her shapely back. Instead of taking the path down, he took a narrow track away from the edge of the ridge and found his father’s folly. Bushes now obscured the path, but the branches were only budding and the white columns and oriental roof peeked through.
Slowly, Grace slid her hands up to his shoulders and held on as she twisted in his arms. “What is this?”
“Where I was conceived,” he said with wry humor.
Pushing open the door with his boot, he gave a sigh. The daybed cushions bore stains and mildew, and dirt and dust coated everything. “Apparently my father hasn’t been trysting with the same regularity he used to.”
“You are not taking me in there. It was bad enough that I went to the summerhouse at his lordship’s summons—I will not be carried in against my will.”
Her breath brushed his face, warm and sweet.
“Is it against your will, Grace? Is that the truth?”
God, but her scent drove him mad. Rock hard, aroused to the point he could barely think, he refused to press his interests. He was not going to seduce her. He was not going to act like his damned brother.
“You thought I would be willing to become his mistress. After what he did. What he said. You think nothing of me—of course, you don’t—”
Putting her on her feet stopped her words. He touched his thumb to her lips in the doorway of the once sumptuous room where a hundred women had fallen in love with his randy father. Even through the leather of his glove, he caught his breath at the softness of her mouth, the sheer velvet perfection of those rose-pink lips. “I was afraid you felt forced to accept, love.”
Her breath hitched—he heard it—and she brushed a soft kiss to his black gloved thumb. “I turned down your offer, Mr. Sharpe. I would never accept his.”
Grace could not believe she said the words with such a steady voice. Mr. Sharpe’s magnetic blue eyes held her with far more power than Lord Wesley’s intimating stance. She could not look away—his sapphire blue irises appeared rimmed with a thin circle of violet, unusual and arresting.
They were alone and it would be so very easy to touch him. Everywhere. His chest. His shoulders. If she wished, she could reach down with both hands and greedily explore the hard length of his cock.
Mystified, she looked up into his blue eyes again. They’d shared one night and it felt as though all barriers had dropped away. But then he knew more about her than anyone. He knew she was capable of going to a man’s bed with a broken heart, desperately searching for…for hope, she realized.
Was that it? Hope that she had not lost everything with one stupid mistake? Hope that she could still be desired for who she was? Confused, she blinked, now aware that she had no idea what she had wanted from making love with Devlin Sharpe, except a few fleeting moments of connection.
But they had a connection now. It was undeniable.
“I want you, Grace.”
His voice was molten sin, his lips smiling in conspiracy as though he could read her very thoughts.
Perhaps he could. Perhaps she was that transparent. Lust showed. Desire showed. She’d spent years trying to be proper—to be from her mother’s world, not her father’s—and she’d thrown it all away in one night.
The instant his knuckles skimmed her cheek with tantalizing pressure, she tipped her head back, shut her eyes, and moaned. Lazily, his fingers stroked back and forth, and suddenly all she could think of was her quim. How hot she suddenly was. How tight and tingly she felt. She swallowed hard and touched him in return.
Cupping her palm, she cradled his strong chin, the sort of chin that promised strength a woman could rely upon. Firm, slightly squared, a slight cleft in the middle. Smoother than it had been. Devlin…Mr. Sharpe had shaved this morning.
Where had he slept? In the house, where he was not accepted? He looked far too immaculate and clean and perfect to have slept rough. Where would he find a
Slowly, Grace slid her hands up to his shoulders and held on as she twisted in his arms. “What is this?”
“Where I was conceived,” he said with wry humor.
Pushing open the door with his boot, he gave a sigh. The daybed cushions bore stains and mildew, and dirt and dust coated everything. “Apparently my father hasn’t been trysting with the same regularity he used to.”
“You are not taking me in there. It was bad enough that I went to the summerhouse at his lordship’s summons—I will not be carried in against my will.”
Her breath brushed his face, warm and sweet.
“Is it against your will, Grace? Is that the truth?”
God, but her scent drove him mad. Rock hard, aroused to the point he could barely think, he refused to press his interests. He was not going to seduce her. He was not going to act like his damned brother.
“You thought I would be willing to become his mistress. After what he did. What he said. You think nothing of me—of course, you don’t—”
Putting her on her feet stopped her words. He touched his thumb to her lips in the doorway of the once sumptuous room where a hundred women had fallen in love with his randy father. Even through the leather of his glove, he caught his breath at the softness of her mouth, the sheer velvet perfection of those rose-pink lips. “I was afraid you felt forced to accept, love.”
Her breath hitched—he heard it—and she brushed a soft kiss to his black gloved thumb. “I turned down your offer, Mr. Sharpe. I would never accept his.”
Grace could not believe she said the words with such a steady voice. Mr. Sharpe’s magnetic blue eyes held her with far more power than Lord Wesley’s intimating stance. She could not look away—his sapphire blue irises appeared rimmed with a thin circle of violet, unusual and arresting.
They were alone and it would be so very easy to touch him. Everywhere. His chest. His shoulders. If she wished, she could reach down with both hands and greedily explore the hard length of his cock.
Mystified, she looked up into his blue eyes again. They’d shared one night and it felt as though all barriers had dropped away. But then he knew more about her than anyone. He knew she was capable of going to a man’s bed with a broken heart, desperately searching for…for hope, she realized.
Was that it? Hope that she had not lost everything with one stupid mistake? Hope that she could still be desired for who she was? Confused, she blinked, now aware that she had no idea what she had wanted from making love with Devlin Sharpe, except a few fleeting moments of connection.
But they had a connection now. It was undeniable.
“I want you, Grace.”
His voice was molten sin, his lips smiling in conspiracy as though he could read her very thoughts.
Perhaps he could. Perhaps she was that transparent. Lust showed. Desire showed. She’d spent years trying to be proper—to be from her mother’s world, not her father’s—and she’d thrown it all away in one night.
The instant his knuckles skimmed her cheek with tantalizing pressure, she tipped her head back, shut her eyes, and moaned. Lazily, his fingers stroked back and forth, and suddenly all she could think of was her quim. How hot she suddenly was. How tight and tingly she felt. She swallowed hard and touched him in return.
Cupping her palm, she cradled his strong chin, the sort of chin that promised strength a woman could rely upon. Firm, slightly squared, a slight cleft in the middle. Smoother than it had been. Devlin…Mr. Sharpe had shaved this morning.
Where had he slept? In the house, where he was not accepted? He looked far too immaculate and clean and perfect to have slept rough. Where would he find a
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