Sea Scoundrel

CHAPTER TEN

  Pain cut through Patience in rather the same way the glass shards cut Grant’s bloody palm. “You’ve hurt yourself!”

  “It doesn’t signify.” He urged her into the garden with a nod, his uninjured hand to her back, and dropped the glass into a marble urn.

  Patience took her handkerchief and wiped his hand with tender strokes.

  “Leave it. We . . .You, dammit, have more pressing problems. Baron Munchkin is in exile from Russia, and it worries me that no one knows why. Everyone does know, however, that he is penniless and hanging out for a wealthy wife. When you consider that English heiresses have eluded him for years, this certainly turned out to be a successful evening for him. A wealthy American is as good a meal ticket as any, though I suspect a Colonial would have been his last choice some years ago.” Grant shook his head. “How do we extricate little miss dervish from this misalliance without causing an international incident, I’d like to know.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t want to be extricated. She seems to have made an excellent match. He is a Baron.”

  “Patience, you’re sharper than that.”

  Patience bristled. He’d insulted and complimented her in one stroke, to which she could form no reply.

  “The Baron lost two wives, one after the other, not five years ago. Both wealthy. Both dead. Accidents, of course.”

  Patience paled. “Please help me get them home. We can decide what to do later.”

  “That’s my girl. Ever practical. Fetch Grace, she’s danced with the same partner too often. She will be considered loose, which is the least of our problems. No, your problems, blast it.”

  “Do you suppose it matters so much about Grace dancing with the same partner? After all, she waltzed without permission. One doesn’t seem to be worse than the other. However, Lady Caroline Crowley-Smyth did turn her back when I approached her a moment ago. Does that signify? Should I worry overmuch about that?”

  “Only if you want your girls to find titled husbands. But after tonight, it won’t be a concern, because you’ll likely never be invited to another London society function. As far as I’m concerned, that’s cause to rejoice. But the girls’ mamas won’t be best pleased.”

  Patience stifled an overwhelming urge to weep.

  Grant took her arm. “Let’s go before the girls add more social blunders to their list. Get them together and meet me in the foyer.”

  Grant found Angel first, placed her arm on his and led her outside toward the waiting carriage.

  “Saint? I say, Saint. Wait up, man.”

  Grant walked faster, wishing his blasted nickname to hell, but his pursuer caught up. “I say, Saint. What’s the idea, leaving with my ladybird?”

  Grant stopped and regarded the man. Just who he needed, the biggest rakehell in England, calling Angel— “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, hello, My Lord,” Angel said, preening. “Captain, I’d like you to meet the Marquess of Andover.” She smiled with pride. “Won’t Patience be surprised?”

  Grant raised a brow. “Indeed?” He regarded the mock Andover until the object of his inspection squirmed like a worm-sucking fish.

  “I forgot to tell the Captain our news,” Angel said, oblivious to the undercurrents.

  The erstwhile Andover beamed at Angel, looked at Grant’s scowl, and succumbed to a fit of coughing. Grant slapped him on the back. Hard. “What the devil’s going on here?” he asked, not masking his fury.

  Adam Skeffington, Earl of Hertfordshire, loosened his cravat and swallowed. “Angel here—” He cleared his throat. “Has agreed to be my ladybird.” He smiled in triumph. “Thought I’d bring her round to Kensington tonight.” His eyes narrowed. “How’s it happen she’s leaving with you, I’d like to know?”

  Grant turned to Angel. “You’ve agreed to an arrangement? With the Marquess of Andover?” He spoke the title with emphasis.

  “Yes, Captain, I have. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “His ladybird, Angel?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose that’s what it’s called in England.”

  “Please tell this gentleman what a ladybird is.”

  “Certainly, Captain, if you wish, though I don’t see the need. I’m sure he knows very well.”

  “Humor me in this, would you, Angel, and tell his Lordship what you perceive to be your role as his ladybird.”

  “I say, Saint. This is most irregular.”

