Never a Gentleman (12 page)

She wished her mother were here to advise her. To reassure her. Even though she knew her mother would not have been of any
help, whether she’d still been there or not.

Huffing in impatience, Grace threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. She had no patience with people who
wasted time wallowing in their own misery. It was much better to take action.

It would be easy. She had spent her life being what people expected: daughter, friend, nurse, housekeeper, guard, birth and
burial attendant. She would just have to learn what it was Diccan needed, and be that. She had no idea how to earn Diccan’s
love. But she was very good at being needed.

Slipping on her wrap, she limped over to her portable desk and pulled out the lists she’d begun in the coach. It was time
to get on with things.

By the end of the afternoon, she had drawn money from her account at Hoare’s Bank and arranged for a list of available properties.
She gathered information on furniture warehouses and galleries and dependable workmen. She set up an account at the Parker
Employment Agency. then, bolstered by these small successes, she donned her best gray bonnet and pelisse and set forth to
do battle with Lady Kate’s modiste, the great Madame Fanchon.

“You are Her Grace of Murther’s companion, you, yes?” the elegant woman asked in suspicious tones when Grace requested a full
wardrobe.

“I am her friend,” Grace answered, matching her height against the little Frenchwoman’s disdain. “I am also now Mrs. Diccan
Hilliard.”

The modiste let go a surprised bark of laughter and turned to leave.

“You may, of course, wait to ask the Duchess of Murther when she returns to town next week,” Grace said quietly to the modiste’s
stiff back, “but I doubt the delay would please Mr. Hilliard. He was the one to suggest you to me, after all.”

He hadn’t, of course. But if there was anything Grace had learned after years of foraging, it was how to brass it out. At
least she succeeded in bringing Madame to a halt.

“Even I know there is a marked difference between dressing as a soldier’s daughter and a diplomat’s wife,” Grace continued.
“I was hoping I could count on you to advise me on the best way to go about it.”

Madame turned back around, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. Grace paid no attention. Her gaze had been caught by a bolt of
fabric near the top of Madame’s shelves. Hot orange, the color of a desert sunset. So brilliant it would look like a jungle
flower in a room of pansies. She could almost taste the tartness of it on her tongue. And next to it, a sharp aqua, the shifting
shade of the Caribbean Sea. Searing, whimsical colors that made her think of adventure and joy.

“Not,” Madame said in tones of supreme disdain, “those.”

Grace smiled placidly down at her. “Of course not.” And pushed aside her hopes yet again.

It took two full days of fittings and consultations, but the order was placed for everything from chemises to court dress,
all in bronzes and greens and blues. All uniforms of respectability, appropriate for a proper
ton
matron who had never been tempted by the exotic hues of India.

Grace was on her way out after the last fitting when Madame caught her by the arm.

“I do have something special,” the Frenchwoman murmured, leaning in as if imparting a state secret. “Something to entice the
oh-so-particular gentleman. The color of a moonless night, soft against your pale skin. The most delicate aerophane gauze
silk, all illusion and seduction.”

With no more than those words, Grace could see it.
She could see herself wearing it, this scrap of indecency Madame was proposing. She could almost feel the slither of silk
against her skin as Diccan removed it, exposing her to cooling air and heated touches. She knew she was blushing, because
Madame was smiling.

“A wife needs every advantage, yes? Especially with such as Monsieur Hilliard.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Grace caught sight of a small, secret smile upon her abigail’s face. And she knew there was
only one answer.

“Yes,” Grace said. “She does.”

G
race tried to keep busy for the next two days, but it wasn’t enough. Once Madame put the image of that negligee in her mind,
it wouldn’t go. It followed her to Hatchards and the milliner’s. It followed her down the aisles of the Army Hospital where
she volunteered. It followed her to sleep. Whatever she did, she kept hearing that whisper of promise in Madame Fanchon’s
voice. She kept thinking of the magic in a simple swath of fabric. She found herself hoping for a miracle.

By the time Diccan finally returned, she was wound up tighter than a top.

“Well, Grace,” he greeted her, shrugging out of his surtout as he swept into the sitting room. “I see you’re still waiting
for Kate.”

