The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(64)

Grace felt the blood drain from her face.

"Do you love him?" he repeated, stridently this time. "Audley."

"I know who you're talking about," she said before she could think the better of it.

"I imagine you do."

She stood still, forcing herself to unclench her fists. She'd probably ruined the writing paper; she'd heard it crumple in her hand. He'd gone from apologetic to hateful in the space of a second, and she knew he was hurting inside, but so was she, damn it.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

She drew back, her head turning slightly to the side. He was looking at her so strangely. "At Belgrave?"

she said hesitantly. "Five years."

"And in all that time I haven't..." He shook his head. "I wonder why."

Without even thinking, she tried to step back, but the desk blocked her way. What was wrong with him?

"Thomas," she said, wary now, "what are you talking about?"

He seemed to find that funny. "Damned if I know."

And then, while she was trying to think of a suitable reply, he let out a bitter laugh and said, "What's to become of us, Grace? We're doomed, you know. Both of us."

She knew it was true, but it was terrible to hear it confirmed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Oh, come now, Grace, you're far too intelligent for that."

"I should go."

But he was blocking her way.

"Thomas, I - "

And then - dear heavens - he was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, and her stomach flipped in horror, not because his kiss was repulsive, because it wasn't. It was the shock of it. Five years she'd been here, and he'd never even hinted at -

"Stop!" She wrenched herself away. "Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," he said with a helpless shrug. "I'm here, you're here..."

"I'm leaving." But one of his hands was still on her arm. She needed him to release her. She could have pulled away; he was not holding her tightly. But she needed it to be his decision.

He needed it to be his decision.

"Ah, Grace," he said, looking almost defeated. "I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it." He paused, shrugged, held out his hand in surrender.

"Thomas?" she whispered.

And then he said, "Why don't you marry me when this is all over?"

"What?" Something akin to horror washed over her. "Oh, Thomas, you're mad." But she knew what he really meant. A duke could not marry Grace Eversleigh. But if he wasn't...If he was just plain Mr.

Cavendish...Why not?

Acid rose in her throat. He didn't mean to insult. She didn't even feel insulted. She knew the world she inhabited. She knew the rules, and she knew her place.

Jack could never be hers. Not if he was the duke.

"What do you say, Gracie?" Thomas touched her chin, tipped her face up to look at him.

And she thought -  maybe.

Would it be so very bad? She could not stay at Belgrave, that was for certain. And maybe she would learn to love him. She already did, really, as a friend.

He leaned down to kiss her again, and this time she let him, praying that her heart would pound and her pulse would race and that spot between her legs...Oh, please let it feel as it did when Jack touched her.

But there was nothing. Just a rather warm sense of friendship. Which she supposed wasn't the worst thing in the world.

"I can't," she whispered, turning her face to the side. She wanted to cry.

And then she did cry, because Thomas rested his chin on her head, comforting her like a brother.

Her heart twisted, and she heard him whisper, "I know."


  
Jack did not sleep well that night, which left him irritable and out of sorts, so he dispensed with breakfast, where he was sure to run into persons with whom he might be expected to converse, and instead went directly outside for his now customary morning ride.

It was one of the finest things about horses - they never expected conversation.

He had no idea what he was meant to say to Grace once he saw her again. Lovely kissing you. Wish we'd done more.

It was the truth, even if he'd been the one to cut them off. He'd been aching for her all night.

He might have to marry this one.

Jack stopped cold. Where had that come from?

From your conscience, a niggling little voice - probably his conscience - told him.

Damn. He really needed to get a better night's sleep. His conscience was never this loud.

But could he? Marry her? It was certainly the only way he'd ever be able to bed her. Grace was not the sort of woman one dallied with. It wasn't a question of her birth, although that certainly was a factor. It was just... her. The way she was. Her uncommon dignity, her quiet and sly humor.

Marriage. What a curious notion.

It wasn't that he'd been avoiding it. It was just that he'd never considered it. He was rarely in one place for long enough to form a lasting attachment. And his income was, by nature of his profession, sporadic.

He wouldn't have dreamed of asking a woman to make a life with a highwayman.

Except he wasn't a highwayman. Not any longer. The dowager had seen to that.