Hot Silk (16 page)

“You have enchanted me, my dear.” His voice had lowered to that lusty purr that she realized men used in the hopes of seducing women. “I wish to spend some time together, to pay homage to your charms and beauty. Perhaps we should explore the delightful gardens. There are many spots of beauty I wish to show you, though each and every one pales in comparison to your loveliness—”

“No!” She was struck by the strong need to both laugh and scream at his hopeless attempt to sweep her off her feet.

Her stomach lurched. Had he chosen to waylay her because he thought she would easily give in?

“I must go and attend Lady Warren, my lordship. Please let me pass.”

“Her ladyship could wait for a few moments.” The gold in his eyes glittered as he looked at her with blatant, wicked intent. He had her fingertips raised again before she could retract her hand. His tongue snaked out and dabbed her knuckles, wetting her glove and making the fabric cling to her skin. He drew her finger into his mouth and sucked her fingers.

“My lord! You have made my glove clammy!”

He released her hand and before she could skirt around him he was leaning forward, his hard, solid body capturing her back against the wall. “A kiss, sweet nymph. I should enjoy a kiss.”

“I’ll scream.” She threw the words out.

“I don’t believe you will.”

He looked so odious, so utterly sure of himself, so blasted arrogant, that she jerked up her leg, hoping to smack him in his most vulnerable parts. Her leg went up only an inch and then her hem tore. The wretch had trod on the edge of her skirt.

He was exactly like Lord Wesley. How could she have been so blind two years ago? How could she have been mesmerized by such rude attentions? Lord Sinclair thought her worthless, a meaningless woman placed on earth only to pleasure him and be discarded.

If only she’d realized that was how Lord Wesley had viewed her—

But then she would have never met Devlin. Perhaps she would have been married now. Happy or not? Either way she would not have known what it was to kiss Devlin, to hold him, to make love to him, to spar with words with him—

It stunned her to realize that she had been correct two years before, that making love to Devlin had made all that pain somehow worthwhile—

Lord Sinclair moved in to kiss her, and his coffee-scented breath neared.

She shoved forward. “No!” Her right hand hit his cheek and her left gouged into his neck, protected by high collar and cravat. Her right palm stung with the force of striking him, but he let out a sharp, excited breath. “I do like a spirited woman.”

Fear rushed through her veins, almost freezing her to the spot. She couldn’t fight him. Mad thoughts tumbled in her panic.

Devlin was bigger than this man—he was a giant in comparison, but he’d never made her afraid. She’d never felt Devlin would force her. Or hurt her. He was a pirate, but she’d never been fearful of him. She’d never felt terror like this.

What was she going to do—stand there while Lord Sinclair forced himself on her?

His mouth touched her throat, hot lips skating over her skin, and she made a sharp gasp of horror.

Mad fears again—what if her grandmother saw her like this? What if someone else did? She was pushing at Sinclair’s shoulders, but he took no heed. It only made his nips and kisses to her neck more fervent. His scent, the perfumed smell of a dandy, made her gag and his heat had her hovering on a swoon.

No, her sisters had never swooned. She wasn’t that much of a lady to take that route of escape.

Oh God. Lady Prudence.

She spied her former friend at the end of the hallway. Prudence held a book in her gloved hands and stared in amazement at the scene unfolding before her. Grace felt sickening heat rush over her face. No doubt Prudence thought she had encouraged this. She saw the sneer twist Prudence’s lip.

Then Grace saw the small oak table in arm’s reach, placed along the edge of the hallway, between two wall scones. A vase sat on top, filled with hothouse orchids. Instead of hitting Lord Sinclair, Grace reached for the porcelain rim. She yanked it toward them. Tall and precarious, the table followed the abrupt movement of the vase, and both tumbled onto Lord Sinclair.

He leapt back with a rude curse.

“Witch!” he spat at her.

“Cad!” she shouted back as she slapped him. She doubted Prudence would ever be convinced that she, Grace, was in the right and his lordship in the wrong, but she refused to merely slink away.

She shot a look of cold pride to her former friend and glared at his lordship, who was dabbing a handkerchief on trousers splashed with slimy green water.

She was about to turn on her heel and stalk away when Sinclair shook his fist at her.

