Sally MacKenzie Bundle (130 page)

And what if Grace had something truly important to say? Then perhaps he wouldn’t have to be angry at all. He could just be…hmm. In a nice private location.

Grace flushed, her eyes wavering slightly before she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and gave him a scornful look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m certain your poor male mind can focus on something other than seduction for a few minutes.”

He coughed. Poor, naïve girl.

She put her hand on his arm and tugged. “Come. Let’s find a place where we can have a serious discussion.”

“Very well.” He nodded at Lady Amanda and Mrs. Fallwell as he walked past them. The ladies nodded back, their eyes gleaming with suspicion.

He should not go with Grace. He was opening himself to malicious gossip. It would not help his matrimonial prospects. He wanted an unexceptional bride, didn’t he? Going off into a private room with another woman would certainly compromise that goal.

And yet…Gossip be damned. He didn’t really want an unexceptional bride—he wanted Grace. If Grace had a rational explanation for whatever had transpired between Lady Oxbury and Alex, he wanted to hear it.

She peered into a small room and nodded. “This should suit.” She pulled him over the threshold and shut the door.

“Aren’t you being a bit indiscreet, Lady Grace?” Not that he was complaining. The room was hardly more than a closet. There was a single, uncomfortable-looking chair, a small table, and a bookshelf with excruciatingly boring titles such as
A Discourse on Crop Rotation
and
Some Thoughts on the Topic of Sheep Shearing
. It must be the room where unwelcome guests were deposited.

The limited space meant he had to stand very, very close to Grace.

“Aren’t you being a bit idiotic, Lord Dawson? As I said, we have a serious issue to discuss. Are your animal instincts so strong you cannot control them long enough for rational discourse?” Grace hoped her voice didn’t waver. This room was smaller than she’d thought—and Lord Dawson was so large. He filled the space rather alarmingly.

David confined himself to a noncommittal grunt. The air was rapidly filling with Grace’s scent, a mix of soap and lemon and…Grace. His animal instincts were urging him to engage in some truly idiotic behavior. Frustration made his voice harsher than he intended. “Get to your point, Lady Grace.”

“Very well.” Grace pulled her thoughts away from Lord Dawson’s shoulders and pointed her fan at him. “Something is seriously amiss with my aunt, and I firmly believe your uncle is the cause.”

David crossed his arms to keep from grabbing Grace and pulling her against him. “Can you be more specific?”

“Yes, I can. I will grant you my powers of observation the night of the Alvord ball”—Grace flushed—“were not at their sharpest, but I would swear my aunt and your uncle were getting along famously. Remember their waltz?” How could anyone forget? Watching them had been extremely disconcerting. Had she and Lord Dawson looked so scandalous when they’d been waltzing?

Grace shivered slightly. She had certainly felt scandalous. Well, not scandalous precisely. She hadn’t been giving their appearance one second’s thought. She’d been too busy feeling, enjoying having Lord Dawson’s arms about her and his chest so close…

She unfurled her fan and plied it vigorously. It was very warm in this tiny room.

David nodded. He, too, had thought all was well with Alex and Lady Oxbury when they were waltzing. Extremely well, if Alex’s woolgathering on the walk back to Dawson House was any indication. The problem must have occurred later.

“Aunt Kate was very distracted on the ride home,” Lady Grace was saying. “Almost agitated. But the next morning she was different. She was still agitated, but, well—”

Grace frowned, idly tapping her fan against her hand in thought. David contemplated that movement. She just happened to be holding her fan near her lovely breas—dress. Her lovely dress that so delightfully revealed her large, well-shaped—

Focus. He needed to focus on the question at hand—not the lovely—the things he would most like to have in hand. If he and Lady Grace could mend the rift between her aunt and his uncle—if it were indeed just some silly misunderstanding—he would be free to lust after Grace again with a clear conscience. That would make him very, very happy.

“Pay attention, Lord Dawson.” Grace poked him with her fan; he forced himself to look at her eyes, not her…right, not her, hmm. She had very nice eyes, too. Green with flecks of brown and yellow.

