A Gentle Grace (Wedded Women Quartet) (12 page)

“Did they sew you into this?” he wondered out loud when the bustle caught around her throat and Grace released a startled yelp. The moment she was free of the cumbersome fabric she launched herself into Stephen’s arms and he caught her with a little grunt of surprise before he took her with him to the floor, careful to keep her tucked atop his body so she could not bang an elbow or a knee on the hard wood as he rolled them both onto the plush carpet while simultaneously kicking a table out of the way.

Ranging over her, one arm on either side of her face, he leaned down and sprinkled kisses over her nose, her cheeks, and down the slim column of her throat. “Are you cold?” he murmured against her flesh before his mouth dipped lower still and licked at the edge of her corset, her chemise having come off with her gown.

“No.” Grace’s fingers caught in his hair and her hips bucked when he pulled the chemise down and his lips closed around a taut nipple. “I am on fire.”

Sensation after wonderful sensation glided over her as Stephen used his hands and mouth all over her body. Closing her eyes, Grace let herself drift, drunk on the knowledge that at long last she was in her lover’s arms. Once she had thought their time apart an eternity, but as his mouth traced a blazing trail down her side and settled on the slender jut of her hip to nibble and lick before – oh God – sliding down to the heart of her, she realized no time at all had passed between them.

Nothing had been wasted, nothing had been lost.

They were together as they had always been meant to be, and as Stephen wrung the first orgasm from her with his lips and tongue everything else faded to black, and there were no questions, and there was no uncertainty, and there was no doubt. There was only Stephen, and when he finally pushed inside of her Grace cried out his name and clung to his shoulders as if she would never let him go.

Their eyes met while he thrust; his eyes a fierce, triumphant green, hers a soft, dreamy blue, and they came together, their fingers entwining as shudders wracked their bodies and bliss carried them both off the edge of the cliff.

He had taken her on the floor.

It was the first coherent thought to pass through Stephen’s mind when he sat up on one elbow and gazed down at Grace. She smiled up at him, her expression that of a lazy cat sunning itself. Except there was no sun, for it was dark, and he had not even possessed the foresight to start a fire before he ravaged her like some kind of wild animal.

Disgusted with himself and his lack of self control, Stephen rummaged through their pile of clothes before he found his shirt. “Put this on,” he said before he rose to poke at the dimly glowing embers in the fireplace.

He could feel Grace watching him as he brought the fire to life, and when it roared to full strength and bathed the room in a rosy glow he felt her arms wind low around his hips and her face press against his back.

“Let’s sleep here tonight,” she whispered. “In front of the fire.”

Stephen’s jaw clenched tight. “Grace, I…” He stopped himself short, not sure how he wanted to finish the sentence.

Grace, I am sorry for what just occurred.

Grace, I am afraid I cannot give you what you want.

Grace, I fear you will never forgive me.

“Stephen?” Her hands dropped away from his waist and she padded forward to stand beside him, a frown pulling the corners of her mouth down and drawing his eye to her swollen lips. Swollen because he had kissed her without a care for his own strength. Swollen because he had taken what he had no right to take. “What is it? What is the matter?”

“Grace, this never should have happened.”

A line appeared between her brows. Her arms crossed, causing his shirt to skim dangerously high on her thighs. She didn’t seem to notice. “Do not say that.” Her lower lip trembled. “Stephen, please do not say that.”

With an oath, Stephen looked away from the tears that glittered like diamonds in her eyes. “There are things I need to tell you. Things you may not want to hear. I never meant… I did not want this to happen.”

“Stop saying that!” she cried. “It
did
happen and it was wonderful and no matter what you tell me now I will not regret it.”

His laugh was short and bitter. “If I told you I left because of another woman, would you regret it then?” He heard her gasp, but he plowed ahead, determined to clear his conscience once and for all. “Would you regret if I told you I was forced to choose between you and another, and I chose her?”

In the absolute silence that followed his admission Stephen braced himself for the worst. He imagined Grace declaring her hatred of him. He imagined her demanding he leave and never return. He should have known better.

“I am going to make us some tea,” she said quietly, gazing into the fire. The light from the flames threw her profile into contrast, illuminating the petal white softness of her skin and riotous mane of dark curls that had come loose from her coiffure and now spilled in waves across her shoulders and back.  “When I return, I would like to hear everything.”

His gentle Grace
. Tears burned in the corners of his eyes, and Stephen was forced to nod his agreement for fear his voice would crack should he try to speak. She managed a small, tight smile before she left the room, leaving him alone to gather his thoughts.

In that moment Stephen knew Grace would forgive him hell itself if he asked it of her, and he cursed himself a thousand times over for waiting so long to tell her the truth. He had thought he was protecting her, but he had only been breaking her, one small piece at a time. She was everything that was good and light and beautiful. He did not deserve her or her forgiveness, and it would be his burden to bear that his greatest hope – and his darkest fear – was that he would get them both.   

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Grace carried the tea platter into the parlor with shaking hands. Stephen had been busy, she noted, seeing the two leather chairs he had dragged from the corner of the room and positioned in front of the fireplace. He was sitting in one of them, but sprang to his feet when he heard her and began to pace between the two chairs with all the nervous energy of a caged jungle cat.

“Sit down,” she said as she poured them both tea, added two generous lumps of sugar to hers, one to his, and held out his cup.

“Thank you,” he said automatically, and although he sat as she requested, he did not sip his tea or relax into the chair, but rather sat right on the edge as if prepared to flee should the moment present itself.

