Seduced By His Touch Page 27

  For where, he still wasn’t certain.

  As he well knew, he couldn’t go back to London—not for several weeks, anyway. And even if he were so inclined—which he most certainly was not—Braebourne was out of the question as well, since his family would be returning home before too long.

  There was always Adam Gresham’s hunting box in Scotland, he supposed. Perhaps a trip into the northern wilds would be just the thing. And Gresham was a generous sort, so Jack knew he wouldn’t object to letting him open up the place for a few weeks.

  Then again, he didn’t know if he wanted to risk the possibility of company should Gresham and some of his friends decide to join him there. Naturally, they would inquire after Grace, and he had no stomach for their questions and speculation.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her shift slightly on the upholstered seat, her lovely profile in view as she gazed out the window at the passing scenery.

  For a moment, he couldn’t help but stare, tracing the familiar contours of her face, aware exactly how soft her skin would feel and how sweet her mouth would taste were he to lean across for a kiss.

  Abruptly, he turned away, his chest tight with an anger that had consumed him ever since that dreadful night at the Pettigrews’ ball. Even now, he couldn’t believe she was leaving him. And part of him couldn’t believe he was letting her go.

  He’d thought about confronting her again, declaring himself and his love for her. But she’d made it clear that whatever tender feelings she might once have held no longer existed. She’d made her choice.

  She wanted her freedom.

  She didn’t want him.

  At length, the coach rolled to a stop in front of the house.

  Her house.

  After letting the footman help her down, he followed, casting an idle glance at the stately Georgian manse, with its red brick exterior and multitude of windows. She’d wanted lots of light and sunshine for her painting. She would find it here in this dwelling. And also in the big garden, where she could carry her easel and draw to her heart’s content.

  He waited in the front parlour, refusing to do more than take off his hat, while the housekeeper took Grace on a tour. Only a few minutes later, she returned.

  “Does the house meet with your approval?” he asked.

  “Yes. Even more so than I expected,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s absolutely lovely.”

  Unable to look at her, he set his hat on his head. “If you have everything you require, I shall take my leave. You need only write should you find anything that is not to your liking.”

  “I am certain I shall be more than comfortable.”

  “Well then, I bid you adieu.”

  He strode to the doorway, intending to walk through without another word or glance.

  Instead he stopped on the threshold, one hand curled against the frame as he looked back. “Grace?”

  She met his gaze, her eyes looking very grey.

  And for a moment, he very nearly poured out his heart, very nearly begged.

  “Enjoy your independence, Grace,” he said instead.

  Then, before he could disgrace himself, he turned on his heel and strode into the hallway and out the door. Stepping into the coach, he gave the order to drive on. To where, he still had no idea.

  From inside the parlour, Grace stood motionless. Part of her wanted to run after him. Another part told her to let him leave.

  Then suddenly it was too late, as Jack’s coachman gave a shout that set the horses in motion. Running to the window, she watched until the coach vanished from sight. Even then, she stood, one hand on the glass, as if she could call him back.

  She didn’t know how long she waited there, time slowing to an indistinct beat. The sun shifted in the sky, but she noticed it only as a change in the light and not as an indication of the waning day.

  A brief knock came at the parlour door. “Excuse the interruption, my lady,” the housekeeper said. “But will you be wanting dinner soon? We can serve it in the dining room, if you’d like?”

  Dinner? No, she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. In fact, the very idea of food made her queasy.

  “Just tea, I think,” she told the servant. “And a bath. I’m very tired from the journey.”

  The housekeeper paused for a moment, then gave a nod. “You go on upstairs, your ladyship, and we’ll see to you right and tight. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Following the woman’s suggestion, she did as she was bade.

  Nearly a month later, Grace slid her paintbrush into a water-filled pottery jug set on the small table next to her painting. Leaning back in the cane-backed chair the footman had also carried out into the garden for her earlier that morning, she studied her latest efforts.

  Lacklustre, she thought. And dull. With none of her usual creative spark.

  But then she supposed her artistic endeavours were merely a reflection of her mood of late, which was also lacklustre, dull—and if she were being brutally honest—relentlessly melancholy.

  Yet she couldn’t assign any of the blame for her sad disposition on her new place of residence.

  The house was beautiful, with comfortable, well-appointed rooms and gracious amenities. The servants were uniformly cheerful and exceptionally well-trained. The nearby village was comprised of charming shops, thriving townsfolk, and a fine old Anglican church that tried to keep everyone’s sins in check, especially on Sundays. Her neighbours were a friendly lot, but respectful—seeming to understand her need for solitude without ever being asked to provide it.

  And then there was the expansive garden that ran the length of the rear of the house—lush with colour and fragrances that seemed to burst from every branch and bloom. Whoever had designed it possessed a keen eye for beauty, each plant chosen with obvious care and an affinity for nature.

  She’d even acquired a new cat from its depths, a stray orange tom she found wandering among the hydrangea bushes one morning. An offered dish of milk and he’d been her bosom beau ever since. She’d decided to call him Ranunculus because Buttercup was far too feminine a name for such a large and impressive male. She gazed at him now where he slept in the sunshine, basking like a small potentate in the heat of the day.