Grace bristled. “It will be nice to see her, but I have been agreeably busy.”

He lifted an eyebrow as he took in her gray Indian mull dress.

She kept her calm. “Even for so accomplished a modiste
as Madame Fanchon, it takes more than two days to sew a wardrobe for Boadicea, sir.”

She was rewarded with a grin. Quickly, though, it turned into a small frown Grace could read like the
Times
.
Oh, Lord, what kind of disaster would the plain Grace make of her wardrobe?

“I was just about to have a sherry before dinner,” she said, turning away. “Will you join me?”

He nodded and took the chair across from her.

They shared a sherry and then dinner, tucked away in their parlor above the city, both firmly in control of their manners,
their conversation prescribed by custom; weather and acquaintances and Diccan’s recent trip. And finally, over fruit and nuts,
his position in the diplomatic corps.

“You’re posted in France right now?” Grace asked, nibbling on an apricot.

“I hope so. We’ll see what happens when the dust settles from our little drama.”

She set her fork down. “Then you’ve suffered for it?”

“No. Just cautioned, I’m sure. Nothing to worry about. Now, finish your dinner.”

“Will you stay in diplomatic service?” she asked instead. “Seeing Gadzooks, I thought you might be interested in breeding.”

“Gadzooks is more friend than investment,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t mind getting foals off of him, but I don’t
mean to put him to stud. He’d go distracted.”

Thinking of the rangy roan, she smiled. “A terrible way to suffer.”

She actually got a bit of a smile out of Diccan. It was the closest they came to addressing their future, as if they could
indefinitely put off the inevitable. As if they were
tablemates at a
ton
dinner, barely acquainted and buoyed only by social convention. Perhaps it was only she, Grace thought, who felt suspended
in midair. Diccan might not even care that he’d made a vow to bed her as quickly as possible. That unless he was called out
on an emergency, this would be the night it would happen.

Grace cared. Every time she caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap. When he reached up to run his hand through his hair and
she caught sight of the ruby, a dark drop of blood on his hand. When he laughed, his voice a honeyed rumble that seemed to
resonate in her belly.

She thought she was doing an excellent job of keeping her nerves under control, but she didn’t seem to have as much sway over
her body. Each time Diccan’s hand came near her, her skin began to hum. Every time he smiled, as impersonal as it was, she
fought the urge to smile back. To preen, even knowing it would be as pointless as it was ridiculous. He betrayed no intention
to bed her, but her body hoped. Anticipation built right alongside uncertainty. She was beset by a shivery, anxious feeling
that made her feel alien and alive. And all the while, Diccan acted as if he were doing no more than babysitting another minor
royal.

It wasn’t until the covers were removed from dinner that he finally betrayed himself. He had been sharing his impressions
of the St. Petersburg court, when the door closed behind the last waiter. Suddenly faltering to a stop, Diccan looked around,
as if surprised to see an empty table between them. He stood and straightened his coat, his movements jerky.

His distraction actually made Grace feel a bit better. “Diccan?”

Pouring a glass of brandy from the drinks cart, he
walked over to the window and looked out. Left behind at the table, Grace had no idea how to progress.
He
was the one who was the expert here. He should have the easy words, the quick smile that would signal the next stage of the
evening.

“I believe your abigail will be waiting for you,” he said without turning.

Grace was surprised by a flash of irritation. Annoying man. “She was really married to a soldier?” she couldn’t help but ask.

Diccan gave her a fleeting look. “She was. You won’t find fault with her.”

She already had. But Grace had no idea how to express the vague unease Schroeder gave her. So, without another word, she gained
her feet and disappeared into her bedroom to find Schroeder there, as promised, a particularly smug smile on her face. Grace
was about to chastise her when she saw why. Laid out on the high tester bed was the most outrageous length of material she
had ever seen.

Definitely the color of deep night, a blue so dark that only movement betrayed the real color, the sheen of a blackbird’s
wing.

Grace realized she was shivering. “
Sapristi,
” she breathed almost reverently.

