Never a Gentleman (29 page)

For a split second, she thought she caught pain in his eyes. It was gone too quickly to know.

“You were telling her Wellington’s schedule,” she said.

“Because her brother is the French liaison for his office.”

“And the ‘little humiliation’?”

He sighed, as if she were tiresome. “Nothing more than boasting. What else?”

“How did Bertie Evenham really die?”

The question surprised even her. But she saw that she’d hit a nerve. Diccan straightened, his face slack with surprise. “What
in God’s name does Bertie Evenham have to do with anything?”

She rose to her feet, tired of feeling the supplicant. “How did he die?”

“He died in a duel,” Diccan said, sounding bored. “You know that.”

She stepped up to him. “No. I don’t. The man from the Home Office said he was shot in the head. That you were there when it
happened. Were you?”

This time she saw a change in him he couldn’t mask. His eyes went bleak. He stiffened, as if bracing himself, and looked away
from her.

“Yes,” he said, his voice rough. “I was. I saw him kill himself.”

Shock buffeted her. She reached out, but he didn’t see her. “Why?”

Diccan finally turned. For the first time, Grace thought he looked brittle. “Gambling losses. But I didn’t see any reason
to tell a grieving mother that her son said that he didn’t deserve to live just before putting a gun to his head.”

She pressed her hands against her chest, the anguish searing her. Diccan had regained his expression of calm. For some reason,
though, Grace thought a storm raged
beneath that glossy veneer. It made her ache for him, which made her angry.

“On your honor?” she asked, stricken.

Diccan glared at her. “On my honor. Now will you leave it be?”

She couldn’t answer for a long moment. Something felt wrong, and she couldn’t think what it was. But she had just suffered
one too many shocks and felt bothered by it.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, surprising herself.

Sighing, Diccan dragged a hand through his hair. “What will it take to satisfy you?” he demanded. “What do you want me to
do?”

And before she knew she was going to do it, she told him. “All those things I saw you do to your mistress last night?” she
said, trembling with the enormity of her audacity. “I want you to do them to me.”

D
iccan opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think what to say. He was sure he’d heard wrong. There was no way in hell Grace could
have said what she just did. Not pragmatic, practical, self-effacing Grace. But she stood unsmiling before him, and he realized
his heart had begun to race. His breath seemed to be caught in his chest. He felt as if he’d been tossed into a racing tide,
and was tumbled head over heels.

“Would you like to explain yourself?” he asked, very quietly.

“I’ve had time to think,” she said, her voice as smooth as dark silk, her hands clasped loosely at her waist, her head up.
“And I have come to the conclusion that celibacy is overrated. Since you seem disinclined to alleviate that condition for
me, I felt it incumbent on me to ask. All things being equal, I would much rather not have to go elsewhere to have my… itch
scratched.”

She looked so bloody calm and cool, a barefoot warrior queen in nothing but stays and chemise, her hair tumbled
about her shoulders. Before, he might have mistaken her stillness for indifference. He knew better now. Her tension was betrayed
by her shallow breathing, the blotchy red that spread from her chest, the way she clasped her hands before her as if taking
tea with his mother.

She couldn’t be more distressed than he. She’d seen him, seen exactly what he’d done with Minette. By God, she’d
heard
him, and what he’d said was unforgivable. And he couldn’t explain.

He felt as if the room were closing in on him. “You want me to do to you what I did last night.”

She nodded, back stiff as a lance, knuckles bone white. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye, his exhaustion dissipating
like a rank mist. His brain might know better than to acquiesce to her request, but his body didn’t give a damn. He was already
half hard.

“Don’t be absurd, Grace,” he said, halfheartedly hoping the insult would fend her off. “You don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

She lifted her head, as regal as a queen. “I also find that I’m growing unbearably weary of men telling me I don’t know what
I’m talking about. If last night was any indication, I don’t think you’re physically unable to accommodate me. Unwilling is
another issue, of course, which I do understand. But if you can dredge up the interest to get the thing done, then I believe
I would like my fair share.”

He had to say it. He had to chase her away. “Why? You know it won’t change how I feel about you.”