  Grant held up a hand. “Hear the lady out . . .Andover.”

  Angel thought for a minute. “I suppose I would be the lady he takes for walks, and to the theater, and drives in the park.”

  “And?” Grant prompted.

  “Oh yes,” she said, as if she forgot something important. “I expect a man sends his ladybird flowers and such, does he not? Did I remember to give you our address so you may send trinkets, my Lord?”

  “Stay!” Grant said to Skeffington as he took Angel’s arm and propelled her forward. “Angel, let me hand you into the carriage. Rose is inside and she needs you.”

  “Of course. Good night, my Lord.” She waved and turned back to Grant. “Won’t Patience be pleased that I have come to an arrangement with the Marquess of Andover, when we have been waiting so long to meet him?”

  Grant frowned. “Angel you will not speak of this to Patience until I introduce the subject. Do you understand?” She looked disappointed. Grant could hardly credit her innocence. He shook his head. “You don’t understand what’s happening here and I can’t go into it right now. Be a good girl, will you, and don’t say anything to Patience. When I get to the house, we’ll discuss it.”

  Angel seemed finally to accept his word and nodded. He opened the door and handed her up offering an encouraging word to Rose, still teary-eyed, before he closed them in the carriage.

  When he reached Skeffington, he took the bounder’s arm in a firm grip and led him away from the fashionables still arriving. “So the Marquess of Andover has made an appearance here this evening?”

  Skeffington chuckled.

  Grant chuckled with him. “Care to tell me why you did it?”

  “What? Called myself the Marquess of Andover? Easy. It’s all the chit could talk about. Made her dreams come true, so to speak, or I would if you’d let me take her to—”

  “Don’t . . .make me call you out,” Grant said.

  Skeffington shuddered. “Point taken, Saint. We’ll forget the whole thing.”

  “Not yet, we won’t. You do understand the girl has no notion she agreed to become your mistress?”

  “Do you think so? I didn’t know they made them that stupid anymore.”

  “Let’s just call Angel innocent, shall we?”

  “See here. What right do you have interfering? This is a private affair. I could bring her along to the house as I planned, bed her properly and she’d be begging me to . . .ardrkk.”

  Grant held the insect by his collar, his feet hardly touching the granite step. “I claim the right of an old family friend to protect the Lady’s virtue. She is an innocent, too young for your profligate ways. If I hear another word about this, Skeffington, I’ll put a ball through your heart, I swear it. And if you ever, ever, attempt to pass yourself off as the Marquess of Andover again, the Marquess will personally see to it that you leave England in disgrace. Do I make myself clear?”

  The blighter nodded, as best he could with a crushed Adam’s apple, and Grant dropped him so fast, he crumbled to the steps. “See that you keep your word. If you don’t, God’s truth, you won’t live to lament the day you crossed me.” Grant dusted his hands, straightened his cravat and headed up the steps to find Patience and the rest of her brainless charges, certain her purpose in dragging them across the ocean was to drive him to Bedlam. And she was achieving her goal.

  He found the Baron in the gaming room. Between the Russian’s match with Sophie and the stack of notes at his side, it appeared he was having a good night. Well, appearances could deceive. “Munchkin, I’d like a word with you, if you
please.”

  “Not now, Saint. I have a date with destiny. I cannot lose, and I won’t walk from a win.”

  Grant bent close, so only the Baron could hear. “Speaking of destiny, I spent time with the Lady Regina several months ago, old friends you know. Had an informative chat.”

  The Baron turned a sickly gray and threw down his cards, his fat beefy hands shaking as he tucked the notes in his pocket.

  Grant knew then that he’d hit the mark. Good. He found an empty sitting room and closed them inside. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Whatever the chit said. It’s a lie,” the Baron stammered. “You know what mistresses are like when you drop ‘em.”

  “What did you do, Baron? Brag of your cunning while your face was pressed to her fleshy breasts. Tried to impress her, did you? Foolish man. Now you must pay for her silence.”

  “I paid the tart to service me. Nothing more.”

