And then, miraculously, the falling stopped.
Warm arms cradled her tight against a solid chest. The cup clattered to the floor, and she realized the front of her gown was cold and wet. At least this time, she had spilled something on her own dress, not someone else’s.
“I’m qu-qu-quite all right,” she murmured, not daring to look up and see whether it was Sir Blue Eyes or Mr. Dimpled Cheek who had caught her. Either one would make her knees wobble and her stomach flutter.
“But quite damp,” came the amused reply.
Mr. Dimpled Cheek, then, she decided.
“As am I,” another male voice observed.
Sir Blue Eyes. Oh dear, she had spilled the lemonade on him as well as herself. So much for having ruined only her own clothing. How mortifying.
Mr. Dimpled Cheek set her on her feet. “We’d best get you to a retiring room to clean up, my dear.”
Grace finally dared to lift her gaze. Her stomach flipped, just as she’d expected. “That’s quite all right, sir. I can manage on my own.”
Mr. Dimpled Cheek grinned. Sure enough, a deep, devilish crease appeared there. “I beg to differ.”
“B-b-but my ch-chaperone…” she protested, glancing to the opposite side of the ballroom where she’d left Aunt Georgie. The elderly woman sat precisely where Grace had left her, dozing in her chair.
“Is otherwise occupied,” Sir Blue Eyes supplied. “Please, allow us to escort you, my lady.”
She oughtn’t, of course, but the wetness seeping through her bodice and into her stays was a compelling reason to quit the ballroom as soon as possible. Besides, what harm could befall her between here and the retiring rooms in a town house full of people?
You could be eaten by the Big Bad Wolf. Or wolves, her cautious, sensible side argued.
She looked from one man to another, and the heat in her belly thickened at the expressions on their faces. Not pitying nor condescending, but admiring. And hungry.
A treacherous, irrational voice whispered in her head. Would it be so awful to be devoured?
Chapter Two
Colin followed his best friend and his future wife from the ballroom, conscious of the twitters of conversation and titters of laughter that followed them.
The first part of their plan had come together flawlessly. It was unfortunate that spiriting the lovely Lady Grace from the throng had required them to make use of her legendary clumsiness, but he hoped she would forgive them once she understood their intentions were pure.
Well, mostly pure.
He supposed it wasn’t every day a lady received a marriage proposal from not one man, but two.
Of course, she would be Colin’s wife in the eyes of the law. Any children she bore would be his heirs. But, if she accepted, she would be as much Atticus’s woman as Colin’s. Both of them would care for her, protect her, cherish her…and fuck her.
His balls grew heavier as his gaze fell to the rounded curve of Lady Grace’s lovely arse. He hadn’t quite believed it when Atticus had told him he’d found the perfect woman for them. Well-bred, kindhearted, quick-witted…and, like them, incapable of finding a suitable mate.
Colin compressed his lips at the unwelcome thought. He didn’t need to be reminded of the ostracism he and Atticus endured due to their “unnatural bond.” Most of the time, it didn’t trouble either of them in the least. Or it hadn’t, until Colin’s need for an heir to prevent his family’s estate from reverting to the Crown had begun to nip at his heels, a persistent pest that robbed him of the pleasure he’d once taken in the courtesans and other women of questionable virtue who were willing to accept the attentions of two men at once.
He supposed he could have made an honest woman of any of those so-called ladies, for he had no family to object to his choice, but he owed his long-dead parents and his future children better than that. In a generation or two, his scandalous behavior would be forgotten, but only if his children had a mother whose background and breeding was unassailable—even if her choice in men was not.
As they reached the corridor upon which the retiring rooms were located, Colin cast his eyes heavenward and prayed that Lady Grace could be won over by what was bound to be the most shocking proposition she would ever receive.
“Here you are, my lady,” Mr. Dimpled Cheek said, turning the knob and swinging inward the door to the retiring room.
“Thank you, s-sir,” she acknowledged, stepping inside the small chamber furnished with a dressing table and chair, a settee, and a privy screen. Unfortunately, she saw nothing to aid her in her current plight. Perhaps she would just hide for the remainder of the night. No one would miss her anyway, least of all Aunt Georgie, whose snores were likely loud enough by now to be heard over the music.
She turned to close the door and found her rescuer had followed her inside. Along with his friend.
Alarm and something else—was it excitement?—tingled along her skin. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I invited you to join me.” How she got all those words out without a single stutter was beyond her, but the exultation curling through her veins made her bold.
“I know,” Mr. Dimpled Cheek said, “but we have a matter of some importance to discuss with you. Privately.”
Oh dear. Her stomach flip-flopped at the way his eyes went dreamy and his voice dropped low when he said the word privately.
This was bad. Very bad.
So why wasn’t she afraid?
Sir Blue Eyes shut the door and locked it before leaning against it.
Her eyes widened a fraction, and her heart lurched irregularly. She was trapped. About to be ravished. But instead of finding the prospect horrifying, she burned with anticipation…and curiosity.
She didn’t know precisely what it meant to be ravished—except that no respectable gentleman would ever marry her afterward, but it wasn’t as if she’d been getting any interest from respectable gentlemen up to now, was it?—but she suddenly wished she did. Wished she knew what they would do to her in the privacy of this room that would ruin her for life. Because the dark, intense look in these men’s eyes didn’t make her feel threatened. And for once, she wasn’t too-tall, too-buxom, too-red-haired, too-clumsy Grace, but a woman worthy of the desire of not one, but two, of the handsomest men she had ever seen.
Her pulse settled between her thighs. She licked her lips, the thirst she hadn’t yet quenched becoming something altogether different. Deeper. Stronger. More insistent.
Mr. Dimpled Cheek took a step toward her, but stopped when Sir Blue Eyes cleared his throat. “I think we’d best introduce ourselves first,” he drawled, the first words he had uttered since they left the ballroom. His voice was smooth and rich, like melted butter on puff pastry. “Explain our intentions.”
Mr. Dimpled Cheek pulled a mock frown. “Oh, very well, if we must.” He straightened to his full height—several inches over her awkward five feet and ten inches—stretched one finely-muscled leg in front of the other, and executed a courtly bow. “If it please your lady, I am Mr. Atticus Stilwell, and this,” he continued, standing and gesturing in Sir Blue Eyes’ direction, “is Viscount Colin Fitzgerald.”
Momentarily dumbfounded by this abrupt shift in the tension pervading the small room, Grace could only nod and marvel that, somehow, she had correctly intuited which