  If only she could take the same delight. Instead, the humid, mid-August air pressed upon her like a wet, woollen blanket. Mayhap that was the cause of her blue devils.

  That and Jack. But she refused to dwell on him.

  Her hands squeezed into fists on her lap as she willed away the ache in her breast.

  Since the day they’d parted, she’d heard nothing from him. Her only contact had been a few letters forwarded by his man of business—and all those had been from friends and family, including Meg, Mallory and Ava.

  So far, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to divulge the details of her separation from Jack. And from the tenor of the missives she’d received, she gleaned that he hadn’t either.

  The news would have to be shared soon though, she knew, but for the time being, she’d glossed over such particulars in her letters of reply in favour of more cheerful subjects.

  As for Jack, the only thing she knew for certain was that he had not returned to London. Otherwise, she had no knowledge of his whereabouts.

  Probably at a party in the country. Drinking, gaming and wenching with nary a thought for me.

  Her stomach churned at the notion. But such circumstances were inevitable now. They’d said their good-byes. Their lives were now their own and she would be well-advised to get on with hers.

  If only I could, she mused, casting another glance at her currently dismal painting. She was debating whether to forge onward with another attempt when a wave of exhaustion swept through her.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and prayed it would pass.

  Over the past several days, she’d been struggling with what seemed like a case of the summer ague. Yet oddly enough, she had no fever, and her symptoms seemed to come and go with no apparent rhyme or re
ason.

  In general, the worst of her malaise struck in the morning, when she would wake and be forced to fly from the bed in search of the nearest basin. Once she’d emptied her stomach in great shuddering heaves, she would crawl back into bed, then sleep like the dead. Usually, by the time she awakened, her queasiness would be gone, in its place a ravenous hunger that demanded immediate appeasement.

  Then there was her weariness, bouts of irresistible sleepiness that would come over her at the most unlikely and inconvenient times of the day. One noontime, in fact, she’d gone into the library to get a book and ended up spending the whole afternoon curled up asleep on the sofa.

  She supposed she ought to consult a physician, but she hated the bother of it, telling herself her present affliction would soon pass.

  Only it didn’t seem to be going away, not given her current tiredness.

  Laying down her paintbrush, she wiped her fingers on a handkerchief, then stood.

  Her head swam in a sudden, dizzying circle, blood thrumming in audible beats between her ears. Reaching out, she gripped the table edge and held on, fighting the blackness that threatened to engulf her. Swaying, she willed the vertigo to pass lest she crumple into an unconscious heap.

  Stars above, what kind of malady do I have? She wondered as the worst of her dizziness began to fade. Not only was she periodically sick to her stomach and incredibly fatigued but now she was dizzy too!

  For some reason, the thought of being dizzy triggered a memory of a comment Meg had made in one of her last letters.

  …I’m so dizzy these days with the baby that poor Cade has taken to hovering around me, terrified I may fall at any moment. He needn’t worry though, since I spend half my time veering toward the nearest piece of furniture, so I can take a nap.

  Dizziness. Naps. The only thing Meg hadn’t mentioned was being sick in the morning. Or put another way, she hadn’t complained of morning sickness! And now that Grace considered it, her menses was late. Very, very late!

  Oh, dear heavens, Grace realized, as she let out a whooshing breath and sat down hard on the chair.

  I’m with child!

  Jack came awake with a start and gazed bleary-eyed across the room, with its shelves of leather-bound books and glass-fronted cabinets full of knickknacks and antiquarian items.

  For a few moments, his mind stayed blank. But then recognition set in.

  The cottage, he thought.

  He was in the cottage where he and Grace had spent their honeymoon. Inside the library where he’d passed so much time during that first dreadful week.

  What insanity ever possessed me to come back here? He wondered for the hundredth time. I really should be carted off to Bedlam for such a stupid idea.

  But after leaving Grace nearly a month ago, he’d been like a ship without a rudder, floundering and cast adrift. And so he’d come to the only place that made sense at the time. The only place he could be at peace.

  Only he wasn’t at peace.

  He was in hell.

  Every room overflowed with memories of Grace, as though she were a ghost who haunted him wherever he went. Everywhere, that is, but here in this library. During her brief residence, she’d rarely been in this room, so the memories weren’t as strong. Because of that, he used the space as a refuge.

  He supposed he ought to have packed his luggage and departed by now, but where would he go? He had no interest in staying at an inn. And even less in staying with friends. Unlike Cade, he’d never acquired an estate of his own, and he couldn’t set foot in London for a couple more weeks. Besides, the town house would be even worse than this cottage, with far more memories of Grace to be endured.

  Yawning, he rubbed a hand over the heavy growth of bristle lining his throat and cheeks. He hadn’t shaved in days. He hadn’t felt like it, spending most of his time wallowing in cheroots, long walks and solitude.

  As for sleep, he got very little.

  Each night he stubbornly forced himself to lie down on the mattress in the bedroom. But every time he closed his eyes, Grace was there. And once he started thinking about her, he couldn’t stop, until finally he would come here to the library and sleep in the armchair.

