Page 85 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

“Grace,” he said again, as her chest rose and fell at the intimacy of the moment. “Did ye have no looking glass where ye came from?”

“Of course,” she said, perplexed, and more so when his eyes darkened.

“Then, do ye not understand the effect ye have on a man?”

Her pleasure at his words faded almost at once as she remembered Mr Carrington and the way he’d told her she was a tease, that she’d been flaunting herself to him, that she’d been asking for him to lay hands on her when she’d done nothing but try to avoid him at all costs.

“Nay, lass.”

She jolted as Mr Hardy moved from his chair and went to his knees before her, taking her hand in his.

“Don’t look like that. It wasn’t an accusation. I know well that some men are pitiful creatures governed by lust and selfishness. Ye cannot help your beauty any more than the birds can help flying. Both are wondrous things and I shall never tire of looking upon ye, but ye cannot think I don’t desire ye, surely?”

Grace swallowed, considering the question. Last night she’d believed he’d only been trying to reassure her with his words about never touching her as a husband touched a wife. Surely he didn’t mean for her to be nothing more than a pretty ornament, with no use or part in his life? She knew he was troubled by the idea he was below her, but last night she’d believed that was something she could easily overcome.

That belief had wobbled this morning in the light of a new day. When she’d considered his wife and how inexperienced and ill-suited she was to replace her, she’d felt uncertain of her ability to take Sarah’s place, to make him happy, even to bring him pleasure, but she could not question the look in his eyes now.

“I did doubt it,” she said. “When… you said you’d not touch me.”

His eyebrows rose, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and giving a tantalising glimpse of that adorable dimple. “I’m a damned fool for saying that, and I wanted to cut out my tongue the moment I’d said it. I only meant for you to be comfortable, to feel safe. To understand that I’d not touch ye before ye felt ready for it, and never if ye didn’t welcome me. I never said I didn’t want to.”

“Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh of relief, and then the blush which had faded returned with a vengeance as she realised how telling that sigh had been.

“I cannot wait to wed ye, Grace,” he said now, the low growl of his voice making awareness of him thrum under her skin. “But we have a week to get to know each other and, if ye should change ye mind, I’d… I’d understand.”

“No!” she exclaimed, alarmed by the idea. “I shan’t change my mind.”

He smiled then, and the dimple was a sweet little divot in his rugged features. It tempted her, inviting her to make assumptions about his nature, about a playful side to his character she’d not yet seen but suspected was there.

“What?” he asked, a curious look in his eyes, as Grace realised her attention had been captivated.

She released a breath of laughter, gesturing to his face. “You… you have a dimple.”

“I do not,” he retorted, looking rather disgusted by the idea.

“You do,” she insisted and then found herself chuckling as she added. “When you smile it’s quite visible. Only one, mind. Don’t you have a looking glass, Mr Hardy?”

He snorted, aware she was teasing him. “Aye, but I don’t go around smirking at myself when I’m shaving.” He rubbed a hand over his face, as though he could seek the thing out and remove it. “Where?” he demanded.

Grace watched that strong hand move over his face and remembered the warmth of it wrapped about her fingers, the feel of it at her waist. “Just here,” she said, daring to raise her hand to his face. She held her breath as she touched a fingertip to his cheek, in the place where that distracting little dimple had appeared.

“Are ye sure?” he asked, his eyes darker still as he gazed up at her and she felt he was asking her something else, quite different.

“Very sure,” she said breathlessly.

He raised his hand and slid it over hers. Her skin burned where he touched her, conscious of every callus, of the rough texture of a working man’s hands on her. He lifted her hand and turned it palm side up, and she watched, her heart thudding loudly in her ears as he pressed his mouth to the tender flesh.

Grace drew in a sharp breath as his lips met her skin, part shock, part delight as sensation shot through her. It was as though his mouth had tugged at something within her, something connected to a private part of her that blazed to life and clamoured for more of his touch, his kisses.

He was breathing hard too, she realised, and she recognised the effort it took for him to release her hand and move away from her.

“Eat up,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Be a pity to let yer breakfast go cold when ye worked so hard to make it.”

Grace did as he told her, finding herself ravenously hungry, and discovering that the hearty breakfast, good as it was, did not entirely satisfy the need.