Free Hot Silk by Sharon Page Page B

for two years, is it?”
    “There comes a time in every man’s life when he begins to act like a blooming idiot, and it’s my time now, love.”
    She frowned. “That’s not an answer, Captain Devlin Sharpe.” Slowly, Lucy let her pretty ivory hand fall from the doorjamb. Her lips turned down and gave a quiver that almost made him take a step toward her. Cursing below his breath, he stood his ground. He had no right to make any promises—even wordless ones—that he could not keep. Waiting, her breasts lifting with a deep, hopeful breath, Lucy finally let her shoulders slump. But then she straightened, and he grinned, knowing she was determined to keep her pride. Radiating that pride, she walked out of his room.
    His door shut with a click. A man’s lusty laugh sounded through it, and Lucy gave a squeal—a damned convincing one for a girl who had apparently been wounded by his rejection.
    He hoped she enjoyed herself.
    In this house, women casually trotted about naked. There would likely be an orgy after breakfast.
    He’d gambled on playing the highwayman on the well-traveled road leading into Brighton, where the ton retreated in the hot summer months. The climate suited him and the risk was high, throwing him into challenges he enjoyed. He’d been able to have his men watch Grace, who was staying in Brighton with her sister Venetia.
    He’d gambled that Grace would be traveling at some point—perhaps returning to London.
    Horatio arriving at full gallop was a sign his gamble had paid off.
    Was she traveling with just her sisters? One of her powerful brothers-in-law?
    His men thought him insane. He probably was.
    Lucy gave a loud, theatrical moan of pleasure from the other side of his door. Trying to torture him, he knew. Blood surged to his rigid cock in answer, but he was thinking of making Grace moan like that.
    Devlin smashed his fist into the plaster wall as his sheet slid down his hips. Hell, he had a damn good life here. Why was it no longer enough?
    My dearest granddaughter…
    The elegant handwriting jiggled before Grace’s eyes as the carriage wheel dropped into a rut. A wave of nausea rose as she focused on the words, clutching the seat to steady herself.
    For so many years, I have wanted to write to you, to make myself known to you, but I could not. The earl would not hear of it. I believe it is foolish to keep only anger and resentment against one’s heart for comfort, but there are those that believe it far more foolish to embrace forgiveness. Is not forgiveness only for those of great strength? But I have learned, in the decades that have passed, that anger may burn hot but it gives cold comfort.
    Silver now graces my hair, and I have long since forgotten what it is to hold a child. It is in these days that I yearn less for the embittering satisfaction of being the one in the right, and more for the joy of seeing my eyes in a young woman’s face, my smile in a girl’s happiness.
    Would you come to me, Grace? I wish to see you, while I am able. If you are willing to grant me this, to reunite, I warn that it cannot be done at my home. I wish to meet you where the past is not of significance, and where the future surrounds us. How tragic it is that a woman cannot meet her granddaughter in her rooms, but that is the madness of my life, and I long since learned to adapt and not battle. On the surface, it seems that I dare not defy the earl, but women do, in subtle ways, and it is so much more pleasant to keep peace.
    Come to me for the 15 th of August. Lord Avermere has invited me to his lovely house on the Isle of Wight, very near Cowes. I have made him aware of my wishes—and so you will be admitted and you may join me here. Such a dear man, Avermere has readily agreed. Please come, Grace. For I have seen you in London, and I have seen in you the woman I once was, and I wish, so very much, to know your mind and your heart, and to do so before it is too late.
    Yours,
Sophia Augusta, Countess of