Guilty Series (39 page)

“Muses do not exist. The music is all there, inside yourself. Why can you not see it? You do not need me.”

“You know so much about creative art, do you?”

“I know more about it than you could possibly imagine.” An image of Etienne flashed through her mind, and the seven frantic, sleepless days and nights he had spent covering the walls of their rooms in Vienna with layer upon layer of black paint, all because he could not paint anything else. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “You cannot get your creative inspirations from me. Or any other woman, for that matter.”

Moore gave a laugh and turned to face her. “Is that what you think? That I seek out women only so that I can create music?”

“I think it is possible.”

“If that is what you believe, then you know nothing about me. I seek out women for the pleasure and distraction their company provides me. You are different. You are—” He broke off, raking back his long, black hair with a sigh of frustration. “I cannot explain it.”

“If I am so different, then do not treat me as you treat other women.”

“How should I treat you? Do not even suggest I should regard you as just another member of my household staff.”

Grace proposed the only option she could think of. “Can we not simply be friends?”

“F
riends?” Dylan had never heard anything so unappealing in his life. He didn't want to be Grace's friend. He wanted to hold her in his arms, drag her down beneath him, kiss her, touch her, stoke her body to a fiery heat, and put any notions of friendship out of her head.

He wanted to be her lover. Friendship was a pathetic and completely inadequate substitute. Damn it all, he was not composing a divertimento, which was the only sort of piece that could be inspired by something as insipid as mere friendship. He was composing a symphony, for God's sake—a grand passion, a love affair, not background music for a dinner party. Unfortunately, his
inamorata
in this particular love affair was not cooperating.

He forced himself to say something. “Cannot lovers also be friends?”

“I meant we should be friends in the ordinary sense,” she answered. “Platonic friends.”

He told her the truth, and he told it bluntly. “For a man, being friends with a woman without the hope of more is a pointless exercise, not to mention intolerable.”

“Many people of opposite sexes are friends just for the pleasure of company. They discuss interesting topics of the day. It is all part of civilized society and intellectual conversation.”

“I comprehend the concept, thank you,” he said in a wry voice. “You mean we should be indifferent acquaintances. Forgive me if I feel little joy at the prospect. For one thing, I seldom find interesting topics of the day to be interesting. For another, I don't see how a muse who is merely my friend could be all that inspiring. And third, I cannot promise to remain true to such a friendship, for I shall still steal your kisses whenever I can. You see? I am not a good friend for a woman to have.”

She ignored that. “Have you never had a woman for a friend?”

“No.” He paused, then amended, “Let me be fully accurate. There are two women in my life that might be described by your notion of friendship. One of them is the Duchess of Tremore, who is the wife of my dearest friend. The other is Tremore's sister, Lady Hammond, whose husband is also a friend of mine. Platonic friendship is the only possible option for me with either of those women. There are certain rules about that sort of thing.”

“Rules?” Grace shook her head in disbelief. “I did not realize you played by any rules.”

“A man does not attempt to turn his friends into cuckolds. There are some conventions,” he added dryly, “that even I will not break.”

“Perhaps one of those conventions should be that your daughter's governess can never be more than a friend to you. Is that so hard for you to accept?”

Dylan cast a lingering glance over her body, and erotic imaginings of her flashed across his mind. “Impossible, I would say.”

“A pity, then. Friendship is all I can give you.”

She sounded so certain of her statement that he wanted to pull her into his arms again and make it a lie. Her passionate response to his kiss in the alley was still vivid in his mind. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and friendship entered into it only because she did not want to want him. Women just had to make these things complicated. Though he hated to admit it, that was part of their charm.

“Very well. Friends it is, then.” He lifted her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “For now,” he added and let go of her hand. “Dine with me tonight.”

She looked away, then back at him. “I do not think that is a good idea.”

“Friends dine together, do they not?”

“Of course, but—”

“Dining together usually means conversation on interesting topics of the day?” he went on, using her own words against her.

“Yes, but—”

“To me, that sounds very much like intellectual conversation, keeping company, and civilized society. Would you not agree?”

Grace frowned, knowing she had just been neatly trapped, but he would not let her find a way to wriggle out of it. He took her cheeks in his hands and leaned forward to plant a kiss right between her frowning brows, then he let her go. “Excellent,” he said as if she had accepted his invitation, then he turned away and started toward the doors. “I shall meet you this evening in the drawing room, and we shall go in to dinner together. Eight o'clock.”

“And if I don't come?” she called after him. “Shall you burst into my room and carry me down as if I were Abigail Williams on the stage?”

“No,” he flung back over his shoulder, laughing as he opened the doors out of the music room. “I'll bring dinner to you and we shall picnic on your bed. God knows, I would prefer it that way.”

He left the music room, and he could not remember the last time he had felt this exhilarated by any woman's company. Being friends first was a new experience for him. Her declaration that she would never be able to give him more than friendship was a challenge. Dylan loved new experiences, a challenge was always irresistible, and never was a very long time.

 

Grace was in over her head. She stared at her reflection in her bedroom mirror and wondered what on earth she'd been thinking to propose a compromise of friendship. Being friends with Dylan Moore was like being friends with a tiger. They might keep company for awhile, but eventually, he'd have her for supper.

She reminded herself that no matter what he might try, all she had to do was say no. She could say no. She ought to say no. The trouble was that when he kissed her, when he touched her, she didn't want to say no, and clever devil that he was, he knew it. He had sensed her aching loneliness that night behind the mews, and he was now exploiting it. She was letting him. She
liked
letting him. It was the heady, dizzying dance of romance, a game she had not played for so long that the thrill of it was almost irresistible.