“If this does not turn his eye,” Schroeder promised, “he is already dead.”

Grace couldn’t quite get in a breath. She was supposed to
wear
this thing? She would be all but naked, and that certainly wasn’t something she was used to. In fact, in all her years following
the drum, she’d become quite the expert at remaining covered.

But this was for her husband. Her husband who didn’t
really want to bed her. Maybe this could help change his mind.

“Well,” she said with a abrupt breath, “let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Barbara’s grin grew bright, and the two women went about taking down Grace’s thick hair and divesting her of her plain clothes
before slipping Madame’s creation over her head. And then, feeling peculiarly hot in a cool room, Grace sent Barbara off and
waited for her husband.

And waited.

She refused to climb into the bed like a sacrificial virgin. Instead she curled up in a wheat damask wing-back chair and laid
the Egyptian travelogue on her lap, as if preparing to read. She looked out the window. She flipped pages. She counted chimes
from the sitting room clock. She counted them four times, and still Diccan did not come.

She was mortified. She was terrified. She was swamped by memories of the last time they’d shared a bed. The seductive warmth
of his body, the maddening path of his hands. The regret that she had stopped him before he’d reached that hot, hungry place
between her legs. The place that now anticipated Diccan’s return, as if attuned to his scent. His attention. His command.
He hadn’t even opened the door, and she was already wet for him.

When she heard the clock strike midnight, she decided she’d had enough. Diccan might be uncomfortable with this, but he could
be no more uncomfortable than she. Did he think she would be pleased to be treated like the only thing worse than a fat prince?

Before she had the chance to change her mind, she climbed to her feet and opened the door. The fire in the sitting room had
burned low, and the table was cleared away.
Diccan was nowhere to be seen. Grace looked toward the closed door of his bedroom and cursed. He’d better be in there. If
he’d escaped completely, she would follow him with a fire poker.

Hand to her suddenly tumultuous chest, she padded across the rug in her bare feet and tapped on his door. She heard a mumble.
She decided to take that as permission and entered.

The sight of Diccan almost sent her running. He was slouched in a wing chair to the right of the dying fire, his bare legs
protruding from an elegant black banyan. It seemed to be the only thing he was wearing, if the sight of his naked chest was
any indication. Hair curled at his throat and arrowed south, bisecting muscle and rib. His legs were strong and long, the
hair on them oddly fascinating. But what Grace couldn’t take her eyes from were his feet. They were so long and elegant and
sensual.

How could feet be sensual? But they were. Grace’s mid-section tightened even more. Her womb seemed to melt. She knew what
was under that robe, and she wanted it. She wanted this disheveled, delicious libertine to introduce her to the mysteries
of love.

It took the sound of a cognac snifter thudding to the carpet for her to realize that he was gaping at her. “What the bloody
hell do you think you’re doing?” he rasped, his eyes stark.

She was trembling and terrified, wanting to do nothing more than hide. Which meant she became very calm. “Why, I was looking
for my husband,” she said quietly. “I had been under the impression I would be seeing him tonight.”

He ignored her insinuation. “Did Kate lend that to you?”

He was looking at her gown. She was surprised that she
didn’t blush all the way to her feet. “Don’t be silly. I would have destroyed anything of Kate’s trying to get it over my
shoulders. Do you like it?”

More indiscretion. A lady never mentioned body parts. But then, a lady never forced her way into a gentleman’s room. Even
if that gentleman was her husband.

As if in a trance, Diccan rose to his feet. “Where did you get all that hair?”

Grace blinked. “It’s been there,” she managed, breathless at his approach. “I didn’t think tonight would be a good night for
a braid.”

He was shaking his head, as if he didn’t believe her. Or as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “Come here.”

Grace fought mingled surges of frustration and delight at the growl in his voice. But the last thing she needed now was to
limp across the room. “I did,” she said. “It’s your turn.”

She couldn’t believe she was being this forward. But she could smell the brandy on him, and saw that the decanter at his elbow
was almost gone. The dastard had needed to get half seas over just to face her. And then, apparently he’d drunk so much he’d
completely forgotten to do it at all.