Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1)

by Beverley Watts

  She carefully bathed and washed her hair before donning the gown and allowing Temperance to arrange her hair into a simple chignon. The twins tucked flowers into her curls and helped Grace gather her things before she said farewell to each of her sisters, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she did so.

  “Be strong Gracie,” Temperance whispered against her cheek as she embraced her sister. “Mother would be so proud of you.”

  “Their care falls to you now,” Grace whispered back as she released her. “Do your best to curb their greater excesses, Tempy. If any of you are to make suitable matches, you will all need to start behaving like young ladies.”

  This was the first time Grace had spoken thus to her younger sister, and Temperance, who’d spent the night tossing and turning at the thought of her father's curate as a potential suitor, nodded her head grimly. Grace gripped her sister's hand in acknowledgement and turned away before she disgraced herself completely.

  Her father and Agnes were waiting at the door, the Reverend dressed in his finest cassock with a wide smile on his face. To Grace’s surprise, Agnes grasped her hands, tears in her eyes. “Look at you, about to become a duchess.”

  “Come,” her father stated, motioning to the carriage the Duke had sent for them, “Blackmore awaits.”

  Grace looked back, seeing her sisters crowding the doorway to wave goodbye and blinked back the tears that continually threatened. They would do her no good now.

  The drive to her future residence was short, but with every passing minute Grace felt her anxiety rise until it threatened to swamp her. By the time the carriage halted in front of her magnificent new home, Grace felt the first onset of queasiness. She had eaten nothing since rising, and now her body was reminding her of her folly in no uncertain terms. Swallowing nervously, she accepted the hand of the footman as he reached for her, carefully stepping down out of the carriage.

  There in the imposing doorway, stood the Duke, silently watching. Grace felt her queasiness increase as she met his eyes and chanced to observe the shock on his face when he finally realised who he’d signed the marriage contract for.

  Taking her father’s arm, she ascended the stairs slowly, taking in shallow panting breaths in an attempt to quell the rising nausea and feeling as though she were going to a scaffold rather than her marriage bed.

  As they reached the top, the Duke finally stepped forward, his face now blank of any emotion. He held out his hand towards her and Grace swallowed convulsively as she offered one last pleading glance up at her father. The Reverend simply nodded his approval and gently pushed her towards her husband to be with an encouraging smile.

  Everything seemed to slow down as Grace reached for the Duke’s hand, stumbled forward and finally felt the threatened bile surge up unbidden as she emptied the meagre contents of her stomach right at his feet.

  Chapter Five

  It was the chit from the orchard.

  Nicholas nearly laughed aloud at this twist of fate as he watched the Reverend and his daughter move up the stairs, wondering what she was thinking about this nuptial. He imagined she’d known of her fate before he had, but the woman before him bore no resemblance to the harridan who’d taken him to task the last time they met. This version looked as though she was about to faint. Her colour was that of someone at death’s door.

  The Duke frowned, wondering if Reverend Shackleford was trying to pull the wool over his eyes by wedding him to someone who was gravely ill. Although it had to be said, she was a little on the buxom side to be suffering from any serious malady. Despite her obvious discomfort however, her eyes did not leave his as she slowly climbed the steps and Nicholas felt the first stirrings of an unwilling admiration.

  She seemed taller than he remembered. Her dark hair was artfully curled with fresh spring flowers threaded through it. Her green dress clung to a voluptuous form he’d certainly not taken note of during their last meeting. Indeed, she was quite lovely. As she got closer, her eyes flared with barely concealed panic and she appeared to be panting slightly, leaning heavily on her father who was smiling broadly, seemingly oblivious to his daughter’s discomfort

  She was certainly pretty enough to turn a few heads, and providing her manners proved to be acceptable, she would do well enough.

  And then she threw up all over his immaculately polished hessians.

