Never a Gentleman (2 page)

“No!” Diccan screamed, lunging for him.

He was too late. Smiling, as if relieved, Bertie turned the gun on himself. Diccan could do no more than hold the boy in his
arms as he died.

Canterbury, England

Three days later

G
race Fairchild was confused. She was dreaming; she knew that. But she couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, she’d had dreams like
it before; vague, anxious fantasies of a man making love to her. But usually her dreams were indistinct, more suggestion than
fact. Visual rather than visceral. After living with the army her whole life, she knew what copulating looked like. In India,
she’d seen graphic depictions of it painted and carved into temple walls, parades of couples writhing in ecstasy in each other’s
arms.

Her dreams, predictably, mirrored them. She saw what happened; she didn’t feel it. Even as her dream lover took her, she did
no more than watch, a voyeur in her own boudoir.

This time was different. In this dream, she could feel her lover tucked against her back like spoons in a drawer. Skin to
skin, heat to heat, pounding heart to pounding heart. His
clean scent filled her nostrils. The harsh rasp of his breathing fanned through her hair. He was nuzzling the base of her
neck, releasing a shower of shivers that cascaded down her body. His callused fingers traced each vertebra in her back. She
swore she could feel the abrasion of hair against her legs and bottom; she heard the syncopated sounds of breathing.

She shuddered before the onslaught of sensations she’d never known: an almost painful sweetness, heat like a Madras sun, shocks
of pleasure that skittered through her limbs like lightning. Her skin seemed to have caught fire, the scrape of his palm igniting
her like flint against too-dry tinder. An exquisite, anxious thrill snaked through her, curling along her legs, the sensitive
skin of her nipples, the deepest recesses of her belly to touch her womb, like the sun warming a dormant seed. Her insides
felt as if they were melting, and she couldn’t seem to hold still.

She smiled in her sleep, where it was safe to dream a bit. Where she could remember that beneath the gray dresses and pragmatic
mien everyone saw, she was a woman. And that even a plain woman wanted the same things other women took for granted. Touch.
Comfort. Pleasure. She wanted to
be
one of those temple paintings.

In her head she pleaded with him to hurry. To stoke the fire; to ease it. To pull her closer, closer yet, so she would never
again have to be alone. She stretched, a cat in the sun, closer to his hard, lithe body. She gasped at the hard shaft that
pressed against her bottom. Such an alien pleasure, so intriguing. So deeply erotic.

She heard a moan, a gravelly, low threnody that resonated right through her. A sensuous, mesmerizing growl of pleasure. It
made her chuckle. His one hand was teasing
her breast, flicking the nipple until it ached. His other was drifting lower, stealing her breath. Her heart was pounding;
her skin was damp. She heard another moan.

Abruptly she stiffened. Her eyes popped open.

She really
had
heard a moan.

Desperately she tried to think. She could see the early morning light seeping into the inn room. Yes, that was right. She
had stopped at the Falstaff Inn at Canterbury with her friend Lady Kate the night before. Drawing a careful breath, she tested
the air, expecting to smell woodsmoke, fresh air from the open window, her own rosewater scent. Instead she smelled brandy
and tobacco and a subtle scent of musk. She smelled man-sweat.

Her heart seized. Her brain went slack. She had dreamed him; she was certain. Why could she still smell him? Then she felt
his hand move toward the nest of curls at the juncture of her legs, and she knew. He wasn’t a dream at all.

Shrieking, she lurched up. The bedclothes were tangled around her legs. She yanked at them and pushed with her feet, trying
to get away. She pushed too hard. Suddenly she was tumbling off the bed, arms flailing wildly for balance. She shrieked again
when she landed with a thud on the floor.

For a moment she lay where she was, eyes closed, pain shooting up her bad leg, her stomach threatening revolt. All the heat
that had blossomed in her died. She was dizzy and dry-mouthed and confused. And, evidently, lying on the floor of a strange
man’s bedroom, trapped by his sheets. Christ save her, how could that be?

“Bloody hell!” she heard from the bed, and knew without opening her eyes that the disaster had just become far worse. It was
not a stranger at all in that bed. It was Diccan
Hilliard, the single most elegant man in England. The one person who never failed to turn Grace into a stuttering fool.

