Realm 04 - A Touch of Grace (8 page)

He turned his head toward her. “No buts. Your best…is enough.” Exhausted, he lay heavy on the pillow. His weight flattening the thin mattress.

Grace removed the cloth from his head and freshened it. Gently, she stroked his face and his shoulders. “What if my best…” she asked through a stifled sob.

“A chance,” he murmured through dry lip. “With you.”

Grace wished he were asking for an opportunity to know her better. “I shall tend you, my Lord,” she declared. “Rest.” She washed his face and shoulders again. “I swear on everything that is holy. I shall not leave you.”

His gaze met hers, but he said nothing. Just the barest pressure of his hand on hers. His eyes closed slowly as Grace used the cloth to cool his skin.

For the next several hours, Grace remained hunched over his prostrate form. Lord Godown mumbled phrases she was certain to which she should not be privy. He spoke of his friends, of a man named Shaheed Mir. He taunted an opponent over a missing emerald. Spoke French so fluently Grace could not translate. And coaxed a woman called Ashmita to trust him. Unconsciously, Grace prayed the one called Ashmita did not rule the marquis’s heart.

“You remain,” he said as his eyes fluttered open and closed.

“I promised I would,” Grace said as she squeezed the cool water from the cloth to place it on his forehead. “Permit me to assist you with a bit of water.” Instead of holding a glass to his lips, she spooned the liquid into his mouth. He managed four spoonfuls before shaking away her offer of a fifth. “Can you bear my changing the bedding?” she asked as she busied herself with righting his linens.

“Later,” he murmured as his eyes drifted closed. “Cold,” he groaned. “Very cold.” He snuggled lower in the bed.

Grace rushed to the freestanding wardrobe to search for additional blankets. “Of course,” she said as she brought a wool coverlet to the bed. “This shall keep you warmer.”

His teeth chattered as he visibly shuddered. “Thank…thank you.”

Grace touched his forehead with the back of her hand. His fever still raged. “Rest, my Lord.” She brushed the hair from his face. “You may depend on me.”

And so was her life. For some fifty hours, she tended Lord Godown’s wound and his fever. She arranged the room’s furniture so no one could have a clear view of the bed. When the maid and Mr. Bradshaw brought the tub and hot water, Grace released the drapery of the four-poster and pretended her “husband” was seeing to his horse’s care. After bathing, she used the water to first wash her hair and then to launder the bandages. Once the inn’s staff had removed the tub, she hung the cloth strips close to the fire to dry.

To distract herself from Lord Godown’s dire condition, Grace religiously recorded his mumblings and her description of his condition, and she constantly bathed his torso and face to bring down his fever. She slept little. Snatching an hour or two while curled up in a high backed chair while holding His Lordship’s hand.

Finally, she succumbed to the need for sleep without relinquishing her promise to watch over him. Grace draped a blanket across her body and crawled onto the bed to lie beside him. She caught his hand and closed her eyes.

She could not say what woke her. Perhaps, it was the difference in his breathing. Perhaps, it was how he aimlessly wrapped a ringlet of her hair about his fingers. Panicked, Grace made to pull away from him, but Lord Godown tightened his grasp. “Stay,” he insisted. “I was…just considering…the merits of heaven.”

His eyes still held a bleary gaze, and Grace reached tentatively to touch his face. His fever still roared, but, at least, he appeared a bit more lucid.

“You may find heaven some day, my Lord, but not today,” she countered.

Lord Godown smiled wryly. “I beg to differ. Waking…to find your hair…draped across my shoulders…and smelling of lemons.” He lifted her tresses to his nose and sniffed. “Is very close…to how I…envision heaven.”

Grace felt the heat spread across her chest and cheeks. “I should see to your wound,” she said self-consciously.

“You should see to your own needs,” he corrected. “You require…rest also.” His finger traced her jaw’s line.

“But I am to see to your recovery,” she argued.

Lord Godown’s breathing shallowed. “I am…content.” His eyes shuttered.

For a moment, Grace searched his countenance, but when his fingers stilled, she snuggled closer to his side. She would follow his orders. Grace would sleep a bit longer.

