Eloisa James (8 page)

Five

B
y the time Grace reached the duchess’s sitting room, she was feeling quite peaceful. She knew what she had to do, although, unfortunately, her mother would not approve.

“If it has even crossed your mind that you will throw yourself at that young man’s feet,” the duchess said the moment Grace entered the doorway, “I will personally bundle you into a carriage and send you to the country!”

No, her mother would surely not approve. Grace sat on a sofa, never mind the etiquette that insisted she should not sit before her mother did, and stated flatly, “I cannot marry John.”

Her mother sat down beside her. “Darling, Colin wasn’t a good prospect even before he was injured, much though I love him.”

“He
will
regain his eyesight.”

“That doesn’t mean he will fall in love with you.”

Grace swallowed hard. Her mother was not the sort of person who lied to make a person feel better. You could trust her to tell the truth, even if you might not wish to hear it.

Now the duchess leaned close and gathered Grace in her arms. “We never told you children the reason I threw your father out of the house after just two days of marriage, but it had to do with believing that he didn’t love me. I would
never
wish that horrible experience on one of my children.”

Tears threatened. Grace couldn’t pretend, even to herself, that Colin loved her. Three hours earlier, he had turned his head in her direction and then away, without even asking how she was. He hadn’t congratulated her on her betrothal. She was nothing to him. Less than nothing.

And yet she felt such a wave of love for him, the ungrateful beast, that she could hardly bear it. “He’s hurting,” she said, the words tumbling out. “I know him, Mama. He hated being in the navy, and the fact that he never got injured made it worse.”

“How so?”

“He felt guilty just for surviving. They died all around him, you know. His men did. And they cried out for their mothers. He couldn’t bear it.”

The duchess’s arm tightened. “That’s terrible. I could see he was unhappy, but I had no idea he was so tormented.”

“I don’t want to love him.” Grace stared down at her fingers, twisting together. “I
hate
the fact I love him, and you’re right to say that he doesn’t love me.”

Her mother sighed. “I wish you were a little girl again so that I could give you a kiss and make it better.”

“He’s not in love with me,” Grace repeated, “but I’m in love with him. That’s the way it’s been for my whole life, and it won’t change. I almost feel as if I’m cursed.”

“No!”

“Colin walked into the house today and my heart leapt, even though I saw he was blind in the same moment. I don’t care about anything other than the fact he’s home. I wouldn’t care if he had lost a leg or both arms. It wouldn’t be right to marry John, feeling the way I do.”

“I’ve occasionally thought that John would be perfect for Lily,” the duchess said thoughtfully, stroking Grace’s hair. “He’s steady and kind, and she needs both. And he’s very intelligent.” She left the corollary unspoken.

Grace shrugged. “As long as Lily doesn’t marry Colin. I think of
that
, and I feel like a madwoman, Mama, I really do. Absolutely cracked.” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed before adding, “I’ll never love anyone as I do him. I’m not a baby, and I’ve loved him for years. He’s all there is for me.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her mother handed her a perfectly pressed handkerchief embroidered with the Ashbrook crest. “Did I ever tell you about the time when your father and I were both young, and he had to lie in a darkened room or risk blindness?”

“No.”

“Your father does not like to stand still for five minutes, let alone weeks. I fell in love with him sitting by his bed, and I never recovered from it.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten or eleven, I think.”

Grace was quite unsurprised to find that she and her mother fell in love around the same age. “Mother,” she said, straightening her back, “I intend to bring Colin to Arbor House.”

Her mother’s face fell. “Oh, darling, I can’t accompany you just now.”

“I shall take him by myself.”

“I know Colin is a family friend, but you are a young lady. Your maid would be an adequate chaperone for the journey, but you could not reside in Arbor House with him, given that his parents are not in residence.”

“I can, and I will.” Grace folded her hands.

“You will be compromised!”

“Yes.”

A fascinated expression replaced her mother’s frown. “Dearest, you do understand the implications of what you are saying?”

“I will not allow Colin to blunder about the country unable to see.” She took a deep breath. “I mean to seduce him if I am able.”

“Oh my goodness,” the duchess said faintly. “Gentlemen aren’t like servants, you know. You can’t simply order them to do your bidding.”

“What is the worst that could happen? He will reject me. Again. But at least,” Grace said fiercely, “I will have fought for him. I have to do that, at least.”

