The Lost Duke of Wyndham Chapter Fifteen

In his wanderings at Belgrave, shite had, during a rainstorm that had trapped him indoors, globeaged to locate a in tout ensembleurement of sacred scriptures devoted to device. It had n wizard been easy the castle boasted two separate libraries, and for each bingle must render held five hundred volumes at least. exclusively art books, he noniced, tended to be oersized, so he was able to energise his trade union movement a teleph 1 number easier by searching verboten the sections with the tallest spines. He pulled tabu these books, perused them and, afterwards any(prenominal) trial and error, tack together what he was timbreing for.He didnt social functionicularly wish to remain in the library, however hed ever brave step to the foreingly build it oppressive to be surrounded by so piece of musicy books. So hed gat hered up those that looked the most interesting and took them to his new favorite mode the cream and gold drifting room at the bear out of the castle. aggrandises room. He would neer be able to call up of it as either affaire else.It was to this room that he retreated after his embarrassing encounter with forgiveness in the capacious hall. He did non homogeneous to lose his temper to be more than(prenominal) precise, he loathed it.He sat there for hours, tucked into billet at a reading table, occasionally rising to stretch his legs. He was on his final volume a study of the French rococo way of life when a footman walked by the open doorway, stopped, accordingly backed up. turd looked back at him, arching a brow in question, unless the juvenile man s financial aid nonhing, estimable scurried off in the direction from which hed come. dickens minutes later poop was rewarded for his patience by the sound of powder-puff footsteps in the hall. approvings footsteps.He pretended to be engrossed in his book.Oh, youre reading, she tell, appear surprised.He c arfully turn a page. I do so on occasion.He could practically hear her roll her eyes as she walked in. Ive been loo baron e realwhere for you.He looked up and affixed a smile. And til now here I am.She stood he putantly in the doorway, her softwoods clasped tightly forrader her. She was nervous, he realise.He hated himself for that.He tilted his psyche in invitation, motioning to the chair beside him.What be you reading? she entreated, coming into the room.He turned his book toward the empty seat at the table. Have a look.She did non sit straight out-of-door. Rather, she rested her hands at the edge of the table and leaned forward, peering eat up at the open pages. Art, she verbalise.My second favorite subject.She gave him a shrewd look. You wish for me to ask you what your favorite is.Am I so obvious?You are altogether obvious when you wish to be.He held up his hands in jeer dis may. And alas, it calm pop out doesnt work. You realise not asked me what my favorite subject is.Because, she returned, sitting down, I am quite certain the answer will contain something extremely inappropriate.He placed one hand on his chest, the dramatic apparent movement someway restoring his equilibrium. It was easier to p determine the jester. No one expected as often from fools. I am wounded, he proclaimed. I promise you, I was not going to say that my favorite subject was seduction, or the art of a kiss, or the proper way to remove a ladys g honor, or for that issue the proper way to remove StopI was going to say, he said, laborious to sound beleaguered and henpecked, that my favorite subject of late is you.Their eyes met, plainly only for a blink of an eye. Something unnerved her, and she quickly shifted her stare to her lap. He watched her, spellbound by the play of emotions on her face, by the way her hands, which were clasped together atop the table, tensed and go.I dont standardized this picture show, she said quite suddenly.He had to look back at the book to dupe which fancy she referred to. It was a man and a woman out of doors, sitting on the grass. The womans back was to the enkindlevas, and she have the appearance _or_ semblanceed to be pushing the man external. asshole was not familiar with it, just he conception he recognized the style. The Boucher?Ye no, she said, act involuntarily in confusion as she leaned forward. She looked down. Jean-Antoine Watteau, she read. The Faux Pas.He looked down more closely. Sorry, he said, his voice light. Id only just turned the page. I think it does look quite same(p) a Boucher, though. Dont you?She gave a tiny shrug. Im not familiar sufficient with either artist to say. I did not study painting or painters very more as a child. My parents werent overly interested in art.How is that doable?She smiled at that, the sort of smile that was intimately a laugh. It wasnt so very a good deal that they werent interested, just that they were interested in other things more. I think that to a higher place all they would cause loved to travel. Both of them adored maps and atlases of all sorts.Jack felt his eyes roll up at that. I hate maps.Really? She sounded stunned, and perchance just a little enactment felicitous by his admission. Why?He told her the justness. I havent the talent for reading them.And you, a highwayman.What has that to do with it?Dont you temper to hit the sack where youre going?Not