Candice Hern (27 page)

"Dutch courage," she said.

Another wave of guilt swept over him at the simple words. It was another kind of courage entirely that had brought her here tonight. He would probably never understand how big a step this truly was for her, never understand what she was giving up of herself to be with him. But it was a great deal, he knew that much.

He kept their conversation light and tried to amuse her. She seemed to relax a bit, but anxiety was still apparent in the way she sat and played with her food. The laughter he coaxed from her was not the deep, sultry resonance he loved – it was tentative and brittle.

Finally, Rochdale excused himself and went into his bedchamber, where he opened the small valise he'd brought. He retrieved two flimsy garments and returned to the parlor.

"Since I did not give you fair warning of my plans," he said, "I took the liberty of bringing these along for you. I wasn't sure what else you might want. We can visit the shops tomorrow if you like."

He held out the two garments, a pink silk nightgown and matching wrapper. He had spent a great deal of time choosing just the right nightgown for her. It was not too risqué nor was it too spinsterish. It was pretty and elegant and seemed the sort of thing Grace would wear.

"Oh. How ... how lovely, John. I hadn't realized ... I had thought ... Oh dear, I am feeling rather flustered, I fear. You must forgive me, but I do not know what happens." Her skin flushed pink from her face to her throat and all down her arms.

"It shall happen in whatever way makes you comfortable, my dear. We can both retire to your bedchamber and undress each other, forgoing the nightgown entirely, or I can wait to join you after you have put it on. It is up to you."

"I believe I would prefer to undress myself, if you do not mind. This is all so new to me, and I am nervous enough without having you undress me. I fear I might swoon and miss the whole thing."

Rochdale smiled. Her candid admission was rather sweet. "We shall go slowly, then. Go change into the nightgown. I will join you when you are ready. Do you need help with your stays?"

"No!" Her eyes grew wide with apprehension. "No, thank you. I can manage."

He went into his own bedchamber and changed into a heavy brocade dressing gown. He cinched it tight at the waist, but wore nothing under it. Never had he prepared to make love to a woman with such misgivings. This poor, nervous woman trusted him to teach her the secrets of lovemaking, for he had no doubt the bishop hadn't done so. He desired her more than any woman in his life, but as the moment of surrender neared, he found that desire tempered by feelings of deceit and unspeakable guilt. But, dear God, how he wanted her.

When he stepped back into the parlor, Grace was just opening her bedchamber door. He almost groaned aloud at the sight of her. The fine pink silk of the wrapper, bound tightly at her waist, clung to every soft curve. The light from a branch of candles somewhere in the room behind her limned her golden hair and the lustrous silk so that she seemed to glow, like a vision of an angel. She stood just inside the doorway, straight and tall and proud, so that her breasts strained against the silk, the peaks of her nipples clearly outlined. Her hair was still up, though one long tendril had fallen loose at her neck. She looked so good he wanted to devour her in small bites.

"I'm ready," she said in a surprisingly steady voice. She appeared more resolute than nervous now. Perhaps the gown gave her renewed courage. No, it was not courage. The look in her eye was pure feminine pride. She knew she was beautiful; she wanted him to look at her.

And he did. Then, he walked straight to her and took her in his arms, kicking out one bare foot to close the door. He simply held her, savoring the warmth of her skin beneath the thin silk. "My God, Grace. You take my breath away. You are so beautiful."

"So are you, John."

"But you, my dear, are beautiful inside and out." He bent and kissed her. The silk wrapper was slick and smooth beneath his roaming hands, and highly erotic. He touched every part of her as he plundered her mouth, gripping her soft buttocks and pressing her hips against his erection. She moaned softly when his lips left hers and trailed kisses around to her jaw and throat and neck. His hands crept up her nape and into her hair.

"Take it down, Grace. I want to see it down."

While he continued to kiss her neck and ears, her hands worked at the back of her head. He heard the
ping
of pins hitting the floor, and all at once the heavy golden mass fell over his hands. He pulled away, turned her around so that her back was to him, lifted the thick hair, and buried his face in it. Good God, it was glorious. Then he pulled her back against him and ran his hands over her breasts, keeping his nose pressed against her sweet-smelling hair. She shivered at his touch, but allowed him to explore.

