“What the devil is going on here?” His icy voice cut across the trio’s quarrelling and the silence was sudden and absolute as he stepped out into the hall. He heard his wife’s brief indrawn breath at his sudden appearance, before she quickly masked her surprise. Calmly she stepped forward, her head held high. “Husband,” she greeted him coolly, “you did not send word of your arrival. I will wake Mrs Higgins and request some refreshment for you.”
He had a moment to observe how beautiful his wife looked and how unpretentiously she was dressed. She was certainly not wearing clothes befitting her station. Her hair was tied back in a simple ribbon and her dress had clearly seen better days. He frowned, caught completely off guard.
“I apologise madam.” He gave a short formal bow to accompany his frosty words. “I was not aware you had company.”
“They were just leaving,” Grace offered, giving her father a short sideways glare. “Your grace I don’t think you have yet met the curate for the Blackmore Estate. This is Mr Percy Noon.”
“At your service your grace.” The small man’s voice was barely audible as he offered a deep clumsy bow. He looked as though he was ready to bolt.
Nicholas bent his head slightly in response before turning back to his wife.
“Please don’t trouble yourself madam. My journey has been long and arduous, and I’m extremely tired. ‘Twas my intention to partake of a brandy in my study before heading straight to bed. Once again, I apologise for interrupting your evening. We will speak on the morrow.
“Reverend, Mr Noon.” He gave both men a polite nod and began walking towards his study. Just as he was about to open the door, he turned with another frown. “What the deuce is that awful smell?”
“I err, I mean Percy had the misfortune to fall foul of a particularly large cow pat on the way here your grace,” the Reverend offered apologetically, ignoring the horrified look his curate gave him. “We will of course ensure the affected area is purged of such an odorous malaise before we leave.”
The Duke raised his eyebrows, his glance raking from Grace, to her father and on to the curate who now looked as though he was about to give birth to kittens. There was clearly much more to this than met the eye, but he was too damnably tired to make any sense of it. He shook his head and turned back to open his study door.
“Well that’s put the cat amongst the pigeons and no mistake,” muttered the Reverend wincing as the study door slammed behind him.
∞∞∞
Grace waited for the summons she knew would be coming from her husband once he’d been appraised of her actions in his absence. Her determination to force him to put her aside, which had seemed so practical while he was away, now looked to be childish and ridiculous.
She had yet to get to the bottom of her father’s sudden appearance last night wielding a large sack. He had remained determinedly tight lipped as he set about clearing up the disgusting mess on the floor, and Percy looked completely incapable of speech.
Anxiously she paced back and forth across her bedchamber, unwilling to venture out until called for. By now her sisters would know the Duke had returned and would no doubt be waiting with bated breath for word from her as to what her husband intended to do.
Finally, there was a ponderous knock on her bedchamber door. Feeling sick to her stomach, she called “Enter,” and watched fearfully in case Nicholas was on the other side. Instead, to her relief, it was Huntley.
“Your grace, he offered with a small bow, “the Duke has asked if you will kindly attend him in the drawing room.” Swallowing nervously, Grace managed to nod graciously as befitted her station. Bit devilishly late now she couldn’t help thinking to herself as she followed the butler towards the stairs.
Her husband was standing in front of the window as she entered the drawing room, the sunlight casting an almost blue tinge to his hair. He waved her to a seat in front of the fireplace in which a roaring fire blazed despite the heat. Obviously the master’s home, Grace thought a trifle hysterically feeling beads of perspiration dot her brow as she sat as far away from the heat as she could.
Nicholas glanced with a sigh towards the blazing hearth as he took his seat opposite her. “Clearly the household servants think me made of porcelain,” he said wryly. Grace endeavoured to smile politely, only half wondering if her face was about to crack. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared it was about to burst from her chest. She wracked her brains to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. Her calmness completely deserted her as she stared wordlessly at her husband’s stern handsome face. A brief reprieve came as the door opened to admit Huntley with a tray of tea and biscuits which he placed in front of her.
Grace remained rooted to the spot even as the butler withdrew, shutting the door softly behind him.
“Would you be good enough to pour?” Nicholas asked after a few moments, raising his eyebrows slightly at her continued silence.
“Of course,” Grace acquiesced faintly, coming out of her trance. Her hand trembled as she sloshed the milk into the cups. All she wanted to do was throw herself at his feet and beg him not to send her away. All her grand plans were reduced to nothing once she’d had chance to look into his beautiful haunted eyes again.