When next she woke, darkness draped the room. Only the light from the dying fire showed. No daylight remained, and the night’s reflective light had not achieved its glory. Somehow, Lord Godown appeared closer. His skin’s warmth caressed her cheek, and through her sleep-induced fog, Grace realized her head rested on his uninjured shoulder. She inhaled deeply. Sweat. The metallic smell of dried blood. But deep in the experience, Grace discovered the unique scent of this man. Close enough to touch him, her lips brushed against his skin. Her tongue trailed along the rise of his chest muscle. It was a taste she would never forget. Salty but deceptively sweet.

“Touch me, Grace.” His mouth’s warmth brushed her hair. So soft, Grace could not guarantee she had not dreamed it. Her eyes strained to see him in the developing shadows.

Tentatively, her fingertips stroked across his nipple, and a hiss of awareness followed. “Did I hurt you, my Lord?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Never,” Lord Godown moaned as he pulled her closer. “You are perfection.”

Grace fought the urge to scoff at such falsehoods, but a secret part of her heart did not want it to be a prevarication. She wanted some man to consider her desirable. Even if that man was near death. Even if it was only for one night. Therefore, she slid her hand across his chest to the plane of his flat stomach.

“Grace,” Lord Godown bent his head closer to hers. “I want…nothing more…than to kiss you.” He shifted her weight to where he held her in a one-armed embrace. “Although I am currently…a poor excuse…for a man, I would give…a king’s ransom…to show you pleasure. Please come to me.”

She stilled. Was she truly willing to compromise herself completely? Of course, no one would ever forgive her numerous indiscretions since meeting Lord Godown in the inn’s yard some three days prior, but she would know the truth. If Fate held, she would leave His Lordship and return to a life of boredom among England’s servant class. She already held exquisite memories of his body and his tenderness. Could she possess one more?

With a deep inhalation of his intoxicating scent, Grace shifted ever so slightly, and Lord Godown’s mouth claimed hers. At first, the pressure was tender, but it quickly turned more demanding, and panic filled Grace’s mind. She would prefer Lord Godown not recognize her ineptness. Grace had never known a man’s kiss. Never even a playmate’s curiosity. “Teach me,” she murmured against his mouth.

“Open for me,” he exhaled the words.

Grace, not fully understanding, resumed the pressure of her lips on his until his tongue slid along her mouth’s seam, and then she relaxed her lips. By design, Lord Godown’s tongue pushed past her teeth to invade her mouth’s recesses. Instantly, heat flared within Grace’s chest. She had never known such exquisite intimacy with another human. Her heart raced. She could spend a lifetime in Lord Godown’s arms and never complain.

Need blossomed between them. His fingers tightened on her shoulder as Lord Godown edged her closer. His lips slid across her cheek and down the length of her neck. She felt his teeth skim the indentation where her neck curved to form her shoulder. His Lordship’s lips sucked gently, and Grace’s skin tingled from the contact. She could imagine Lord Godown biting her and her enjoying every minute of the delicious torture.

His Lordship’s hand slid along her length. When she lay beside him earlier, Grace had worn a night rail and a dressing gown. It was a bold move, but the inn’s maid had agreed to press the four day dresses she had worn the past few days. As Lord Godown had rarely remained coherent more than a few minutes at a time, Grace had not considered her lack of proper clothing an issue. Now, the heat His Lordship’s touch created made her wish she wore even less than she did.

Lord Godown shifted to his side, and Grace’s heart raced. “Beware, my Lord,” she rasped through the passion-filled haze. “Your wound…”

“Does not matter,” he finished for her. “What matters is you. You will always be more important than anything else.”

His words sent her conscious thoughts spinning. All her life she had wanted for someone to place her first in his life, and whether Lord Godown meant it or not, Grace relished the moment. It was a memory to fuel a relationship or a seduction, and Grace knew exactly which this would be. A marquis could never choose a governess as his wife. He offered her a taste of intimacy, likely the only one she would ever know.

Instinctively, Grace brushed the hair from his forehead. Although she thought he felt a bit cooler, the warmth under his skin remained. Her own heat tainted her reaction to him.

Lord Godown loosened the knot holding her dressing gown closed. “This is not something that should happen between us,” he said as his mouth returned to hers. “But I want you, Grace. More so than I can ever remember previously.” The next kiss began in tenderness; yet, desire soon ruled. Their tongues danced an intricate pattern older than time. Instinctively, Grace pressed herself to him. His erection rested at the base of her most private place. She greedily returned his kiss as she rocked against him.

