Tempting Kate

Frustration roused his senses, and he lifted his lashes to study her, only to find that she was warily watching him, too. Was she afraid? No. He had a feeling that not much frightened her, yet there was a strange spark in her lovely eyes. If not fear, then what? Passion?

The notion brought back his dreams of her—half lucid, half crazed offerings of an eroticism like nothing he had known before. Cool caresses. Fevered desire. They all swirled together in hazy memory, but when he looked at her now, simple and prim in a worn sprigged-muslin gown, Grayson knew they could have no basis in reality.

And yet…the stirring in his lower anatomy reminded him that he was completely naked. Who had stripped him and cared for him? He knew it had been her, but he asked anyway. “You have been tending me?”

She nodded. A blush stole up her cheeks, bringing life and color to her pale face, but she met his gaze directly. This one would not refuse a challenge, he thought, vaguely excited by the notion. At least one part of his body seemed unaffected by his injury or his illness, and although the thought heartened him, it was a bit inconvenient. He slid one knee upward, hiding the evidence as best he could.

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“There was no one else,” she answered, just as plainly.

The mysteries that surrounded her loomed before him once more. Who was she? What was she, this girl with the serious demeanor and the courtesan’s hands? Some figment of his imagination, perhaps? Had he conjured her out of his own restless ennui? She looked nothing like Charlotte, with her small frame and boyish body, but she shone with a purity that knifed into his soul. Strength. Honesty. Intelligence.

Grayson drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes against such fancies. Obviously he was not yet in his right mind. Rest. He needed rest, and although he had never even fallen asleep in the presence of anyone, not even any of his long line of mistresses, perhaps he would relax, just this once.

Kate heard a loud thump and, balancing the tray she held in one hand, she pushed open the door to her father’s bedroom, her heart in her throat. To her relief, Grayson was not lying in a heap on the floor, as she had feared, but was sitting on the edge of the bed, obviously intending to rise.

“What are you doing?” she cried, rushing forward to place his breakfast on the nearby table.

“I cannot stay in this bed one moment longer,” he replied, in an arrogant tone that dared her to refute him.

“Well, you certainly cannot leave it!” Kate said. “Just yesterday you were consumed by fever!”

“And today I am not,” he said, his gray eyes boring into her.

Kate refused to let him intimidate her. “You must regain your strength. Look, I’ve brought you some- . thing to eat.”

“More gruel?” he asked, cocking one dark brow disdainfully.

“No,” she shot back. “Bread and milk, and a bit of stew.”

“Milk?”

“Yes, milk,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I suppose you would prefer brandy or champagne?”

“Well, I certainly will not drink milk. I am not some swaddling babe for you to nurse!”

Kate glanced down the length of him. He had put on one of her father’s nightshirts, but it barely hung to his knees and she could see the muscled calves below and his bare feet, finely boned and arched. Suddenly, she was swamped by the memory of touching those feet, of running her fingers over those toes, and her cheeks blazed.

He need not prove his manhood to her; she was all too much aware of it. Forcibly Kate jerked her attention back to his face, certain that she would see a sardonic gleam in his eyes, but they held no amusement. Their cool gray color belied the fire that leapt in their depths, sending heat stealing through her limbs until she felt weak. Kate turned abruptly, physically breaking away from the gaze that so enthralled her, and busied herself with his tray.

“You cannot keep me here forever, you know.” Kate’s hands stilled, his words slicing through her like a knife, and she sucked in a sharp breath, glad her face was hidden from him. Naturally he wanted to leave. She had always known he would, but the impatience in his voice still hurt. After all, she had spent nearly a week caring for him, tending his every need and worrying that he might die. She blinked, annoyed at herself for feeling anything for the arrogant nobleman.

“I must get on my feet in order to take care of myself.”

Kate heard his frustration, but said nothing. Disdainful, domineering ass! She stared at the milk, wishing she could force it down his ungrateful throat.

“Damn it, pup, I have to use the chamber pot!”

Kate whirled on him then. “And just who do you think managed that when you were sick?”

His features hardened into a harsh mask, while his eyes blazed fury, and Kate took a step back, suddenly aware of all the strength and power that was leashed, temporarily, by his recent illness. The dark stubble of unshaven beard on his face made him look less like a marquis and more like a very dangerous man. He would be a formidable foe, and she wished she could call back her hasty admission. He was not one to ask for help or appreciate it when given, no matter what the circumstances.

“I remember you touching me,” he said, his voice as cutting as a blade. “Do you want to do the honors again…or do you only fondle unconscious men?”

Kate felt her face flame, and she pushed away from the table so violently that the breakfast tray rattled. Striding to the door as quickly as was possible without relinquishing her dignity, she damned the skirts that hindered her. She wished for her old trousers and her old life—before Grayson had appeared to complicate everything.

At the threshold, she turned. “Fall flat on your face, then,” she said, managing to keep both her expression and her tone cool. “I’ve picked you up for the last time.” The well-aimed taunt failed to prick him, however, for Grayson neither cursed nor scowled. He simply lifted those dark brows, and she wondered how he could look so damned smug wearing nothing but her papa’s old nightshirt.