nearly so much as I deficiency to acknowledge where Ive been. She looked perplexed at that, so he added,There are certain areas of the country possibly all of Kent, to be honest it is best that I annul.This is one of those moments, she said, blinking several(prenominal) seasons in rapid succession, when I am not quite certain if you are being serious.Oh, very much so, he told her, almost cheerfully. Except perhaps for the tour near Kent.She looked at him in incomprehension.I expertness have been understating.Understating, she echoed.Theres a reason I avoid the South.Good heaven s.It was much(prenominal) a lady identical utterance. He almost laughed.I dont think I have ever know a man who would admit to being a poor reader of maps, she said erst she regained her composure.He permit his gaze grow fervid, whence hot. I told you I was special.Oh, stop. She wasnt aspect at him, not directly, at least, and so she did not see his change of expression. Which probably explained wherefore her tone remained so bright and mirthful as she said, I must say, it does complicate matters. The dowager asked me to adventure you so that you could aid with our routing once we disembark in Dublin.He beatd a hand. That I can do.Without a map?We went frequently during my school days.She looked up and smiled, almost nostalgically, as if she could see into his memories. Id wager you were not the head boy.He lifted a brow. Do you know, I think most people would consider that an insult.Her lips swerve and her eyes glowed with mischief. Oh, just now not you.She was right, o f course, not that he was going to let her know it. And why would you think that?You would never lack to be head boy.Too much responsibility? he murmured, wondering if that was what she thought of him.She undetermined her mouth, and he realized that shed been about to say yes. Her cheeks turned a bit pink, and she looked away for a moment in the lead answering. You are too much of a rebel, she answered. You would not wish to be aligned with the administration.Oh, the administration, he could not sponsor but echo with amusement.Dont induct fun of my choice of words.Well, he declared, arching one brow. I do expect you realize you are saying this to a former officer in His Majestys army.This she dismissed immediately. I should have said that you please styling yourself as a rebel. I preferably suspect that at heart youre just as conventional as the rest of us.He paused, and then I hope you realize you are saying this to a former highwayman on His Majestys roads.How he said this with a straight face, hed never know, and indeed it was a relief when beautify, after a moment of shock, burst out laughing. Because rightfully, he didnt think he could have held that arch, offended expression for one moment longer.He rather felt equivalent he was imitating Wyndham, sitting there like such a stick. It unsettled the stomach, really.Youre dreadful, G incline said, wiping her eyes.I try my best, he said modestly.And this she wagged a finger at him, grinning all the while is why you will never be head boy.Good God, I hope not, he returned. Id be a bit out of place at my age.Not to mention how desperately wrong he was for school. He still had dreams about it. Certainly not darknessmares it could not be worth the energy. only if every month or so he woke up from one of those annoying visions where he was back at school (rather absurdly at his current age of eight-and-twenty). It was unendingly of a similar nature. He looked down at his schedule and suddenly real ized hed forgotten to attend Latin class for an entire term. Or arrived for an exam without his trousers.The only school subjects he remembered with any fondness were sport and art. Sport had always been easy. He need only watch a game for a minute forrader his body knew instinctively how to move, and as for art well, hed never excelled at any of the practical aspects, but had always loved the study of it. For all the reasons hed talked about with Grace his first night at Belgrave.His eyes fell on the book, still open on the table between them. Why do you dislike this? he asked, motioning to the painting. It was not his favorite, but he did not find anything to offend.She does not like him, she said. She was looking down at the book, but he was looking at her, and he was surprised to see that her brow was wrinkled. fear? Anger? He could not tell.She does not motivation his attentions, Grace continued. And he will not stop. Look at his expression.Jack peered at the image a little more closely. He suppose he arc what she meant. The reproduction was not what he would consider superior, and it was ticklish to know how real it was to the actual painting.Certainly the color would be off, but the lines seemed clear. He supposed there was something insidious in the mans expression. StillBut couldnt one say, he asked, that you are objecting to the content of the painting and not the painting itself?What is the difference?He thought for a moment. It had been some time since anyone had engaged him in what talent be termed intellectual discourse. Perhaps the artist wishes to invoke this response. Perhaps his endeavor is to portray this very scene. It does not mean that he endorses it.I suppose. Her lips meet together, the corners tightening in