Hot Silk. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ house teemed with lovely ladies of good birth, but Lord Wesley had singled her out, had pursued her ever since her arrival. From the first moment he had bent over her hand and let his lips play magic on her fingers through the thin muslin of her glove, she had been entranced. And each look he cast her way, each hot and intense glance, had assured her he felt the magic every bit as much as she.

      Or was she wrong? What, after all, did she know about men in love?

      “Midnight. By midnight,” she teased, feigning a confidence she didn’t feel, “you will know if I am coming or not.”

      His breath tickled her neck, a hot caress. “Wicked wench. I’ll be there.” He moved closer to her, leaving the shadows to press his body against hers. She both stiffened and melted as a hard ridge snuggled against her silk-clad bottom.

      “I can’t wait to grasp hold of this lush, fashionable arse—” With a groan, he ground his erection against her curves, setting her heart racing. “That, my golden nymph, is for you.”

      And then he was gone.

      Grace snapped open her fan and beat it so feverishly the thin silk tore from the spokes. She’d never had a man do this to her before. Be so bold. Be so gruff and direct and lusty—

      “What was my rascal of a brother saying to you? Oh, Grace, you aren’t going to faint, are you? Your face is aflame.”

      Grace started guiltily as Lady Prudence joined her in the private corner. Her friend’s closed fan rested against her lips, half hiding their firm line. “Did you let him coax you here?”

      “No…I needed a rest,” Grace lied.

      Lying had never been her talent and she doubted Lady Prudence was fooled. Her friend gave a tip to her head so the candlelight caught the tiny diamonds and sapphires threaded through her dark hair. Lady Prudence was so lovely. It was astonishing to Grace that she had such a friend.

      “Don’t believe a word he says,” Lady Prudence warned, her gray-blue eyes very solemn. She bent close to be heard clearly over the graceful melody of the waltz. “My brother is a scoundrel.”

      Couples twirled past, elegant and glittering beneath the glow of a thousand candles. Gentlemen’s hands rested lightly on slender backs; ladies’ gloved hands entwined with those of their partners. Skirts swirled around graceful ankles and coattails fluttered to give glimpses of muscular male bottoms.

      Grace sighed. “Aren’t most of the men we encounter scoundrels at heart? That is what makes them so interesting. But no gentleman would ever really behave as a scoundrel with me.”

      “For which you should be profoundly grateful.” They were the same age, both eighteen, but Lady Prudence suddenly looked wise and mature. “You are so exceptionally beautiful, Grace, you will make a devastatingly successful marriage.”

      “Will I?” She was running out of time. Within a week or two, the fashionable world would all be in London. Her eldest sister Venetia was already in London, in a rented townhouse, drawing erotic art to save their family, and their mother was sick with worry.

      And Grace could save them all. All she had to do was marry.

      She ground the toe of her slipper into the gleaming parquet floor and gripped her fan until the splintered spokes bit through her gloves. All she had to do was capture a titled man and she could keep her family from the workhouse. She could return her mother to the world that had cast her out.

      Since Grace had turned thirteen, her plan had been direct and simple. She would marry a title. She would make things right. Everyone had told her she was lovely, that she would grow to be a great beauty. She had overheard the secret conversations, when matrons had told her mother how valuable her beauty would be.

      “Grace, I am serious.” Lady Prudence gripped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. The silk of Grace’s gown—one of Lady Prudence’s that she had bought but later decided she did not like—shimmered around her legs. “Do not believe a word my brother says,” Lady Prudence warned. “There is not a young woman on this estate that he has not…had intimacies with.”

      “I know.” And Grace did. She knew she was a fool to imagine that Lord Wesley, a wealthy heir, a devastatingly handsome man, would want to marry a nobody like her. But she knew, even after only a week, that she could not bear to settle for anything less. It was not his title she wanted—it was him. The man.

      Grace tapped her lips with her torn fan. She wanted it all. Could she not only marry well, but also marry a man she loved and desired? Or was she simply hoping for too much, when her family’s security was at stake?

      Prudence had adopted a motherly air. “There are many gentlemen who are already besotted with you, Grace. Lord Ornsbrook, who is a viscount, and a wealthy one, is a thoroughly respectable catch. Pelworth hangs on your every word, and he is an earl!”

      Grace swallowed hard. Either man should be perfect: young, reasonably attractive, and tongue-tied around her, which should be a good sign.

      Prudence pointed with her fan at a lanky blond man laughing his way through the dance set. “Even Sir Randolph Thomas, over there. He possesses a fortune! Yes, he’s an atrocious dancer, but, really, a woman never dances with her husband.”

      “Prudence, no—”

      “Or Lord Wynsome. Such a suitable name. He melts every woman’s heart. And he’s heir to the Earl of Warren. He’s delicious, isn’t he? I’m certain he would take one look at you and—”

      “Stop!” Grace cried. The Earl of Warren was her grandfather—her mother’s father. He had thrown her mother out and barred all of them from his house. Lady Prudence, of course, knew not of that. Like everyone else, Prudence believed the lies Grace had carefully cultivated—the lie learned by her and her sisters. Her mother was respectably married, her father, a sea captain who was away, far across the world, hoping to make his fortune. But that father was her mother’s fictitious creation.

      She would never dare tell anyone that she was Lord Warren’s illegitimate granddaughter and that her father was really Rodesson, the famous and scandalous artist of erotica. Or that her eldest and talented sister was the one now painting the erotic works that bore Rodesson’s name.

      Lord Wynsome had no idea she was, in fact, a cousin to him. There was no way he would guess, but it was still her greatest fear that he somehow would, that he would expose the truth to Lady Prudence.

      Prudence was her entry to the ton, to the world of rich and titled and delicious gentlemen—

      She couldn’t dare risk Prudence’s friendship. And, in truth, she dearly loved her friend.

      “But, still, there are more,” Prudence said cheerfully. “Over there—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh good heavens, what is he doing here?”

      Grace never heard that tone of voice from Prudence. Low, serious…fearful. Surprised, she strained to look.

      A gentleman stood at the entrance to the ballroom—he towered head and shoulders above the crowd. He must have been over six and a half feet in height. And his hair—it was a wild mane of dark blond that streamed past his shoulders, unruly and wild. She knew, by instinct, that it suited the man.

      He gave an enormous grin, which revealed deep dimples framing his handsome mouth and brilliant СКАЧАТЬ