  “You pay for those services in the bedroom, man, not in a back alley while the lady wears a hood to cover her face.”

  The Russian sighed. “Had to pay her off. To keep her from repeating her spiteful lies.”

  “Won’t your paying her seem to lend credence to them?”

  The man appeared to shrink. He removed his handkerchief and dabbed perspiration from his bald pate. “What do you want?”

  “You didn’t make a match tonight. Never took place. All a hum.”

  The Baron sputtered. “I’ll look the fool.”

  “You frequently do. No one will suspect anything amiss.”

  “And if I go through with it?”

  “Were you aware that one of your conveniently dead wives was cousin to the Regent’s dresser? A word from him and, say, from the Lady Regina, might be enough to begin an investigation.”

  The man’s legs shook. He sat. “No match. Never happened.”

  Grant nodded, but before stepping from the room, he turned back to the shaken occupant. “There is an emergency at home. You’ll need to leave England in the morning.”

  “But I cannot....” The man’s voice became a tired whisper. He looked into Grant’s eyes, then quickly away. “Yes. I’ll need to leave.”

  Loathing filled Grant. It must be in the blood, the blue blood, he thought—this lying, cheating, manipulation. Lord, he hated the games. He scanned the ballroom. He hated the players as well.

  Patience’s approach, Sophie and Grace in tow, turned his attention to other pressing matters. “Ladies.” He took Patience’s arm. At the carriage, she spoke to Rose and Angel to be certain they suffered no harm then she allowed him to hand Sophie and Grace inside. “Patience and I will take a little longer getting back,” he said. “We’re going to take my carriage. But I want to speak with you tonight, so don’t retire.”

  Patience knew, as Grant walked her to his carriage, that his protection was more than she deserved, and she was grateful. That ballroom had been a veritable hornet’s nest. “Do you think the girls will be all right?”

  “They’re young, they’ll survive, although I’m afraid I can’t predict their success in the husband-hunting arena.”

  “What about Baron Munchkin? I’m frightened, Grant. If Sophie’s in danger, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “I’ve taken care of him.”

  Patience stopped. “You mean she’s safe? You’re certain?” She swallowed the sudden tears that threatened. She touched Grant’s arm knowing he was now her rescuer in truth. “When I think of what might have happened. Thank you, Grant.” He placed his hand over hers looking down at her with something of a smile.

  What would she have done without him? What would she do when he was gone?

  Miss him, came her answer. Lord and she could never let him know how much. She shuddered.

  He removed his evening cape and threw it around her shoulders, pulling it closed at her neck.

  “You look handsome in that top hat, Grant. Dapper.”

  He removed the curly beaver, examined it, and placed it at a jaunty angle. “When in London.” He pulled his cape’s hood up over her hair. “My carriage is a distance away yet and I don’t want you to catch a chill.” To her surprise, he lifted her into his arms. “Don’t look so frightened. I won’t drop you. You weigh less than a thistle.”

  “Papa always said I was small of stature but tenacious of spirit.”

  Grant handed her into his carriage. “Your father had a gift for understatement.” When the vehicle began to move, Grant raised her legs to his lap and removed her wet shoes to massage her feet. The first time he’d held her foot, she’d thought him a scoundrel. Now she was certain of it.

  “As I suspected. Your feet are cold as a stone wall in January.”

  “England’s chill does seep into the bones,” she said. “Mmm.” He was so tender right now, she could hardly equate him with the snarly Captain, because tonight he was Grant. She closed her eyes in ecstasy at the stimulating massage, wondering if he harbored any other personalities.

  Grant wondered how in hell massaging someone’s feet could be erotic. He’d come to expect this type of paradox with her. She’d scrambled his brain—and other parts of his body—starting the day they sailed.

  In self defense, Grant tucked his cape around Patience’s feet. “This’ll keep them warm for now.” Then he ruined the perfectly good defense by pulling her onto his lap. Lord, this was even better.