  Another man might have drowned his misery in the bottom of a brandy decanter. But after a brief infatuation with that particular poison, he’d given it up, realizing he felt worse rather than better. The only thing the alcohol did was give him a sore head, a churning gut and no real comfort at all.

  Reaching into his pocket, he searched for his watch to see just how late the hour really was. Instead of the timepiece, however, his fingers brushed against a now familiar piece of jewelry that he’d taken to carrying.

  He’d discovered it among some of his things before leaving London, and had slipped it into his pocket. Why he’d done it, he still didn’t know. Maybe he’d hoped to give it to her when they parted. Maybe he’d needed to carry a piece of her with him after she was gone.

  Drawing it out, he gazed at the heart-shaped amethyst pendant, running his thumb over the tiny miniature garden in the centre.

  He wondered if she liked her garden at her new house in Kent. He wondered if she liked living there. Did she miss her old life? Did she miss him?

  Christ, what a pitiful idiot I’ve become.

  If he had any sense, he’d leave this room, ride to the nearest tavern, find a willing woman and tup her until he couldn’t think straight. Tup her, and as many more nameless females as it took to drive one long-legged redhead out of his mind.

  And what about his heart?

  Eventually, he would cut her out of that as well, he assured himself. He just needed time and the right sharp implement to do the job.

  He was considering taking another one of his long, rambling walks through the nearby woods and fields when a rap sounded at the door.

  His first instinct was to ignore it. Frankly, he was surprised that any of the servants had the nerve to disturb him. His humour was so foul most of the time that he’d scared off all the maids; none of them would come near any more. Only the housekeeper remained to see to his meals and tend to the necessary cleaning. And the one remaining footman wasn’t too keen on him either—not after he’d thrown a plate of fried eggs at the fellow’s head one particularly bad morning.

  The knock came again.

  He grumbled under his breath, tucking the pendant back into his pocket before he called out. “Yes. What is it?”

  The door opened, but the man who entered wasn’t the footman, as Jack expected. In fact, he didn’t even recognize the stranger at first. But then, as the slender, sandy-haired man moved farther into the room, his identity came clear.

  It was Terrence Cooke, Grace’s friend and publisher.

  “What the deuce are you doing here?” Jack said, making no effort to rise from his chair.

  Cooke straightened his shoulders and walked all the way inside. “Well, hallo to you too, your lordship. Not that I’d call that remark much of a greeting, particularly given the trouble I’ve endured traveling here from London.” He doffed his hat and placed it on a small table. “You’re a hard man to locate, did you know that?”

  “Obviously not hard enough, since you found me.”

  “A friend of mine who knows your solicitor put me in touch,” Cooke continued in a conversational tone, clearly not put off by Jack’s less than warm reception. “He thought you might be here in Oxfordshire.”

  “Next time I’m in Town, I’ll have to remember to get a new solicitor. What do you want?”

  “Not what actually, but who. I’ve come to see Grace. Is she here?”

  Jack’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “Does it look like she’s here?”

  Cooke paused, his brows furrowing slightly. “No. If it weren’t for your redoubtable housekeeper, I’d wonder if anyone were here, the place is so unrelentingly grim. Reminds me a bit of a hermit’s den.”

  Jack sent him a fresh glare.

  Cooke glanced around the room, wrinkling his nose, no do
ubt in offence over the acrid scent of the cheroots Jack had been smoking by the dozen. That and the stale remains of last night’s mostly untouched supper, which had yet to be cleared away.

  “If Grace isn’t here, then where is she?” Cooke persisted.

  Jack sent the other man a deliberately menacing look. “Worried I’ve done away with her?”

  Cooke studied him for a long moment. “If anything I’d say she’s done away with you. What’s happened? You look like the very devil, Byron.”

  Jack clenched his teeth so hard they hurt. “Get out.”

  “Rumor in Town has it that the pair of you are like cooing lovebirds. Apparently, that’s not the case.”

  “I said get out,” Jack ordered in a low growl.

  “As you choose. I suppose I’ll have to find another method of getting this book to Grace.”

  Jack stilled. “Book? What book?”

  Only then did he notice the rectangular volume the other man had set on the table beneath his hat when he’d first come in.

  “It’s the new edition of Grace’s latest book. Rather than entrust it to the vagaries of the post, I thought I would give it to her personally.”

  “I’ll give it to her,” Jack said, without taking the time to consider his response.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said you are to leave it with me. I’ll make certain she receives it.”

  What am I saying? He wondered. I have no plans to see Grace, so why take on the burden of delivering this book to her? Yet he realized that’s exactly what he wanted. An excuse, anything that gave him the chance to see her again.

  After a moment, Cooke picked up his hat—and only his hat. “Thank you, my lord. It’ll save me a trip into Kent.”

  “What? Then you already knew?”

  Cooke shrugged. “More rumours. I wanted the truth.”

  “About her location?”

  “No, about you and whether or not you love her. I can see that you do. She loves you too, so why are the two of you living apart?”

  Jack’s chest tightened with a familiar ache. “Grace doesn’t love me.”