But this man clearly had an issue with her being here.
Gathering her book, she glared at him. “This is not your land, but the Duke of Blackmore’s.”
He was still rubbing his jaw with his large hand, and a smattering of small scars on the back of his knuckles drew her unwilling attention.
“It is my land. I am the Duke of Blackmore.”
The words sank into Grace’s thoughts. The old Duke had died in his sleep over three months before and rumours abounded as to when his heir would finally come back and take up his title. “You?”
He didn’t smile. “And you are…?”
Grace found it difficult to form the words. This was Nicholas Sinclair. The last time she’d seen him, he was but a lad of fifteen, right before his brother had perished and he’d run off to join the Navy. All the girls in the village had swooned over the two brothers and their good looks, including Grace. Of course, she’d been only five years of age at the time, but she would never forget his arrogant smile.
The years had not been kind to him, the promise of youth had given way to a harsh featured man with angular cheekbones and a strong jawline. Oh, he was still as handsome as sin with his hair midnight black, and his eyes a deep-set blue, but there was now a smattering of grey at the temples and his eyes were those of someone who had seen too much. There was no kindness in them, and Grace wondered with a small shiver if there was any kindness in him at all.
“Do you not speak now?”
Swallowing, Grace gathered her skirts and stood, peering down at him still seated on the ground. “Of course, I speak. I was just shocked to discover you had finally arrived, tis all. Everyone had given you up for dead.”
He didn’t rise. “As you can see Madam, I am very much alive, and you haven’t answered my question.”
“And as we are not acquainted Sir, you have no right to know who I am,” she replied haughtily, lifting her chin. If her voice wavered a little, she hoped it didn’t show.
He rose then, his imposing stature putting him nearly a head taller than she was. “Madam, I emphatically disagree. I can assure you I have every right to know who you are. You are from this village I assume?”
Grace clenched her jaw tightly, heart pounding. “I am.”
His eyes hardened further. “Then clearly you belong to me.”
His words had a bite of steel to them that sent another shiver down her spine and Grace found herself wondering what would happen if she struck him for his insolent words.
She belonged to no one, least of all him. “I will never be owned by anyone,” she responded tightly.
“What about your husband madam – whoever the unfortunate individual may be?” Part of him knew he was foolish to trade insults with this strange woman.
“I have no husband Sir and have no intention of taking one.”
“A happy coincidence. I doubt any man would want a sharp-tongued harridan like you in his bed,” the Duke replied cuttingly, his eyes raking down her homespun dress.
Grace drew in an outraged breath. “And you Sir, have appalling manners for a duke,” she stated frostily, gratified to see his eyes narrow slightly. “Good day your grace.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, brushing past him and heading with hurried steps out of the orchard toward the village. Her heart was hammering against her chest, her fingers white from clutching her book tightly against her. The Duke of Blackmore was home.
He would soon find out who she was as her father was retained at his grace’s pleasure. As the vicar of the village and of the estate, he answered directly to Nicholas Sinclair himself.
Her heart lurched at the possibility of the Duke making a complaint about her. If he did so, she would probably not see the outside her room for the rest of the year, and even worse, with no books to read.
Grace finally reached the vicarage and pushed open the door, her mind consumed with the need to extract herself from the possible repercussions of her foolish words to the new Duke. Why couldn’t she ever keep her mouth shut?
Paying no heed to the never-ending background chatter from her sisters that echoed throughout the house, she made her way as swiftly and discreetly as possible to the bed chamber she shared with her sister Temperance.
As the eldest of eight girls in the household, Grace had become an expert at blending in with the furniture. The alternative was to attract the attention of any or all of her sisters or having to deal with the current Mrs. Shackleford’s latest attack of the vapours. She scarcely remembered her own mother who died of consumption when she was eight years of age.
Even though the Reverend had wed twice more after her mother had died, Grace had always been the one her sisters turned to whenever they got into scrapes. In her younger days, it had to be said that most of the time, the predicaments the sisters found themselves in were generally instigated by Grace herself.
While she was under no illusions regarding her own lack of ladylike virtues, Grace had slowly become increasingly concerned that she had unwittingly passed her unruly behaviour on to her younger siblings.
At twenty-five, she had no intentions of ever looking for a husband and was content to remain a spinster. However, that did not mean the same fate had to await her sisters. After several futile attempts to instil some kind of discipline, Grace gradually realized the only way she could discourage her siblings’ wild ways was to avoid her sisters whenever possible. However, she had to admit, this strategy wasn’t terribly successful.
Ranging in ages from eighteen down to ten, the youngest three sisters had spent most of their lives running wild following the older four, who had in turn taken their lead from Grace. They simply did not know how to behave any differently. And then of course there was the added complication of their five-year-old half-brother who had enthusiastically joined in the mayhem since the day he could walk - whenever he was out of sight of his mother. Which was often given the fact that the current Mrs. Shackleford spent most of the day recumbent on the parlour’s chaise longue.