  “Why will it take us longer than the girls to get back to Briarleigh House?” she whispered against his neck.

  “I wanted to speak with you about the ball, but I’ve changed my mind. Now I just want a few quiet minutes with you.”

  “I have made such a botch of things.”

  She verged on becoming a watering pot, and Grant knew he needed to distract her. So he kissed her. She angled her head to welcome him, and he coaxed her lips apart with his own, until he found heaven. Their tongues met. He groaned and shifted positions, rocking her against him, while he cupped a small straining breast.

  His blood surged at the sounds she made.

  As they kissed, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and slid her hands inside, running her palms over his bare chest.

  “Oh, God, Sweetheart.”

  Disappointment filled him when she broke the kiss, until she nibbled her way down his neck and nuzzled his shirt open further to rub her cheek against his chest. His heart took to hammering when she tongued his nipple, and he about came when she closed her mouth around a hard bud.

  He undid her bodice and lowered it to tease her with his thumbs. But it wasn’t enough for either of them. He raised her, and laved a breast in slow strokes. She gasped, held his head against her, and with her body’s seeking movement, she unwittingly stroked his hard arousal. He lifted her skirt to explore the silk of inner thigh. “Sweet, sweet Patience,” he whispered as he encountered her center, and knew he must have her, then her words penetrated his fever. He gave up her breast with regret, his hand at her apex. “What?”

  Her slumberous look surged through him as she arched against his palm. She took a deep breath. “I, I think we’ve arrived.”

  Almost, but not quite, he thought, relief and regret warring within.

  Patience looked at her exposed breast and became aware of her womanhood throbbing against Grant’s hand. Fire crept along her spine, her entire being aflame. She hid her face in his neck. “Has anyone ever exploded from this? That you know of?” she whispered.

  The rasp of their breaths filled the carriage. Grant pressed his hand against her one last time. She gasped, need suffusing her.

  As if from afar, she watched his large, callused hands, so strong they could raise a sail against the wind, gentle now, as he brought the bodice of her dress together and fastened it.

  He’d deftly managed her clothes, but he couldn’t seem to put himself back together. She pushed his clumsy hands aside to secure the studs in his shirt, but one had gone missing. She looked around. “Oh, Grant. I think we’ve lost one.”

  “We’
re lucky it was the only thing lost here tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Another time,” he said, almost grateful for the close call they survived. He held one of his wrists out, palm up. “Take a stud from the cuff and use it on the front.” He watched as she did then turned her face to his. “How do you feel?” He finger-combed her hair while she repaired his cravat.

  “I don’t know,” Patience said, honestly. “Exhausted, as if I’ve just run a race. I’d like to curl up and sleep, though I don’t believe I was ready to stop when we did.”

  He touched his brow to hers. “Patience. Patience. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Be my friend?”

  “Ah.” He tapped her nose. “Well, friend, we have problems to deal with. Someday, though, I would like for us to spend—” He searched for the right words. Unlimited time, came to his mind, then, forever, which didn’t suit. That led to betrayal and suffering. Grant sighed. “I’d like to spend time with you—without spoiled American misses who need to be throttled. Are you ready to go inside now?”

  Patience nodded. “Whatever will John Coachman say about our staying in here so long?”

  “He will not dare say anything, though we have no control over his thoughts.” Grant chuckled. “Patience, before we open the door, perhaps you had better scoot off my lap and over to the other seat.”

  “Oh!” She complied with a giggle, but managed to wipe the grin off her face by the time he handed her out.

  Before shutting the carriage door, Grant picked up something thick and white from the floor. From its shape and texture, he realized it must be a bosom insert. He grinned as he fingered it. Patience had walked almost to the stairs so he tucked it in his frock coat, dismissed his coachman, and quickened his pace to catch up. He’d give it to her later. They’d dawdled long enough as it was.

  As they made their way up the steps, Grant shook his head at the curious faces in the window. “Look at the hoydens,” he said. “No sense of decorum. I can’t guarantee they won’t have something to say about how long we sat in the coach.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Grant leaned against the mantle and contemplated four—no five—dangerously-innocent misses.

