Page 25 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

He filled it again and spoke more mildly. “Here I was thinking I had done you a good deed. You can’t really think that by marrying Fitt you would be better off?” The idea of Grace under Fitt’s control made him feel queasy. Her naked body held down by that brute, when it could be Rory in bed with her. It could be Rory’s hands and mouth discovering her secrets, and Rory hearing her cry out with pleasure.

“No, and I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It is just that I don’t know yet where I will be living. If it is too far away, then how can I help my sisters? They need me here in London. I know my father will not let them visit if he thinks my situation does not do justice to his consequence.” She took another sip of the champagne and said with conscious disinterest, “And we have not discussed my future yet, Rory, so I cannot help but worry.”

Rory set down the bottle. “No, we haven’t,” he agreed. That was due to his cowardice, but perhaps he could put it right. Why not? If it would help ease her mind, and it would certainly ease his inconvenient desire for her.

He sat down beside her and she met his gaze curiously. “You have a very serious expression,” she said. “Are you about to send me back to Ormsby?” She might have meant it as a joke but he could see that her fear was genuine. And that was all the more reason to say what he said next.

“If we were to consummate our marriage, would that put your mind at ease?”

Her hand shook and some of the liquid spilled from her glass. “I thought you did not want to!”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to,” he huffed.

“You sent me from your bed!”

“I had sworn not to touch you,” he argued. “I thought that would help you to trust me. And we didn’t know each other, we were strangers. Who wants to go to bed with a stranger?”

She gave him a knowing look. “I’m sure you have been to bed with many strangers, Rory. I am not a fool.” Then, before he could argue with her further, “Do you mean you would consider it now? That we can start again?”

Rory’s plan had always been to continue with his life the way he wanted it and not be weighed down by responsibilities he had never asked for. But now . . . He allowed his gaze to slide over her, the swell of her bosom beneath the bodice of the turquoise dress, the long line of her neck and her dark hair glossy in the candlelight. She was an attractive woman, there was no doubt about it, but there was more to her than that. He liked her, he enjoyed her company, and he could hardly blame her for wanting her domestic life to be stable and settled for the sake of her sisters.

Ever since she had come to his bed, he had regretted sending her away. If she desired a new arrangement between them, then why not give it to her?

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean,” he said, and wondered why he felt as if he had suddenly just agreed to something monumental.

She hesitated a moment, watching him, as if she was trying to read his mind. “You won’t regret it in the morning?” she asked.

Rory groaned. “I thought you were the virgin,” he muttered. Then he rose to his feet and held out his hand. She rose too, and her hand rested on his while she stared up at him, her gaze searching his face.

“I think it is time we retired, don’t you, Grace?” he said, his voice predatory.

“Retired?” she repeated, as if she thought he had changed his mind again.

“To our marital bed,” he went on. “Or in this case, to my bed.”

He could see her realization that he really meant this.

“It would be a lovely end to a lovely evening,” she said breathlessly. “I am sorry if I find it hard to believe you, but I only have Bolton as my example when it comes to whether gentlemen are being truthful. And he was a very good liar.”

“I do not lie.” Rory was insulted she would think he did. “You can believe me, Grace. And I am going to prove it to you.”

He bent his head and kissed her, and the taste of her mouth, the warm softness of her lips was just as he had remembered. She made a sound like a whimper, but it wasn’t of fear or distress. It was of need.

Grace wanted him, and that made everything so much better.

Chapter Thirteen

Grace felt warm and breathless, and more than a little shaken. Had she drunk too much champagne, had it clouded her judgment? But it had been so nice, and Rory had been so nice. And now they were going to be married in truth, and all her fears would be put to rest. Well, some of them anyway. The future was still uncertain, but at least she would feel more secure.

Tears of relief filled her eyes. She turned her head away so that he couldn’t see as he led her up the curving staircase. And now there was that ache low in her belly, the want that Bolton had never relieved. There had been times when she had wanted to scream at him for his cruelty, and he had laughed, reveling in his power over her. Before he ran away, she had begun to hate him.

Rory wouldn’t do that, would he?

She squeezed her thighs together, attempting to control this desperate need for him. She hadn’t forgotten the warmth of his body against hers on their wedding night, when her desire had been all tangled up with her fear of being abandoned. He had pushed her away then. She refused to let that happen again. Grace thought feverishly that she would make him want her. She would be like Bolton and tempt him and tease him, until he was completely in her power, but she would never deny him the final act of completion.

As soon as they were inside his bedchamber with the door closed, she turned and kissed him, winding her arms about his neck and pressing her body to his. He groaned, his mouth devouring hers, and then he lifted her so that she had to clasp her legs about his hips to save herself from falling. She could already feel the hard rise of his manhood, nudging between her thighs, sending little jolts of pleasure through her. Her neck felt too weak to hold her head up and she let it fall back with a soft groan, her body so eager for him to breach her that she could barely breathe. She felt his mouth against her throat, the rasp of his beard against her skin.

Would he be rough, or would he be gentle? He was already a little out of control as he nuzzled against her, his warm breath bringing gooseflesh to her skin, while his hands were hard as he gripped her hips.