  ∞∞∞

  “I cannot apologise enough your grace. I have no idea what came over her. Grace is usually so… so, well, composed. I’m sure it’s simply a trifling attack of the vapours. Any young woman would indeed swoon at the prospect of being wed to such a fine specimen of a man.”

  Nicholas raised his eyebrows but forbore to mention that swooning wasn’t usually accompanied by vomit.

  “No matter,” he finally answered coolly, just as the Reverend looked as though he was going to throw himself on the nearest sword. As soon as my wife to be makes an appearance, we will begin the ceremony.”

  The Reverend breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  Grace had been sent off with the housekeeper to freshen up while the Duke and her father waited in the drawing room. Both men kept glancing at the clock and as the minutes ticked by, the Reverend began nervously blotting his forehead with a kerchief. After half an hour had passed, Nicholas decided she was either dead or possibly halfway to London by now.

  He was about to call for Huntley, when the door finally opened and the butler announced his wife to be.

  Reverend Shackleford hurried over to his daughter and Nicholas was mildly gratified to observe that he did seem genuinely concerned about her. After a few seconds of whispered conversation, the Reverend mopped his shiny forehead one last time, and turned back towards the Duke who remained motionless.

  “Your grace,” the Reverend said, relief colouring his voice. “This is my eldest, Grace.”

  She dutifully executed a curtesy. “Your grace.”

  Nicholas was glad to note her colour was much improved. However, her eyes were downcast, and her manner remained meek and submissive - nothing at all like the sharp-tongued woman he’d experienced in the orchard. He told himself this was entirely the right and proper conduct for a woman soon to be wed, and if a small part of him felt the slightest disappointment, he determinedly ignored it.

  He stared down at her, vaguely nonplussed. Women had not hitherto played a large part in his life and he was sorely lacking in the art of polite conversation. He wondered what she thought about their arrangement. Not a lot, if her earlier faux pas gave any indication. Had her shock been the same when she’d learned the name of the man she was to marry?

  “I must beg your forgiveness for my rudeness earlier,” she was saying in a low voice, her eyes firmly directed towards the floor.

  Nicholas took a deep breath. “I trust the state of the flooring meets with your approval Miss Shackleford. Welcome to Blackmore, your new home.”

  She straightened, finally meeting his eye. “Is it?”

  “Grace,” her father admonished nervously. “Apologise.”

  Perhaps the chit in the orchard hadn’t entirely disappeared. He raised his eyebrows at her slip and she quickly lowered her eyes back to the floor. However, he made sure to keep his voice polite but distant. “No apology is necessary. Come Miss Shackleford. Let us retire to the chapel and get the ceremony underway. It is clear the flooring is not to your satisfaction and the sooner we can make you the lady of this house, the sooner the polishing will no doubt be up to the required standard.” He wasn’t sure if he imagined the slight twitch at one corner of her mouth as she placed her hand on his arm.

  The chapel was located off the family dining room. Huntley and Mrs. Tenner were brought in as the required witnesses, and in a span of a half an hour, Nicholas found himself stating his vows to a woman he didn’t even know before pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek as her father announced them man and wife.

  Stepping back, he looked at the unsmiling face of his new Duchess, words refusing to form on his
lips. A woman should hear some sentiment on her wedding day, some measure of affection, yet there was none between them.

  Only a measure of regret.

  And then it was over. Reverend Shackleford closed his book of common prayer and glanced at each of them uncertainly.

  “Well,” he stated with forced joviality, depositing the book back into the cavernous folds of his cassock, “Perhaps I should take my leave now. Let err, you err, give you some time to err, get to know each other?” He ended the sentence with a question mark which was directed to the Duke. Nicholas nodded curtly and bade Huntley lead the way back to the entrance hall.

  Once there, he stood back to allow father and daughter to bid each other farewell. The Reverend took Grace in an awkward hug then hurried out of the front door, leaving his wife staring after him, her eyes glistening with tears.