She looked as if he’d backhanded her, stark and ashen and frozen. Ah, and he hadn’t thought he could feel worse.

“Maybe,” she said quietly, making his punishment complete, “I just want to pretend.”

He couldn’t answer her. Hell, he couldn’t breathe. Those few quiet words had lodged in his chest like a serrated blade, and
he swore he was bleeding. How could he keep hurting her like this?

He had to. The Surgeon was out there.

“And when would you like this to happen?” he asked.

He could see the pulse jump in her throat. “As soon as possible, I think. I understand, however, if you need a bit of time
to work up to it.”

“Talk like that again,” he threatened, “and I won’t accommodate you at all. You’d better be damned sure, though.” Images tumbled
through his head, unpardonable sins against his wife. “What exactly did you see?”

She tilted her head, sending that colorless waterfall of hair swinging past her waist. For some reason he couldn’t take his
eyes from it. “I seem to have missed the disrobing,” she said. “But considering how littered the floor was, I imagine it didn’t
take long.”

He couldn’t seem to keep from goading her, as if he needed to flay himself with the pain in her eyes. “Not long at all.”

Her eyes widened fractionally. “All right.”

He felt his breath catch in his chest. “Just like that? All right? You give me complete license.”

He saw her pupils dilate. Her nostrils flared just a bit, and he felt his groin tighten. He felt as if he were drowning, and
every word pushed him farther under.

And then, not even realizing it, she gave the fatal push. “You won’t hurt me.”

She meant it. By God, she
meant
it, when he had served her up such pain already that she should have wished the Surgeon on him. Fighting to hide the searing
guilt, he
stalked over to the door. “All right then. Be ready tonight.” He stopped, his hand on the handle. “And when we meet again,
you’d better be on your knees.”

He waited only long enough to see the impact his words had on her. Then he opened the door and walked out. He didn’t know
how, but eventually he found himself walking in Green Park. Hands in pockets, head down, oblivious to the other occupants,
he stalked the paths as if tracking crime. Nannies pulled children out of his way, and acquaintances gave him wide berth.

He couldn’t keep this up. Once he had found his work for Drake exciting, challenging. That was when he’d had no one to worry
about but himself. When his bed partners had all played by the same set of rules. No guilt. No attachment. No histrionics.
He hadn’t even minded if one of his conquests tried to mine him for information while he was mining her. It was only a girl
doing her job, after all.

But the moment he’d opened his eyes to find Miss Grace Fairchild in his bed, the landscape had changed. In his new life, guilt
had become a familiar companion. Shame, regret, revulsion. He’d hated to be saddled with a wife. He resented the hell out
of the fact that she’d been forced on him. And yet, he found himself wanting to spend more time with her. He couldn’t think
of a sound more musical than Grace’s laugh or a sight more stirring than her throwing her heart over a fence along with that
elegant filly of hers.

He hadn’t meant to become attached to her. God knows he’d meant to do his duty and then find a way out. But she’d grown on
him. She’d revealed an amazing courage, an unexpected wit, a mind that was sharp as glass. She had worked hard to make his
life comfortable and asked
for precious little in return. She’d even managed to make a devoted slave not only of his valet, but of his horse.

He couldn’t even call her a martyr. He got no long-suffering sighs from her, no pitiable looks of misery. She’d never even
called him to account for his behavior, which made him feel even worse.

Damn her. He still couldn’t call her beautiful. Not even pretty. But she was compelling, with her honesty and humor and loyalty.
She was, God help him, arousing.

He shook his head, smiling as he thought of her bleeding and covered in mud as she serenely explained how, after everything
she’d faced, it had been the sight of her own blood that had made her faint. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to once again break
through that magnificently calm facade?

Did he dare? Drake would say if he granted Grace’s wish, he would be putting her in jeopardy. Diccan knew that Drake was right.
But would one night tip the balance? She hadn’t professed undying love. She’d asked for relief. Could he cooperate without
making her think she meant something to him?

By the time he walked up the steps to White’s a good hour later, he still hadn’t decided.

