Hot Silk by Sharon Page Page A

under his control, but Wesley was a peer of the realm. And a damned arrogant one. Why would he obey Mr. Sharpe?
    As she stopped at the side of the carriage, she could not resist—she began to turn, to look for Prudence. Her hand trembled. What would happen in London? Would Prudence even admit to being her friend, or would she deny it?
    But as she twisted her head, she saw nothing but the empty drive. Without a word, Prudence had gone.
     
    The liveried footman reached Grace with Lord Wesley’s message before she stepped up into the simple black carriage.
    “From Lord Wesley, Miss,” the young servant said.
    Had he actually put his gloating to paper? Could it be an apology?
    Irritated at the flare of warm hope in her heart, Grace unfolded the simple page. A summons to meet him at the summerhouse—the lovely stone building that sat upon a landscaped hill overlooking the garden.
    Only a fool—or a glutton for punishment—would go.
    But she had to know what he was going to say. Her future depended on it.
    “Have the carriage wait,” she instructed the footman. Lifting the hems of her skirts, she crossed the drive to the narrow path that wound through the famed gardens of Collingsworth and led to the stone steps ascending to the summerhouse.
    Perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed, and her heart fluttered in her chest as she reached the marble portico. Where was Wesley? Inside? Or had he not come? Had he made an idiot of her one more time?
    “Come in, Miss Hamilton.”
    The bold, arrogant drawl drifted out of the open doorway. The lazy, sinfully aristocratic voice had once enticed her—now it set her teeth on edge. But she pushed open the door and stepped within.
    This was a summerhouse?
    With the luxurious padded benches, inviting chairs, and exquisite carvings and paintings, it was more beautiful than Grace’s home. Wesley lounged on a chaise, one booted foot braced against the floor, the other marring the taupe silk of the seat. His greatcoat was flung open; his snug-fitting buff trousers and dark waistcoat gave him the immaculate look of a gentleman in the country.
    A grin revealed dimples—just like Devlin Sharpe’s. His eyes glinted with wickedness. But she read more than lust there. It was power that excited him and it sickened her.
    He crooked his fingers, but she ignored the summons.
    Pulling off his beaver hat with one hand, he raked back his fair, straight hair with the other. “Ah Grace, I do not want to leave you in trouble. Prudence has hinted that your family is in dire straits.”
    She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and of course he looked there. “I am perfectly fine, my lord.”
    “You aren’t. And I’m sorry for hurting your feelings, but truly, love, what did you expect?”
    Hurting her feelings? He had called her a whore; he had laughed at her! He’d broken her heart for a wager, had threatened her with ruination. How hard it was to be cold with him when hot anger raged! “I did not expect anything of you, my lord. But you did promise marriage.”
    He swung his other foot to the smooth floor of white marble veined with glittering black. “But you knew I couldn’t marry one such as you.”
    “No.” And thank heaven for me, she thought.
    “But I have a proposition, my saucy lover. A most generous offer.”
    Absolute confidence shone from his blue eyes, as though he believed she was holding her breath, waiting on his every word.
    “I do not wish to hear it.” She turned and walked out. The last sound she heard was a startled, ‘bloody hell’; then she ran down the wide steps, wearing a grin. Not much of a victory, but something. Lord Wesley was apparently not accustomed to being discounted.
    But Wesley caught up to her by a grove of apple trees—she heard the harsh expulsion of his breath before he grasped her by the elbow. His fingers dug in, forcing her to stop.
    Gritting her teeth, she swung around. “Let me go.”
    “You haven’t heard my proposition yet, you little