Seduction - His Every Kiss Part 14

Before Dylan could answer, Hammond's face once again appeared in his line of vision, upside down this time. Dylan lifted his chin to have a better look at the man standing behind him. "Well?" he demanded. "How far did I get?"

"Twenty-two minutes and seventeen seconds, you amazing b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Hammond shook his head, laughing with him. "Not only did you set a new record, but the members forced Plowright to recant his accusation of cowardice."

"Cowardice?" Tremore and Ian asked at once.

"He called me a coward," Dylan confirmed, his voice sounding as cracked as he felt. "Because I don't box."

Ian groaned. "And because you are the most pigheaded, exasperating, contrary man in England, you just had to prove him wrong."

"He did it with a vengeance," Hammond said. "As we speak, Sir George is being trussed by his friends as if he's a Christmas goose. A cracked rib, they think."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Dylan choked, laughing in spite of how much it hurt. "That'll be in the society papers, I warrant." He took a deep breath. "Gentlemen, help me up."

"I believe you should be carried," Ian advised.

"I won't be carried anywhere until it's shoulder high." Before Ian could argue, he sat up. Pain shimmered through his body, and he sucked in air through his teeth. He counted to three and hauled himself to his feet, then wrapped one arm around Tremore's shoulders and the other around Ian's. He grinned at his brother. "Another escapade for my scandalous, someday-to-be-published memoirs."

"Memoirs?" Ian muttered as they began walking to an elegant carriage marked with the Tremore insignia. "Over my dead body."

There were twenty-four rosebuds embroidered on the edge of her counterpane. Grace knew that because she had counted them three times, recognizing each one in the darkness of her bedroom by its feel against her fingertips. There were also eighteen full-blown roses and thirty-six leaves.

She gave a frustrated sigh and folded back the counterpane, wondering if perhaps she should light a lamp and read for a bit. She had lain here in the dark for what seemed like hours, counting rosebuds and leaves and even sheep, but none of it had made any difference. She still could not fall asleep.

It was all Moore's fault. The wretched man and his kisses. Her body still burned everywhere he had touched her.

I have a weakness for virtuous women.

Grace bit her lip. She wasn't virtuous. Not at all.

There had been a time when she had thought herself to be. She had taken such pride in being the good girl-the dependable older sister who had loved watching over six younger siblings, the good friend who had kept confidences and remembered birthdays, the pupil who had always done her a.s.signments, the serious-minded daughter who had never given her parents a moment of worry. A sweet, steady girl, people in Stillmouth had always said, their approval appealing to her vanity in a way no comments about her looks ever could. She had sung in the church choir. She had done good works for the poor. She had said her prayers every night. And she'd done it all so smugly, too, with the firm conviction that she was good and virtuous, when her goodness and her virtue had never been tested.

Then a wild French painter with eyes like the sky had come to Cornwall. Of all the places in the world to paint, Etienne Cheval had chosen Stillmouth, the tiny village on the cliffs of Land's End where strangers never came, nothing ever happened, and it was easy to be good.

On a hillside when she was seventeen, she had met the great Cheval, and in that instant, her whole world had changed. Ten years her senior, Etienne had known all about life and even more about love. Seventeen years of being responsible and serious had vanished the first time he'd made her laugh. Virtue had been given the first time he'd kissed her. A week later, Grace Anne Lawrence, the sweet, steady, sensible girl so admired by everyone, had eloped with a French painter of no fortune and dubious reputation and changed her life forever.

Her first two years with Etienne had been the happiest time she had ever known, two years of sweet, piercing love and wild, crazy lovemaking. Then, it had all gone wrong somehow. In the bleak, dark moods when he had not been able to paint, he had blamed her. Day by day, he had grown darker, she had stopped laughing, and the love had died.

Grace wrapped her arms around her pillow. How did one hang on to love and happiness? For those first two years of joy, she had paid a high, high price. During her years away from England, no member of her family had answered any of her letters. When she had returned to Stillmouth last autumn, she had discovered that her parents had died and her brother had inherited the estate and the burden of her scandal. The woman James had loved had broken their engagement, and he had wed a woman well beneath his position in life. Her sisters had never married. All five were spinsters because she had ruined the family name.

Eight years had pa.s.sed since that day on a Cornish hillside. Her girlish notions of virtue were gone, her reputation was shredded beyond amendment, and her family was disgraced to this very day. She had seen the world beyond Land's End and had found it wasn't nearly as wonderful as she had thought it would be.

She wanted to go home. That wasn't possible in a literal sense, but if she could stay here for a year, just one year, she could have a home of her own and the sort of life that ought to suit an ordinary English woman. A stable, proper, mundane life.

Let me love you.

Love. The man didn't have the foggiest notion. Perhaps he had been in love with that vicar's daughter as a boy growing up, but he wasn't capable of it now. Artists loved their art. Everything and everyone else was a distant second.

Dylan Moore was not a boy in love with a girl and dreaming to marry her. He was a man, and Grace knew precisely what he wanted from her. She'd known it the moment she had seen him in that alley. He wanted her, yes. For an amour. That wasn't love. Not even close.