  Grace settled her spectacles on her nose at the rate of about once per minute. Angel braided and unbraided the tassels on her shawl not meeting his stony regard. It bothered Grant that they sat in fear, yet somehow, for their own good, they must remain so. He slapped the mantle. Because he damned well wanted to make an impression here!

  Rose, not surprisingly, began to cry. When he questioned her, she tearfully refused to explain her attack upon the Earl of Garwood. Grant sent her to bed. They could not speak sensibly tonight.

  Pulling away from the mantle, he spoke to the others as he paced. “Tonight was a disaster. As far as English Society is concerned, your chances of finding titled husbands are ruined. Finished. At an end.” He stopped to regard them.

  They withered as he watched.

  Patience, his darling Patience, looked as if she would like to let her very dreamy eyes shut. He should be angry. But all he could think about was the reason she was so lethargic. And he wanted to finish what they started. Again, and again, and again.

  He coughed and cleared his throat, and regarded Sophie, Angel and Grace. “If there is any way to undo this evening’s social debacle, you must listen carefully. Under no circumstances should you dance more than two dances an evening with the same partner. Never dance the waltz unless you are given permission to do so. You cannot call a Duke ‘Duke,’ Angel, you must call him, your Grace, likewise his wife. Lesser titles are referred to as, my Lord, or at the very least, Sir or my Lady. Is any of this making its way into your cotton-filled heads?”

  The only girl who nodded was Angel, all the while twirling a chocolate curl between her fingers with a smile on her face.

  Grant saw Patience shift in her chair, rearrange her cape, and notice for the first time that she was off-sided, one bosom bigger than the other. She touched the flatter breast, then she skimmed her bodice to her waist. When she began to search the immediate vicinity, he coughed to get her attention.

  She looked up and by her color he saw she realized he knew. He patted his pocket to tell her he had it. Her eyes widened, and she groaned.

  The girls’ looks of contrition increased at the sound.

  Grant felt bad upsetting them, until he looked at Sophie. Acting as if their problems had nothing to do with her. She laughed. “Well I have done nothing wrong. I have made a match.”

  Grant rounded on her. “You haven’t made a match, you twit.”

  Sophie looked stricken. Her large brown eyes filled with tears. Vexed with himself, Grant took a moment to regain control. “Did no one ever tell you, Sophie, it is in poor taste for a woman to ask a man to marry her? Poor taste? Hell, it’s unheard of. A blatant miscarriage of all that is proper. A woman should know something about a man and his expectations before even considering his proposal.”

  “He’s a Baron,” she said in a small voice, shrugging her shoulders, as if to ask, “What else is there to know?”

  “Baron or no, the man has two dead wives to his credit. Wives who left their fortunes to him. That he is paying blackmail money to his ladybird might also interest you.”

  Sophie’s thunderstruck countenance was satisfaction for the moment. He turned to Angel. “Speaking of ladybirds, Miss Angelique—you’ll forgive me if I find it difficult to call you Angel—Did you not think it odd to accept a position for which you had no knowledge?”

  “Well, the Marquess of Andover said—”

  Patience perked up. “The Marquess?”

  “Dammit, Patience, don’t be a fool. The idiot was not the Marquess. He said he was, because that’s all Angel talked about. He thought to satisfy her then take advantage of her.” He turned to Angel. “You don’t know what a ladybird is.”

  Angel sniffed. “I thought I did.”

  “Does anyone know?” He looked from one to the other. “A lightskirt?” He thought they’d know that one. He was wrong. “A mistress?” Surely they—

  “What is a ladybird, Captain?” Angel dared ask.

  Grant stopped for a moment, feeling the need to call forth some form of dignity, though uncertain of how to convey it. Looking at their expectant expressions, he knew he was drowning, sucking more water for air than a whale. That a pack of schoolgirls should fluster him so, but he wouldn’t let them.