Reaching down, he loosened the tie at her waist. He turned her around to face him again and slid his hands under the wrapper, then pushed it over her shoulders and down her arms until it slithered to the floor. There was now only one thin layer between his hands and her skin.

He took her again in an urgent kiss, hot and greedy, sliding his tongue in and out in an imitation of what was to come. He left her lips again and nibbled his way to her earlobe, down her throat, to the tender curve where her shoulder met the elegant white column of her neck.

As he did so, her breath came in shallow pants and the occasional, "Oh." He pushed the strap of the nightgown down over one shoulder, kissing as he went. Down and down until one pale, perfect breast was uncovered. He touched it lightly, and Grace gave a little squeal of alarm.

Rochdale pulled back and was jolted at the sight of her: hair loose and disheveled, skin flushed, one breast exposed, lips parted, eyes wide. This was Grace Marlowe, the fine upstanding woman who devoted her life to good works. Good, decent, respectable Grace Marlowe. He had brought her to this.

Suddenly all the guilt and shame he'd been feeling coalesced at the sight of her in such confused disarray. He had set out to have her, but at that moment, the thought of taking her seemed wrong, a violation of something good and pure.

He couldn't do it.

He had wanted this, exactly this: to see the Bishop's Widow's modesty and dignity annihilated. But now it seemed a hateful, childish thing to have planned, and he could no longer bear to look.

He couldn't do it.

Grace looked at him in confusion. "What's wrong?"

Rochdale shook his head. He reached out and pushed up the strap of the nightgown so she was decently covered. "I'm sorry, Grace. So sorry."

She looked panicked. "Was it something I did? I don't know how to do this. You know that. Have I done it wrong? Tell me, John!"

He cupped her cheek lightly, then stepped back and away from her. "You have done nothing wrong, my dear. I am the one to blame. You are too good for the likes of me, Grace. I had no business taking it this far with you. It was wrong, very wrong. You're honorable and decent, and I am neither of those things. I cannot drag you down to my level. I thought I could, but I cannot. I do not want to be the ruin of a good woman. I care for you too much to do that to you. I'm sorry Grace. Truly sorry."

He turned away from her look of wide-eyed disbelief, and left the room, closing the door behind him. When he reached his bedchamber, he sank into a chair, propped his elbows on his knees, and dropped his face into his hands.

Damn, damn, damn.

What a fool he'd been. He hadn’t believed it could happen, hadn't realized it
had
happened. Rochdale, the debauched, unscrupulous libertine, had somehow become the noble ass Grace had wanted him to be. He had just done something entirely selfless for the first time in more than a dozen years.

Why, then, did it make him feel so damned bad?

How dare he!

Grace stood alone in the room, dressed in the beautiful nightgown he'd bought her and staring at the closed door in utter disbelief. She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. Not from the cold, but from pure white-hot anger.

How dare he bring her all the way to Newmarket, have her put on a thin nightgown that left little to the imagination, kiss her until she was senseless, and — my God! — touch her bare breast ... and then leave. What was wrong with him, that he would make such an about-face?

Or, what was wrong with
her
?

No, this was not her fault. It was not. She had done nothing wrong. Rochdale had done this
to
her, leaving her alone and aroused and confused. He must have known what it had taken for her to put on the nightgown, to stand before him practically naked. He must have known how she would be affected by the sight of him clad in nothing more than a dressing gown — she was quite sure he wore nothing underneath — exposing a vee of bare throat and chest dusted with dark hair. He must have known how he made her feel when he touched her.

Yet, he'd bolted. Damn him!

Grace had decided to allow him to take her to bed. It was a huge decision, enormous and life-altering, but, by God, she had made it and was prepared to see it through. She had been willing to have Rochdale make love to her. More than willing, she had wanted it. Truly wanted it. She wanted to know what it would be like to experience the physical passion the Merry Widows so often discussed, and Rochdale was the one man she trusted to teach her. Because he liked her and respected her, and knew how momentous a step it was for her to take.

