Seduced by His Touch (26 page)

G
race stood mute, her gaze fixed on the couple kissing in the center of the Pettigrews’ study.

At first, the scene made no sense to her. Unmistakably, the dark-haired woman was Philipa Stockton. Grace knew her identity, since she’d long ago made a point of finding out just what her husband’s former mistress looked like.

But the man…no, the man couldn’t be who she thought he was.

Seconds later, he slid his palms up Lady Stockton’s arms and she knew it was Jack.
Her Jack.
Gooseflesh popped out all over her skin, bile rising into her throat with a burning sting. Taking a pair of steps backward, she stumbled against the door, desperate to look away, yet somehow incapable of the act.

Then, sensing her presence, Jack’s head came up and his gaze locked on hers.

The shock broke her free, her limbs suddenly functional again. Wheeling around, she ran from the room. Behind her, Jack called out her name, but she didn’t stop, knowing only that she had to get away.

Perhaps running was a cowardly act. Maybe if she were another woman, she would have stayed and confronted the pair. Flown at them with fists and fingernails and screams of outrage.

But such violence wasn’t in her nature, and she’d already seen more than enough. She couldn’t bear the idea of staying to listen to their excuses.

Slippers flying, she sped toward the entrance, uncaring who might see her along the way. A few eyes did follow her, but she barely noticed, intent as she was on escape. She was just hurrying past the ballroom when a man stepped into her path. For the faintest instant she thought it was Jack, that somehow he’d managed to catch up. But then she realized it was Cade instead.

“Easy there,” he said. “Where are you going so fast?”

Before she could answer, Meg appeared at his side. “So? Did you tell him?” she asked Grace with a bright, conspiratorial smile.

Grace stared back, uncomprehending.

“Tell who, what?” Cade demanded.

“You know. About the
baby,”
Meg said, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “I just couldn’t keep it secret and told Grace. She was going to share the news with Jack, but…” She broke off, an expression of unease replacing her happy smile. “What is it, Grace? You don’t look well. Forgive me for not noticing right away.”

“It-it’s fine,” Grace muttered. “And n-no, I d-didn’t have a chance to tell him. I’m sorry.”

“Are you ill?” Meg asked with clear concern. “What has happened?”

“Yes,” Cade said, stepping closer to take hold of her elbow as though he were worried she might fall. “You look quite pale. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll go find Jack.”

“No!” she cried.

Cade lifted a brow.

Modulating her tone, she continued. “No, d-don’t bother him. All I want is the coach to take me home.”

“Well, of course, but we should still tell him. He’ll be worried.”

But he won’t be,
she thought with dismal certainty. And even if he were, she didn’t care. Not anymore. Still, all this talk of Jack made her realize that he might find her at any second. Recoiling at the thought, she pulled away from Cade.

“I n-need to go home. I shall see both of you later.”

“But Grace,” Meg called. “Where are you g—?”

Grace didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest, hurrying away again as fast as her feet would carry her. Knowing there wasn’t time to call for the coach, she sought out a footman.

“A hackney, please. As quickly as possible.” She found a coin large enough to ensure his immediate compliance.

Less than two minutes later, she was inside the hackney cab. For a few seconds, she considered telling the driver to take her to her father’s house. But Papa would be full of questions and demands she didn’t wish to answer. Knowing she had nowhere else to go, she gave the address for Upper Brook Street.

Jack walked into the town house half an hour later, relieved to hear from Appleton that her ladyship had arrived only minutes before.

He would have been there sooner himself, but first he’d had to extract himself from a surprisingly contrite Philipa. After escaping her, he’d hurried off in search of Grace, only to be set upon by a concerned Cade and Meg. They had proceeded to inform him that Grace was greatly distressed, had refused their offer of assistance, and fled the party on her own.

Noticing their hushed conversation, Mallory, Mama and Edward had joined in as well, demanding to know what was wrong. Only the arrival of his coach allowed him to make his exit.

Now finally he was home. Now he could talk to Grace and straighten out this mess.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he strode down the hallway to her bedchamber. Pausing for a moment, he gave a quiet tap on the door and waited—not surprised when the only reply was silence. He tried the door latch and—also not surprisingly—found it locked.

“Grace? It’s me. Would you open the door, please?”

Silence.

“We need to talk about this.”

More silence.

“I’m not leaving until we’ve had this out. Now, let me in.”

Something hard hit the inside of the door, making him jump. Moments later, a second something rapped against the wood with a resounding
whack!

Is she throwing her shoes at me? Or is it books?

Either way, the gesture boded ill.

“Now you’re just being childish,” he said. “Open the door so we can discuss this like adults.”

From inside the room, he heard movement. There was a long pause, then footsteps. A note came sliding out from underneath the door.

After a faint hesitation, he bent down and retrieved it.

Go away!

“Grace, I realize you’re upset, but it’s not how it looks. Give me a chance to explain.”

Quiet fell, then more footsteps. Not long after, another note came shooting out at him, twirling in a circle in front of his feet this time.

No!

A measure of his patience fell away. “Enough of this,” he stated in a firm voice. “Open this door.”

She didn’t repond.

“Now!” he demanded.

Something struck the wood hard again, quickly followed by another violent rap.

“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want to do this, then that’s how it will be.”

Turning, he strode away.

On the opposite side of the door, Grace stood trembling, the shoes she’d thrown scattered in haphazard disarray around her.

Good,
she thought; he’d taken her none-too-subtle “hint” and left. Although, to be strictly honest, she was rather surprised he’d withdrawn so easily. Jack wasn’t the kind to give up without waging a worthwhile fight, and his attempt had been little more than average.