Her behaviour during his absence had been unforgivable. But it was far, far too late to turn back the clock.
She became aware that he was speaking, his voice stilted and husky. “Before we speak of anything else Grace, I would like to apologise for leaving so abruptly.” She stared at him disorientated, her cup halfway to her mouth.
“It was unforgivable of me to leave you so soon after our wedding. Especially in light of the fact that you have little knowledge concerning the running of an establishment as large as this one, and with so few servants to help you.” He cleared his throat, mistaking her continued silence for censure.
“Both Mrs Tenner and Mrs Higgins have informed me of your efforts in that regard, and Huntley has also been extremely eager to sing your praises.” He paused again, only the tightening of his jaw giving any indication of how difficult he was finding his confession.
Grace simply stared at him open mouthed.
“It’s my intention to employ more staff in the running of the house,” he went on, “including the hiring of a lady’s maid for you once we return from London.”
“London?” was all Grace could say weakly.
“It’s past time I purchased you a new wardrobe,” he answered softly, “one befitting your rank as a Duchess of the Realm. Although my manners have been singularly lacking in the time since we married, I am nevertheless fully aware of the necessity for you to present the correct image to the world, and the fact that you are failing to do so is entirely my fault.” He shook his head ruefully before continuing, “Please forgive me wife for casting aspersions on your current attire, but anyone of any breeding could be forgiven for thinking you a country maid who had just fallen off a hay bale.”
∞∞∞
Grace saw little of her husband prior to their journey to his townhouse in London. Indeed, she’d seen little of anyone. It had been easy to plead a desire for time to prepare herself for the delights the capital had to offer, and Nicholas was happy to indulge her, clearly thinking her simply a little nervous. With so much to do to prepare the estate for his second absence in as many months, he appeared relieved to let her be. There would be more than enough opportunity for them to spend time together once they arrived in London.
In truth Grace was not nervous. She was terrified. While she was beyond grateful to the servants for not tittle tattling on her, she lived in abject fear that someone else might enlighten her husband. The fact that her predicament was entirely her own fault did not help matters at all. Why oh why did she have to be so impulsive?
Nicholas did not come to her bedchamber and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry. If his nightmares were troubling him, he gave no indication and for the moment she was content to allow Malcolm to take care of him.
Before luncheon she managed to take her older sisters aside and explain what had happened, but only Tempy seemed fully cognizant of the tight rope her sister was balancing on. The others seemed to regard the last month as simply a lark and were more interested in the possibility of Grace attending balls and soirées and the number of new dresses her husband would buy her. Their bird-witted attitude simply emphasised how foolish she’d been.
During luncheon, her siblings argued over whether they'd be permitted to visit their sister in London and Agnes twittered on about Almack’s until Grace thought she would scream.
Eventually, in desperation, she turned to her unusually silent father and expressed a wish to speak with him privately. After a few seconds plainly trying to come up with an excuse, the Reverend sighed and agreed to a private audience in his study. At the table Agnes tittered knowingly behind her hand, clearly thinking there was some happy news on the way…
One look at his daughter’s face as they entered the study had the Reverend hurriedly reaching for the brandy decanter.
“What am I going to do father?” she wailed. “I thought if he banished me, I could have my own establishment.”
The Reverend spat out the mouthful of brandy and stared at her in horrified realisation. “You made a deuced cake of yourself deliberately? Of all the damned hare-brained ideas. And to think, I actually planned to kidnap you to save you from yourself.”
It was Grace’s turn to stare at her father. This time in horrified disbelief.
“Still,” the Reverend continued, regaining his cheerful optimism, “no harm done. You’ve clearly regained your wits, and we all do foolish things when we’re young.” He completely ignored the fact that his last foolish endeavour had been merely a few days before.
Her father’s confession actually did Grace a service. It made her realise that her only recourse was to rely on herself. Her main concern as she took her leave from her family was whether she had inherited her father’s tendency to be too ripe and ready by half. She feared her concern was well grounded given her tendency to launch herself without thinking into bacon-brained schemes with little or no forethought.
Chapter Eleven
Grace was still mulling over whether she had indeed inherited her father’s penchant for becoming embroiled in bird-witted capers as their carriage passed from Devonshire and on up into Wiltshire.