“But—”

“I shan’t marry anyone else,” Grace said, cutting her off. “I expect it won’t be so terrible being an old maid, unless Colin marries Lily. But I
know
him, Mama. If he doesn’t regain his sight, he won’t willingly marry either of us. He wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

Her mother was silent. Then: “I wouldn’t be surprised if Colin isn’t secretly in love with you. You wrote him all those charming letters for years. He may well need a little push, though
seduction
, Grace, is going too far, as I hope you realize.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She was never any good at lying. Her mother shook her head. “You are very like me, do you know that?”

Grace smiled. “Yes.”

“I think there’s a good chance that Colin will not agree to being accompanied by you.”

“He certainly will not. I think it would be best if he were put in the carriage now. If he doesn’t wake for hours, it will be too late to cavil.”

“Colin is nothing if not honorable,” the duchess pointed out. “The mere journey will compromise you, so there’s no need for drastic measures. You can have a proper wedding night.” She stood up and rang the bell. “In fact, I’ll have our solicitor quietly obtain a special license and send it after you.”

“I won’t marry Colin unless I have managed to seduce him,” Grace stated. “The last thing I want is a husband who was forced to marry me.”

Her mother opened her mouth, but their butler opened the door. “Featherstone,” the duchess said, “I believe that this regrettable dose of laudanum can be put to best use by bundling Captain Barry into the carriage and dispatching him to Arbor House. The doctor ordered complete rest and darkness, and this house is far too active. He will be more comfortable there.”

Featherstone nodded. “I’ll order the traveling carriage, Your Grace.”

“Oh, and do tell Lady Grace’s maid to pack her things. She will accompany him to the country.” The butler showed not a flicker of surprise. He was, above all, a servant of the Duchess of Ashbrook.

“Darling,” the duchess continued, turning back to Grace, “I have just realized that it might be best if Colin had left by the time your father returns.”

Grace jumped to her feet. Her father would never allow her to travel with a man who didn’t love her, especially if the duke had the faintest idea that his daughter was planning to seduce the man in question. “Featherstone, please tell Mary to pack a small travel bag so we can leave immediately.”

“I’ll send your clothes after you in the morning,” her mother said, as the door closed behind Featherstone. “You must write a letter to John before you leave.”

Grace bit her lip, thinking of John’s adoring eyes. “Do you suppose that Lily could make him feel better?”

“That’s a question for Lily and John, not for you. Tell him the truth, Grace. He will be bitterly disappointed, but it does a man good to have a broken relationship or two in his past. John is a bit too satisfied with himself.”

“What if Papa sends after me the moment he hears what happened?”

“I think,” the duchess said, with a wicked twinkle, “that you can count on me to distract your father.”

And so it was that a slumbering Captain Barry was bundled onto one seat of the ducal carriage, and Grace sat down on the other. Another carriage followed with Colin’s trunk, and his batman, and with Mary, Grace’s maid.

Grace’s heart beat quickly for the first hour of their journey. But at length, she relaxed. No one wants to think
too
closely about her parents’ intimate life, but it would take an idiot not to recognize that the Duchess of Ashbrook could wind a pirate around her little finger.

It would be hours—perhaps an entire day—before His Grace knew that his daughter had disappeared.

Six

C
olin had fallen back into a laudanum dream, even as he struggled against it, telling himself that he had sworn never again to enter the dangerous world that left him with an aching heart and tears on his cheeks.

Colin was a man. Men don’t cry.
Ergo
, Colin didn’t cry.

Except when taking laudanum.

In this dream, he was in a carriage with Grace, which was interesting, because he couldn’t remember being in a carriage with her before. He was blindfolded, unlike his other dreams, but he knew she was there. Somehow, he knew.

Since it was only a dream, he followed his heart and asked, “Are you there?”

He whispered it, but he heard a soft rustle of her gown, and then she was next to him, bending over him. She didn’t wear perfume, the way her sister Lily did. He could smell Grace, a scent of lemon soap and woman.

A cool hand came on his cheek, and she murmured something.

He didn’t care what she was saying. This was
his
dream, and so far it was going the way he wanted.

So he reached out and grasped her gown. She seemed to be wearing a traveling gown of some sort of sturdy fabric. He spared just a moment to commend his dream-making abilities. That was quite a realistic detail.

Dream Grace was still saying something, but rather than answer, he pulled her toward him. She fell onto his chest with a little squeak. The voice in the back of his head was laughing:
Graceful!
Not that she would appreciate the pun.

But it didn’t matter. He began to shift their positions, which was hard to do when he couldn’t see, and he spared a wish that his damned dream would give him his vision as he usually had while dreaming—but no complaining. He was too afraid that at any moment Grace would dissolve under his fingers.

