The moment spun on. Her nipples peaked. Her breasts swelled and pushed against her flimsy stays. She knew he noted her arousal. Still she displayed herself.
He made a jerky movement in her direction. She waited for him to circle the bench, cross the few feet between them, and grab her.
As he lunged forward, his hand snicked the pot. It toppled and hit the stone flags with a resounding crash.
“Hell!” he muttered as terracotta smashed around his booted feet.
Grace leapt up. “I’m sorry,” she said in dismay. These silly games were dangerous enough in the outside world. Here they threatened disaster.
But it had felt so good when he looked at her, as if he’d die if he stopped.
“It isn’t your fault.” He dropped to his knees and fished the largest shards out of the scattered dirt. With guilty horror, she saw that his hands shook.
“Yes, it is,” she said sadly. It wasn’t fair to torment him. Even if tormenting him was so sweet.
She knelt to help and they both reached for the same piece. Their fingers met. It was like touching lightning. Her heart gave a great thud and every hair on her skin stood on end. She gasped and made to pull away. He snatched her hand, gripping hard enough to hurt.
“Grace…” he said in a cracked voice.
He dragged her forward, almost overbalancing her and cradled her hand against his chest. His heart kicked violently under her palm. Beneath the fine shirt, his skin burned.
She wanted that heat. She wanted it to envelop her, incinerate her. Only inches separated them. Inches she could bridge with one small tilt of her body. Heavy, liquid desire settled low in her belly.
Wrenching free, he lurched to his feet. He turned his back, his shoulders heaving as he fought for control.
She remained on her knees while she waited for her pulse to steady. Very deliberately, she wiped her damp palms on her skirt and took a deep breath.
Should she give in to what whirled around them? Or leave him to find composure? Was she ready to take that final step? Could she face the inevitable consequences if she did?
Her heart thundered a mighty yes.
Still she hesitated. Through nine years of unhappy marriage, she had guarded her reputation like a miser’s treasure. Was she ready to abandon that?
She bit her lip, studying his tense back, his bent head, those clenched fists pressed so stiffly to his sides.
She chose the coward’s way.
“I’ll take Wolfram for a walk,” she said unevenly, rubbing the hand he’d crushed.
She had to get out of this walled garden before she did something irrevocable. Something virtuous Grace Paget couldn’t countenance. Something that turned her father’s last words to her into an accurate prophecy of her ruin.
The marquess didn’t answer. Nor did he look at her as she stood up on legs that threatened to fold beneath her.
“Come, Wolfram.”
The dog lifted his head from the shade and rose with a stretch. He obediently trotted to her side.
As she entered the woods, her steps were slow and reluctant and Lord Sheene’s ragged breathing echoed in her ears.
Grace clicked her fingers to Wolfram to urge him away from a pile of leaves. She’d walked for hours. She knew she should go back to the marquess but she couldn’t bear the tension between them. She just couldn’t bear it. She came to a shuddering halt in the middle of the path and strove for clarity, for strength, for courage.
All eluded her.
The huge dog came up and nosed at her hip, clearly wondering why she’d stopped. She pulled gently at his soft ears. “Oh, Wolfram, what am I to do?”
He must have heard her distress or sensed it in her quivering body because he gave a soft whine and butted her softly with his blunt head. She blinked away tears. She’d moved beyond comfort.