The morning after the Wellesley soiree, Grace sat in the parlor of New Hill Cottage and worked on her embroidery with Aunt Dorothea who, for once, worked in silence. Grace was glad. The quiet provided her ample time to think about last night’s events in peace, without interruption from her aunt.

Grace hadn’t enjoyed the company of Mr. Maxwell—not at all, in fact. He was barbaric and churlish, and entirely too forward. She had no desire for any of the attentions he had continued to lavish on her, despite her negative response. Nor was she happy with him virtually forcing her to participate in charades.

But none of that gave Lord Alexander any right to interfere in her affairs.

The insufferable man would be better served avoiding her. Grace didn’t know how much more clear she could make herself on the point, short of thumping him over the head with a parasol. But hadn’t she already done so, at least in essence? She’d have to be more explicit with the man.

Lord Alexander was entirely too handsome and masculine, and in general too desirable for Grace’s comfort. The air between them felt alive. She would much prefer that not to happen.

She shivered, remembering the feel of his arms about her while they had waltzed and the way his scent had hung so close she could taste it—taste him. He elicited responses in her she had no right to own, sensations she should avoid.

Grace was to live the life of a spinster. Maybe with her aunt and uncle, or perhaps alone. But she would forever be an outcast, a social pariah. She mustn’t forget.

But in his arms, she felt like all was right with the world, instead of like the world was closing in on her. The feeling was entirely unfamiliar, but not necessarily unwelcome. Except that she shouldn’t welcome it. She couldn’t welcome it.

The butler cleared his throat and interrupted their work, breaking into her daydreams. “Pardon me, Lady Kensington. Lord Rotheby and Lord Alexander are below stairs. Shall I show them in?”

Lord Alexander? Oh, dear. Panic and delight warred for control of Grace’s emotions.

“Oh, wonderful, Mason. Please bring them up.” Aunt Dorothea set her quilting aside and straightened her afternoon gown about her legs. With a raised eyebrow and a wave of her hand, she indicated Grace should do the same.

Grace sighed in joint frustration and curiosity while she complied with the silent order. Moments later, the two gentlemen joined them in the parlor and inclined their heads in greeting.

“Thank you, Mason,” Aunt Dorothea said. “Please order some tea for our guests. And let Sir Laurence know Lord Rotheby has arrived, if you have not already done so. He shall very much like to visit with the earl, I would wager.”

The butler left with a quick nod.

“Gentlemen, do have a seat. It’s so good of you to join us. I must say, Gracie, I’m quite glad of their company.” Aunt Dorothea gave her a pointed look. “Would you not agree that the morning has been dreadfully quiet after the excitement of last evening?”

Lord Alexander helped the earl into a chair near the fire before seating himself opposite Grace. She most certainly would not agree, however she answered in the affirmative, as clearly expected. “Indeed, Aunt.”

All eyes turned to her when she spoke, and heat raced up her neck and over her cheeks to match the heat in Lord Alexander’s gaze. His expression—one of pure desire, plainly—was sheer and utter impropriety. The warmth spread from Grace’s face through the rest of her body and all the way to her most intimate, private places. How could any man such as he feel desire for her? If he knew, he would run to the hills to escape the stigma permanently attached to her.

She turned away from him, facing the earl instead. He was safer to look upon. “Lord Rotheby, I trust you have rested well after such a late evening. I would hate for you to become ill.”

“Oh yes, my dear. I am doing very well—” he broke off to cough, “—very well, indeed. You are such a dear to ask after me. Alex told me you enquired after my health last night while you danced, as well.” He smiled then, and it reached all the way to his eyes. “I daresay I was quite pleased to hear you danced with Alex. He’s spent far too much of his visit following after me and checking on my health. It’s good for young people to spend time with other young people.”

A mischievous look passed between Lord Rotheby and Grace’s aunt. They were conspiring! How could Aunt Dorothea continue with such behavior, knowing how unfit and ineligible Grace would be for any respectable gentleman?

Mason returned with the tea service just as Uncle Laurence joined them. “Gil, you are looking well this morning,” Grace’s uncle said. “Playing cards must agree with you, then.”

Lord Alexander stood to greet Uncle Laurence, who commandeered the armchair the younger man had left vacant. Grace’s heart sank when she realized the only seating option left open was to join her on the loveseat. He sat next to her, and she did her best to disguise her discomfort.