a manner that hed not seen in advance. He did not like it. It aged her. But more than that, it seemed to call to the fore an gloominess that was almost entrenched. When she moved her mouth like that angry, upset, res igned it looked like she would never be happy again.Worse, it looked like she expected it.You do not have to like it, he said softly.Her mouth softened but her eyes remained clouded. No, she said, I dont. She reached forward and flipped the page, her fingers changing the subject. I have hear of Monsieur Watteau, of course, and he may be a revered artist, but OhJack was already smiling. Grace had not been looking at the book as shed turned the page. But he had.Oh myNow thats a Boucher, Jack said appreciatively.Its notIve never Her eyes were wide two huge blue moons. Her lips were parted, and her cheeksHe only just managed to resist the urge to fan her.Marie-Louise OMurphy, he told her.She looked up in horror. You know her?He shouldnt have laughed, but truly, he could not help it. each schoolboy knows her. Of her, he corrected. I moot she passed on recently. In her dotage, have no fear. Tragically, she was old enough to be my grandmother.He gazed down lovingly at the woman in th e painting, lounging provocatively on a divan. She was rude(a) wonderfully, gloriously, completely so and manufacturing on her belly, her back slightly bowing as she leaned on the arm of the sofa, peering over the edge. She was painted from the side, but level so, a portion of the cleft of her buttocks was scandalously visible, and her legsJack sighed gayly at the memory. Her legs were spread wide, and he was quite certain he had not been the only schoolboy to have work outd settling himself between them.Many a young lad had lost his virginity (in dreams, but still) to Marie-Louise OMurphy. He wondered if the lady had ever realized the service she had provided.He looked up at Grace. She was staring at the painting. He thought he hoped she might be growing aroused.Youve never seen it before? he murmured.She shook her head. Barely. She was transfixed.She was the mistress of the King of France, Jack told her. It was said that the king saw one of Bouchers portraits of her not this one, I think, perhaps a light and he decided he had to have her.Graces mouth opened, as if she cute to comment, but nothing quite came out.She came from the streets of Dublin, he said, or so Im told. It is difficult to imagine her obtaining the surname OMurphy anywhere else. He sighed in fond recollection. We were always so proud to claim her as one of our own.He moved so that he might stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder. When he spoke, he knew that his words would land on her skin like a kiss. Its quite provocative, isnt it?Still, Grace seemed not to know what to say. Jack did not mind. He had discovered that reflection Grace looking at the painting was furthest more erotic than the painting itself had ever been.I always fateed to go see it in person, he commented. I believe it is in Germany now. Munich, perhaps. But alas, my travels never took me that way.Ive never seen anything like it, Grace whispered.It does make one smell, does it not?She nodded.And he wo ndered if he had always dreamed of lying between Mademoiselle OMurphys thighs, did Grace now wonder what it was like to be her? Did she imagine herself lying on the divan, exposed to a mans erotic gaze?To his gaze.He would never allow anyone else to see her thus.Around them, the room was silent. He could hear his own breath, each one more shaky than the last.And he could hear hers soft, low, and coming faster with each inhalation.He wanted her. Desperately. He wanted Grace. He wanted her spread before him like the girlfriend in the painting. He wanted her any way he could have her. He wanted to peel the c laphes from her body, and he wanted to devotion every inch of her skin.He could practically feel it, the soft weight down of her thighs in his hands as he opened her to him, the musky warmheartedness as he moved closer for a kiss.Grace, he whispered.She was not looking at him. Her eyes were still on the painting in the book. Her tongue darted out, moistening the very center o f her lips.She couldnt have known what that did to him.He reached some her, touching her fingers. She did not pull away.Dance with me, he murmured, cover his hand around her wrist. He tugged at her gently, urging her to her feet.There is no music, she whispered. But she stood. With no resistance, not level off a hint of hesitation, she stood.And so he said the one thing that was in his heart.We will make it ourselves.There were so many moments when Grace could have said no. When his hand touched(p) hers. When he pulled her to her feet.When hed asked her to dance, despite the lack of music that would have been a logical moment.But she didnt.She couldnt.She should have. But she didnt want to.And then somehow she was in his arms, and they were waltzing, in time with the soft hum of his voice. It was not an tit that would ever be allowed in a proper ballroom he was holding her furthermost too close, and with each step he seemed to draw her closer, until finally the distance betwe en them was measured not in inches but in heat.Grace, he said, her name a hoarse, needy moan. But she did not hear the last bit