She wasn't cut out of the cloth to be a man's mistress, for sweet words about love and money put in an account for bedroom services rendered.

She wasn't hard enough for that life, and she didn't want to be. After Etienne-and even while she had been with him-there had been no shortage of men trying to beguile her with money and talk of love. A pretty woman always got offers of that sort.

This was the first time she had ever been tempted to accept. Despite Moore's reputation and what she knew about men like him, she still yearned for him to touch her again. His every kiss drew her closer. She pressed her fingers to her lips and hugged her pillow tight.

It had been so long, so long, and she was so lonely. Grace couldn't love with her body alone, but there were times, like right now, when she wished she could.

Chapter Eleven.

It looked worse than it really was, Dylan supposed, staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall of his bedchamber. Torn trousers, a nasty cut over his eye, bruises forming on his face and chest, but the doctor had cleaned away the blood, and there was no concussion or other serious damage to his body. He would be sore for perhaps a week, he'd been told, but after that, he would be well. The bruises would take a bit longer to disappear, perhaps a month or so.

"d.a.m.ned lucky," Ian muttered.

"Yes, indeed," the doctor agreed and glanced at Phelps. "I recommend treating the sorest muscles with the application of ice or a soak in icy water," he told the valet. "Twenty minutes or so, several times a day, especially the hands. After a day or two, the soreness should ease, and he may use his hands again."

"Thank you, Doctor Ogilvie," Ian said. "I'll show you out."

The two men started toward the door, but the doctor paused on his way out the door and turned to Dylan once again. "Mr. Moore, before I go, I would like to say that my wife and I so enjoy hearing performances of your work. We saw you conduct your Twelfth Symphony at Saddler's Wells some years ago, and it was a wonderful experience. Quite moving."

"Thank you." Dylan was always gratified to know people appreciated his work, but he hoped the physician would not ask the inevitable question-when he would conduct again. "I am glad you enjoyed it."

The doctor departed with Ian, and Dylan dismissed Phelps from the room. He then turned to Tremore, who was seated in one of the velvet chairs by the fireplace. Hammond, being on hostile terms with his brother-in-law, had not ridden with them to Portman Square in the duke's carriage.

"Well?" Dylan asked as he sat down carefully in the padded bench at the foot of his bed. "Which do you want to know first, why I got into a stupid pugilistic contest with Sir George, or why I was with Hammond?"

"No man should stand down when another man publicly calls him a coward, but you could have called him out another way, my friend. Boxing? You are d.a.m.ned fortunate that your hands are not seriously damaged. As for the other, I recognize that carousing with Hammond has an appeal for both of you, but I do not understand it.

When this news gets out, Viola will know you were with Hammond, yet-"

"The unhappiness between a man and his wife is not my business, nor is it yours, Tremore, as much as you love your sister. Hammond and I are acquaintances, not friends. We both need men of good character to be our friends."

Dylan smiled. "How are you, my friend of good character, and how is my sweet, violet-eyed d.u.c.h.ess?"

"My d.u.c.h.ess," Tremore answered with the pointed emphasis that always amused Dylan when he needled his friend about Daphne, "is in excellent health. A bit queasy in the mornings, of course," he added, his face taking on that rather sheepish expression of a man whose wife was pregnant, "but otherwise, she is well."

"I've already wagered on a son," Dylan told him. "I do not believe you would have it any other way."

"A daughter would make me equally happy, I a.s.sure-"

"Heavens!" a horrified voice interrupted from the doorway. Grace was standing there, one hand on the doorjamb and the other holding the edges of her white dressing gown together. She looked more beautiful than ever, with her hair in a thick plait over one shoulder and her bare feet peeping from beneath the hem of her plain white nightdress.

Both men stood up. Dylan did it too quickly and grimaced, aware of every place Plowright had danced fists across his ribs. She gave a cry and ran to him at once, glancing over the bruises on his face and bare chest with alarm.

"Are you all right? I heard all the commotion, servants running up and down the stairs, and I got up. Osgoode told me you had been in a fight." Grace lowered her gaze to his hands. "Oh, no," she choked. "Dylan, what have you done?"

That was the first time she had ever said his name. She had been so angry with him only a few hours before, yet here she was, soft, tousled, and pretty, smelling like pear soap and looking worried. Worried about him. A grin spread across his face.

"Steady on, Grace. A few bruises, I grant you, but nothing broken. I shall be right as rain in no time. Look."

He held out one bandaged hand, flexing it to show her there was nothing broken. She hesitated, then gently took his hand in both of hers, staring down at the white linen strips that bound it, touching a smear of dried blood on his finger the doctor had missed. The noise in his head quieted, and he forgot all about the pain in his body.

Suddenly, she let go of his hand and looked up at him, frowning. "Have you no common sense?"

"None," he confessed, liking the way she got that little dint in her chin when she frowned. He began to smile, watching her.

"You are a composer, in heaven's name! What are you thinking to engage in fisticuffs? You could have been... you might have... your hands... oh, Dylan, really!"