“Aunt Kate has periods when she is pleasantly bemused. I’ll be talking to her and realize her thoughts are miles away. She’ll just stare off into space, with this funny, dreamy sort of smile. Other times I’ll come upon her and it’s clear she’s been crying. Whenever we’re out in society, she keeps glancing around as if she’s looking for someone. And then when we saw you here alone, she turned white as a ghost.”

David wanted to ask if
she
had been looking for
him
, but he stopped himself in time.

Grace frowned. “I think your uncle must have come by Oxbury House after the ball. Someone was throwing pebbles at Aunt Kate’s window, though how Mr. Wilton knew which window was my aunt’s…” Grace shrugged, causing her lovely shoulders—and, well, other things—to move delightfully. “But who else could it have been? And they must have spoken, don’t you think?”

He grunted. He’d wager they’d done a lot more than speak. Alex would not have looked so stricken—would not have fled London—if he’d simply engaged in conversation.

Grace poked him with her fan again. “So, my lord, tell me where your blasted uncle is.”

He pushed her fan aside and stepped back—as far as the tiny room would allow him. “Home at Clifton Hall.”

Grace gaped at him. “What? He’s left London entirely?”

“I’ve just said so, haven’t I?”

“But that’s ridiculous. How could he have done such a thing?” She brandished her fan, but he caught it and took it away from her. He was tired of being poked.

“Very easily. He packed a bag and saddled his horse. I sent the rest of his gear along later.”

“Later? How long has he been gone?”

What harm could there be in telling her? “He left the morning after Alvord’s ball.”

She snapped her jaw shut. “I knew it! The man is a rake, a rogue, a…a complete scoundrel.”

How dare she say such things about Alex? For once the passion he felt had nothing to do with lust. “If you were a man, Lady Grace, you would be naming your seconds.”

Grace bit her lip. Lord Dawson had stiffened up like a poker. She could tell he was going to storm out of this little room at any moment, all high in the instep.

Well, she was angry, too, but that wasn’t going to solve Aunt Kate’s problems. She needed to calm down and calm this glowering man down as well.

She held up a hand—and then two as Lord Dawson approached her, clearly intent on getting to the door as quickly as possible. She pushed against his chest. He would have to knock her down to get out—which was beginning to look like a distinct possibility. He grabbed her hands as if he would remove two cockroaches bold enough to sully his person.

“Lord Dawson, storming off like this will do no good.” He was not listening to her. He’d already discarded her hands and was stepping around her. She lunged and grabbed his lapels. “My lord, wait. I apologize. I spoke in haste. I retract, most humbly, my comments about your uncle.”

He finally paused. He was still looking at her as if she were the lowest class of vermin, but at least he was looking at her.

She loosened her grasp, smoothing his lapels where she’d wrinkled them—but she was careful to keep her body between him and the door.

“Let’s be rational. I love my aunt, and you love”—He was glaring at her again. Apparently “love” was not a manly enough word to use—“hold your uncle in high esteem.” Better. Lord Dawson relaxed, at least slightly. “I’m sure we both want them to be happy.” He nodded. Good.

“It also seems clear they cannot address the problem, whatever it is, dispassionately.”

He snorted at that. “Bloody right.” He grimaced. “Pardon my language.”

She waved her hand. “Please, don’t refine on it.” He was talking to her, which was all that mattered at the moment. “It’s equally clear to me that your uncle’s chosen method of dealing with the issue”—Lord Dawson straightened, his face darkening. Oh, dear, she was going to lose him—“which is
perfectly
understandable”—he softened slightly—“will not result in a satisfactory solution.”

“I don’t see what is unsatisfactory about it.”

Grace kept herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely. Of course he didn’t see the problem—he was a man, and most men were completely blind to the many emotional facets of an issue. They saw only the one side that was right under their nose. Look at her father—no, she would prefer not to look at him.

“Is your uncle happy, Lord Dawson?”

He frowned. “Well…no.”

“Has he been happy—really happy—recently, or for as long as you can remember?”

“N-no.”

“Does his unhappiness have something to do with my aunt?”

“Damn right, it bloody well does.”

“Exactly. So how will hiding away on his estate make him happy?”

“He is not hiding.”

