Seduced by His Touch(31)

"I can't say I quite intended to do that, but neither am I sorry," he murmured. "Are you all right?"

"F-fine. Wonderful, in fact." She gave him a tremulous smile.

He smiled back, bending to kiss her again. "Good."

Reaching out, he helped her straighten her dress. "You know something, Grace?"

"What?"

"I almost wish we hadn't already settled on this house."                       
       
           


///
       

"Why? Don't you like it? Have you changed your mind?"

"No, it's not that. It's just that I like house hunting with you. I'll be sorry not to do it again."

A becoming shade of pink spread into her cheeks.

He laughed. "Maybe we can come back again, though, to measure another room for drapes."





A light frost coated the windows of the Danverses' drawing room on St.  Martin's Lane. During the six weeks that had passed since Grace and  Jack's memorable house hunting expedition, fall had ceded dominion to  winter and the advent of cold December days.

Cozy inside near the cheerfully burning fireplace, Grace reached for the  Meissen shepherdess on the mantel. Taking particular care, she turned  to wrap the delicate piece in tissue paper. Over the last several days,  the servants had been busy packing her belongings for the move to Upper  Brook Street, but there were a few special items she wanted to handle  herself. This figurine was one of them, greatly cherished because it had  once belonged to her mother.

She'd been surprised and deeply touched when Papa had suggested she take  it with her, especially since she knew how much her mother's remaining  possessions meant to him.

"She'd want you to have it," he'd told her in a hoarse tone. "To bring  you peace and happiness in your new home. You're to take her best silver  service too. What use does an old widower like me have for such fancy  bits and pieces?"

She smiled as she thought of his words, bending to lay the securely  wrapped figurine into a small packing crate. Catching sight of a few  books on a nearby shelf, she moved to retrieve them, knowing they would  get far more use by her than by her father. She was placing them into  the crate when a brief tap came at the door.

"Hallo, Grace," said a voice she hadn't heard in weeks.

Glancing up, she discovered Terrence Cooke standing in the doorway, a  large folio in his hands. "I hope I'm not intruding," he said, looking  distinctly uncomfortable in a way she'd never seen him before. Then  again, considering what had transpired between them the last time they'd  been in the same room, his reticence was understandable.

His brows furrowed at her silence. "I can see you're busy. I ought to  have sent 'round a note. Forgive me." Looking away, he began to turn.

"No. Oh, please don't go," she called out.

He stopped and met her gaze.

"I was only surprised to see you, that's all." She motioned toward a  chair. "Come in and tell me how you've been and what you've been doing.  Sit and I'll have Martha bring us some tea and cream biscuits. You were  always partial to Martha's cream biscuits, as I recall."

"Thank you, but no biscuits or tea," he said, stopping her before she  could cross to the bell pull. "I don't intend to stay long. I only  wanted to bring you these."

Opening the folio, he drew out a thin leather sheath. "It's your  original watercolor drawings for the bird volume, or rather your bird  volume, I should say. Production is underway and I wanted to return  these to you now, so they don't get lost."

She clasped her hands at her waist, sadly aware of the tension that  stood between them like a wall. "That is very kind of you to bring them  yourself. Thank you."

He nodded, directing his gaze off to one side. "I-I'll just leave them  here then, shall I?" Striding over to her writing desk, he placed the  sheath on top. "Well, I … um … suppose I ought to go. Lots of work, you  know."

Was he really going to leave, just like that, with nothing more to be said between them?

"I intend to finish the flower folio," she blurted. "Assuming you  haven't decided to cancel the contract and give the job to someone  else."

His sandy brows rose as he shook his head. "Of course I haven't cancelled the contract."

"I wouldn't blame you if you had. I've been quite remiss about my  painting lately. What with the wedding arrangements and the packing and  the plans to go to Braebourne soon, there simply hasn't been time. I  ought to have written to let you know my intentions. My apologies, but I  just wasn't sure … "

"Wasn't sure of what?"

"If you would want to hear from me again."

Something shattered on his face. "But you're the one who shouldn't want  to hear from me. After … well, after what happened in Bath I assumed I was  the last person you would wish to see again. I'm sorry, Grace. Truly."

"No, I'm the one who is sorry. I had no right to intrude on your privacy that day. I've felt dreadful ever since."                       
       
           


///
       

One side of his mouth turned up in a rueful smile. "Believe me, I've  felt worse. You don't know how many times I've thought of coming here,  of talking to you, or at least sending you a letter. I tried, but I  always ended up tossing my attempts into the fire. I've missed you."

She smiled. "I've missed you too. We were always such good friends."

"We were," he said with a nod. "I should like to be friends again. But I  suppose that's impossible now, what with your upcoming marriage." His  gaze dropped to his shoes. "Only think, you'll be a lady soon. Lady John  Byron. The papers are buzzing with news about your exclusive Society  wedding to be held at the Duke of Clybourne's principal estate."

"You should come."

He looked shocked. "To your wedding? No, I couldn't come to your wedding."

"Why not?" she countered, warming suddenly to the idea. "I haven't seen  Braebourne yet, but Jack tells me the house is nearly as large as a  royal palace. There's plenty of room, and you would be most welcome. I  was told to invite anyone I like, so I shall advise the dowager duchess  to add you to the guest list."

"No, I couldn't."

"But-"

"I wouldn't fit in, not in a room full of nobs."

"You'd like them if you met them. They're very nice nobs."

He chuckled. "I'm sure they are. But it's impossible, for too many  reasons to count." The smile fell from his face. "I thank you for the  invitation, but I don't want to sit and watch you get married. You may  not believe it, but I do love you, even if it's not in the conventional  sense. I would have taken good care of you."

"I know." She glanced away, unable to stand the regret shimmering in his eyes.

"Are you happy, Grace? Is he really what you want?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice growing soft with emotion. "I've never  been so happy. Some days I wonder if it's all a dream, and then I see  him again and I know it's not."

"Then I'm glad," he said. "For your sake, I'm glad."

She met his gaze, knowing this was another ending between them. A silent  acknowledgement that they were both moving on to a new phase of their  lives.

"Well, I really ought to go," he told her. "I have a business to run, you know."

"Of course you do. Write to me, Terrence. I should like to hear what you're doing."

He gave her a genuine smile. "You may count upon it. And you are to take  all the time you require with your painting. The flower folio will be  waiting whenever you are ready to return to it."

"You are too kind."

"Not at all." He strode to the doorway. When he reached the threshold, he paused and turned back. "Grace?"

"Yes?" She arched a brow.

"I meant it about being your friend. If there is ever anything you need, you have only to say."

"You as well." Going to him, she kissed his cheek. "I wish you every happiness."

"I wish you more. Godspeed, dear Grace."





Chapter 15





When Aunt Jane had long ago described Braebourne as one of the most  elegant homes in all of England, with grounds and gardens beautiful  enough to rival those held by the royal family itself, she hadn't  exaggerated in the least.

From Grace's first glimpse of the estate, she'd been alternately  enchanted and intimidated. Lord have mercy, what have I gotten myself  into? she'd thought, as the house had come into view at the end of a  magnificent, two-mile-long, tree-lined drive.

Nestled in the northern part of the Cotswold hills, the Byrons' majestic  ancestral home was perched atop a gently sloping rise. Fashioned from  the rich, honey-colored limestone so plentiful in the area, the grand  edifice rose like a gleaming jewel set amid a vast forest of ancient  trees, whose branches were now bared for winter.