Kate did not slam the door, but went straight to her own room and tugged off the faded, tight gown, to replace it with a pair of old trousers, a shirt and a soft waistcoat. She was through playing the maid for that arrogant beast!

Marching down to the kitchens, she began to make some long-overdue bread, taking her anger out on the fat lumps of dough. If Grayson was well enough to get about, he was well enough to leave! He could go this afternoon, she told herself, denying the ache that formed in her chest. Instead, she pounded the dough more fiercely, startling Cyclops, the one-eyed cat, away from his spot by the fireplace.

Kate straightened then, astonished by her own heat. She was the quiet one. Calm, capable Kate. She never lost her temper! And as soon as she recognized that, her fury ebbed away. She was being foolish, undone by the irritating presence of Grayson and exhausted by her efforts to heal him.

Now he was well, and she had best be rid of him. Perhaps Tom could return him to London tonight, she mused. The darkness might keep him from divining their location, and he would never be able to connect the three of them to Hargate. Kate frowned. Although it sounded logical, she suspected that blindfolding the canny lord would not help. He could probably smell his way, if he wanted.

Kate felt the drag of discouragement and shoved it aside, along with her worries over her part in Grayson’s illness. Obviously, the marquis wanted nothing more than to get away from them. If they were lucky, once gone he would not pursue the matter—especially with a magistrate.

Kate took his dinner up to him only because she knew Lucy would not do it, and Tom… Well, the way Tom had been acting—like a mongrel marking his territory—it would be just as easy to do it herself. She arranged the slices of fresh bread, meat pie and cherry tart on the plate. It had been good to bake, she thought with a firm nod. She felt better than she had in days, and she was determined not to let Grayson ruin her mood.

He was abed when she entered, but not asleep, for she quickly caught his gaze, clear and assessing. Those sharp gray eyes missed nothing, she realized, swallowing at the daunting knowledge.

“Here is your dinner,” she said, putting the tray down on the bed. “After you’ve finished, I’m sure Tom would be happy to take you back to London.” There. She had said it. Let him leap for joy now. She moved to the table, unwilling to see his relief.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Startled, Kate glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her with his usual composure. “I told you that I do not intend to leave until I ferret out the scoundrel who used my name.”

So he had said, but that had been before… Kate looked down at the remains of the breakfast tray, stubbornly refusing to feel anything. “But you said you would not…be kept here forever.”

“I meant confined to the bed, pup.”

The richness of his voice seeped into Kate’s bones, warming some part of her that she had not known was cold. Declining to melt, she straightened her spine determinedly. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? Pup? Poppet, then,” he said, and she turned her head to look at him. His lips were curved into a hint of a smile, but she could see no trace of his infamous disdain. “I do not like being bound to the bed, or even to the room,” he explained, gesturing to encompass his prison. “I have never been ill before, and I cannot say I care for it”

Kate felt her own mouth twitch in reply. This was all the apology she would get, but she would take it. Hiding her pleasure, she reached out for the breakfast glass and found it empty. She swiveled toward him. “What did you do with the milk?”

He lifted a brow. “What do you think?”

She put a hand on her hip. “I imagine you tossed it out the window.

“His lips curled just enough to warm her insides. “What a poor opinion you hold of me! I drank it.”

“You what?”

“I drank it. I grew thirsty, and suspected that you would not bring me anything else until it was gone.”

“What a poor opinion you hold of me,” she echoed. He grinned, and the effect was astounding. Surely even Lucy could not deny the beauty of the man when he revealed that expanse of straight white teeth. Staring numbly, Kate watched his gaze drop.

“What the devil are you wearing?” he asked.

Kate flushed, remembering her trousers. When she put them on, she had been angry and out of sorts. Now she found she did not want to face his contempt. “I have work to do,” she said brusquely.

“What kind of work?”

“I keep busy,” she said.

“That’s no answer.”

“It doesn’t matter. These clothes make it easier to get about. I like them.” She knew her cheeks were bright with color, but she kept her chin up, and her gaze level with his.

“I like them, too.” His voice seemed to deepen, flowing over her like rich chocolate, and Kate felt the touch of his eyes everywhere. She swallowed. Apparently she had been wrong to suspect he would disapprove, for he never behaved as one would expect. “I’m surprised your father.allows you to wear them,” he added.

“My father is dead.”

“Your brother, then.”

“I have no brother.”

“You must have a guardian.”

Kate stiffened. “That I do, but he does not care what I wear.” For all her uncle cared, they could be languishing in rags, but Kate had already said too much. She recognized the spark of interest that flared in Grayson’s eyes, and purposefully relaxed her stance. The man was trying to pry information from her! “Eat your dinner,” she said roughly.

“Only if you join me.”

“I already ate.”

“Stay with me, then. I’m infernally bored. Do you have a deck of cards? Perhaps we could play.”

He looked so hopeful that Kate could not deny him. “All right. I’ll fetch some.”

“Books, too?”

Kate nodded. “What shall you have?”