  He straightened. “When a man has a ladybird, she performs certain, ah, tasks.” He sat and steepled his fingers. “That is to say, she usually—” He cleared his throat, sat forward. “Most unmarried men have ladybirds, however, some married men also enjoy....”

  Grant coughed and stood, again, then he sipped his brandy, faced them, shook his head, and began to pace again. “You see men have certain needs. Well, as to that, so do women.” His arms went up in defeat. “Patience! Tell them what a ladybird is.”

  Leaning on the mantle to regain his scattered wits, Grant waited for Patience to enlighten her girls without shocking them. His men would lambaste him over this, if they ever heard of it.

  Patience took a deep breath. “A lightskirt is . . .a woman who . . . ” She looked at him with regret. “Grant, I don’t know, either. I asked Aunt Harriette, once, and she made me memorize the Book of Proverbs.” She wagged her finger at the girls. “But it is a very bad thing.”

  Grant rubbed the back of his neck and checked his pocket watch, relief filling him. Three in the morning. No wonder they were all exhausted. “Go to bed, girls. We’ll speak about this again tomorrow.”

  The girls sighed in unison.

  Patience stood beside him, as if declaring them allies. Then her hand crept into his pocket and he knew her motive. He sidled close to make it easy and decided not to mention her pink face.

  It was some time before goodnights were said and they were finally alone. “I have ruined their chances,” Patience wailed. “I have taken
their parents’ money under false pretenses. And, oh, Grant, I spent some of it. How will I ever repay them? Worse, how can I repair the damage I’ve done my poor girls?”

  “Poor girls?” He laughed. “I made it sound worse than it was. Don’t worry anymore tonight. We’ll find a way to repair the damage. I promise.” How, he did not know, but for Patience, he guessed he would try anything.

  She accepted his word with a sigh of relief and pulled the bosom insert from beneath her shawl. “And where did you find this dratted thing? I suppose I should be glad it wasn’t on the ballroom floor. That would have added dignity to the evening.”

  Grant laughed. “Patience, with you, nothing seems to be as dark as I imagined. Thank you for that.” He stepped back. “It’s late and you’re sleepy. You should go to bed.”

  “Not yet. Do you have to go, or can you stay a while?”

  That she wanted him to stay pleased Grant. He kissed her ear. “I’ve a need, Patience, to find us a bed, and to finish what we started in the carriage, then to hold you in my arms and ride the wave of satisfaction together.”

  She smiled with trust and something more, in her eyes. Consent it may be, but her faith was nearly enough to change his mind. Nearly. He locked the study door and led her by the hand to the oversized settee. He eased her to her side leaving space for him. When she opened her arms, his heart swelled.

  “I’ve thought about this a long time,” he said, as he lay facing her. “I want to hold you because we need to be together like this, both of us.”

  Patience sighed. “I’m glad you want this as much as I do.”

  Grant almost told her, just then, how terrified he was of the way she made him feel. He knew he could talk with her about anything, because they were friends. They really were. But he dare not give voice to his fears. Especially now.

  He ached, literally, to awaken Patience’s slumbering passion. Confident that these lessons he taught his enthralling pupil would not lead to marriage—which neither of them wanted—he kissed her lightly, smiling into her emerald eyes. Mesmerizing eyes. “You’re a sorceress,” he said. “You weave your magic and I submit willingly to your enchantment.”

  She laughed, and the melody of it soothed him. He began a kneading motion with his fingers, massaging across her shoulders, down her back, to the base of her spine

  “Mmm,” Patience purred. “I’m sailing on a warm breeze.”

  He continued to stroke along her spine, and without his noticing, she’d opened his shirt. She slid her hand inside to slowly stroke, from his neck to his waist, then back. Lord, if she didn’t stroke lower. He caught his breath each time her fingers came near, then stopped.

  Finally she scanned his face, almost as if she was looking for a signal she should continue.

  “Tell me what you want, love,” he whispered. “Let me hear you say it.”

  “I want you to kiss me.”

