Page 7 of The Untamed Duke
She wants me...wants this. Whatever this is...
“Are you always so persistent when offering your protection?” Her head fell back, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
Nicholas wanted to latch onto that warm, soft throat with his teeth, but voices interrupted what he might have said in defense to her question. Or what he may have done in his lust.
“I left her over there. On the floor,” Tristan offered.
“Good grief, do not bellow. Why did you kiss her? She’s like a sister to us. And how could you leave her like that?” Concern laced Celia’s irritated words. “At the very least, you might have laid her on the bench.”
An abrupt, rustling noise swallowed Tristan’s indiscernible reply.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Celia cried out sharply. More shuffling and muttered curses ensued. “Here…take my hand. No, no. I’ll pull you up. I swear, Tristan, if I land in those bushes too, I shall never forgive you!”
Under other circumstances, Nicholas might have allowed the others to discover them, watched the young woman beside him squirm in distress. Ordinarily, not a whit would be given for her reputation and certainly not for her embarrassment. His mocking sarcasm would have left Grace bleeding as he revealed her deception. He would have shattered her with clever observations highlighting the wickedness of women.
Faced with the sudden, desperate light in Grace’s eyes, he could not resist her unspoken plea. Quickly circling her wrist, he hustled her out of the gazebo and into the yawning entrance of the maze.
They moved quickly through the rows, footsteps silent on the dirt path. When they stopped, Nicholas whirled her around, finger pressing his lips, indicating she should remain silent.
Eyes wide, shocked at being handled with such familiarity, Grace nodded, the forgotten book clutched to her chest.
“I don’t know what came over her,” Tristan slurred. “I only kissed her. Just a kiss. But it was glorious, even if something about it wasn’t quite right. Too much brandy, I suppose.”
Releasing Grace’s wrist, Nicholas twined their fingers together, his body caging hers against the towering hedge. He brought her hand down, holding it snug by his hip. With a small sound of protest, she attempted sidling away until his eyes flashed a warning.
A grin twitched Nicholas’s lips when her movements immediately stilled. He appreciated her reluctant surrender, even though her mouth flattened into a tight line of disapproval.
“Contain yourself, Tristan.” Celia’s vexation carried into the maze. “Unless you possess a mane, tail, and four hooves, or you’ve transformed into a frightfully boring book on Greek mythology, Grace barely realizes you exist.” Her sigh was heavy. “Are you certain it was this gazebo? There are so many on the estate.”
“Yes, yes. I kissed Grace here. She struck me with a damn book...probably gave me a black eye. Then she fainted dead away. I could not rouse her.”
“Fainted? More likely feigned it. She has an uncanny knack for outsmarting you, Tristan.”
Nicholas and Grace stood so close, they would melt together if either leaned forward one scant inch. While his ears remained tuned to the conversation just feet away, every other sense Nicholas possessed fixed on his hostage pinned against the hedge. An intoxicating fragrance drifted about her, a strange mix of hay, heather and lemons. It had his mouth watering.
Does she truly taste of lemons? Or damned strawberries. Tart or sweet? God, I must find out.
“Could she have come to her senses so quickly?” Tristan asked, his voice tight in acknowledgment of how easily Grace could outsmart him.
“I doubt she ever lost them. Perhaps you did frighten her into a swoon.” Celia’s placating statement held a slight ring of pity. “Remarkable, not impossible. You are intoxicated and swearing like a Liverpool sailor. It is quite terrifying, actually. Her book is missing so she must have returned to the house. Dear lord, why are you so drunk?”
“Why not, is a better question. Yes, I’m good and goddamned foxed. And Celia, has anything frightened Grace in the past six months?” He muttered an unintelligible curse. “She whirled in, fearless and determined, and I’m trying my damnedest to melt the ice in her veins. Self-absorbed, spoiled girl. That’s what she is. With no care for anyone’s feelings, damn her.”
The girl Tristan referred to with such vehemence lifted her chin. Framed with lush, sable lashes, caramel colored eyes sparkled with incriminating moisture. An inarticulate sound escaped the back of Nicholas’s throat, but Grace turned away, staring out at the maze’s groomed pathways. From the way her own breath hitched, she was either on the verge of sobbing or laughing hysterically.
There was something dazzling about Lady Grace, framed against the boxwood’s vibrant green. She seemed lit from within, shining gold from the inside out; a chaotic little fairy flitting through the maze as she pleased. Whether she lured with beguiling smiles or melancholy stares, any man would eagerly lose himself with her in the cool, verdant shade. Nicholas abruptly realized even he welcomed the opportunity.
To follow her.
Claim her.
Take her.
Deeper. Darker. Until her secrets were laid bare and she writhed beneath him.
A shake of his head dispelled the image. God save the men of London if their eyes ever opened to what lay beneath their noses. Grace Willsdown would either rule the city or leave it in ashes.
Placing a forefinger beneath her chin, Nicholas turned her face toward his. Her eyebrows knitted in consternation, skin pinkening at his perusal. Such a velvety canvas of high cut cheekbones and softly angled lines, unmarred by freckles or blemishes, save for an intriguing scar the size of her smallest fingernail. A miniature half-moon, it curved above the outer edge of her left eyebrow. Curious of its origin, he gently traced it before his fingers drifted over her cheek and down across her mouth.