Grace had given him enough of her opinion of his character at the Wellesley revelries last night. Delving further into such a line of conversation would be pointless, particularly when surrounded by company; nor did she intend to allow Lord Alexander the satisfaction he could glean from her discomfiture at his proximity.

She did everything in her power to avoid thoughts of his nearness. Grace soon found the task quite impossible. Lord Alexander’s large frame caused his legs to brush against hers in a most inappropriate manner, and she was altogether too aware of his presence—his heat!—at her side. Before his arrival, she had smelled the fire burning in the hearth and the scent of baking bread wafting from the kitchens. Now she smelled only him.

He spoke with his hands. As his animation grew, his hands drew circles in the air next to her and pushed the earthy, masculine scent of him closer to her nostrils.

When he finished speaking, his hands dropped to his side, where one of them brushed against the muslin over her thigh.

Grace wanted more of his touch.

She wanted the feel of him against her as when they waltzed the night before—or, however brazen the thought may be, as when he had kissed her in the gardens. How wanton she’d become!

He turned the fullness of his gaze on her and asked, “Would you not agree, ma’am?”

She flushed again. Drat! How embarrassing, to be caught without a thought in her head. Or at the very least, without a thought she could share.

“I’m dreadfully sorry. I—I seem to have been woolgathering. Would I not agree with what?” She prayed the color in her cheeks would soon return to normal.

He gave her a gentle smile. “Wouldn’t you agree the weather is quite lovely for a walk through the gardens? Your aunt suggested we might enjoy some air while she and Sir Laurence show Lord Rotheby a painting they recently acquired.”

A walk. In the gardens.

Alone with Lord Alexander.

Again.

Aunt Dorothea feigned innocence when Grace glanced her way, the wretch. “Gracie, do be a dear. It would be quite rude if we should leave Lord Alexander alone, you know.”

And, of course, one must never be rude to Lord Alexander. She wanted desperately to ask why the man in question could not simply join them all to stroll through the gallery and admire the painting, but her blasted manners won out. “Yes, Aunt.” She turned to Lord Alexander and forced a pained smile. “Shall we stroll through the roses, or would you prefer to see the arbors?”

He never broke eye contact. “The arbors should provide protection from the sun. Why don’t we go there?” His voice slid across her like satin.

She pulled a light pelisse about her shoulders and led the way outside. Anything would be better than spending more time alone with him. Anything. Yet once more, her aunt had thrust her into just that situation.

She fought her fury down and struggled to control her emotions.

She wished he’d take her hand. It tingled in anticipation of his touch that wouldn’t come.

Alex battled the lust building in his chest.

He was determined to act the gentleman with Lady Grace today and keep his thoughts where they belonged. She was a lady. She deserved his respect.

But then she flushed again, and the urge to pull her under the cover of the trees and perform unspeakable, utterly delicious acts overwhelmed him.

He was no green youth. He’d had his share of women and paid them handsomely for their services—or taken what was freely offered, what that opportunity had been presented. Why did this minx cause him to lose his tight rein of control? She was a pixie, hardly more than a girl, yet lust raged a furious course through his blood.

They walked in silence among the trees outside New Hill Cottage, through well-worn paths that wound in and out of daffodils and poppies. The silence came as no surprise. He found it comforting, even commonplace, for the two of them. With any other lady, he would force himself to make conversation. But with Lady Grace, he felt no need to meet society’s demand.

There was something very different about her. Why couldn’t he determine what that difference was? For now, he chose to allow that aspect of their relationship to simply be. He wouldn’t force her to divulge her secrets.

Still, he wanted very much to know her secrets, her thoughts. He wanted to know what it was inside her that created the art he’d witnessed. She tried to portray herself as cold, unfeeling—passionless, even. But he knew better. It was all a grand charade.

Passion had poured out from her, as though her very soul had been spilled onto the canvas. He’d felt her passion kindle in his arms.

She needed someone to help her past her inhibitions. Lady Grace knew no shyness or modesty when she painted. He wanted to incite such passion in her. The realization struck him unawares, and he stopped mid-stride.

“My lord, are you quite all right?” She slowed and turned to face him.

