The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(87)

"Yes?"

"Miss Eversleigh," he said.

Something lit in his aunt's eyes. Something romantic. "Yes?"

"I love her."

Mary's entire being seemed to warm and glow. "I am so happy to hear it."

"She loves me, too."

"Even better."

"Yes," he murmured, "it is."

She motioned toward the hall. "Will you return with me?"

Jack knew he should, but the evening's revelations had left him exhausted. And he did not want anyone to see him thus, his eyes still red and raw. "Would you mind if I remained here?" he asked.

"Of course not." She smiled wistfully and left the room.

Jack turned back toward his uncle's desk, running his fingers slowly along the smooth surface. It was peaceful here, and the Lord knew, he needed a spot of peace.

It was going to be a long night. He would not sleep. There was no sense in trying. But he did not want to do anything. He did not want to go anywhere, and most of all, he did not want to think.

For this moment...for this night...he just wanted to be.

Grace liked the Audleys' drawing room, she decided. It was quite elegant, decorated in soft tones of burgundy and cream, with two seating areas, a writing desk, and several cozy reading chairs in the corners. Signs of family life were everywhere - from the stack of letters on the desk to the embroidery Mrs. Audley must have abandoned on the sofa when she'd heard Jack at the door. On the mantel sat six miniatures in a row. Grace walked over, pretending to warm her hands by the fire.

It was their family, she instantly realized, probably painted fifteen years ago. The first was surely Jack's uncle, and the next Grace recognized as Mrs. Audley. After that was...Good heavens, was that Jack? It had to be. How could someone change so little? He looked younger, yes, but everything else was the same - the expression, the sly smile.

It nearly took her breath away.

The other three miniatures were the Audley children, or so Grace assumed. Two boys and one girl. She dipped her head and said a little prayer when she reached the younger of the boys. Arthur. Jack had loved him.

Was that what he was talking about with his aunt? Grace had been the last to enter the drawing room; she'd seen Mrs. Audley pull him gently through another doorway.

After a few minutes the butler arrived, announcing that their rooms had been prepared, but Grace loitered near the fireplace. She was not ready to leave this room.

She was not sure why.

"Miss Eversleigh."

She looked up. It was Jack's aunt.

"You walk softly, Mrs. Audley," she said. "I did not hear you approach."

"That one is Jack," Mrs. Audley said, reaching out and removing his miniature from the mantel.

"I recognized him," Grace murmured.

"Yes, he is much the same. This one is my son Edward. He lives just down the lane. And this is Margaret. She has two daughters of her own now."

Grace looked at Arthur. They both did.

"I am sorry for your loss," Grace finally said.

Mrs. Audley swallowed, but she did not seem to be near tears. "Thank you." She turned then, and took Grace's hand in hers. "Jack is in his uncle's study. At the far end of the hall, on the right. Go to him."

Grace's lips parted.

"Go," Mrs. Audley said, even more softly than before.

Grace felt herself nod, and before she'd had time to consider her actions, she was already in the hall, hurrying down toward the end.

To the door on the right.

"Jack?" she said softly, pushing the door open a few inches.

He was sitting in a chair, facing the window, but he turned quickly and stood at the sound of her voice.

She let herself in and closed the door gently behind her. "Your aunt said - "

He was right there. Right there in front of her. And then her back was against the door, and he was kissing her, hard, fast, and -  dear God - thoroughly.

And then he stepped away. She couldn't breathe, she could barely stand, and she knew she could not have put together a sentence if her life had depended on it.

Never in her life had she wanted anything as much as she wanted this man.

"Go to bed, Grace."

"What?"

"I cannot resist you," he said, his voice soft, haggard, and everything in between.

She reached toward him. She could not help it.

"Not in this house," he whispered.

But his eyes burned for her.

"Go," he said hoarsely. "Please."

She did. She ran up the stairs, found her room, and crawled between her sheets.

But she shivered all night.

She shivered and she burned.
   





Can't sleep?"

Jack looked up from where he was still sitting in his uncle's study. Thomas was standing in the doorway.

"No," he said.

Thomas walked in. "Nor I."

Jack held out the bottle of brandy he'd taken from the shelf. There had not been a speck of dust on it, even though he was quite certain it had gone untouched since his uncle's death. Aunt Mary had always run a pristine household.

"It's good," Jack said. "I think my uncle was saving it." He blinked, looking down at the label, then murmured, "Not for this, I imagine."