Page 57 of The Untamed Duke
She’d fallen in love with the Winter Wolf. Cold, imposing, wicked Nicholas. An untamed duke she wanted to tame and keep forever.
“Your housekeeper struck me with her cane and called me a vagabond,” he said, never turning around.
Grace did not answer. Because, really, what could she say to that accusation?
Nicholas picked up a block of metal upon which a preserved horse hoof was mounted. It was one of a pair, serving as bookends. Seeing it in the duke’s hands reminded Grace how bizarre the object was. Her father had received them as a gift long ago. She’d always wondered what poor horse was sacrificed for so strange an item. It invariably saddened her, although as a child she’d held one in each hand, clip-clopping up and down the foyer on her hands and knees. Her mother would laugh, say Grace was being silly, and the bookends would be replaced so they could sit in grandeur once more upon the mantle. Father would offer her a sugar cube, saying with an affectionate wink, that she was his favorite, loveliest, little pony.
When Grace remained silent, lost in her memories, Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, brow lifting. “She’s quite intimidating, but I understand her confusion. I’m not precisely dressed as a peer of the realm.”
When she finally found her voice, Grace was horrified that it squeaked like rusty hinges on an ancient door.
“Why are you here?”
His gaze sharpened. Darkened. Filled with secrets Grace doubted she’d ever learn the truth of.
“You know why.” Setting the hoof down, he turned fully toward her. A frown immediately pulled his brows together. “Why are you dressed like that?”
Grace swept a hand down the front of the breeches. She never wore a riding habit unless absolutely necessary, and since fleeing the duke’s home in the last one, she doubted ever wearing one again. There was no forgetting how it felt, the fabric scratchy, abrading her skin, reminding her the entire trek home how Nicholas looked at her that first afternoon. Drenched from the storm, her body displayed for his pleasure. How overwhelmed she was when he first took her in his arms, the wet material clinging to her body and his, the heat of him seeping through and scorching her. No, she would never wear that garment again. The memories, how she’d suddenly found herself turned inside out by desire, were too much to bear. She ignored his question.
“You must leave.”
“Why is that, pet? I just arrived.”
Grace folded her hands. They were trembling. “My cousin and Lady Ravenswood are here.”
“I know.”
“Then you realize why you must go,” Grace hissed, disconcerted by his calm response. “My God, have you gone completely mad?”
“Perhaps. Would it be madness if I bent you over that desk as a demonstration of how much I missed you?”
She was saved from a response by the arrival of the tea tray, carried with exact care by one of the downstairs maids. “Thank you, Darma.” Grace sighed as the girl set it on a low table, then exited with a giggling curtsy.
Mrs. Cooper had relayed the importance of their guest to the kitchen staff. Not only did the tray contain tea and two cups, but a pot of coffee, a variety of scones, four flavors of jam, and a plateful of fat sausage.
Grace desperately tried ignoring the slight smile lifting Nicholas’s lips, those blasted dimples flitting into view. He needed a haircut, the tawny locks tumbling past his collar. It was long enough, he could gather it into a queue if desired. Her fingers twitched with the desire of attending that task for him. She remembered well how the dark gold strands shifted through her fingers. Oh, why must the man be so achingly beautiful? And why did she consider his last words as if hopeful such a scenario would occur? Her blood nearly scorched the inside of her veins with the thought.
Whatwouldit feel like if he folded her over the delicate walnut desk? Was it even possible it could hold her weight and his? The dark night when the duke spent himself across the flesh of her back stabbed her memory. Would he do that again, or something different?
Grace’s hands were clammy as she marched across the room and gratefully sank on the dark blue upholstery of the settee. Too overwrought to even consider eating a scone, or a sausage for God’s sake, she poured a cup of tea, all the while hoping it didn't spill. If she had her wits about her, she would have offered Nicholas a cup. But witless she was. At least momentarily.
Nicholas took up his coat, his hand going into one of the deep pockets.
“You cannot stay,” she mumbled around an unsteady sip of tea.
“So you’ve said. Five nights of my choosing, remember, honeybee? As I made my way with all haste to London and back again for you, forgive me if I have no intention of leaving just yet. Besides, you dared me to come after you, and you are holding my books hostage, after all.”
London.He’d gone to London. Which only meant one thing. He had the necessary items to complete...to... to…her brain couldn't comprehend the reality of this moment. The duke had come. Prepared to take what she freely negotiated. The thought revitalized her.
“And how does Baroness Ralston fare?” Grace asked pertly. Maybe a bit more than was wise.
Nicholas frowned, vexed by the question. “I wouldn’t know. I’ll not lie to you, Grace. She came to me while I was in London, and I turned her away. I’ve not been with her, nor any other woman, since Calmont Downs, and I’ve no wish to change that. My interest is in you, Grace Willsdown, and only you. Until our arrangement is complete, there will be no one else in my bed. With my reputation, this is a significant development. A change of pace, as it were.”
“Will you blame me for your abstinence?” Grace’s heart pounded with joy at the thought no other woman had entertained him since Calmont Downs.
“No. I blame myself. The smile of a little storm has captured me. Now, you are all I can think about. Day and night.”
“I’m flattered.” Grace grinned at him. “Will you pursue me like a proper beau? And attempt kissing me in darkened alcoves and deserted hallways?”