“You shall pay for this insult,” he snapped.

She gaped in pure astonishment. He’d forced himself on her and her defense was an insult? There was nothing to say to such a ridiculous view of the world and Grace bit back the urge to spit on his stupid, fashionable trousers.

She wanted to inform him that he would pay for his assault on her, but he wouldn’t. There were only three men she knew who could make him pay. The first two were her powerful brothers-in-law, but of course she would never tell them about this.

The last, she realized, was Devlin Sharpe.

She had no doubt that Devlin Sharpe would make Lord Sinclair pay.

It terrified her. It left her reeling.

The only weapon in her power was to walk away and refuse to allow this incident to hurt her. So she did just that, taking long strides down the hallway but resisting the yearning to run.

At the end of the corridor, her chest was heaving, her breath coming in frantic pants.

Blast horrid Lord Sinclair. She’d hoped to face her grandmother looking like a lady.

Now she knew she looked anything but.

“So you are my granddaughter.” Lady Warren poured tea into two delicate cups with elegance, but from her words and controlled, calm expression Grace could not read what she thought of that fact.

“Er, yes,” Grace responded, knowing that her answer was a failure in itself. Since being ushered inside by Lady Warren’s maid and taking her place awkwardly on the very edge of the wing chair, she had felt like a butterfly pinned in a display case.

Her ladyship tilted her head to the side as she held out one cup, and Grace fought not to squirm beneath the cool scrutiny. What did her grandmother see and did she come up to snuff? Had she managed to look like a lady, or was she, in every way, unsatisfactory?

Grace accepted the tea, determined not to let her shaking hand rattle the cup.

“You resemble me,” her ladyship said.

But was she pleased with that? Grace could not tell. All the letters she had written had been respectful and subdued and hopeful. Now she felt at a loss, like a ship that had slipped free of its mooring and was cast about by tide and wind. She felt the way she had on the boat to the island, as though the world could drop away beneath her feet and she had no control.

“Yes,” she answered carefully. “I agree that we do look alike.” Her grandmother was very lovely. A blend of blond and silver, Lady Warren’s hair was arranged in stylish and elegant curls and waves. Her face looked much younger than her age: her eyes a clear, brilliant green, her complexion perfect, her lips full and pink. Yes, she bore lines, but she was a beautiful woman. A woman of quality.

Lady Warren sipped her tea and Grace followed suit, knowing she should be thinking of clever things to say.

She had waited years for this. How could she be tongue-tied now?

Finally her grandmother lowered her cup. “There is nothing of your father in your appearance, and I am pleased to see that. Your eldest sister is far too similar to him.”

Venetia did look like their father. It surprised Grace to see that her grandmother had green eyes—she had always thought that was her father’s legacy. Rodesson’s eyes had been an exotic emerald; her mother’s were hazel.

Grace glanced around the sumptuous parlor that Avermere’s staff had given her grandmother—every flat surface now bore an opened book. It was an eccentricity of her ladyship—Grace knew that from her two years amongst the ton. Lady Warren traveled with a trunk of books and read them all concurrently.

All the books were opened or marked close to the beginnings, as though Lady Warren had quickly discarded one and fled to the next for excitement.

She felt cold dread. How could she build a relationship with a woman unable to commit to a book?

“Your other sister is rather plain,” Lady Warren continued, “though both girls have made excellent marriages in terms of status. Not that Lord Swansborough does not have a most blackened reputation.”

“He is every inch a gentleman,” Grace protested, in defense of Maryanne’s husband. “He is noble and honorable, and has been unerringly faithful to my sister. He is completely in love with her.”

“Why have you not married, Miss Hamilton?”

Grace’s fingers tightened precipitously around the delicate handle of her cup as she fought not to blush or stammer or look as guilty as she felt. “I have not yet met the right gentleman. I am hoping for a love match, like the ones my sisters made.” Then she regretted the words. It was love and passion that had sent her mother into an affair with her father Rodesson.

Lady Warren pursed her lips, and the lines around her mouth deepened. “I know exactly why you have not married, Miss Hamilton. I know all of your secrets.
All
of them.”