Grace’s heart softened. Surely Stephen would not be like this if he did not sincerely care for her. It was her greatest fear: that in the months that passed he had simply ceased to have any feelings for her. But how could he have touched her like he had and be staring at her as he was now and not feel
something
? Perhaps there had been another woman – her stomach rolled sickeningly at the idea – but he had returned for her. He had made love to
her
. Yes, he had yet to declare his love vocally, but he had shown her, in every way a woman could be shown, that she was his and he was hers. With every brush of his fingertips, with every press of his mouth, with every soft moan and gentle caress he had taken back a part of her soul that had always been meant for him.

Wrapping one arm around her middle and using the other to balance her tea, she sank into the remaining chair and curled her legs up underneath the long hem of her borrowed shirt. “Tell me everything,” she coaxed. “It’s time, Stephen.”  

“I do not know where to start.” Feet braced apart, elbows on his thighs and head in his hands, Stephen was the epitome of tortured misery.

Grace sipped from her tea before she set it aside. “Start from the beginning.”

So he did. And when he was quite finished Grace allowed herself a moment to digest everything she had been told before she calmly got to her feet, crossed to Stephen’s chair, and dumped the remains of her tea on his head.

“What in the world—” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Grace, I know you must be upset but that was bloody well hot!”

“Good.” Grabbing the teapot from the serving set she hoisted it high and she advanced on Stephen with slow, deliberate steps while he backpedaled across the parlor with his hands poised above his shoulders in the universal gesture of surrender.

“Take a deep breath and calm down,” he ordered. “Think this through. You are not acting like yourself.”   

Grace merely blinked and chucked the teapot at his head. It went far to the right – she had never been very good at throwing things – and smashed to the floor just shy of the wall, splashing pale brown water everywhere. “Was that
calm
enough for you, Stephen?” she asked sweetly. Looking around for something else with which to vent her anger, her gaze settled on the poker Stephen had used to tend the fire.

“Grace, please think about what you are doing. I realize it may take some time to – HOLY HELL!” he yelled when she sent the poker spiraling through the air. It stuck, sharp end down, in the middle of the chaise lounge.

Rather pleased with her aim this time, Grace’s lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. Rage the likes of which she had never known thrummed inside of her chest, so potent and burning hot it made her feel cold and detached, as she were observing what was happening from a great distance. “Shall I throw something else, or has my point been sufficiently made?”

Stephen drew his hands over his face and rubbed at his eyes. “Let me explain,” he begged. “For the love of God, just let me—”

“No,” Grace snapped when he took a step forward. “Do not come any closer. I do not want you to touch me. I do not want you to talk to me.”

He froze. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you to leave.”

“Gracie, you do not mean—”

“LEAVE!”

Perhaps she was not as detached as she had thought. Chest heaving from the effort it was taking to contain her sobs, Grace jabbed a finger towards the door. “Go, Stephen. I cannot… I cannot even
look
at you.” It was true. The mere sight of him caused her stomach to tighten and her throat to painfully catch. She felt ill, and knew it was a good possibility if Stephen did not leave within the next few seconds she would retch all over the last remaining carpet in the house.

Stephen retreated to the doorway, placed his hand on the knob, and hesitated. “I do not know if you understood the whole of what I told you. I never slept with her. I never loved her.”

“But that makes it all the worse, don’t you see? You should have told me from the very beginning.”

“Would you have let me go if I had?”

An arrow through the heart would have been kinder. How could she have been such a fool? “Of course I would have,” she said softly. Her fingers dug into the back of one of the chairs to hold her up as her knees threatened to collapse. “Of course, Stephen. There would have been no question.”

His brows knitted together in confusion. “Then why…”

“Because you did not trust me.” Suddenly Grace felt tired. So inexplicably exhausted that she sank to the floor right then and there. She hugged her knees to her chest and laid her head upon them, gazing out the far window to the darkness beyond. “You chose her over me, and you did not even have the decency to tell me you were doing it. You simply left. No,” she corrected herself with a watery smile, “you did not just leave. You wrote that damn letter first. I hated that letter, and yet I read it a dozen times a day. I worried over every word. I deconstructed every sentence. In the end, it did not matter, because you were not leaving me, you were choosing her. Oh, you did a wonderful thing, Stephen. I am very proud of you. But you should have told me.” The tears came then, an entire flood of them that stained her cheeks and caused her shoulders to tremble uncontrollably. “You should have told me,” she whispered.

When her sobs finally subsided Grace gathered what little courage she had left and lifted her head, but there was no one there. He had gone, and she was alone.

Again.

Stephen did not leave until he knew for certain Grace was asleep. He prowled around the outside of the house like a burglar, careful to keep his steps silent as he tracked her slow, methodic ascent up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor. She moved like a ghost past the windows, still dressed in his white shirt, her face drained of all color and stained with tears. The single candle she carried shone like a beacon in the night, its flickering light illuminating the outline of her curvaceous body as she drifted in front of her bedroom window. She was ethereal in her beauty, reminding Stephen of the first moment had ever laid eyes on her. Curled up beneath a mulberry tree fast asleep, she had made a fetching sight, and he had been as instantly captivated by her then as he was now. The time in between had done nothing to dim his enthrallment of her, nor temper his love. If only he had not made a muck of things… Stephen closed his eyes.

There was no going back. He had earned every bit of her loathing, every ounce of her hatred. She was right. He should have trusted her with the truth, should have told her everything from the very beginning, but he had been terrified of losing her, and his lips twisted at the irony, for in the end, when it was all said and done, he had lost her anyways.