Still cursing, he sat up. The early morning sunlight gilded his skin as in a Rembrandt painting, limning muscle and sinew
and bone with a molten gold. Shadow etched the sharp ridges of jaw and cheekbone and shuddered through his tumbled sable hair
as he dragged his hands through it. He was shaking his head, as if to clear it. Rubbing at his eyes. Grace knew she should
flee before he spotted her. She couldn’t seem to look away from him.

Could he have been more compelling? Not handsome, precisely. His features were a bit too broad, his nose a bit bent, his eyes
too ghostly gray. But tall and elegant and aristocratic to his toes. The perfect antithesis for the hopeless spinster sitting
like a lump on his floor.

“
Merde,
” she muttered in despair.

He turned at the sound, and his jaw dropped. He had obviously just recognized who it was he’d been fondling.

“Miss Fairchild,” he drawled, his voice like ice. As gracefully as a god, he climbed out of the bed and stalked over to stand
before her. “If I might be so bold. What the deuce are you doing here?”

She couldn’t draw breath to answer. Sweet Lord, he was naked. He was breathtaking, with solid shoulders, and arms that had
worked hard. His chest was taut and lean, and shadowed with curling hair that arrowed down his torso right to… She flushed
hotly. Sweet, sweet Lord. He was magnificent. He was an ancient statue come to life… well, except for one small difference.

Well. Not so small at all. And it wasn’t as if she could miss it. Not only was she at eye level, but, if her old temple art
hadn’t lied, he was magnificently aroused. Just the sight
of his shaft, jutting straight up from that nest of dark hair, sent shivers cascading through her. It made all those two-dimensional
watercolors pale in comparison.

Of course, the minute he got a good look at her, his erection wilted like warm lettuce.

“I’m still dreaming,” she muttered, shamefully unable to look away. “That’s it. A nightmare. I should never have had that
second piece of pigeon pie last night.”

She should shut her eyes. She should make a grab for her clothes and run. She should at least defend herself. She couldn’t
so much as blink. She could still feel his hands on her skin, the unbearable pleasure of his body against hers. His expression
of horror made her want to wither with shame.

“I expected better of you, Miss Fairchild,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, his hands planted on sinfully lean hips.
“Never did I think you’d be the kind of scheming, brass-faced hussy who’d force her way into a man’s bed. Just what did you
slip into my drink?”

Suddenly furious, Grace clambered to her feet, grabbing a bedpost to steady her when her bad leg cramped. “What did I slip
into
your
drink?” she demanded, outraged. “Why, you insufferable, self-centered, overweening park saunterer. You’re the last person
on earth I would
ever
let—”

Instead of apologizing, he shut his eyes. “For the love of God, madame, cover yourself.”

Grace looked down and squeaked in dismay. She hadn’t considered her state of undress. She’d grabbed the covers because it
was frigid in the room. Not because she was… oh,
bugger
. She was as naked as he was, providing him with a view of every bony inch of her chest and shoulders.

“Where are my clothes?” she cried, trying to cover every unlovely jutting angle of her with the voluminous blanket.

“Don’t waste your time,” he snapped. “Just hide yourself.”

“You could do the same,” she snapped back.

Cocking an imperious eyebrow, he considered his status. “No, could I? But I thought this was what you were after.”

Grace felt panic shutting off her air. Her head hurt. She felt sick. “I told you,” she insisted, her voice unpardonably shrill.
“I wasn’t
after
anything.”

Suddenly the door to the room slammed open and bounced against the wall. At least half a dozen people peered in, all clad
in nightclothes and gawking like pit rowdies. Grace did the only thing she could. She dropped to the floor and yanked the
covers over her head.

“Isn’t that General Fairchild’s daughter?” a woman who sounded like Lady Thornton demanded from the doorway. Grace shrank
down even more.

“How delicious,” another, thinner voice answered with a delighted giggle. “The feather-brained antidote obviously thinks she’s
nabbed Diccan Hilliard.”

Grace heard laughter and wanted to die. How many people were out there?

“Good to see everyone,” Diccan was saying, as if they had come to tea. “My apologies for presenting myself to you
en
deshabille
.”