Growing up, she had said no to so many things. She had been a good girl, a sensible girl, a respectable girl. Then Etienne had come, she'd gone rather mad, and
no
had ceased to exist for a long, long time. In exchange for that, she had received joy, adventure, love, and soul-deep heartbreak. Being good was so much easier, so much safer. So much more sensible.

Grace glanced at the clock on her mantel. Ten minutes past eight. If she lingered here too long, he would carry through with his threat. She tucked a stray tendril of hair back into the coil of braid on top of her head. She smoothed the dark red wool of her skirt, adjusted her sleeves, and pulled on her only pair of evening gloves, reminding herself with each of these actions that this was only a meal shared between friends. If he made any improper advances, all she had to do was throw his agreement to platonic friendship in his face and walk away.

Grace went down to the drawing room, where Dylan was waiting for her. He wore impeccable evening dress, but his hair hung loose about his shoulders as if he were some lawless highwayman from the previous century. Though it might be a deliberate affectation, it was an effective one. The contrast of elegance and dishevelment was striking, and it suited him so well that any woman would find it attractive. She did.

“I am sorry to be late,” she said as she entered the room, hoping she did not sound as skittish as she felt.

“Please do not apologize,” he said. “That you came is far more important.”

“Did you think I would not?” She gave a nervous laugh and berated herself for it at once. Lord, what was the matter with her? He was not going to ravish her at the dinner table. On the other hand, he might. One could never be sure with him. “After what you threatened to do, I could hardly refuse.”

“Even if that is the only reason you came, I am rewarded. Though I must confess I had a preference for the picnic.”

The image of it flashed across her mind, an image of both of them camped out on her bed, naked, with a basket of food. It was so sudden and so vivid in her mind that her insides began to quiver, and her imagination ran on a wild tangent about what he could do to her with strawberries.

“Shall we?”

The soft question sent waves of desire through her entire body.
Yes,
she wanted to say and bit her lip.

He turned, offering her his arm.

“Oh,” she said, staring at him, fighting to come to her senses. “Dinner.”

He began to smile, the wretched man. “Yes, dinner. I even told them to serve it in the dining room.”

Why hadn't she brought her fan down with her? She needed it right now. Grace turned to take his arm, but when she felt the hardness of muscle through his shirt and evening coat, she just could not fight her own imagination.

He could carry a woman just about anywhere,
she thought as they left the drawing room.
Off a stage. Down from her room to the dinner table. To heaven and hell and back again.
After all she had learned about life, why did journeys of that sort still hold any appeal for her?

To distract herself, she felt compelled to say something, and she chose the tried-and-true—and very safe—subject of the weather as they walked to the dining room.

Though he had already made clear his loathing of mundane conversation, he answered in a most serious and attentive manner that the warming temperatures of April would be most welcome after the cold winds of March. But those laugh lines at the corners of his eyes gave him away as he added, “Despite the heavy rains we have had, I am told the state of the roads is excellent for those just now arriving from the country.”

Grace pretended not to notice. “That bodes well for the season,” she said as they entered the dining room, where Osgoode and two footmen awaited them.

The dining room of Dylan's home was small by the standards of his social circle, for there was only space for ten at table. The ceilings were low for a dining room, giving the room a feeling of intimacy. Like all the other rooms of his house, this one was intended for luxury and comfort, not necessarily convention. The thick carpet was of a lavish Turkish design, but the colors of gold, blue, and aubergine were muted. The walls were color washed in ecru, the white moldings were commonplace egg and dart, and the white marble fireplace was simply carved. There were only two paintings, landscapes by Gainsborough, and the only mirrors were located behind the wall sconces, their sole purpose to reflect light. There were no gas lamps in the room, only the soft golden glow of candles. It was a room meant for guests to feel at ease, though it could not soothe away the quivery combination of nervousness and anticipation inside her.

A footman pulled out her chair, and after she sat down, Dylan took his seat to her left at the head of the table. The moment they were seated, he leaned toward her in a confidential manner, as if they were at some fashionable dinner party and he was about to tell her an interesting piece of news. “Have you heard that hostesses have finally taken up the issue of swords at balls?”

She took a deep breath, grateful that he was playing along with her desire for innocuous conversation. She began pulling off her gloves. “Have they?”

“Yes. It has been deemed at last that a military gentleman must hand over his sword at a ball if he intends to dance. If he does not do so, no hostess or patroness shall invite him again.”

“That is exciting news indeed,” she answered. “And such a relief for the ladies, to know we shall no longer be poked by some lieutenant's annoying scabbard during a quadrille.”

The moment she said it, she realized how it sounded, and she choked back a laugh, turning her face away.

“I could say something very naughty just now,” he murmured.

“Don't.” She shook her head and yanked her serviette from her plate. She pressed the piece of linen to her mouth, muffling her laughter. “Don't say a word.”

To her relief, he obeyed. After a moment, she was able to look at him again. “I am glad,” she said with a little cough as she smoothed her serviette across her lap, “that the fashionables have finally decided the matter.”

“Vitally important, I say.” He paused. “Especially to the virtue of ladies.”

She gave him a glance of reproof, then turned her attention to the footman waiting by her right with the first course. When the servant presented her with the soup, Grace found herself staring down at the dish in utter bewilderment. Porridge?

Bewildered, she glanced back up at the footman, but his expressionless face told her nothing. She took another look at the silver-edged soup plate in front of her and saw that she had not been mistaken. It was porridge. She glanced at Dylan and noticed that the servant was placing vichyssoise in front of him. Though he was staring down at his own plate and she could not look into his eyes, Grace could see his mouth, and she watched as one corner began to curve upward. Suddenly, the memory of her own words came back to her.