MacKenzie’s sons had placed his mouth on hers, but he hadn’t kissed her. Not like she’d been kissed by the stranger. Not a kiss where her legs seemed to melt beneath her and her heart thundered in her breast. Not a kiss where his mouth opened atop hers and his tongue searched out hers. Every fear and trepidation had faded when he kissed her, and she’d found herself filled with a desire so intense she couldn’t control her actions. A desire she thought perhaps he’d felt as desperately as she.
She couldn’t believe she’d done the things she had with him. Found it even harder to believe she’d let him do to her what he had.
Grace closed her eyes until her rapid breathing slowed. Oh, but it had been wonderful.
She refused to forget what it had felt like when he pushed her gown from her shoulders. What it felt like when he held her and touched her and kissed her. When he placed her on the bed and came over her. When he lowered his magnificently muscled body and entered her. She refused to forget even one small detail of that night. Even the pain. It was all part of her experience.
For one night, one brief and wonderful night, she’d been held in a man’s arms and loved.
Oh, she knew he didn’t love her—he didn’t even know her name, just as she didn’t know his. But he’d held her and kissed her and taken her as a man takes a woman. He hadn’t been repulsed by her because she wasn’t a great beauty, or been put off because she wasn’t so very young any longer. She was, after all, nearing thirty. He’d only been confused when he realized she was a virgin. But he’d continued making love to her as if he couldn’t have stopped even if he’d tried.
Yes, she had this one beautiful memory to cherish. She would never forget even one small detail of it. Never forget one moment of the time she’d spent in her stranger’s arms. Never regret what she’d done. No matter what the consequences, it would be better than the certainty she would have faced had she not done something so drastic.
Grace leaned her head back against the cushioned chair and closed her eyes. She let herself remember his face, his dark scowl, his hooded expression, his high, broad cheekbones and wide, angular chin. He was every inch a strong, powerful male. Every inch rugged masculinity. She smiled, then sat up in alarm.
It was quiet below.
She clenched her hands in her lap and tried to keep her breathing even and slow. She said a quick, silent prayer that she’d done enough. That she was now unsuitable to become Baron Fentington’s wife. That she would not have to come up with another, more desperate plan to escape a marriage that would be a living hell.
She ground her teeth together when she thought of Fentington. He thought no one knew. Thought his darksecrets were his own and no one was wise to his perverted acts. Thought he could keep his depravity hidden behind his outward show of religious piety. But Grace knew.
She and Hannah had grown up together. Had been best friends. She’d heard too many horror stories not to know what her life would be if she married him—the beatings, the endless hours on her knees in submission and prayer, his sexual depravity. From Hannah she’d even heard as fact that the baron’s last wife had taken her own life to escape his cruelty. Had risked eternity in hell rather than a hell here on earth.
No. She would not marry him. But it was her father who concerned her more. He had successfully married off all six of his other daughters. Only Grace, the oldest, remained. The one not quite as pretty or quite as outgoing. The one more content to play her music and read her books than learn to flirt. The one who usually stood off to the side at any gathering and whose intelligence frightened most men away.
The one he’d made sure no one wanted so she would be left behind to be the mother her sisters no longer had.
She knew she’d always been a disappointment to him, but surely when his temper
She couldn’t believe she’d done the things she had with him. Found it even harder to believe she’d let him do to her what he had.
Grace closed her eyes until her rapid breathing slowed. Oh, but it had been wonderful.
She refused to forget what it had felt like when he pushed her gown from her shoulders. What it felt like when he held her and touched her and kissed her. When he placed her on the bed and came over her. When he lowered his magnificently muscled body and entered her. She refused to forget even one small detail of that night. Even the pain. It was all part of her experience.
For one night, one brief and wonderful night, she’d been held in a man’s arms and loved.
Oh, she knew he didn’t love her—he didn’t even know her name, just as she didn’t know his. But he’d held her and kissed her and taken her as a man takes a woman. He hadn’t been repulsed by her because she wasn’t a great beauty, or been put off because she wasn’t so very young any longer. She was, after all, nearing thirty. He’d only been confused when he realized she was a virgin. But he’d continued making love to her as if he couldn’t have stopped even if he’d tried.
Yes, she had this one beautiful memory to cherish. She would never forget even one small detail of it. Never forget one moment of the time she’d spent in her stranger’s arms. Never regret what she’d done. No matter what the consequences, it would be better than the certainty she would have faced had she not done something so drastic.
Grace leaned her head back against the cushioned chair and closed her eyes. She let herself remember his face, his dark scowl, his hooded expression, his high, broad cheekbones and wide, angular chin. He was every inch a strong, powerful male. Every inch rugged masculinity. She smiled, then sat up in alarm.
It was quiet below.
She clenched her hands in her lap and tried to keep her breathing even and slow. She said a quick, silent prayer that she’d done enough. That she was now unsuitable to become Baron Fentington’s wife. That she would not have to come up with another, more desperate plan to escape a marriage that would be a living hell.
She ground her teeth together when she thought of Fentington. He thought no one knew. Thought his darksecrets were his own and no one was wise to his perverted acts. Thought he could keep his depravity hidden behind his outward show of religious piety. But Grace knew.
She and Hannah had grown up together. Had been best friends. She’d heard too many horror stories not to know what her life would be if she married him—the beatings, the endless hours on her knees in submission and prayer, his sexual depravity. From Hannah she’d even heard as fact that the baron’s last wife had taken her own life to escape his cruelty. Had risked eternity in hell rather than a hell here on earth.
No. She would not marry him. But it was her father who concerned her more. He had successfully married off all six of his other daughters. Only Grace, the oldest, remained. The one not quite as pretty or quite as outgoing. The one more content to play her music and read her books than learn to flirt. The one who usually stood off to the side at any gathering and whose intelligence frightened most men away.
The one he’d made sure no one wanted so she would be left behind to be the mother her sisters no longer had.
She knew she’d always been a disappointment to him, but surely when his temper
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