Seduced by His Touch(5)

Banishing the thought, he arched Philipa closer and took her up on her very generous offer.





Chapter 3





A little over a week later, Grace made her way into a small assembly  room not far from Bath's Sydney Gardens, where an afternoon lecture on  perennial floriculture was scheduled to take place.

So as not to let either her height or that of her bonnet brim impede  anyone's view, she took a seat in the last row of chairs set up for the  event. Withdrawing a small notebook and pencil from her reticule, she  prepared to wait.

She'd arrived in the company of her maid, who was currently taking her  ease with a group of other servants in an anteroom beyond. Grace had  invited Aunt Jane to join her, but the older woman declined. Her aunt  might love the fragrance and beauty of fresh flowers, but she had no  patience for learning about their cultivation.

"That's what I keep Perkins for," Aunt Jane had told her this morning  over tea, toast, and sausages. "I let him grub around in the garden dirt  and tend the plants so I don't have to."

Given that Grace was no longer in her first flush of youth, her aunt had  deemed it acceptable for her to attend the lecture with only a servant  accompanying her. Aunt Jane had promised, however, to come by with the  carriage at the end of the lecture so they could drive home together.

She checked the delicate gold and pearl watch pinned to her bodice and  saw that another ten minutes remained before the talk was scheduled to  begin. Glancing around, she studied the small, but growing, crowd, which  was made up of mostly older, academically minded men and a trio of  middle-aged bluestocking females.

Gazing idly along the length of her own row of chairs, she noticed a man  seated at the far end. Dark-haired and attractive, he put her in mind  of a panther who'd mistakenly wandered into a room full of ordinary grey  cats. A curious little tingle sizzled along her spine as she stared,  her pulse giving a rabbity hop.

Surely it can't be, she thought, but he reminded her of the man she'd  met that day at Hatchard's. The gorgeous, sophisticated, dangerously  appealing Lord Jack Byron!

After all, what would a man of Byron's obviously cosmopolitan tastes be  doing in Bath? More particularly, why would he be attending a lecture  about flowers?

Aristocrats went to their country estates this time of year to shoot  grouse and visit with their lofty friends. They didn't come to the  ancient, barely fashionable environs of Bath-not unless they were ill  and in need of taking the waters. And no one looking at this man would  ever believe him in anything but robust good health.

But it isn't him and I'm only misremembering, she told herself as she  studied the dynamic angles of his profile, completely unable to look  away.

Suddenly she had to know, aching for him to turn his head and let her  see his entire face. One fleeting glance-just a glimpse of his eyes-and  she would have her answer. After all, how many nights had it been now  that she had dreamt of him, conjuring up images of the man and his  unforgettable eyes?                       
       
           


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Only every one since that first brief encounter.

How many moments had she spent woolgathering about him during the day?

Enough that I feel like a simpleton for being so weak and foolish.

She was scolding herself for acting the pea goose again when he turned  his head and gazed straight at her. Her heart jumped; his eyes were even  more sensuous and vividly blue than she recalled, his face more  strikingly handsome than the warmest of her recollections. Air wheezed  from her chest, the impact hitting her with the force of a quick,  one-two punch. Glancing downward, she stared blindly at her shoes.

Stars above, it is Jack Byron!

Desperately she struggled to compose herself, forcing her heartbeat to slow and her breath to come at less erratic intervals.

Did he see me? Recognize me? Do I want him to?

Slowly, after a long, long minute, she glanced up and over, peering out from beneath her lashes.

Disappointment crashed through her. Not only was he not looking at her  but he wasn't even in his chair anymore! In fact, it seemed he'd left  the room.

She was still collecting herself and her thoughts when the guest speaker  stepped up to the podium. A full five minutes passed, though, before  she was able to pay him any mind, and another two after that before she  opened her sketch pad and began to draw the floral samples arranged for  illustration and display.

She was drawing with steady intent when she sensed someone ease into the  chair to her right. At first she took little notice, her pencil moving  with deliberation over the paper. Then, out of the corner of her eye,  she glimpsed a pair of large, elegant black leather shoes. Slowly, her  gaze roved higher to find powerful male legs clad in fawn-colored  pantaloons positioned barely inches from her own.

A shiver tingled over her skin, along with an odd feeling of  familiarity, as if she'd experienced a similar situation in the past.  Abruptly, she realized she had.

Her pencil fell still.

"Your pardon," murmured the rich, masculine voice she'd heard that day  at Hatchard's, "but haven't we met before? Miss Daniels, is it not?"

Even though she had no doubt as to his identity, her gaze slid upward.  The action itself was noteworthy, considering she rarely had the need to  look up to meet anyone's gaze. A quick glimpse of vivid azure irises  sent fresh shivers racing through her. "Danvers," she whispered,  correcting his error. "It is Danvers."

He inclined his head. "Ah, of course. My sincerest apologies, Miss Danvers."

The lecturer's voice faded into the background, her attention focused completely on the man at her side.

"Jack Byron," he introduced himself in a controlled sotto voce, apparently assuming that she would not have remembered his name.

As if any woman could forget.

Laying a hand on the back of her chair, he leaned closer. "London, was it not?"

She couldn't help but stare, startled to find him so close that she  could trace the faint grain of dark bristles on his smooth-shaven  cheeks. And near enough to catch the clean scents of fine-milled soap,  lemon water, and starch, which lingered on his skin and clothing. For an  instant, she leaned nearer, drawn by the elusive fragrances. But then  she remembered herself and pulled away.

"Gunter's, wasn't it? For ices?" he inquired.

She paused and took a moment to recover. "No. Hatchard's. For books."

"Quite right. Dr. Johnson. I remember now. So, how is the good doctor?"

"Still deceased, as far as I know."

He barked out a short laugh.

Several heads turned in their direction. Finding herself the sudden  focus of more than one disapproving set of eyes, she came rapidly to her  senses. Straightening, she drew away from Lord Jack. He did the same,  removing his hand from the back of her chair.

For the span of an entire minute, the pair of them listened solemnly to the presentation.

He tipped his head toward her and whispered, "What brings you to Bath?"

She stared straight ahead, aware she shouldn't respond. "I am visiting my aunt for a few weeks."

"A pleasant time of year for seeing family. And where is the esteemed lady? Surely you are not here alone?"

She cast him a glance. "No, my maid is with me. My aunt will be arriving  later." She paused, trying to pay attention to the lecture and failing  dismally. "What of you, my lord? Why are you in the city?"

He grew silent, his gaze directed ahead. Curiously, she wondered if he was going to answer.

"Personal business," he said at length. "Such that will keep me here for  a few weeks as well. So, you enjoy flowers, do you?" he observed in a  smooth redirection of the conversation.                       
       
           


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She nodded. "As do the majority of my sex. Although technical lectures  like this one don't generally hold much appeal for the average female."  She settled her small notebook more comfortably on her lap, the pencil  on top. "Actually, I'm a bit surprised to find a man like you here  either."

He arched an imperious brow. "‘A man like me'? Now, what is that supposed to mean?"

A slight flush rose in her cheeks as she realized she'd let her tongue  run wild again. "Pray take no offense. It is only that most people, even  those who like plants, have scant patience for the study of botany and  horticulture."

Shifting in his chair, he bent nearer. "You think me a brainless fribble then, do you?"

"Not at all. I … " Her words drifted away as she caught the shrewd gleam dancing in his eyes.

"Yes, you were saying?" he drawled.

"I just would not have expected you to be at an event of such an academic nature … "