She could argue with that, but she did not care to get into a spitting match with the baron. His lowered brows and set chin did not bespeak an open, conciliatory mind. “Well, perhaps not. Yet don’t you agree that while leaving London allows him to avoid whatever—”

Lord Dawson snorted and raised a very obnoxious eyebrow.

“—all right,
whoever
is causing his pain, it won’t make the pain go away. He has to address the root of the problem. He needs to meet with my aunt—”

“He did meet with your aunt. I believe it was that meeting that sent him back to Clifton Hall.”

“Pardon me, my lord, I mean no disrespect, but that’s ridiculous! How could a conversation, a
short
conversation, carried on between my aunt in her room and your uncle outside—are you all right?” The man had turned red and was making a choking noise.

“Yes. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “I believe the…conversation…was a little more intense than that.”

“Were you there?”

“Good God, no!”

Why was he so appalled? “Well, then you can’t know, can you?”

Lord Dawson made some odd, sputtering sounds and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Very strange.

“And even if they
had
had a very complete discussion, which we do not know that they did—”

Lord Dawson was now making strangling sounds.

“—running away”—He glared at her—“that is, leaving Town so that they cannot meet again indicates the issue has not yet been resolved.”

“You don’t know that.”

She did roll her eyes then. “I do know that his flight—um, departure—means your uncle still feels pain. Do you deny that?”

He certainly looked as if he would like to, but honesty won over loyalty. “No.”

“Exactly. And I’m certain my aunt is still hurting.”

Lord Dawson made a very rude noise. Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around his neck and squeeze. She took a deep breath—and noticed his gaze drop to her chest.

The man was absolutely maddening. She’d told Aunt Kate she needed a fichu for this dress, but Aunt Kate would not listen to reason—and Grace hadn’t had the heart to argue with her, her aunt had been so despondent. She snatched her fan off the table where Lord Dawson had placed it and unfurled it, directing his attention back to her face.

“My lord, your attitude is not helping matters. You have apparently taken a dislike to my aunt.” He made another derogatory sound. She pressed her lips together and counted to ten. She must remain calm. She could not let her infernal temper get the better of her.

“That is your prerogative. However, it has nothing to say to the problem at hand. You need to put aside your personal prejudices”—another scoffing snort. She was about ready to kick the nodcock in the shins…or some softer, more sensitive location—“to focus on what is best for your uncle.” No need to mention Aunt Kate as well; she’d heard enough disparaging sounds for the time being.

Lord Dawson’s nostrils flared; his lips formed a tight, thin line. He was not persuaded, but at least he was listening.

“I firmly believe your uncle and my aunt need to come to some understanding so they aren’t tortured by their past.” She stepped forward, laid her hand on Lord Dawson’s chest, and looked up at him, hoping he could discern the sincerity in her eyes.

“And if they cannot manage to see that, then the people who care for them—you and I—need to. I think we should find a way to bring them together physically”—now why did the man’s face turn red?—“so they cannot run from each other. If they are stuck in the same place, they may have a rational, thorough discussion. They are both intelligent adults. They must realize it would be much more comfortable if they could move about in society without constantly fearing they might encounter one another.”

“You may have a point.” Lord Dawson gazed down at her, his eyes hooded. She could not read his expression, but at least the anger had left his face. He seemed relaxed.

His gloved hand covered hers where it rested on his waistcoat, his fingers almost absentmindedly stroking the back of her glove. Even through the layers of cloth she felt…something. Strength. Heat. Possessiveness? Her other hand came up to join its mate. Heat curled low in her stomach.

He smiled slightly.

No, he was not relaxed. There was a…not tension, exactly. An energy. That was it. An air of expectation, of watchfulness about him.

Suddenly the passion between them was no longer anger.

She wet her lips, and his eyes followed her tongue. Her mouth felt swollen, hot. She opened it slightly. Was she panting?

Now she knew the look in his eyes. He was a cat playing with a mouse—and she was the mouse.

Oh, how she wanted to be caught.

His face moved down toward hers. His lips were so close…She tilted her chin—

“Grace!”

“Ack!” She jumped back and tripped on her skirt. She would have crashed into the bookcase if Lord Dawson hadn’t caught her. “Aunt Kate, what are you doing here?”