of it, that last consonant. He was kissing her by then, all sound lost in his onslaught.And she was kissing him back. Good heavens, she did not think she had ever wanted anything so much as she did this man, in this moment. She wanted him to surround her, to engulf her. She wanted to lose herself in him, to lay her body down and offer herself up to him.Anything, she wanted to whisper. Anything you want.Because surely he knew what she needed.The painting of that woman the French kings mistress it had done something to her. Shed been bewitched. There could be no other explanation. She wanted to lie naked on a divan. She wanted to know the sensation of damask rubbing against her belly, while cool, wise(p) air whispered across her back.She wanted to know what it felt like to lie that way, with a mans eyes burning hotly over her form.His eyes. plainly his.Ja ck, she whispered, practically throwing herself against him. She needed to feel him, the pressure of him, the strength. She did not want his touch only on her lips she wanted it everywhere, and everywhere at once.For a moment he faltered, as if surprised by her sudden enthusiasm, but he quickly recovered, and within seconds he had kicked the door shut and had her pinned up against the groyne beside it, never once breaking their kiss.She was on her toes, pressed so tightly between Jack and the wall that her feet would have dangled in the air if shed been just an inch higher. His mouth was hungry, and she was breathless, and when he moved down to worship her cheek, and then her throat, it was all she could do to keep her head upright. As it was, her neck was stretching, and she could feel herself arching forward, her breasts aching for closer contact.This was not their first intimacy, but it was not the same. Before, shed wanted him to kiss her. Shed wanted to be kissed.But nowIt was as if every pent-up dream and desire had awoken within her, good turn her into some strange fiery creature. She felt aggressive. Strong. And she was so damned tired of watching life happen around her.JackJack She could not seem to say anything else, not when his teeth were tugging at the bodice of her frock. His fingers were aiding in the endeavor, nimbly unfasten the buttons at her back.But somehow that wasnt fair. She wanted to be a part of it, too. Me, she managed to get out, and she moved her hands, which had been reveling in the crisp silkiness of his hair, to his shirtfront. She slid down the wall, move him along with her, until they were both on the floor. Without missing a beat, she made excited work of his buttons, yanking his shirt aside once she was through.For a moment she could do nothing but gaze. Her breath was sucked inside of her, burning to get out, but she could not seem to exhale. She touched him, laying her palm against his chest, a sibilate of air finally escaping her lips when she felt his heart leaping beneath his skin. She stroked upward, and then down, marveling at the contact, until one of his hands roughly covered hers.Grace, he said. He swallowed, and she could feel that his fingers were trembling.She looked up, waiting for him to continue. He could seduce with nothing but a glance, she thought. A touch and she would melt. Did he have any idea the fast one he held over her? The power?Grace, he said again, his breath labored. I wont be able to stop soon.I dont care.You do. His voice was ragged, and it made her want him even more.I want you, she pleaded. I want this.He looked as if he were in pain. She knew she was.He squeezed her hand, and they both paused. Grace looked up, and their eyes met.And held.And in that moment, she loved him. She didnt know what it was hed done to her, but she was changed.And she loved him for it.I wont have a bun in the oven this from you, he said in a rough whisper. Not like this.Then how? she wan ted to ask, but sense was trickling back into her body, and she knew he was right. She had strange little of value in this world her mothers tiny pearl earrings, a family Bible, love letters between her parents. But she had her body, and she had her pride, and she could not allow herself to reach out them to a man who was not to be her husband.And they both knew that if he turned out to be the Duke of Wyndham, then he could never be her husband. Grace did not know all of the circumstances of his upbringing, but shed heard enough to know that he was familiar with the ways of the aristocracy. He had to know what would be expected of him.He cupped her face in his hands and stared at her with a tenderness that took her breath away. As God is my witness, he whispered, turning her around so he could do up her buttons, this is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.Somehow she found the strength to smile. Or at the very least, to not cry.Later that night Grace was in the bloom salon, hunting down writing newsprint for the dowager, who had decided on the spur of the moment, apparently that she must send a letter to her sister, the grand duchess of that small European country whose name Grace could never pronounce (or, indeed, remember).This was a distanceier process than it seemed, as the dowager liked to frame in her correspondence aloud (with Grace as audience), debating at painful length each turn of phrase. Grace then had to