Never in her life had she wanted anything so completely. Her hands roamed at will. His cheekbones. His shoulders. The flat of his stomach. His muscular arms. When her fingers traced the line of his breeches, he hissed his response. “You play with fire, my Dear.”

Grace would use these moments to learn every contour of his body. She prayed he would not think her too wanton. “Teach me to control the heat.” Like a magician, he had conjured a vanishing trick, but she wished the show to continue.

“One does not control it,” he said on a rasp as his hand cupped her breast. “He must simply hold on and permit it to take him where it chooses to go.”

“Where shall this lead, my Lord?’ She had lived on a working estate and knew the mechanics behind the act, but Grace certainly knew nothing of the passion, which encased her.

Lord Godown’s thumb mindlessly stroked her nipple. “It depends on you, Grace. I want you, but I will not force myself upon you. It must be your choice.”

Grace sighed heavily. She desired him–wished to know him intimately–wanted to savor the feel of him, but the thought of relinquishing her virginity without marriage bonds confused her. “I fear I may become enceinte,” she admitted before a blush trailed its fingers across her skin.

“I will withdraw before any opportunity of your becoming with child occurs,” he said matter-of-factly. “But you must want this, Grace.”

“I do wish it, my Lord.”

His Lordship caught her chin and raised it to where their gazes held. “Say my Christian name, Grace. I wish to hear it on your lovely lips.” He kissed her again. It was several minutes before they separate. Both gasping for air.

It was the kiss for which she had waited her entire life. “I surrender, Gabriel.”

She felt rather than saw him smile. “I will be gentle.” In the moon-filled room, he studied her, and Grace wished she could read his intentions. She held no true idea what to expect, but when he slid his hand to the hem of her gown and gave it a gentle tug she wondered whether she should withdraw. She possessed no doubt he would permit it without censure. Yet, a part of Grace’s mind wanted to know what other women knew. As a governess, she would have few, if any, opportunities to truly know a man.

His hand caressed her hip, gently massaging it. Lord Godown was kissing her again. Restraint disappeared. His hand returned to her breast, and a shudder rippled through her frame. “I would pray for light where I might see you. Then I would pray to be healed so I might love you properly. A woman deserves the best for her first time.” Grace thought even weakened from blood loss, Gabriel Crowden would be more than enough man for her.

From that point forward, Lord Godown’s fingers spoke for him. He caressed her cheek, massaged her breast’s nipple, and ran his hands up and down her thigh. All along, he kissed her. Then he tapped her leg with his fist, and Grace opened for him.

As his tongue slid in and out of her mouth’s warm recesses, Lord Godown’s fingers traced lines to her most secret place. As wanton as it was, Grace spread her legs wider and welcomed his touch. It was the most exquisite feeling in the world. As he spread her wetness across the cleft of her opening, he lifted her right leg over his hip and edged closer. Grace could feel the heat of him as his erection rested against her stomach.

He slid a finger into her opening. “God, Grace, I want you more than I can say. I burn for you,” he whispered into her hair. “I will make this the best it can be. Making love on one’s side is not the most convenient of matings, but it may be ideal for a woman’s first time. It keeps me from burying myself in your wetness.”

Hesitantly, she asked, “Is there another way? Something I can do?”

He brushed his lips across hers. “Many ways, my love, and I hope to one day show you all of them.”

His tenderness and words of endearment were Graces undoing. If he had asked her to walk on water, she would have drowned trying. “Then present me a taste of desire, Gabriel,” she said with a newfound bravado.

She lifted her hips, and Lord Godown placed himself at her opening. His lips captured hers again. Grace felt the pressure. Felt the stretch. Felt the ache. He groaned, and she answered with her own guttural response. He lifted her hips higher and pressed forward again.

He stopped and for a brief instant she thought the act done, and she knew disappointment. Then he began to rock. Withdrawing and pushing forward. Inch by inch, Lord Godown filled her. She had the very real desire to rip what clothes remained between them away. She rocked her hips toward him, and His Lordship gasped as he sank further into her wetness. They moved together. A primitive synchronized dance of obsession.