She could not help being nervous about it. She'd never seen a man's bare chest before. She'd never allowed a man to see, much less touch, her naked breast. Naturally it made her nervous.

Was that what had turned him away? That little squeak of surprise she'd uttered when he touched her breast? Surely he understood the shock — and thrilling pleasure — she'd felt. But perhaps he'd misunderstood her shock for fear, and decided she was not ready for such intimacy. Or decided he had no interest in tutoring such a skittish novice.

In the end, he did not find her desirable enough to make love to her, though that is surely what he had intended. But no, she had felt his desire. Besides the obvious sign, which he'd made certain to press against her, there had been an urgency, almost like a hunger, in the way he'd kissed her and touched her. If nothing else, he most certainly desired her hair. Grace had almost swooned at the tender way he had handled it, as though it were precious gold. He'd made her feel beautiful, desirable, and she was more than ready to do as she'd done in her dream, to lie naked with him on the bed.

But he had denied her that pleasure.

Though Grace had all but discarded her Bishop's Widow mantle, perhaps Rochdale was unable to get beyond that image of her. Perhaps he had discovered that he could not, after all, abide physical intimacy with such a paragon.

She was tired of being the Bishops's Widow, thanks in large part to Rochdale's encouragement to craft her own, separate identity. He had taught her to want more from life, and God knew she did. He'd taught her what desire truly was. Not the sinful urges the bishop had insisted she suppress. But honest, natural desire for a man. He had taught her this, and she wanted more. She wanted passion and love and ... sex. Dear heaven, she ached with wanting it, the way a drunkard craves another bottle.

Damn Rochdale for making her want all that but refusing to give it to her. Damn him for taking her body to such heights but not finishing the job. Damn him for being a coward!

He was not going to get away with it, though. Grace was no longer the passive, reserved, quiet little mouse she'd once been. He had wanted her to be strong and independent, to be "her own woman" and she was. She certainly felt like a new woman. The old Grace would never have dared to come to Newmarket with the infamous Lord Rochdale. Yes, she had changed. But, by God, he had not yet seen the full force of the new Grace Marlowe in all her impassioned wrath.

* * *

The door to his bedchamber opened with a loud crash as it was slammed against the wall. Rochdale looked up to find Grace standing in the middle of the room in the pink nightgown, hands on hips, outrage and fury oozing from every fine pore.

"What a coward you are." She almost spat the words at him.

He shook his head. "No, Grace, it is not cowardice. I am simply trying to do something good for once in my life." And the sight of her was making it very difficult to maintain those good intentions.

"And it is good to leave me alone and wanting?"

"I'm sorry, Grace. That was unforgivable."

"Yes, it was. And cowardly. You are afraid to seduce me. Afraid of the ghost of Bishop Marlowe."

"No, Grace, that is not —"

"But I will no longer be a martyr to that ghost. You taught me that. I am not the Bishop's Widow, standing here in a nightgown. I am just plain Grace Marlowe, an ordinary woman with ordinary needs. You brought me here to seduce me, and I am ready and willing for you to do so. You set out to make me want you, and by heaven, you did. And now you decide to leave me unsatisfied. How dare you be so cruel?"

Every word was like a knife being plunged into his gut. "You are right. I did set out to make you want me. You were a challenge I could not resist."

"I knew that. I have always known that. But I needed your challenge. I needed to stop being so closed up and untouchable. You helped me see that I could be something more. You made me feel like a woman, a desirable woman, for the first time in my life. I have come alive since knowing you. I even dream of making love to you. But out of some sort of twisted honor, you refuse to fulfill my dreams."

The blade sank deeper, slicing his insides to shreds. But he cared about her too much to be the instrument of her ruin.

Appealing to her better nature, he quoted Proverbs: "'Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly they are ravening wolves.'"

"But you never wore sheep's clothing, John. You never pretended to be other than a wolf. And even though I have seen more good in you than you allow others to see, I have always been aware of the ravening wolf. I know you for both the good and the bad in you, and I want all of it. I want all of you." She slipped the nightgown from her shoulders and let it slither to the floor. "And I want you to have all of me."