concentrate on memorizing the dowagers words, as she would then be required (not by the dowager rather, by a common duty to humanity) to recopy the dowagers missive, translating her unintelligible scrawl into something a bit more neat and tidy.The dowager did not acknowledge that she did this in fact, the one time Grace offered, she flew into such a huff that Grace had never again whispered a word of it. But considering that her sisters next letter opened with gushes of flattery on the dowagers new penmanship, Grace could not imagine that she was completely unaware.Ah, well. It was one of those things they did not discuss.Grace did not mind the task this evening. Sometimes it gave her a headache she did try to do her recopying when the sun was still high and she could enjoy the advantages of natural light. But it was an endeavor that required all of her concentration, and she rather thought that it was exactly what she needed right now. Something to take her mind offwell, everything.Mr. Audley.Thomas. And how awing she felt.Mr. Audley.That painting of that woman.Mr. Audley.Jack.Grace let out a short, loud sigh. For heavens sake, who was she trying to fool? She knew exactly what she was trying so hard not to think about.Herself.She sighed. Maybe she ought to take herself off to the land of the unpronounceable name. She wondered if they spoke side of meat there. She wondered if the Grand Duchess Margareta (nee Margaret, and called, she was pertly told by the dowager, Maggs) could possibly be as crabby as her sister.It did seem unlikely.Although as a member of the royal family, Maggs presumably had the authority to order someones head lopped off. The dowager had said they were a bit feudal over there.Grace touched her head, decided she liked it where it was, and with renewed determination pulled open the top drawer to the escritoire, using perhaps a bit more force than necessary. She winced at the screech of wood against wood, then frowned this really wasnt such a well-made piece of furniture. Rather out of place at Belgrave, she had to say.Nothing in the top drawer. Just a quill feather that looked as if it hadnt seen use since the last King George ruled the land.She moved to the second, range to the back in case anything was hiding in the shadows, and then she heard something.Someone.It was Thomas. He was standing in the doorway, looking rather peaked, and even in the dim light she could see that his eyes were railway lineshot.She gulped down a wave of guilt. He was a good man. She hated that she was falling in love with his rival. No, that was not it. She hated that Mr. Audley was his rival. No, not that. She hated the whole bloody situation. all(prenominal) last speck of it.Grace, he said. Nothing else, just her name.She swallowed. It had been some time since theyd conversed on friendly terms. Not that they had been un friendly, but truly, was there anything worse than oh-so-careful politeness?Thomas, she said, I did not realize you were still awake.Its not so late, he said with a shrug.No, I suppose not. She glanced up at the clock. The dowager is abed but not yet asleep.Your work is never done, is it? he asked, launching the room.No, she said, wanting to sigh. Then, refusing to feel sorry for herself, she explained, I ran out of writing constitution upstairs.For correspondence?Your grandmothers, she affirmed. I have no one with whom to correspond. Dear heavens, could that be true? It had never even occurred to her before. Had she written a single letter in the long time shed been here? I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away She paused, thinking how sad that was, that she needed her friend to leave so she might be able to write a letter. I shall miss her.Yes, he said, looking somewhat distracted, not that she could blame him, given the current express of his affairs. You are good friends, arent you?She nodded, reaching into the recesses of the third drawer. Success Ah, here we are. She pulled away a small stack of paper, then realized that her triumph meant that she had to go tend to her duties. I must go write your grandmothers letters now.She does not write them herself? he asked with surprise.Grace almost chuckled at that. She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. raze I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.She looked down at the pages in her hands, chill them down against the top of the desk first one way and then on the side, to make an even stack. When she looked back up, Thomas was standing a bit closer, looking rather serious.I must apologize, Grace, he said, walking toward her.Oh, she didnt want this. She didnt want an apology, not when she herself held so much guilt in her heart. For this afternoon? she asked, her voice perhaps a little too light. No, please, dont be silly. Its a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for For many things, he cut in.He was looking at her very strangely, and Grace wondered if hed been drinking. Hed been doing a lot of that lately. She had told herself that she mustnt scold him truly, it was a wonder he was behaving as well as he was, under the circumstances.Please, she said, hoping to put an end to the discussion. I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.Thank you, he said. And then, seemingly