  To his relief however, she didn’t succumb to a flood as the door closed with frightening finality, leaving the two of them standing in the entrance hall, the silence deafening.

  Nicholas couldn’t get past the events that had just happened. He was married.

  There was a discreet cough behind him. “Shall I show her grace to her room?”

  Nicholas turned to find Huntley still hovering nearby, the footman next to him. “Yes,” he stated, his voice rough in his own ears. “My wife will require a morning meal as well.”

  Grace’s eyes flew to his. “Will we not breakfast together?”

  “I have work to do,” he grated out. His wedding day was no different to countless others, just another task he’d been forced to undertake for the Estate.

  His words caught her completely off guard. “But I.. I thought it might give us an opportunity to… well, perhaps… become acquainted, mayhap get to know a little about each other?” Her hesitant voice was again completely different to the sharp-tongued woman he’d first met and his heart contracted almost guiltily at the change.

  “Then you thought wrong madam,” he replied sharply. “Huntley will see to your needs as will Mrs. Tenner. Good day.”

  He turned and strode to his study before she could respond, feeling the tightness of his collar once more. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be forced into marriage or to be working on the endless bloody correspondence.

  All he’d known for so long was the feel the salt air on his face, the sound of his orders being carried out by his sailors or the nervous tension in his body right before a battle.

  He didn’t want this life, yet here he would stay until they carried him out in a box…

  The morning stretched to afternoon, the lunch tray that Mrs. Tenner delivered still left untouched as the shadows grew in the room. Nicholas buried himself in the work, carefully poring over the ledgers left behind by his father’s steward and answering correspondence from London.

  When the room finally darkened, he stood and stoked the fire, watching as the flames consumed the wood. Nicholas knew that any other man in his position would be eagerly making his way to his chamber and preparing himself to consummate his marriage, but his feet would not move from the spot. He was rooted before the flames, protected by the four walls of the study and the closed door to his right.

  Stalking over to the crystal decanters, Nicholas selected a fine brandy and poured a glass, savouring the sweetness on his lips. Tonight was his wedding night, but he would be spending it in this study and not in the arms of his lovely bride. He couldn’t imagine subjecting anyone to the pain and horrors that lived on inside his mind, the images that took over as soon as he closed his eyes.

  He was a broken man, one not fit to have any happiness in his life. Nicholas was to forever suffer for his failures, for Peter’s death, for the deaths of his men, for the death of his…of John.

  He might have been given the medals and accolades of a man with a worthy career, but he felt even less like the celebrated hero than he did the Duke of Blackmore.

  Sighing, Nicholas carried his drink over to the leather chair before the fire and settled in for the night. Tonight, was like every other. The ghosts of his past would infiltrate his mind and have him paralyzed with fear and anguish, just when he was most vulnerable.

  That was not something for any young bride to see or hear. Eventually he would have to pay a visit to her bed if he wished to produce an heir, but right now, Nicholas couldn’t be soused enough to do so.

  Besides, she’d just found herself sold and married to a man who had done nothing but sneer at her. Nicholas imagined the last thing she wished to see was him grunting above her, taking his liberties because he’d put a ring on her finger.

  He downed his brandy, relishing the burning deep down inside his chest, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

  If he was lucky, the nightmares wouldn’t wake the whole household.

  Chapter Six

  The sunlight blinded Grace as she opened her eyes, taking a few moments to look at the unfamiliar room. It was lovely, with the soft colours of blue and green in the wallpaper matching the sumptuous blue carpet covering the floors. When Mrs. Tenner had shown her the room, Grace had nearly laughed aloud at the absurd thought that it was larger than all her sisters’ rooms put together.

  The bed was large enough for all seven of her sisters as well and it had taken Grace some time to get used to the softness under her body as she’d lain there, waiting on her husband.

  Her cotton gown had suddenly seemed silly as she’d donned it for his arrival, wishing she’d had something a bit more, well, fitting for a duke, something that made her feel truly beautiful.

