The Missing Heir. Gail Ranstrom

of his shoulders, she was acutely aware of Adam’s large hand splayed at the small of her back, pressing her closer as his other hand slid up her spine to caress the stretch of her neck. Chill bumps sent a delicate shiver through her and her breasts firmed in response.

      Slowly, almost reluctantly, Adam lifted his head enough to look into her eyes. A lazy smile curved his mouth. He cupped her head as he lowered to her lips again. This time the kiss was subtly different, no longer asking but insisting. This time his tongue, tasting faintly of sherry, made contact with hers. The depth of intimacy in that touch shook her to her very core. She was experiencing Adam in a way that she had never experienced any other man. This intimacy felt more intense to her than all the nights of Basil’s clumsy and ineffectual fumbling or Barrington’s sporadic attempts to woo her.

      It was just a kiss. Just…a kiss? How could it feel like so much more? He broke contact and she sighed in protest.

      “Shh,” he whispered. “Patience.” He trailed a path of tiny kisses to a spot just beneath her ear, where he hovered for a moment, his lips barely brushing her flesh as he spoke. “I feel your heart beating,” he said, then nibbled and tugged gently at her earlobe.

      She closed her eyes and her knees nearly buckled. Adam continued to give attention to the spot while the hand that had cupped her head moved downward, then around to brush her breast. Oh, how sweet a sensation that was coupled with the tingle of his kiss!

      The dinner bell shattered the moment and Adam straightened, looking heavy-eyed and exceptionally annoyed. He released her, keeping one hand at her waist to steady her.

      He studied her face and gave her a teasing grin. “I…concede that I may not have shocked you, Mrs. Forbush, but I collect that I’ve managed to surprise you.”

      Grace took a steadying breath, confused thoughts and emotions running riot through her muddled brain. Where had those feelings, those yearnings, come from? She glanced down at the floor and smoothed her gown, trying to cover her perplexity. “Surprise? Why, yes. You did.”

      Adam turned away and went back to his sherry. With his back to her, he took a long drink and squared his shoulders before saying, “Should I say I am sorry?”

      “Only if you mean it, Mr. Hawthorne.”

      The silence dragged out for a moment before she realized he was not going to apologize. He was not sorry he’d kissed her. She paused, giving time and distance a chance to restore her composure. “Nevertheless,” she murmured, “if we are to keep close quarters—”

      “We’d do well to guard against a reoccurrence of that sort,” Adam finished for her. He turned to face her again, looking as shaken as she felt.

      She nodded, her mind in turmoil. This was an intolerable complication! Everything she held dear was at risk. She couldn’t allow herself to feel this way. She just couldn’t. It would complicate everything!

      The library doors opened and Dianthe peeked in. “Oh, here you are. Did you hear the dinner bell? I’m famished and Mrs. Dewberry has made her poached salmon and a lovely aspic.” She looked at Grace, then Adam, and smiled. “But ignore my interruption, please.”

      “Quite all right, Miss Lovejoy,” Adam said, going to take her arm to escort her to the dining room. He glanced back at Grace and winked. “I am famished, as well.”

       Chapter Five

       D espite the gilt elegance of the main salon, there was something about the wholly masculine atmosphere of a gambling hell and the men who inhabited it that intrigued Grace—a coarseness and baseness that seemed to contradict their underlying dignity. In one corner, she watched as a man celebrated as a great naval hero, and reportedly happily married, cursed roundly as he threw his cards on the table. He pulled the young woman next to him into his arms, swearing that if he could not win at cards, he’d damned well win at love. She giggled as he led her out of the main salon and down a darkened corridor to the rooms kept for such purposes. If this was the sort of activity men preferred, it was a wonder to ever find them at an afternoon garden party.

      Barrington whispered, “There, Grace. I warned you what sort of thing goes on at these places. Are you ready to throw it in?”

      She thought of the bruises on Laura Talbot’s arms. No, she could not “throw it in.” “Really, my lord, do you think me so delicate that I cannot withstand a little smoke and the demimonde?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Geoffrey Morgan come through the arched entry to the main salon.

      “Why would you want to? That is what I’d like to know,” Barrington muttered. “Never would have suspected you’d have a taste for the low life, Grace.”

      Low life? “Do you think I have sunk low just because I wish to play a few games of chance?” she asked as she watched Morgan’s cool gaze sweep the room.

      “Er, no, Grace. Nothing of the sort. Just don’t think this is a suitable place for a woman of your…your social standing and exceptional reputation.”

      “Perhaps it is just the place,” she said with a little shrug. “I have been thinking, lately, that I’ve become a bit stodgy.”

      Morgan glanced in their direction and smiled. Grace wet her lips. He was coming toward them and, by the length of his stride, he would be upon them before Barrington noticed. When Barrington did notice his advance, it was too late.

      “Barrington,” Morgan greeted him. “I haven’t seen you here in a while. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

      Barrington affected a look of surprise. “Oh, Morgan. Nice to see you again. I’ve been keeping busy. Always a war somewhere, you know.”

      Geoffrey Morgan laughed and Grace was struck by the sound. Though she suspected it was polite and social, it had the ring of sincerity. Was he enjoying Barrington’s discomfort?

      “Well, I am glad to see you back. I’ve always said you are an excellent player.”

      “Yes, well…” Barrington paused awkwardly. “I, uh, I suppose you’ve met Mrs. Forbush?”

      “A lifetime ago, it seems, although I was simply Mr. Morgan then.” Morgan turned his full attention to her. “It is nice to see you again, Mrs. Forbush.”

      “Lord Geoffrey.” Grace smiled in acknowledgment. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Forbush. Are you enjoying yourself?”

      “Very much.” She smiled, her excitement rising now that she’d finally made the first contact. “I had no idea such exciting entertainments were only moments away from Almack’s.”

      He laughed and nodded. “And now that you’ve been here, you are not likely to be invited back to Almack’s.”

      “Then, since I will have the spare time, you are certain to see more of me.” She tilted her head slightly and gave him an innocent smile.

      He lowered his voice and said, “I pray that is so, Mrs. Forbush.”

      Barrington cleared his throat. “Grace is just playing at gambling, Morgan. She’ll soon tire of it and—”

      She patted her escort’s arm and smiled up at him. “Lord Barrington is always kind enough to indulge my whims, whether he understands them or not.”

      Her escort looked down at her, momentarily confused. “Why, uh, I do my best.”

      “As would I,” Morgan said, “were I fortunate enough to have the attention of so lovely a woman.”

      Barrington bristled. “But Grace, er, Mrs. Forbush, wants to take more risks than she should. A little reckless, if you ask me,” he continued, just warming to the subject.

      “Reckless, eh?” Morgan asked.

      Grace could almost see his speculation. Was he assessing her to determine if she’d be an easy mark? Or just wondering precisely how