Page 9 of The Untamed Duke
He released her hand with a mocking bow, eyes glinting with dry humor. "Uncharacteristic of me, but the advice is sincerely given. I don’t usually warn my victims."
Grace was compelled to poke at this dangerous creature. And strangely excited by his potential response. What caused such a reaction within her was unknown, other than the fact that he was infuriatingly arrogant thinking he possessed any right in dictating her actions.
"It’s rumored you do not possess a soul." Her heart raced as if it might burst from her chest as she mocked him. "I shall gladly spread word this is untrue. The Duke of Richeforte is surprisingly tenderhearted and eagerly assisted a lady when the need arose."
His reaction sent a giddy little tingle racing along her veins. Oh, she was foolish, tweaking his nose like this!
Eyes wide in disbelief, Richeforte growled, “Little fool. Not only will Ravenswood try snapping my bones like twigs if he learns of this encounter, you'll find your reputation in tatters should you even casually mention—"
"If you keep our secret, my honor will remain untarnished and my cousin will not kill you.” Grace interrupted with a cheeky grin. While Richeforte regarded her with wary suspicion, she stood on tiptoes, placing her palms on either side of his cheeks. “As for your own wicked reputation, perhaps I’ll destroy it with anonymous tales of your extraordinary kindness."
It could hardly be categorized as a kiss when her lips brushed his; it was more a soft suggestion of a whisper. For a timeless second, they both stood frozen. Then, face flaming pink, Grace fled the maze. But long after her hasty retreat, the heat of Richeforte’s gaze lingered on her skin, a warmth she savored. Like time spent basking in the summer sun.
* * *
Why did you do that,you stupid, stupid girl?The question pounded in Grace’s brain, over and over.
What occurred inside that maze should have alarmed her, and if she had an ounce of sense, the niggling thought she should have stayed would be ignored. Sebastian would be rightly horrified if he ever discovered she’d willingly kissed his old enemy. And Tristan would explode with misplaced jealousy.
Oh, what possessed her? Why did she kiss him? Although technically, it was merely a touching of skin. No more significant than a touching of fingertips. Or knees. Or even elbows brushing against another…
Blast it. I cannot ignore how I felt.
No, she could not easily dismiss the compelling urge that had dragged her forward, up onto her toes, until her lips pressed his. No explaining why her hands itched to explore the washboard structure of his abdomen, the iron bandings of muscles her fingertips felt through his shirt and waistcoat. Just after she had brushed her lips against his, Grace found herself fantasizing. Richeforte was picking her up, his large palms cradling her rump. He pinned her against a vine covered pillar. Kissed her until she forgot her name. And moaned his. More than anything else, the shocking images her mind produced sent her fleeing the maze as if fire chased her. With her brain turned to mush, she nearly tripped on the loose gravel during her hasty escape.
Now, hours later, she was still a hopeless bundle of nerves, her lips tingling as if they’d just touched his. Still plagued by wicked thoughts she had no business entertaining. She would almost certainly see him at dinner that evening; retaining her composure would be difficult after everything experienced while in his company.
She worried needlessly. Their formal introduction, as other guests entered the grand dining room, fell curiously flat. There was only a brief moment when Grace feared he might reveal their previous encounter and that was when Tristan pulled her forward, his hand set possessively on her waist. Richeforte’s eyebrow rose in question before she tactfully removed the viscount’s hand. A conspiratorial half-smile lifted the corner of her mouth when she laid a finger against her lips, indicating silence in the same manner he affected while they hid inside the maze.
He flashed a smirk of acknowledgment, the twin dimples in his cheeks stabbing her heart like miniature arrows before disappearing. He casually introduced the baroness hanging on his arm, and Grace was promptly ignored from that moment forward. For the rest of the evening, whenever her gaze helplessly wandered in the duke’s direction, his attention was elsewhere.
He’d forgotten Grace’s existence, and everywhere he sauntered, Lady Ralston and her bountiful bosom trotted behind him, determined to stay at his side. He ignored the baroness, apparently unconcerned whether she accompanied him or not.
“It’s said Lord Ralston died in her bed. Trapped beneath her,” Celia huffed, determined in repeating every bit of gossip concerning the cold-eyed redhead.