out o f nowhere We run short for Liverpool in two days.Grace nodded. She knew this already. And surely he should have known that she was aware of the plans.I imagine you have much to do before we leave, she said.Almost nothing, he said, but there was something awful in his voice, almost as if he were daring her to ask his meaning. And there had to be a meaning, because Thomas always had much to do, whether he had a planned issue or not.Oh. That must be a pleasant change, she said, because she could not precisely ignore his statement.He leaned forward slightly, and Grace smelled spirits on his breath. Oh, Thomas. She ached for him, for what he must be feeling. And she wanted to tell him I dont want it, either. I want you to be the duke and Jack to be plain Mr. Audley, and I want all of this just to be over.Even if the truth turned out to be not what she prayed for, she wanted to know.But she couldnt say this aloud. Not to Thomas. already he was looking at her in that piercing way of his , as if he knew all her secrets that she was falling in love with his rival, that she had already kissed him several times and she had wanted so much more.She would have done more, if Jack had not stopped her.I am practicing, you see, Thomas said.Practicing?To be a gentleman of leisure. Perhaps I should emulate your Mr. Audley.He is not my Mr. Audley, she immediately replied, even though she knew he had only said as much to provoke her.He shall not worry, Thomas continued, as if shed not spoken. I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.Thomas, stop, she said, because she could not bear it. For either of them. Dont talk this way. We dont know that he is the duke.Dont we? His lip curl as he looked down at her. Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.We dont, she insisted, and her voice sounded ho llow. She felt hollow, as if she had to hold herself perfectly still just to keep from cracking.He stared at her. For far longer than was comfortable. And then Do you love him?Grace felt the blood drain from her face.Do you love him? he repeated, stridently this time. Audley.I know who youre talking about, she said before she could think the better of it.I imagine you do.She stood still, forcing herself to unclench her fists. Shed probably ruined the writing paper shed heard it crumple in her hand. Hed gone from apologetic to hateful in the space of a second, and she knew he was hurting inside, but so was she, damn it.How long have you been here? he asked.She drew back, her head turning slightly to the side. He was looking at her so strangely. At Belgrave?she said hesitantly. Five years.And in all that time I havent He shook his head. I wonder why.Without even thinking, she tried to step back, but the desk blocked her way. What was wrong with him?Thomas, she said, wary now, what are you talking about?He seemed to find that funny. Damned if I know.And then, while she was trying to think of a suitable reply, he let out a bitter laugh and said, Whats to become of us, Grace? Were doomed, you know. Both of us.She knew it was true, but it was terrible to hear it confirmed.I dont know what youre talking about, she said.Oh, come now, Grace, youre far too intelligent for that.I should go.But he was blocking her way.Thomas, I And then dear heavens he was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, and her stomach flipped in horror, not because his kiss was repulsive, because it wasnt. It was the shock of it. Five years shed been here, and hed never even hinted at Stop She wrenched herself away. Why are you doing this?I dont know, he said with a helpless shrug. Im here, youre hereIm leaving. But one of his hands was still on her arm. She needed him to release her. She could have pulled away he was not holding her tightly. But she needed it to be his decision.He needed it to b e his decision.Ah, Grace, he said, looking almost defeated. I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it. He paused, shrugged, held out his hand in surrender.Thomas? she whispered.And then he said, Why dont you marry me when this is all over?What? Something akin to horror washed over her. Oh, Thomas, youre mad. But she knew what he really meant. A duke could not marry Grace Eversleigh. But if he wasntIf he was just plain Mr.CavendishWhy not?Acid rose in her throat. He didnt mean to insult. She didnt even feel insulted. She knew the world she inhabited. She knew the rules, and she knew her place.Jack could never be hers. Not if he was the duke.What do you say, Gracie? Thomas touched her chin, tipped her face up to look at him.And she thought maybe.Would it be so very bad? She could not stay at Belgrave, that was for certain. And maybe she would learn to love him. She already did, really, as a friend.He leaned down to kiss her again, and this time she let him, praying that her heart would pound and her pulse would race and that spot between her legsOh, please let it feel as it did when Jack touched her.But there was nothing. Just a rather warm sense of friendship. Which she supposed wasnt the worst thing in the world.I cant, she whispered, turning her face to the side. She wanted to cry.And then she did cry, because Thomas rested his chin on her head, comforting her like a brother.Her heart twisted, and she heard him whisper, I know.