Perhaps his talk of explanations had only been for show, a halfhearted effort to mollify and pacify her yet again. Perhaps too he’d assumed he could cozen her with another creative string of falsehoods and had withdrawn when he realized his ploy wasn’t working.

Well, he could try again tomorrow—as he was certain to do—but his efforts would still be for naught. She knew what she’d seen. God knows, she couldn’t get it out of her mind—the memory of him and Philipa Stockton entwined together, kissing, seared like a brand inside her brain. Pressing her hands to her eyes, she willed away the image. She battled back the flood of tears that threatened to start as well.

I’ve cried enough over him already. I will shed no more tears,
she swore to herself.
Heaven knows he doesn’t deserve them. Not after this!

On a shuddering sigh, she crossed to a chair and sank onto it, feeling as weary as an old woman. Gazing down, she realized she was still in her evening gown.

She’d been too distressed when she’d arrived home to bear any scrutiny, so rather than have to put on a brave face, she’d sent her maid off to bed. Stupid, she supposed, given the fact that she would likely end up sleeping in her ball dress.

Assuming she
could
sleep. She rather doubted she would get any rest tonight at all.

She was contemplating possible ways to unfasten a few of the buttons on the back of her gown when she heard the brass knob turn on the connecting door.

Her exhaustion vanished.

Trying to get in that way, is he?

Well, he would have no more luck opening that door than he had the other one. Not only had she made sure it was securely locked but she’d also taken the precaution of collecting all the keys, including the spare one she knew he kept in his shaving stand.

The knob rattled again, then he rapped on the wood three sharp times. “Open the door, Grace,” he ordered in a quiet, yet forceful, tone.

She considered writing him another note but decided a repetition of that particular tactic wouldn’t have as much impact now. Besides, it took too long.

Standing, she moved forward and crossed her arms. “No!” she called.

Silence followed, energy fairly crackling in the air. She imagined him on the other side of the door, his fists squeezed tight, a pugnacious tilt to his mouth.

“You and I are going to talk tonight,” he said. “So I’m going to give you one more opportunity to
open-the-Goddamned-door!
”

“Don’t you dare swear at me! You can have nothing to say that I could possibly want to hear, you lying, adulterous bastard!”

“I barely touched her and you know it. Now open the bloody door this instant. I mean it, Grace.”

Clutching her arms more tightly against her middle, she shivered. “Go to perdition!”

Another silence fell, long moments of stark quiet that were unnerving in their magnitude.

Then with a violence that made her jump, noise exploded into the room. The door shook in its frame, lock rattling, as he began hammering it with blows.

Her hands went to her throat, utterly mute. Completely shocked.
What is he doing?
He wasn’t actually trying to kick down the door, was he?

But apparently he was, she realized, as the wood began to weaken under his powerful assault.

Suddenly, it gave way with a tremendous splintering groan, what remained of the door hanging at a drunken angle on its hinges. Using his shoulder, he applied a last pair of blows, then shoved his way through the opening. Stalking into the room, he halted a couple feet away, lungs working as he planted his fists on his hips. “Now,” he declared. “We’re going to talk and you’re going to listen. So, sit!”

But in spite of her astonishment, she wasn’t afraid. She planted her fists on her hips in a mirror image of him and raised her chin in a clearly pugnacious refusal.

“God, you’re stubborn,” he said after a long moment. “Fine, then,
stand
and listen.”

“To what? I can’t imagine what there is to say.”

“There’s plenty to say. What you saw tonight, it isn’t what you think.”

“Oh, isn’t it? So you’re going to claim I didn’t see you kissing that…that…woman?”

“Yes. What you saw was
her
kissing me.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “Kissing
you?
Hah! And that’s supposed to make all the difference, is it?”

“It should, since I didn’t ask her to kiss me and didn’t want her to continue. I was about to set her away when you came in. It was nothing, Grace. It meant nothing.”

Her fingers clenched together so hard they hurt. “Well, it certainly looked like something to me. For a man being kissed against his will, you certainly didn’t look as though you were fighting off her advances. From what I observed, you seemed to be enjoying them. So just how long have you been carrying on with your mistress behind my back?”

“
Carrying on?
Good Lord, considering the number of times I have you every day, where would I get the time? Or the energy! And Lady Stockton is
not
my mistress.”

She shot him a look of pure disdain.

“Fine. She
was
my mistress, but she isn’t anymore, and hasn’t been for a very long while. Not since I began courting you in Bath.” Pausing, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Grace, I don’t have a mistress. You are my one and only lover. The only woman I want.”

Maybe now. But for how much longer?
she thought, as sorrow swept through her like an icy wind.

In her heart, she knew he wasn’t having an affair, despite her having caught him kissing Philipa Stockton tonight. Even so, the shock of it served as a kind of precursor to the future. And of what she feared she would witness again eventually, only then for real.

How long before he decided she didn’t please him anymore?

How many weeks or months remained before he really did stray?

How many other Philipa Stocktons would there be in his life? And, as his wife, in her own, as well?

He gave her an imploring look. “Grace, surely you believe me. Tell me you know nothing is going on between Philipa and me. My God, the two of us were saying good-bye. Permanently. And she kissed me before I knew what she was planning. I really was trying to pull her off when you came in.”

She glanced away, an ache radiating between her ribs.

“Grace?”

Slowly she lifted her gaze. “Yes, I believe you.”

Voluble tension eased from his shoulders. Holding out his arms, he stepped forward.

She stepped back.

His arms fell to his sides. “What? What is it?”

“Us. It’s us. This…arrangement we have isn’t going to work.”

“What did you say?” he asked in clear disbelief.

She couldn’t look at him, so she stared across at a painting on the wall. But the colors and brushstrokes bled together into an indistinct blur, her senses too consumed by the sensation of her heart breaking to see the image before her eyes.