No one who saw Grace at the Wildes’ rout would have called her agitated. She smiled and chatted and sipped champagne with
her Grenadiers. She laughed with Kate and strolled with Chuffy Wilde and his brother Brock, whom, according to Chuffy, she
had saved after the battle of Croydon.

“A few centuries off,” the handsome blond Brock said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Chuffy said with a triumphant smile. “Corunna.”

Brock smiled. “Ciudad Rodrigo, actually.”

Chuffy looked crestfallen. “Blast. Now I’m going to have to start thinkin’ all over again.”

Diccan never came, and people had finally begun to comment in Grace’s hearing how seldom he was seen in her presence. Chuffy
and Brock protected her, Lady Bea sang a little ditty about a sailor and his parrot, and Kate won a drinking contest with
one of her cicisbeos. And Grace, for whom all these antics were performed, felt more isolated than ever.

For the first time in her life, she couldn’t speak the truth. She couldn’t let down her guard. She couldn’t even hide herself
off in a corner anymore. Everyone knew her name now, knew who she was and whom she had married. Most had even taken sides,
the
ton
favoring Diccan and her Grenadiers defending her. She felt rather like a shuttlecock, and she knew the worst was yet to come.

At least, she thought, sipping a glass of warm lemonade, she didn’t dwell on what had passed in her boudoir. Her heart still
ached from the words that had been said; her body thrummed with the residual electricity that always passed between her and
Diccan. But she knew better than to expect Diccan to follow through. No matter how much she might have wanted it, she simply
couldn’t see herself in Minette’s place. She didn’t have the courage. And Diccan, she was sure, didn’t have the interest.
He would find more excuses to avoid her, and she would lack the courage to challenge him. In the end they would go on as before,
drifting farther and farther apart until they became strangers again.

She was proven quite wrong when she returned to find Diccan lounging in the wing chair in her bedroom, a snifter of brandy
in one hand and a riding crop he tapped against his thigh in the other.

“I thought I told you that when you met me again you would do it on your knees,” he said, running his gaze up and down her
cream silk dress.

Feeling as if all the air had been sucked from the room, Grace came to an uncertain halt just inside the doorway. “What are
you doing here?” she asked stupidly.

She even looked around, just to make sure she hadn’t walked into the wrong room. But no, it was hers, done up in hues of warm
wood and pale blues and creams; a most respectable bedroom. Trying to maintain her calm, she laid down her reticule.

“Stop,” Diccan said when she began to pull off her glove. “You don’t have permission to undress yet.”

She halted, her fingers still hooked into the white kid. “Pardon?”

She noticed, suddenly, how bright the room was, with light not only from the fire, but from a score of candles that had been
lit around the room. The effect was magical. The soft, flickering light gilded the reclining Diccan, who wore no more than
a linen shirt and black pantaloons.

“Did you or did you not want to play a repeat performance of last night’s entertainment?” he asked, his voice rasping along
her nerves.

For a second she couldn’t get a word out past the sudden anxiety in her chest. Anxiety? Maybe not. Maybe a bittersweet soup
of longing and fear.

“Yes, I did say that,” she said, still not able to move.
“Except for the conversation. I find I didn’t like that nearly as well.”

She thought she might have seen chagrin flash across those pale gray eyes. But it was too quickly gone, to be followed by
a languid humor. “I find that words add to the enjoyment,” he said, taking a sip of brandy. “But I believe I can come up with
other topics of conversation. Such as your disobedience. Why aren’t you on your knees?”

She knew exactly what he meant. Still she couldn’t help looking around, as if clueless. “Why would I do that?”

His smile grew into the most erotic art Grace had ever seen. “That’s right,” he said. “You missed the first part of the evening.
So I’ll pardon your ignorance.”

He was amused, she thought. He was also suddenly hard. For some reason that excited her almost as much as the promise in his
eyes.

“Exactly, you said,” he murmured.

“Yes.” She dragged in a rasping breath. “I did.” Fighting to keep her hand from shaking, she pointed at the crop. “Is that
involved? If so, you might want to take a minute to remove the gun from beneath my pillow.”