Finally, he had her underneath him. His body felt massive in relation to hers, and he realized that all those exercises on board ship had probably made him even more muscled than he usually was. Good thing this was just a dream. An English lass would likely be put off by his size.

He cupped her face with his hand and tilted it toward his lips.

This time he heard her. “Colin, do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do,” he told Dream Grace. “This is my dream, after all.” Then he kissed her. Gently. The way a man kisses a woman whom he adores and hasn’t seen since he left for the sea.

Her mouth was sweet as honey and sent an instant flame down his body. She seemed startled, frozen almost, but then she murmured something and her hand slipped into his hair. When they were both gasping for breath—nice touch of realism there—he let his lips slide from hers, and started kissing the line of her jaw, the arch of her cheekbone, the curl of eyelashes that had stunned him when she was only twelve and had made him feel like some sort of filthy old man.

But now she was twenty . . .

“How old are you?” he murmured.

“Twenty,” he heard, which was like a benediction.

“Not twelve?”

He had to make sure of that. He’d have to throw himself out of the carriage if he had started dreaming about young girls.

“Of course not!” Dream Grace sounded indignant and a little cross. Everyone thought that the Real Grace was docile, but he knew the truth. She put a wicked sense of humor into her paintings.

He kissed her until she was whimpering, and he was rubbing against her, and then he came to himself enough to realize that he’d better move quickly. He hadn’t dreamed about Grace in weeks, and this time, he wanted to actually take her instead of merely thinking about it.

Without a second thought, he braced himself on one arm, reached for her bodice, and ripped it free. There was a bit more verisimilitude to the whole affair than he had expected—in his earlier dreams, Grace’s clothing had simply evaporated from her body. But this time, he actually pulled her body up from the seat. There was a sharp sound of cloth tearing, and she gave a little shriek of surprise . . .

The dream was going to dissolve; he could feel it in his bones. So he went back to kissing her, because if he couldn’t have it all, he wanted every moment of her soft lips that he could have. She tasted of tea and faintly of sugar and mostly of Grace. When he was kissing her, he didn’t mind that he didn’t have his eyesight; he didn’t need it. Everything he wanted to know he could tell with his other senses: the tremor that shook her body, the little moan when he nipped her generous lower lip, and the way she kissed him back, eager as any courtesan.

Some part of his mind reminded him that a dream wasn’t real. But damn, he had conjured a wonderful Dream Grace.

His hand slid to her breast and even though he had to tear away yet another layer of cloth—this dream was irritatingly precise—he finally had a breast in his hand. It was the most delightfully rounded breast he could have imagined. It was perfect. He nuzzled her, and then kissed her nipple, and the only thing that made him sad was that he couldn’t see it.

Suddenly he remembered that this was
his
dream. So he demanded, “What color is your nipple?”

Dream Grace was gasping in a way that made his whole body vibrate with desire. When she didn’t answer, he commanded, “Tell me.” He’d never heard that tone in his voice before. He sounded like a satyr.

Since he was a satyr, he might as well keep going. He moved back just enough so that he could run a hand up her legs, under her skirts. She still hadn’t answered his question, but her breath was coming in little gasps, so he let it go.

Dream Grace had a mind of her own, it seemed. Or maybe she didn’t know any more about her breasts than he did, because if he didn’t know, she couldn’t . . .

But the complications of dreaming up a naked person slipped away from him, because now he had a hand running up the luscious curve of her inner thigh. Under his fingertips, her skin was like the softest satin he’d ever felt.

He wanted to taste her, so he pushed off the seat onto the carriage floor. The floor was hard under his knees—again, congratulations to his imagination for realistic detail—but he wasn’t going to complain.

He might have finessed it a bit if he was with a real woman, but this was his dream. He pushed the gown straight up to her waist and pulled off her drawers.

Dream Grace babbled with surprise, but he refused to listen. His imagination was correct in that detail: Real Grace, with her lovely air of dignity, would never allow herself to be debauched in a coach. She wouldn’t be surprised, but outraged.

“This is
my
dream,” he informed Dream Grace, putting a stern note in his voice.

Then he began licking her inner thighs, making his way toward heaven. He was almost there when the coach lurched and his lips fell directly on a silken tuft of hair. His mind told him the hair was likely a delicate red. His mind also complimented him on the clever way the coach motion had worked in his favor.

Dream Grace sounded urgent now. “Trust me,” he said, silently telling his dream girl how much he adored and respected her.

