The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(46)

She wanted to melt into him. She wanted to be a part of him. And the strangest part was - right there, right then, with the golden light rippling down upon them - it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

But his eyes were closed, and for him, one little piece of the magic was missing. It had to have been, because if he had felt everything that was floating around her - through her - he never would have said, his voice utterly charming -

"Are we there yet?"

"Almost," she said. She should have been grateful that the moment was broken. She should have been relieved that she did not do something she was sure to regret.

But she wasn't. She wanted her regrets. She wanted them desperately. She wanted to do something she knew she should not, and she wanted to lie in bed at night letting the memory keep her warm.

But she was not brave enough to initiate her own downfall. Instead, she led him to the open doorway and said softly, "Here we are."



What Jack saw took his breath away.

"No one comes here but me," Grace said softly. "I don't know why."

The light, the ripple through the air as the sun slid through the uneven glass of the ancient windows...

"In the winter especially," she continued, her voice just a little hesitant, "it's magic. I can't explain it. I think the sun dips lower. And with the snow..."

It was the light. It had to be. It was the way the light trembled, and fell on her.

His heart clenched. Like a fist it hit him - this need, this overwhelming urge...He could not speak. He could not even begin to articulate it, but -

"Jack?" she whispered, and it was just enough to break his trance.

"Grace." It was just one word, but it was a benediction. This went beyond desire, it was need. It was an indefinable, inexplicable, living, pulsing thing within him that could only be tamed by her. If he didn't hold her, didn't touch her in that very moment, something within him would die.

To a man who tried to treat life as an endless series of ironies and witticisms, nothing could have been more terrifying.

He reached out and roughly pulled her to him. He was not delicate, nor was he gentle. He couldn't be. He couldn't manage it, not now, not when he needed her so desperately.

"Grace," he said again, because that's what she was to him. It was impossible that he'd known her but a day. She was his grace, his Grace, and it was like she had always been there within him, waiting for him to finally open his eyes and find her.

His hands cupped her face. She was a priceless treasure, and yet he could not force himself to touch her with the reverence she deserved. Instead, his fingers were clumsy, his body rough and pounding. Her eyes - so clear, so blue - he thought he might drown in them. He wanted to drown in them, to lose himself within her and never leave.

His lips touched hers, and then - of this he was certain - he was lost. There was nothing more for him but this woman, in this moment, maybe even for all his moments thereafter.

"Jack," she sighed. It was the first time all morning she'd used his name, and it sent waves of desire pulsing through his already taut body.

"Grace," he said in return, because he was afraid to say anything else, afraid that for the first time in his life his glib tongue would fail him, and his words would come out wrong. He'd say something and it would mean too little, or perhaps he'd say something and it would mean too much. And then she would know, if by some miracle she did not already, that she had bewitched him.

He kissed her hungrily, passionately, with all the fire within him. His hands slid down her back, memorizing the gentle slope of her spine, and when he reached the more lush curves of her bottom, he could not help it - he pressed her more firmly against him. He was aroused, and wound more tightly than he'd ever imagined possible, and all he could think - if he was thinking at all - was that he needed her close, closer. Whatever he could get, whatever he could have - right now he would take it.

"Grace," he said again, one of his hands moving to the spot where her dress touched her skin, just at her collarbone.

She flinched at his touch, and he stilled, barely able to imagine how he would tear himself away. But her hand covered his, and she whispered, "I was surprised."

It was only then that he once again breathed.

Fingers shaking, he traced the delicately scalloped edge of her bodice. Her pulse seemed to leap beneath his touch, and never in his life had he been so aware of a single sound - the quiet rasp of air, brushing across her lips.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, and the amazing thing was that he was not even looking at her face. It was merely her skin, the pale, milky hue of it, the soft blush of pink that followed his fingers.

Softly, gently, he bowed his head and brushed his lips along the hollow at the base of her throat. She gasped then, or maybe it was a moan, and her head slowly fell back in silent agreement. Her arms were around him and her hands in his hair, and then, without even considering what it meant, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room, to the low, wide settee that sat near the window, bathed in the magical sunlight that had seduced them both.

For a moment, kneeling at her side, he could do nothing but look at her, then one of his trembling hands reached forth to stroke her cheek. She was staring up at him, and in her eyes there was wonder, and anticipation, and yes, a little nervousness.

But there was also trust. She wanted him. Him. No one else. She had never been kissed before, of that he was certain. She could have done. Of that he was even more certain. A woman of Grace's beauty did not reach her age without having refused (or rebuffed) multiple advances.