She was angry now, angry enough to be sputtering. She pressed her lips together, and her frown deepened. He knew she was trying to impress upon him just what a stupid thing he had done and how angry she was about it, but try as she might, she just could not look stern. Her mouth was too full, her eyes too soft. She looked ferocious enough to intimidate a puppy.

He wanted to plant a kiss right on that pursed-up mouth. The thought of it was enough to raise the heat in his blood and ease away the pain in his body with much more pleasurable aches, and he knew he was on the mend already.

A polite cough reminded him there was someone else there. He looked up to find Tremore standing by his chair a dozen feet away, watching them.

Grace gave a little gasp. She clutched the edges of her dressing robe together, realizing that they were in Dylan's bedchamber and that she was in a state of dishabille. She ducked her head, her cheeks flaming. "Forgive me," she mumbled and turned away, rushing past Tremore and out of the room.

The duke watched her go, then turned to him, one eyebrow lifted as if in inquiry.

Dylan's grin vanished at once. "Believe it or not, she is not what you think."

"It is not my place to think anything."

Perhaps, but Dylan could read his honorable friend's mind like a book.

Another one.

Given what he had just witnessed, Tremore's conclusion was inevitable and accurate, given Dylan's intentions. Despite that fact, he was angry at the implication and felt compelled to deny it. "She's not my dollymop."

"I did not say she was."

Dylan ignored the mild reply. "She is not anything of the sort. She is a respectable widow of good family." What was he saying? He didn't know anything about her family. "Nothing is going on."

"Moore, you do not have to explain anything to me."

"Of course I don't," Dylan snapped. "I know I don't." Then why was he? The duke was looking at him with an impeccably neutral countenance. "d.a.m.n it, Tremore, must you always be so d.a.m.ned polite? How we remain such excellent friends baffles me."

Before the duke could answer that, another voice spoke. "Politeness is generally regarded as a favorable trait, Dylan," Ian said as he walked through the open doorway. "Some of us work to cultivate it."

Dylan ignored that, still looking at Tremore. "She is not my mistress."

"Of course not."

"What mistress?" Ian looked from one man to the other. "Of whom are you talking?"

"You missed the angel in a white nightgown who floated through here a few moments ago," Tremore told him. "Lovely eyes," he added with a sudden grin. "Compose a sonata about her yet?"

Dylan saw no humor in that question. He remembered full well the night two years before when he had teased and goaded the duke about Daphne, actually provoking Tremore to a fight just for the fun of seeing the other man lose control. Tremore had not found it amusing at the time, though he seemed to be taking enjoyment in turning the tables.

"Not a sonata," Dylan replied, answering the question in all honesty. "A symphony."

"Good," the duke said unexpectedly. "About d.a.m.ned time you composed something of substance again. If that young woman inspired it, so much the better."

"What is all this about?" Ian demanded. "Do you have a woman living with you again?"

"A very lovely one," Tremore put in. "Blond. Green eyes."

"I'm shocked," Ian said, sounding anything but. "As I said, some things do not change."

"She is not living with me!" The statement was so ridiculous that he amended it at once. "I mean, she is, but not that way. Not the way the two of you are thinking."

Ian gave a laugh of disbelief. "And pigs fly."

Dylan let out his breath in an exasperated sigh. Perhaps this was the right moment to tell his brother and his best friend what would inevitably become common knowledge anyway. h.e.l.l with it. "Not just a woman," he corrected. "Grace is governess to my daughter."

"Daughter?" the two men said together.

He rather enjoyed their momentarily shocked faces. "Yes, gentlemen, my daughter. Isabel is eight years old, her mother is dead, and she was placed on my doorstep by a French Catholic nun two weeks ago."

Ian started to speak. "But how-"

"I have hired a governess for her," he went on, cutting off his brother's inevitable questions before they could be asked, before Ian could tell him what he thought was right for Isabel, what was wrong with Grace living in his house, before he could be tiresome and proper and inconvenient. "I intend to make provision for the child out of my allowance from the family estates as well as my own rents and income, so it is a good thing you are back from Venice. We shall both need to sign doc.u.ments with the attorneys. I shall have them drawn."

"Before you do that, it has to be established for certain that you are the father of this child," Ian said.

"She is mine."

"How do you know?"

"If you met her, dear brother, you would not ask such a ridiculous question. And I do not wish to discuss the issue of her paternity any further."

"If you expect additional funds from the family estates to pay for her, you had better be willing to discuss it. How can you possibly know this child is yours?"

"I am his daughter! I am!"

The voice that spoke caused all three men to turn to see another female in white nightdress standing in the doorway, one much darker, much younger, and much more fierce when she scowled than the previous one. Isabel's small hands balled into fists as she looked at Ian. "He is my father, and don't you dare say he's not!"

Dylan grinned. Take him on, my girl, he thought with approval. Take him on.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Tremore said under his breath.

"Good Lord!" Ian said, staring at her. From the sound of his voice, no additional convincing would be required.

Isabel ran to Dylan. She wrapped one arm around his hips and glared at her uncle. "I look more like him than you do," she cried and pointed an accusing finger at Ian. "How do we know you're really his brother?"