Telling her that he would make love to her in a queen’s bed or a stable, if she would give him a chance.

That she was the center of his universe.

It worked. Dream Grace caught his hand in hers, and then she kissed the tips of his fingers. The touch of her lips drove him mad.

He lowered his head and ran his tongue over that little twist of hair again, pushing her legs apart to make room for his shoulders. He had never tasted anything sweeter. What’s more, he could hear Dream Grace’s breath changing, coming even faster. Her hand tightened on his, but he still had one free hand. He trailed his fingers up the smooth skin of her thigh, up and down, finally came closer.

She twisted against him, murmuring words that Real Grace would never say . . . begging him, pleading with him.

He loved it. Dream Grace had no dignity and no restraint. She was all sensuality, with desire that sprang from her heart and body.

He ran a finger over her delicately. His hands had never felt so large and clumsy as they were at this moment. She screamed at his touch. The sound was pure pleasure, but he spared a moment to remind his imagination that it was
his
dream and virginity should have no part in it. He didn’t want that scream to have a hint of pain.

Sure enough, Dream Grace was no virgin. She wasn’t in the least uncertain. She had one leg draped over his shoulder now, and she was arching wantonly toward his mouth. She was soft and wet . . . He slid a finger inside her, gasping at how tight and hot she was. She screamed again, so loudly the dream coachman could probably hear her, and then convulsed around his finger.

He kept kissing her, luxuriously, slowly, with a kind of pleasure that he’d never indulged in before. She was gasping—panting, really—so he thrust another finger beside the first.

Her cry was so sweet and passionate that he almost spent himself there, on his knees. One thrust of his fingers and she was shaking again, convulsing, driving him into a fever of desire.

Damn, but he had a potent imagination. It was a good thing that he had thrown that laudanum out the porthole, because he saw now how easily a man could become addicted to dreams like this one.

The only thing that annoyed him was that he couldn’t see her. But no complaining . . . He wouldn’t wait any longer. He stood, braced himself against the swaying coach, pulled his placket open and her thighs apart, and said, “I want you.” His own voice was so guttural, low and fierce, that he surprised himself.

Dream Grace wasn’t the sort of illusion who argued with a man. As he put a knee on the seat, her arms came around his neck, and she pulled his mouth to hers.

Colin positioned himself at the entrance to her sleek warmth and then slowly began pushing forward. This dream was amazing. He was ecstatic.

No woman could possibly feel this tight and hot. No woman’s lips were that lush. No woman could turn his loins to fire with nothing more than a squeak, like a mix of surprise and desire.

He pulled out, slow, and then worked his way back into her, shuddering with the pleasure of it. Then he caught her lips again, stilled because it felt so good, kissed her for a long moment, caught there between pleasure and movement.

Suddenly he had a pulse of anxiety—what if the dream ended?—and remembered, at the same moment, that the woman who had put a leg over his shoulder didn’t need the sort of careful attention one might give a real woman. She was
his
, straight from his imagination.

So he pulled out again and then thrust, roaring aloud at the pleasure he’d never imagined . . . hadn’t ever thought . . . His thoughts fell apart.

He loved her; she was his center; he was nothing without her.

For long minutes he had no other thoughts than the desperate heat in his loins and the blazing need in his body. He pumped fast, and then faster, one hand caressing her breast, the other balancing himself against the movement of the coach. He just wished he could see her face, see her head thrown back in exquisite pleasure, her lips open, her eyes glazed with desire . . . love.

Was she with him? Did it matter? She was Dream Grace, after all . . . She would be with him. She was pure sensuality, pure desire.

For a moment, he felt sad, missing Real Grace’s complex, thoughtful mind. But his beloved would never be this sensual. She was adorable, and grave, and dignified.

The thought of Real Grace made it all roar out of him, all his love and despair and pure lust, moving from him to her in a storm.

Then . . . his knees were weak. He slipped free, consumed with deep thankfulness that the dream had finally—
finally
—allowed him to make love to Grace, rather than dissolving her into thin air just before they joined.

He was so damned tired that he could feel darkness swallowing him up. He stood, bumped his head on something, fell onto a seat. Grace was gone, of course. Just himself on a leather seat, alone again.

He missed her with a piercing agony, but the darkness was coming to swallow him up.

“Mine,” he said, shaping the word clearly, just in case he never saw Dream Grace again. “You’re mine, now.”

He spoke to the silent air, of course. There was no one in his dream but him.

She didn’t reply.