More salacious laughter. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, her thundering heart almost drowning out the sound of Lord Thornton
and some unknown man taking bets on her future. She was terrified she was going to disgrace herself. Her stomach was lurching
as if she were back on the channel packet.

“Well, well,” she heard a new and welcome voice intrude. “Letitia Thornton. I had no idea that this was what you wore to bed.
Amazing color, really. You must have been dragged right from your sleep. Not a very attractive time of the day for you, is
it? And Geoffrey Smythe. What an interesting banyan. Are those roosters on your chest? Hmm. I must admit I’ve never seen a
puce chicken before.”

Lady Kate had arrived.

If this had been happening to anyone else, Grace might have smiled. Leave it to Kate to send the cream of the
ton
scurrying away like embarrassed debs. But it was happening to
her
. She was the one crouched on the floor, naked beneath a blanket as an audience laughed.

She must not have heard the door close, because suddenly she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Grace?”

If it could be possible, she felt worse. She had so few female friends. Only three, really: Olivia Wyndham, Lady Bea Seaton,
and Lady Kate Seaton, who had taken her in after Grace’s father had died at Waterloo. It had been Lady Kate who had seen her
through those terrible days, who had provided safety and support as Grace adjusted to civilian life. Grace couldn’t betray
her friend this way. Even a notorious widow like Kate had no business associating with a ruined spinster.

“Grace, tell me you’re all right,” Kate said, sounding distressed.

“I’m fine,” Grace managed, huddled miserably on the floor.

It didn’t occur to her to cry. Soldiers don’t cry, her father had always told her. At least not after their seventh birthday.

“Is this some joke of yours, Kate?” she heard Diccan demand, sounding like a petulant child.

Lady Kate huffed. “Don’t be demented. I’m even more stunned than you are. I know for a fact that Grace has better taste.”

“Why, you repellent brat,” he snapped. “Your
friend
just arranged to make an appearance in my bed before the worst gossips in the
ton.
Naked.”

“Really, Diccan? She must be amazingly sly, then, since neither of us expected to see you or them here.”

“She
must
have, damn it! They’re here. And she’s… here.”

Lady Kate sighed. “Your arguments might carry more weight if you were dressed, Diccan.”

“What about
her
?”

Still crouched beneath her blanket, Grace winced. Her leg hurt. The blanket was beginning to scratch, and a draft had found
its way underneath to bedevil her. And yet she wasn’t about to move.

“Grace can dress after you leave,” Lady Kate was saying over Grace’s head. “From
her
bedroom, by the way.”

“
Hers
?”

“The miniature of her father in regimentals on the bedside table should be a dead giveaway.”

Grace heard the rustling of clothing. He must be dressing.

“What
are
you doing here, by the way?” Lady Kate asked as if she were addressing him over tea. “We were supposed to meet you in Dover
tomorrow.”

There was sudden silence. “This isn’t Dover?”

“Canterbury,” Grace answered, before she thought of it.

“
Canterbury
?” Diccan echoed, the sounds of movement
ceasing. “Deuce take it. How the devil did I get here? The last I remember I was on the Dover packet. Where’s Biddle?”

“Your valet?” Kate said, sounding absurdly amused. “Undoubtedly looking for you in Dover. We’ll send someone after him, once
we’re all dressed. Are you still all right under there, Grace?”

Grace felt another miserable blush spread over her. “Do you see my clothes?” she asked.

“Strewn over the floor as if they’d been on fire,” Kate informed her. “Another reason I know you are not the culprit here.
Even during those awful days we spent caring for the wounded from Waterloo, you never once failed to fold your clothing like
a premier abigail.”

“She could have been anxious to get into bed,” Diccan suggested dryly.

“Not with you, she wouldn’t,” Kate said, sounding positively delighted. “She doesn’t like you.”

Grace made a sound of protest. It wasn’t polite, even if it was true. She didn’t like him. It didn’t mean she was immune to
him. He was like a broken tooth Grace couldn’t resist running her tongue over, a sharp reminder of everything she wasn’t and
never would be.

“Don’t be absurd,” Diccan was saying. “Everyone likes me.”