He marveled at her dainty beauty, at the idea he could be attracted to a woman so staid—her neat, midnight bun at the nape of her neck, her tiny frame, her figure that spoke more of a girl than a woman, and those eyes that cried out to him for something he couldn’t provide.

He resumed his pace and she walked alongside him. “I apologize. It must be my turn to gather wool.” Alex winked down at her.

Silence returned. They strolled through the arbor until they reached a creek that trickled down a grassy hill through a meadow of bluebells.

He slowed his gait and matched him. “Before we return, shall we take a rest?” Alex asked. “The willow here will provide us with ample shade.” He didn’t want to overtire her, particularly since he knew all too well how late they’d all been out last night.

Dark circles had formed beneath her eyes, and her skin bore an unnatural, uncomplimentary shade of green. She sighed in apparent relief. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

He removed his outer coat and laid it on the grass, then helped her to sit on it. She stared at the view before them, likely taking in the mélange of rock formations and palette of colors for a later painting, never once looking in his direction.

His focus remained fully on her. With each passing minute, her color faded and his alarm grew. “Are you unwell? Should we return to the cottage?”

She didn’t respond but stumbled to her feet. “Oh!” she cried and rushed away from his sight. Alex followed behind her as quickly as he could. She stopped near a tree and retched, then fainted into his arms.

He lifted her and rushed toward New Hill, leaving his coat where it still lay on the grass near the creek. Good God. She needed a doctor. He had to hurry. There was no time to waste.

Halfway there, she stirred. Her eyes flickered open and she regained some color. “What…where…Lord Alexander?” Her befuddlement almost aroused him—almost. He was not entirely a rogue, thankfully.

He continued toward the cottage. “You’re ill. I’ll return you to your aunt and uncle in moments.”

She collected herself a bit more and struggled in his arms. “Please don’t trouble yourself, sir. I am capable of walking on my own.” Her squirms increased. “Set me on the ground, my lord.” Her pert voice was indignity personified.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. You are ill. I can have you home far sooner if I carry you than if you walk.” He tightened his grasp, pulling her to his chest so she had no choice but to accept his assistance.

She huffed up at him with the most adorable frown on her face, but thankfully ceased her struggles and arguments. Within minutes, he reached the cottage and carried her through the door held open by the butler.

“Oh goodness, Gracie!” Lady Kensington’s shocked cry reverberated through the front hallway of the cottage. “Laurence, she’s ill. Oh, Lord Alexander, I’m very glad you were with her to carry her home. Come. Come with me. We’ll settle her in bed where she can rest. You poor dear, going for a walk to take some air, and becoming sick like that.”

Lady Kensington led him up the stairs and pushed open the door to Lady Grace’s bedchamber. She pulled back the bedclothes and plumped the pillows so he could place her in comfort, although it seemed to him the woman took more time to accomplish the task than necessary. He continued to hold Lady Grace tight in his arms and waited.

A maid stepped into the room. “Oh, my lady. Have you taken ill again?”

Alex’s head whipped around to stare down at the. “Again? Lady Grace has been ill before today?”

The maid blushed prettily, then rushed forward to assist Lady Kensington in preparing the bed for Lady Grace. Her efficiency sped the process along a good deal, but she didn’t answer his question. Finally, they had the counterpane pulled down and pillows situated just so. Alex frowned up at them both as he laid her in the bed, careful of placement for her comfort.

“It is nothing, my lord.” Lady Kensington patted his arm before adjusting pillows around Lady Grace’s head and tucking the quilt tightly against her sides. “I fear the cod she ate at luncheon didn’t agree with her. Never you mind.”

“Shall I fetch a doctor? I can ride into town and bring one in short order.” Blast it, he felt helpless with empty arms.

“No. No, that’s not necessary, but you are such a dear for making the offer. Gracie will be fine after a good rest.” Lady Kensington stopped her ministrations and faced him. “Lord Rotheby is tired, sir. I thank you for bringing him to visit, but he desires to rest in his own home. Please see to his comforts and allow me to see to Gracie’s.”

Clearly, Alex had been dismissed. He returned to the parlor and fetched Gil, determined not to fret over Lady Grace.

On the return trip to Roundstone, he couldn’t banish the feel of her in his arms as he carried her from his mind. She was so fragile, yet strong.

What a fascinating combination.