Seduced by His Touch(3)

His groin swelled with unmistakable arousal, leaving him surprised. At  least bedding her, he realized, was not going to be a problem.

Abruptly he blinked. Lord above, am I really planning to go through with this? Am I really going to make her my wife?

He swallowed, his erection partially subsiding at the thought. Just  because he didn't mind the idea of tupping her didn't mean he was eager  to slip a ring on her finger. But try as he might, he could conceive of  no other way out. Danvers had him trapped like a fox in a covert, hounds  poised at the ready to make the kill. His only salvation was  marriage-to Grace Danvers.

There were other heiresses, he supposed, with finer pedigrees and more  beautiful faces. But none of them possessed the kind of dowry necessary  to pay off his vowels-not and still leave enough funds for him to  support a wife. Besides, if Danvers got wind he was trying to marry some  girl other than his daughter, the crafty old man would call in the debt  so fast that Jack might as well step into a prison cell right now.

No, it was Miss Danvers or no one.

And so, assuming he was truly determined on this course-and it would seem that he was-he would do well to begin.

First, he would need to woo her. Luckily, he had no doubt as to his  abilities in that quarter. He'd been seducing women since he was a green  lad, not even old enough to shave. He could have her on her back with  her skirts up around her waist before she even knew what he was about.  But getting her to trust him, to love him … ah, now that would be the real  trick.                       
       
           


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With most women he would use flattery and flirtation, appealing to both  their vanity and their pleasure. But Grace was no ordinary woman. With  her, he knew he would have to take a more subtle approach. Less than  half a minute into their acquaintance, he'd sensed her reserve, as well  as her insecurity. He surmised she wasn't used to being boldly pursued  by men, so any sudden, overt interest on his part would only provoke her  suspicions and put her on the alert.

Instead, his approach would require a deft touch and gentle, patient  persuasion. A shy doe required proper coaxing, after all. The key was to  figure out what kind of inducement she liked best and be there to offer  it.

He watched as she raised her teacup to her lips-unaware of his  observation this time. He realized now that he'd been careless before,  that despite his efforts at stealth, she had sensed his presence as she  wandered among the books. If not for that other man, she would likely  have fled from him. Instead, the stranger had inadvertently sent her in  his direction, casting him in the guise of savior. Really, he owed the  fellow his thanks. Otherwise, securing an introduction would have  required a great deal more effort on his part, particularly since he and  Miss Danvers didn't ordinarily run in the same social circles. But she  knew him now, and very soon she would come to know him a great deal  better.

He was about to depart, when he saw a man approach Grace. It was obvious  from her reaction that she knew him, a friendly smile curving her mouth  as she stood to greet the newcomer.

Nearly a match for Grace in height, the man topped her by no more than  an inch. His hair was sandy blond, his build rangy and loose-limbed,  with features designed to neither excite admiration nor draw disdain.  Judging by his attire, he was likely in trade of some sort. Or possibly  in one of the professions. A solicitor, maybe, or a physician?

Who is he? Jack wondered. More importantly, who is he to Grace? Danvers  hadn't mentioned any beaux. Of course the fellow could be a relative of  some variety, but he didn't think so. No, the other man had designs on  her. What kind, however, remained to be seen.

Well, no matter, Jack told himself. His sandy-haired rival wouldn't be  competition for long. And once he was eliminated from the field, Miss  Grace Danvers would be free and ready to step straight into Jack's  waiting arms.





Chapter 2





"My thanks for seeing me home," Grace told Terrence Cooke a half hour  later as she walked through the front door of her father's house in St.  Martin's Lane.

A frequent visitor to the residence, Terrence strolled inside with her.  After exchanging familiar greetings with the housekeeper, who took his  hat to set on the hall credenza, he and Grace went into the parlor.

"Will you stay for tea?" she asked, laying her brown-paper-wrapped  parcel of books on the sofa before taking a seat beside it. "You know  Martha will be here, as soon as the kettle can be set to boil. She'll  bring a tray of sandwiches and sweets, then make you up a big plate, all  the while fussing about how thin you are, and why don't you eat better  at home."

"She forgets sometimes that I have a mother of my own."

"Who lives by the seashore in Lyme. An excuse such as that will never do, not in Martha's estimation at least."

He smiled and took a chair opposite. "I'll stay long enough to appease her, but then I ought to be going."

Grace paused, well aware of his preference for not tarrying. "Papa won't  be home until after seven. You know he meets with his investors every  Thursday night."

"True. Still, it's easier not to chance an unexpected encounter. I'm not high on your father's list of favorites, you know."

Sadly, on that point, Terrence was correct. For reasons Grace had never  understood, her father did not approve of her friendship with Cooke and  barely tolerated her continued association with him. She assumed his  dislike stemmed from the fact that Terrence was the publisher of a small  press-successful in his way, but nothing to compare with the immense  achievements and ambition of her father.

She should surround herself with a better class of people, Papa liked to  complain. Do everything in her power to move up in the world by  marrying a man of wealth and rank, instead of dabbling in the silly,  nonsensical pursuits in which she insisted upon squandering her time. "I  didn't send you to that fancy ladies' academy so you could rub  shoulders with the likes of paper-inkers and wood-cutters!" he would  rail every so often after one of Terrence's visits. If he could have  bullied Grace into severing the connection, she was sure he would have  banned Terrence from the house long ago.                       
       
           


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"You may not be on Papa's list of favorites," she admitted, "but you are  on mine. Therefore you have every right to stay as my guest. In fact,  why do you not remain for dinner? Martha would relish the chance to  stuff you full of turtle soup, roast chicken and peach tart; all  selections on tonight's menu, if I remember correctly."

His brown eyes warmed. "It sounds delectable. However, I really do need to be leaving shortly. A prior engagement, you see."

"An engagement, hmm?" she teased in a soft voice. "This wouldn't happen to involve a lady, now would it?"

His expression grew serious. "No, not at all. Besides, you know you're the only woman for me."

"I most certainly hope not," she said, trying to laugh off the remark.

But he leaned forward in his chair and stretched out a hand. "Just say  the word, Grace, and I'll set matters in motion. You're of age, so  there's no impediment to obtaining a special license. Tell me yes, and  we can be married in less than a week."

Her smile dropped away. "Terrence, don't, please. We've been through this before and you know my feelings-"

"And you know mine," he interrupted. "I won't ever be as rich as your  father, but I have money, enough to keep you in a nice house and fine  gowns. I would see to it you never wanted for anything."

Just so, she thought, lowering her gaze to the floor. With Terrence, I  would be comfortable, contented even. With him, I would have everything.  Everything, that is, except love.

How often she'd wished things might be different, that she could wake up  one morning and find herself in love with him. How simple everything  would be, then. For despite her father's certain displeasure, she would  have weathered the storm for Terrence if she truly loved him. But she  did not, and to her great sorrow, she knew she never would.

She sighed. "Please, let us speak no more of this. Can it not be enough that we are friends?"

"Yes, of course," he said, acceding to her wishes. "For now anyway. But I  reserve the right to hope that someday you'll change your mind. When  you do, I will be waiting."

Desperate to move on and put their conversation back on its earlier,  easier footing, she rose and crossed the room. Taking a small key from  her pocket, she unlocked a drawer in her satinwood writing desk. "I … um … I  nearly forgot. I have these finished for you." Reaching inside, she  withdrew a leather-bound folio, which she carried across to him.