  Not that it mattered. The door that she presumed connected their two bedchambers had remained closed all night and in the bright morning light, Grace felt like a fool to even think that he would come to her room. Their marriage had been nothing more than a business arrangement and while she had not been privy to the real reason the Duke had married her, it certainly wasn’t because he wished to be in her company.

  A frustrated breath left her lungs and Grace threw aside the heavy coverlet, sitting on the side of the bed. While she didn’t want to be married any more than her husband did, they were tied together for the rest of their lives. The heavy ring on her finger told her so. She had to assume the Duke wished for an heir. Why else would he bother taking a wife? And for her, the only thing that could possibly make the arrangement even remotely tolerable was for her to have a child.

  While she might not be an expert in matters of the flesh, she knew there was no chance of that if her husband did not actually come to her bed. Somehow, she had to change that.

  Which meant she needed to learn about her husband, about his likes and dislikes as well the real reason he hadn’t sought out her bed on their wedding night.

  After rummaging through her meagre belongings, Grace quickly dressed and tied her hair back in a simple ribbon before hurrying out of her room and down the hallway, trying not to gawk at the finery surrounding her. It was hard for her to believe that this was her home now, that these were her possessions.

  That she was the Duchess of Blackmore.

  As she descended the stairs, she heard voices coming from an open door, one of which sounded suspiciously like her new husband.

  What should she say to him?

  Would he even talk to her this morning? Grace wondered if he’d ever be able to give her a look that did not equate to a frown. Mayhap now was the time to find out.

  She gently pushed the door wider, the faint smell of tobacco wafting out of the room as she did so. Her husband was seated behind a large desk, with a small man in one of the chairs in front, both men discussing the ledger that was open before them. “This cannot be accurate,” the Duke was stating, his long finger stabbing at the page before him. “I’ve done my own calculations. I believe it is off by one hundred pounds.”

  “I assure you, your grace,” the other man stammered. “I’ve transposed the numbers correctly.”

  “Then perhaps I should take it out of your funds Mr. Thomas.”

&nb
sp; “Y-your grace,” Mr. Thomas pleaded as Grace slipped in the room without a sound. “You cannot.”

  Grace watched as her husband’s expression became carefully blank. “I assure you I can. If I were you Mr. Thomas, I would be going back and scrutinising the figures again before I make my final decision.”

  “Yes, your grace,” the small man said quickly, grabbing the ledger and standing. “I will have an answer by the end of the day.”

  “See that you do,” the Duke muttered as the man moved past Grace to the door, his eyes respectfully downcast. Grace swallowed as she turned back to her husband, finding him staring at her. “What are you doing here?”

  She cleared her throat, clenching her hands tightly together. “I’ve come to see if you wish to join me for breakfast.”

  His jaw clenched. “I’ve already eaten.”

  Of course, he had. “Then perhaps I can join you in here?”

  He stood, coming around the desk with a slight limp. Grace wondered what had happened to him. She’d heard he had been injured at Trafalgar, the papers that came from London had waxed lyrically about his bravery, his leadership and what a fine man he was fighting alongside Admiral Nelson, leading the British Fleet to a resounding victory against the French.

  Was that why he’d returned? Not because of his father’s death but because his injuries had finished his naval career?

  Grace started forward but felt the tip of her boot catch the edge of the rug, and with a small cry, she pitched forward, unable to catch herself.

  Suddenly, she was hauled up against a warm surface, strong arms wrapped around her waist to steady her. The smell of sandalwood surrounded her as she lay her hands on his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat under the palm of her hand. “You do not mimic your namesake wife,” he murmured dryly.

  “I’m afraid I never have,” she said breathlessly, trying to process his closeness. He hadn’t touched her yesterday save to place the ring on her finger and the chaste kiss on her cheek, but now he was, she felt the blood start to warm in her body, her heart racing wildly in her chest. “I fear it was a jest to name me as such.”