And now with the Duke not returned for five minutes and he and Grace already at cross purposes, she was very worried indeed about the possible effect their estrangement may have on her sisters’ admittedly already meagre chances at matrimonial happiness.
Grace rested her head wearily against her bedchamber door. She felt truly sick. What in God’s name was she going to do?
∞∞∞
“Augustus, please can you put a stop to that infernal shrieking and barking. I think my head is in grave danger of splitting in two… Oh, and please ask Grace to fetch my salts.”
“Yes dear.” The Reverend’s response to his wife’s plaintive was vague at best. Indeed, it was probable he didn’t hear any of it. He was currently busy drafting a letter to a few prospective candidates for his eldest daughter’s hand in marriage. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going well.
Percy’s list was best described as meagre. In fact, there were only three bachelors living within the county who could be considered a catch of any description, and none of them was likely to provide enough blunt to make a meaningful contribution to his son’s future.
Eventually the noise reached even his unsensitive ears, and that, accompanied by his wife’s wailing, caused him to finally frown and put down his pen.
“What the deuce is going on? DOWN FREDDY,” he roared, as the dog began capering around him in excitement.
“Faith Augustus, your voice is going to put me in an early grave I swear.” The Reverend refrained from adding an “Amen,” to his wife’s sentiment and strode over to the door.
“GRACE.” His voice triggered a sudden silence and four heads peered down at him from the top of the bannister.
“She stole my ribbon father.”
“It was my ribbon first.”
“You have too many ribbons anyway.”
“And you don’t have any hair to put them in.”
“You take that back or I’ll…”
The Reverend sighed and prepared
to wade in. It wasn’t uncommon for such a fracas to end up with bloodshed. “Fripperies,” he yelled, “have no place in a house belonging to God.”
“Tis a blessing this one belongs to you then father.” He couldn’t pinpoint which of the culprits had uttered the blasphemous remark, but enough was enough. He drew himself up ready to deliver a blistering set down, but before he had the chance to open his mouth, there was a loud knock on the door to which Freddy reacted as if they were under attack by barking loud enough to wake the dead.
The four girls wasted no time in grasping the opportunity to disappear and after hurriedly depositing Freddy in the study, the Reverend was forced to take more than one deep breath in order to ensure he was comporting himself in the appropriately pious manner required of a vicar. The loud knocking continued until he finally composed himself enough to throw open the door.
Surprisingly it did not appear to be one of his parishioners standing on his step, but a lad of around twelve. His attire was worn but clean, as was the boy’s face. The Reverend saw none of this however and thinking himself at the wrong end of some havey-cavey business, frowned and stepped back, preparing to slam the door in the miscreant’s face.
Before he could do so however, the boy spoke. “Are you the Reverend Shackleford?” The varmint’s tone was verging on insolence and the Reverend began to shut the door in distaste. “I’ve a missive from the Duke for ‘im.”
Reverend Shackleford paused. What was the likelihood of the Duke of Blackmore entrusting such a lad with any kind of message? It was indeed very likely to be a sham. But what if it wasn’t. He’d not heard from the Duke since his grace’s arrival and such a summons was certainly well overdue.
Huffing, the Reverend took a wary step forward. “Give it here then,” he muttered holding out his hand, careful to remain alert for any possible shenanigans. The boy simply stared at him and held the missive behind his back, clearly waiting for some kind of reward. Taking a deep outraged breath, the Reverend very nearly resorted to swearing. Eventually however, he calmed down enough to rummage inside his pockets, finally discovering a farthing which he dropped into a suddenly eager outstretched hand in exchange for the now badly creased communication. Which sure enough bore the Duke’s seal.
Praising the Lord that he hadn’t shut the door in the lad’s face, the Reverend tore open the missive and read its contents.
It was as he’d surmised a summons to attend the Duke in his study at ten am on the morrow. He wasn’t unduly worried but simply assumed the new incumbent wished to re-establish their acquaintance and verify that the vicar was up to the business of ensuring the new Duke’s soul departed this mortal coil in the right direction when the time came.
Curtly ordering the boy to wait, the Reverend quickly penned a brief response detailing his happy acquiescence, then thrust the note into the boy’s hand and bid him be off lest he find himself in receipt of more than a piece of paper.
After finally slamming the door he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Looking up he was surprised to see Grace coming down towards him. This was a turn of events indeed. Usually his eldest daughter had to be prized out her room like a cockle from its shell, certainly when her father was at home.
The Reverend stood and waited; his mind already turned to the possibility of using this rare opportunity to remind Grace of her duty in the matrimonial stakes. However, as she slowly got to the bottom couple of steps, he couldn’t help but take note of her pallor and frowned, hoping she wasn’t about to come down with some kind of ague.
He was just about to speak but as his daughter reached the second to bottom step, she predictably tripped, falling forward, her hands flailing like a startled starfish before managing to correct herself in time to arrive mercifully upright at the bottom of the stairs.
They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. “Has the note come from the Duke of Blackmore?” she finally asked in a small voice so unlike Grace, the Reverend had to look hard to check he’d got the right daughter.”