“You choose for me.” Although he spoke casually, Kate sensed that nothing about the man was casual. Calculating would be a far more accurate description, for behind the cool countenance was a keen mind that would rival anyone’s. But what could he expect to gain from a few volumes out of her father’s library?

Kate sucked in a sharp breath as she recognized his game. She would have to make sure that there were no plates or personal notations in the books she brought him, or he would discover her identity all too easily. In spite of herself, Kate smiled at his cleverness. She would enjoy crossing swords with the marquis—as long as he did not draw blood.

She turned to go, and Grayson let his gaze slide over her slowly. She had a nice, slim figure that was not as boyish as he had first thought. He liked the way her dress had tightened across her breasts when she put her hands on her hips, and he missed the view, now that they were covered up by a shirt and a waistcoat. Still, he had to admit that the trousers were appealing, too, for they clung to her legs, not tight enough to be too wicked, but not loose enough to hide anything.

He watched her leave, his attention focused on the gentle curve of her buttocks encased in the soft material, and he wanted to haul her back into the room and onto the bed with him. “Damn,” he murmured, surprised by the force of his reaction. Obviously it had been too long since he had enjoyed the charms of a female.

Leaning his head back, Grayson tried to remember, but he could not recall exactly when or with whom he had last been intimate. Clarice? Lady Ann? He had released his last mistress after the onset of his ennui, but had never replaced her, relying instead on the eager ladies of his acquaintance to satisfy his needs. Their faceless bodies melted together in his mind, not nearly as intriguing as the slender figure of the poppet.

She was a clever thing, too. Courageous and clever, but possessing none of the artifice of the bored London females. His body stirred, and Grayson lifted his knee, wondering if the unusual reaction was due to his prone position. Perhaps once he got back on his feet, Kate would no longer arouse him. Logic told him that would probably be the case, but, oddly enough, he hoped it was not.

She returned, carrying a stack of books that she placed beside the bed, and Grayson found himself staring at her hair as she knelt near him. A deep, rich brown, it gleamed. Fresh. Beckoning. Grayson’s mouth curled at his own fancies. The sober Miss Kate would hardly welcome his advances…or would she? She had come to life in his arms when he pinned her against the door, only a few days ago.

Yes, he thought with a smile, there was passion in her, the kind that had made her stand before him, pistol raised, to avenge her sister, and the kind that had made her touch him when she thought he would not know. Grayson’s body stiffened at the knowledge, and for the first time in his life, he faced the prospect of wanting something even he, the rich and powerful marquis of Wroth, could not have. It fired his determination to discover her identity, for that was the only way to be certain that she was unavailable.

She glanced up at him then, and Grayson let her see his desire. It shook her, although he suspected she had no idea what, exactly, he wanted of her. He might not know her name or her circumstances, but she was innocent, Grayson was sure of that. And despite her absurd costume, she was well-bred. Normally, such traits would put her out of his reach, for, as he had sworn to her before, he did not seduce young virgins.

And yet, if she was a poor relation, a governess or some other member of the house staff, he could press his suit without compunction. Kate would have security and comfort and money enough to aid her sister, while he would have a new mistress to rival any of those past. Heat shot through him at the notion, and the clear violet eyes that had held his faltered before it. Then she straightened abruptly and tossed the cards on the blanket, beside his hand.

Oh, she possessed passion, his little poppet, but she was smart enough to avoid it! Grayson’s lips curled in amused appreciation as he reached for the deck. “Piquet?” he asked, shuffling the cards easily.

She blinked, as if dazed, and Grayson smiled, pleased by her reaction to him. Although she might not acknowledge it, the poppet was definitely attracted to him. She did not simper or flirt like most women, but flushed angrily when he caught her admiring him. A most intriguing reaction, Grayson thought, dealing out the cards as though she had consented to play. When he noticed her gaze on his hands, he paused to draw in a low breath. If she kept that up, it was going to be a very uncomfortable game—for him. Grayson shifted his knee, to better disguise the erection that strained at the blankets.

“Shall we play for guineas?” he asked, hoping to divert her attention. Although he had never reached the limits of his legendary control, he had a feeling that Kate could test them mightily.

“No.”

“Pennies?”

“No. I will not play for money,” she said. She lifted her head to eye him with calm defiance. “I do not approve of gambling.”

Grayson smiled at her pretense of propriety, for he had already found out what he wanted to know. She had no money, that much was obvious. But what of her background? “Should I worry that your guardian will take offense at our little game?” he asked, picking up his cards.

Innocent that she was, she missed the subtle nuance that a more experienced woman would have parlayed into a flirtation. Instead, she stared at him, her lips a firm line. “Tom thinks we would be illadvised to tell you anything more.”

Clever girl that she was, Kate had easily divined his intent. He felt both proud of her and challenged, as he had not been in years. “Tom?” he said contemptuously. “You trust his judgment?”

She wavered only for a moment before fixing him with the clear, direct gaze that so appealed to him. “Perhaps not, but how do I know you will not turn me over to the magistrate and cheer while I hang?”

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