Grace saw her cup tilt and brown tea slosh onto her skirts. She quickly righted the cup. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to look perplexed.
She couldn’t know…not about Lord Wesley…about Devlin…?

“My great-nephew told me about your disgraceful behavior with Lord Wesley.”

Disgraceful. That was what she was—
disgraceful.

Even Lord Sinclair thought so, and he couldn’t know about what she’d done. Could he?

“You are your father’s daughter,” Lady Warren continued. “You are immoral, scandalous, and shameless. For months you have been writing me letters, begging to be recognized by me. How can you expect that after the shocking, brazen, and unforgivable way you have behaved?”

Grace wanted to crawl away. But she forced herself to say, “He offered marriage. Lord Wesley. It was a lie, but he offered it, and I had accepted.”

“He offered marriage to
you
?”

Grace surged to her feet and watched her teacup drop to the carpet and the tea fly out. She didn’t care. “Why did you ask me here, Lady Warren? If you had only wished to insult and reject me, why did you not do it with your pen?”

“Would a rejection have stopped you?”

“Your letter spoke of wanting to reconcile!”

“That was before I heard the truth of what you are. That foul scoundrel Rodesson seduced my daughter and turned her into a tart. You were born one!” Her ladyship waved elegant hands. “I insist that you never write to me again. And if you intend to threaten me, to threaten to make our relationship known amongst the ton—”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Grace cried. “Why? I don’t want to hurt you or blackmail you. All I wanted was to know my grandmother.” Grace swallowed hard. Devlin had been correct, of course, for he knew what it was to be outside the ton. Her grandmother had not wanted to accept her. She had wanted only to ensure that no scandal could touch her. Lady Warren had brought her here to crush her.

Anger rose. She would not be crushed.

With as much pride as she could find—for her stomach burned with bile and her throat felt so tight she knew tears would be squeezed from her eyes—Grace stood. She turned and walked away from her grandmother.

She paused at the door. No, she could not just run away. She spun around to face Lady Warren. “You turned your daughter out of the house and never acknowledged her again. You have denied your granddaughters. Has it made you happy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Has it made you happy?” Grace repeated. “Has it made you happy to be so judgmental and condemning? Really, what has it gained for you?”

“I have preserved the good name of my husband’s house.”

“I wanted to love you and you have just told me not to waste my time, so I will not. But is the Earl of Warren really worth that?”

“The mistake was your mother’s.”

“Yes, but the punishment does not need to last a lifetime.”

“It is too late,” Lady Warren spat out. “It is simply too late.”

“Come in here, gel!”

Hurrying down the corridor, Grace slowed at the sharp autocratic command snapped by a female voice. She jerked around, her heart lifting, hammering with tension. She would have to be proud, she would have to—

She met Lady Horton’s blue eyes.

“Oh.” It was not her grandmother. Her grandmother had not followed her to apologize.

“And where is Mr. Sharpe?” Lady Horton asked. “Did he have to go out the window?”

Grace gaped helplessly at her ladyship’s blue eyes and the wicked sparkle in them at the pleasure of scandalous gossip.

“Of course, I know, gel.” Her ladyship motioned her to enter the bedchamber.

“What do you mean?” Grace asked, hoping to appear innocent and confused.

But her ladyship’s clucking tongue proved she had failed in her attempt.

“You and Mr. Sharpe,” Lady Horton said. “I must say, he’s a delicious choice for an affair. Lawlessness brings out a man’s passions in bed.”

“An affair! I’m a…a maiden. I—”

“It was quite obvious from the way Mr. Sharpe looked at you that he had seen you without your clothes.”

Grace flushed. Did everyone in the house know? Had she destroyed herself utterly?

She stood as proudly as she could. “Do you plan to condemn me? I do not intend to endure another attack on my—”

“No, my dear. I had a fondness for pirates myself,” Lady Horton answered crisply. “Now, what are your plans for Mr. Sharpe?”

She didn’t have to feign bewilderment. “My plans?”

“Lusty ladies do not often think of how an affair will end. Have you thought of that? What do you want from him?”

She could not believe she was engaging in this conversation with a peeress who was a stranger to her. She knew Lady Horton was warning her. But she didn’t care. “I want nothing. There is no affair. He is a highwayman—”