He was tempted to tell the chit to mind her own business, but in light of the conversation he knew he wasn’t going to be able to put off for much longer, he held his tongue, saying instead, “Indeed. Tis but a summons to wait on him tomorrow which I would have expected sooner if am honest.”
To his vast surprise, his daughter’s eyes widened as though she’d seen a ghost before falling in a dead faint at his feet.
Chapter Three
“The Reverend Augustus Shackleford.”
Nicholas laid down his pen as he watched the stout man walk into the study, his waistcoat straining to cover his stomach. The last time he’d seen Augustus Shackleford, the Reverend had definitely been a lot trimmer. In all other ways, time, or possibly God, appeared to have treated him very well.
“Your grace,” the Reverend said, cordially, bowing as much as he was able.
“Reverend,” Nicholas acknowledged, gesturing to the chair before the desk. It had taken him a week to step into this study and another week to feel comfortable in the leather chair he currently sat in.
The ghost of his father still seemed to linger, but Nicholas knew he would likely never rid himself of the bastard’s presence for the rest of his days.
“May I offer you some refreshement?”
“Perhaps some cordial? A cold drink would be very welcome on such a warm day,” the vicar responded, pulling out his kerchief and dotting his forehead with it. Nicholas nodded to the butler and invited the Reverend to take a seat.
Reverend Shackleford seated himself with a grateful sigh. He’d forgone the curricle this morning in favour of a sedate walk, thinking the time it took him to reach the Duke’s residence would provide a much-needed quiet interlude to mull over the recent turn of events. Things were clearly much worse than he’d thought. There was plainly something wrong with his eldest daughter.
Grace, who’d never to his knowledge ever ailed in her life, had continued to float around the vicarage, seemingly unable to settle, ever since her episode the day before. Normally preferring the sanctuary of her room, the Reverend had seen more of her in one day than he had in the last ten years, and for the whole time she appeared to be watching him fearfully.
While Reverend Shackleford was not lauded for his patience, neither was he unkind or particularly bad tempered. Indeed, his most important consideration was to ensure his life continued as peacefully and uneventfully as possible. To his knowledge, none of his daughters held any great fear of him and Grace’s constant staring was seriously beginning to unnerve him, especially as she continuously appeared on the verge of speaking.
He did not know how, but it was becoming clear that Grace somehow knew of his plans. His first thought was that perhaps Percy had been loose tongued, but when he’d casually thrown the curate’s name into the conversation, there had been no reaction. And she certainly hadn’t shown any interest in Percy during dinner. He fervently hoped that was the issue.
There were of course other causes which would be far worse. He shuddered, wondering how much it would likely cost him should he be forced to persuade some gentleman to make an honest woman of her.
“A wife.” The Reverend heard the words through a fog and looked up at the Duke in horror, wondering if he’d somehow spoken his concerns aloud.
“I beg your pardon, your grace,” he stammered hurriedly, “I must beg your indulgence, but I didn’t quite catch what you were saying.”
Nicholas frowned. Clearly the cleric hadn’t heard a word. Was the man addled? The Duke opened his mouth to deliver a blistering set down but at that moment Huntley appeared with a tray of refreshments. After carefully setting the tray down on the desk, he handed a crystal goblet to the Reverend who took it gratefully. Nicholas shook his head when offered a glass, enduring the interruption with ill-concealed impatience.
Reverend Shackleford used the opportunity to gather his wits. Perhaps the Duke would be an ally in finding a suitable match for Grace. A quiet word from someone s
o influential would go a long way to silence the gossip mongers. By the time the door closed on the elderly butler, he was able to direct his attention to the Duke in the pious and restrained manner expected of a man of the cloth.
“You were saying, your grace?” he offered, sipping at his drink.
The Duke of Blackmore set his jaw, causing the Reverend to shift in his seat a trifle nervously.
“I am in need of a wife,” Nicholas grated out finally, the words clearly struggling to make it past his tongue.
Reverend Shackleford blinked. He wasn’t sure how the Duke expected him to help in his grace’s matrimonial ambitions. As a vicar, he certainly didn’t mix in the kind of circles favoured by the higher echelons of the aristocracy. And he had enough matrimonial problems of his own to deal with.
“Err, I’m not sure how I can help you your grace. Is it spiritual guidance for a young lady perhaps? Or is it more of a chaperone you’re in need of? I’m happy to be of service if I can.”
The Duke ground his teeth in frustration. Infernal man. “I need one of your daughters.”
∞∞∞
After some discreet correspondence, Nicholas had learned that Reverend Shackleford had eight daughters in his household, a few of them of marriageable age. He had no intention of going through the business of wooing a wife or taking off to London in search of a titled one.
He needed a respectful, meek and dutiful woman who would quietly provide him with an heir without any fuss and bother. Surely as a man of God, the Reverend could be relied upon to have raised his daughters to be such?
Nicholas became aware that the older man was staring at him open-mouthed.
“Is something amiss,” he asked as the silence lengthened.
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 2