“Celia,” Grace murmured in bemused warning. She knew of Lady Ralston’s exploits even before making her acquaintance. The woman was a notorious figure,and rightly so. She switched lovers as easily as other women changed their shoes.
“It’s most likely true. Just look at her. I’ve yet to see her smile at anyone other than Richeforte. She probably froze her poor husband to death. Like a chilly blanket,” Celia pouted, tugging a curled lock of her chocolate brown hair. Dinner was over, and they stood in a drawing room where open doors led to a small terrace. “What does His Grace see in her?”
“They make the perfect couple. Ice cold, the pair of them. But, we should not dwell on their attraction for one another.”
“There are at least two thingshefinds attractive.” Celia took a gulp of punch, glaring with no subtlety whatsoever across the space where Lady Ralston and Richeforte stood engaged in conversation with the Earl of Stoketon. “They’re in danger of popping free of her bodice. Wouldn’t that be a conversation starter at breakfast tomorrow?”
Grace choked on a laugh. Her eyes touched on Lady Ralston’s bosom, where it did seem the aforementioned breasts might make an appearance. Helene Ralston’s reputation was well-deserved. The baroness was meaner than the last snake in Ireland, and she was glued to Richeforte’s side. Occasionally, she smoothed a palm over the arm of his formal coat while the duke tolerated her attention, a hand resting occasionally in the small of her back with a cold politeness. Grace’s heart twisted a little. How foolish she was, wanting the heavy heat of his hand onherback.
Celia sighed. “He’s a complete savage, but Richeforte is far more interesting than any other man in attendance. Don’t you agree?”
Grace murmured a noncommittal reply as Celia continued, almost dreamily. “They say an actress killed herself last year when he ended their affair. Anne Adamson. She was a pretty little thing; Violet and I saw her last performance at the Lyceum, just before she did herself in. You see, Richeforte decided the Earl of Banberry’s wife was more to his liking, and poor Anne was dropped as if she carried the plague.” Celia grimaced with sympathy. “She was heartbroken. You could see it in her overly pale features, and she sobbed during all of her scenes. The understudy was called upon so the play could finish its run. Days later, Anne was discovered sprawled in a pool of blood on the floor of her dressing room. Drank herself to death, the gossips say. Poor Violet was so distraught over the news, she wept on my shoulder when next we saw each other. She’s such a tenderhearted thing,” Celia said, referring to her childhood friend. Lady Violet Everstone was incredibly lovely, and very shy, with a headful of deep, auburn hair and eyes so darkly blue they were nearly amethyst in color.
“Celia. We shouldn’t be discussing such things. I know your mother would not approve.” Grace tried sounding disapproving, but she leaned toward her friend, desperate to hear more.
“Oh, posh. I heard Mother discussing this very subject with Lady Overton. It’s how I learned of the duke’s very last mistress, the one before the baroness. That would be Elizabeth, Lady Banberry. Now, that one, the brazen hussy, decided she would leave her husband for Richeforte, but no sooner than she did so, the duke spurned her. Told her she should crawl back to Lord Banberry. Beg forgiveness of the first husband rather than hunt herself a second.” Celia shook her head, sipping a cup of lemonade. “Banberry, being ever so accommodating, accepted Elizabeth’s apologies, then promptly shuttled her off to some remote estate. She’s gone a little mad, Mother said. That she does nothing but write letters, dozens and dozens of them, all addressed to Richeforte. Begging that he reconsider their affair.”
Both girls watched Richeforte across the room. The man possessed an easy, confident manner, his caustic wit adding immeasurably to his appeal. It certainly did not hurt that he resembled a Greek god. All sinewy, lean muscle and breathtakingly handsome features. His strongly cut jawline was sheer perfection, the shaggy cut of his dark blond hair providing a sharp contrast to the trimmed styles preferred by his colleagues.
Celia breathed deep, leaning against one of the pillars delineating the large room. “What do you suppose makes a man like that so irresistible? So tantalizing, a woman would kill herself in despair when he tires of her? Does he entice with money? His wicked reputation? Power? Or is it strictly in the bedchamber where he enthralls her using his expertise?”
“You shouldn’t—weshouldn’t be discussing such things,” Grace said nervously, tugging the lace cuffs of her rose-hued dress until they lay in a dainty line at the bend of her elbow. She recalled the duke’s nonchalant remark regarding his luck with actresses. How callous he sounded.