  “What do you feel when my lips meet yours?”

  “Silk, warm, then cool, in turns. Your kisses make me feel like I’ve stepped into a lake, refreshed, tingling.”

  Grant fitted his mouth to the invitation of hers, slanting first this way, then that. He ran his tongue across her lips and when he could wait no more, into the warmth inside. She tasted of honey and wildflowers and responded like the brightest of pupils. He stopped to catch his breath. “When you step into that lake,” he asked. “Have you no fear of drowning?”

  “‘T’would be a sweet way to go.” Patience could not get enough of Grant’s kisses and the intensity of her need did frighten her, though she was loath to admit it for fear he would stop.

  When her strokes reached Grant’s waist, and she felt him shudder, she dared slide her hand inside the band of his trousers.

  He grasped that hand, stopped it. “God’s truth, Patience. If you continue, I won’t be held responsible.”

  Embarrassment filled her and she pulled away. “I’m sorry.”

  He released a long, slow breath. “It’s not that I don’t want your touch—I do, badly—but I crave it too much . . .for my sanity and your well-being. “I want tonight to be for you, Patience, not me.” He cupped her face and kissed her again. Pulling her so satisfyingly close, Patience thought she might take to bleeding if they separated. She closed her eyes, wanting more, fearing it. Aching for his mouth on her breast again, she unbuttoned her gown.

  Grant’s eyes smoldered at her blatant invitation. When he helped her with her buttons and lowered her dress to her waist, she knew he wouldn’t stop this time.

  Almost reverently, he accepted her offering. Pleasure purled through her as he closed his mouth over her, more than satisfied at her size, no bosom inserts necessary. When, at the same time, he slid his hand up the inside of her leg, Patience held her breath, expelling it only when he found her center. She arched against his hand, but froze in shock when he sought her core. “Grant!”

  “Let me, Patience.” He nipped her lips. “Let me touch you like this, please.” As if he understood how much she wanted it, he stroked her, and a sweet spiral of pleasure lifted her higher than she’d ever been, before, almost outside herself.

  “There’s so much to teach you,” he whispered. “So much you don’t understand. I know I don’t have the right to bring you the fulfillment of marriage, but this, love, let me give you this.”

  Grant’s heart trebled its pace at her nod. Such a look he saw in her eyes, of trust, of longing, and of something he dare not question. Never had he wanted to pleasure a woman so badly, to bring her release.

  Calling up every bit of experience, Grant played Patience like a fine instrument, bringing her slowly to the brink, then letting her glide toward rest, before raising her up again. He trailed kisses from her lips to her breasts, stopping to suckle, drawing sweet cries that fed his sense of power and mastery. He took pride in her expressions which moved from shock, to wonder, to rapture.

  She trusted him enough to relax and allow him to cast his own spell, opening herself like a bud come to flower. When she soared mindlessly, up and over the precipice, he rejoiced in her ecstasy.

  Calling his name, Patience sought his lips in a frenzy of need, and Grant drank the sounds of her fulfillment like a man parched. He sustained her climax until he feared she might faint then he lowered her slowly back to earth assuring her of his arms around her as she calmed.

  He pressed his lips to the beads of moisture on her forehead, touched her parted lips with his, and covered her legs with her skirt. Then he brought her against him in a gentle, sheltering caress. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered, and she did.

  Grant chuckled as he throbbed ruthlessly against her. And as the clock on the mantle marked the night’s passing, a startling revelation came to him. For the first time in his life, his need to take had been surpassed by his need to give.

  Watching the wonder of newfound passion wash over Patience, seeing her turn to him with desire had been, perhaps, one of the greatest experiences in his life. Grant shifted in discomfort and tucked that knowledge where it could not be examined further. And with dread, his need became nothing more than a dull reminder. Settling his vixen more neatly against him, he sighed.

  Fast upon its wings, came her sigh, bringing him a joy so pure, Grant did not believe he had ever known this serenity. Savoring, he allowed himself to drift into sleep.