping.
‘What do you want?’ she whispered.
He lifted his head. His gaze roved over her face. His body trembled, still close enough to her that she knew he ached.
‘What I cannot have.’
‘Why not? Aren’t you a great mandarin among your people? A leader? A duke? Every soul here bows to your presence.’
‘Only to my face.’ He snorted. ‘I cannot explain the intricacies of English politics to you.’
‘I could learn.’
His head tilted as he looked to her. ‘I suppose you could... But why ever would you want to descend into that madness?’
For him.
‘You say you are afraid of yourself with me. That makes no sense. What do I do to you?’
‘You make me feel!’ he all but shouted. Then he sighed. ‘And when I feel, I am afraid of what I will do.’
He meant his rages. He meant beating up his cousin in Hyde Park. He meant his legacy of destruction.
‘But I am not afraid of you,’ she said. ‘Even at your worst I was never afraid.’
It was the truth, and she saw her words hit him full force. His body jolted, his eyes widened, and hunger burned hot in his eyes. But she still saw doubt in his face, and knew he held himself back from her, as he held himself away from everything.
He was a man so controlled that he denied himself everything, she realised. Even love.
And then they were out of time. She heard a noise from down the corridor. People. Whispers. A couple no doubt doing exactly as they were. It was enough to make the Duke jerk back from her.
‘Do you know where my box is?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Do you know how to return to my box?’
She nodded. They were barely ten steps from it.
‘Apologise to your father for me. I shall leave my carriage for your use.’
‘What? Why?’
He stroked his thumb across her lower lip. And as he did so he wet his own. She lifted her hand to his face, but it never arrived there. He grasped it quickly, then slowly, inexorably, lowered it down his body. While her breath caught, he pressed her hand to his organ.
She felt heat and thickness. The thrum of a heartbeat, or perhaps it was the rumble of her own. Either way, he thrust into her palm. His eyes fluttered closed and he dropped his head back.
She began to grip him. How could she not?
But he pulled her hand away.
‘I cannot be seen like this. And I cannot stay near you without it.’
‘But—’
He kissed her again. His tongue nearly undid her. But then he pulled away.
He scanned her quickly, then twisted to open a side door.
‘It’s empty,’ he whispered. ‘Go quickly.’
‘But—’
He gave her no time to speak. He pushed her firmly through the door, then closed it behind her. What could she do but exactly as he wanted?
She went back to his box, she made apologies for him, and then she sat down next to her sister while her entire body throbbed with need.
That was bad enough.
But then it happened again in a secluded alcove at the next night’s ball. And again in the instrument room during a musical evening. It was crazy. They would get caught eventually. But she could not seem to stop herself. Or him.
Which was why, when the summons came, she went immediately to see his mother. If anyone understood the Duke’s intentions, then it would be the Dowager Duchess. Didn’t English men revere their mothers? If she could get through the lady’s arrogant disdain, she might finally understand what he wanted.