Ordinarily she would have been consumed with excitement, especially as she’d never been further than the Port of Dartmouth up to now, but instead, as seemed so often of late, she was too busy trying to work out how to extract herself from hobbles of her own making.
She became aware that Nicholas was speaking to her.
“Are you feeling well?”
She blinked. “Of course. I’m fine.”
He narrowed his gaze. “I don’t believe you.”
Her mouth pulled into a frown. “Why not?”
Nicholas nodded to the book in her lap. “You’ve yet to open your book.”
Grace looked down, her fingers tracing the leather cover and Nicholas suddenly felt the urge to take the place of the book in her lap. “I’ve been distracted by the countryside. I’ve never been further than Dartmouth before.”
While he believed her words, he still had this nagging feeling that something was bothering her. She was extremely pale. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he would question whether she was with child. But as they’d yet to consummate their marriage, it stood to reason her anxiety must pertain to something else.
He sighed and continued, “As you’re aware Grace I have been out of the country for a good few years and consequently my knowledge of English Society and its foibles is not perhaps what it might be.” His words were terse and clipped and Grace could feel his distaste.
“Ordinarily I would not trouble myself. I have no interest in learning the latest on-dits and have found most members of the ton to be vain and self-centred." Grace watched silently as Nicholas dragged his hand over his face.
“That said, whatever my private sentiments, you have married into of one of England’s highest-ranking families, and it is therefore necessary for you to be presented as my Duchess and take your place in society.
“We have been invited to a charity ball being thrown on behalf of naval heroes.” His face twisted in a mirthless smile and Grace felt her heart contract. “Apparently it is to be the culmination of the London Season. I have received a particular entreaty that we attend from a good friend of mine and my reluctant acquiescence is a favour to him and him only.”
He paused, clearly waiting to see if his wife wished to make any comments. Unfortunately, Grace was so swamped with fear at the thought of being the focus of attention on such an illustrious occasion, she couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it. Frowning, Nicholas continued, “Despite my reluctance to attend, the ball will be a perfect setting for your first public appearance.”
Silence ensued and Grace realized her husband had finished and was now regarding her quizzically. It was obvious he expected her to show at least a small amount of excitement at the thought of attending her first ball. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. All she could think about was the possibility she might trip, even fall down the stairs, of being a laughingstock. And dear God, what would happen if her wild exploits in Devonshire became common knowledge?
Nicholas was still waiting for her response and finally she cleared her throat and managed to speak, although she feared her voice was unsettlingly wooden. “I am indebted to you your grace. As a clergyman’s daughter, I could not have hoped to attend such an exalted occasion. I shall look forward to it immensely and of course to regaling my sisters with as many details as possible. They will surely be waiting with eager expectation.” She lapsed back into silence, feeling as though her heart was about to erupt violently from her chest.
Nicholas watched as his wife continued to stare determinedly out of the coach window at the scenery as it passed. Her face continued white and tense, and it was clear, despite the words that had come out of her mouth, she had no desire to attend the ball. Was it his presence alongside her she objected to? Or was she simply afraid of being out of her depth? He drummed his fingers on his knee tensely.
He detested London. When his mother was alive, they would travel to London every season with her, his father opting to ride horseback, and she would tell them stories of her childhood in the capital. Though the Duke had not wanted his wife to coddle his sons, the Duchess would sneak them out at least once during their trips to enjoy the sights of the city.
After their mother died, his father still required them to go to London, but the good times the Duchess had engineered were no more. Both Nicholas and Peter spent long hours in their father’s study instead, watching as their father interacted with his steward and solicitor on behalf of their estate.
And now that estate was his.
Nicholas sighed inwardly. He hadn’t wanted to come to London, but he’d had no choice truly. He’d been sadly remiss with regards to his wife. As much as he abhorred the custom, he needed to introduce Grace to the ton. And he needed to school and clothe her as befitted her station. Her wardrobe would be provided during their brief sojourn and he would endeavour to find a companion who would be suitable as a confidante and also provide the necessary instruction for his wife’s new rank.
Once they returned to Blackmore, he would look to employ a full complement of staff to ensure the smooth running of the estate.
Whatever his private feelings, he knew it was his duty to ensure Grace was both content and able to hold her own in society without embarrassing the Sinclair family name.
In attending the charity ball, he was also returning a favour to the man who had taken him under his wing at the beginning of his naval career and for that, he would suffer
through the stares and whispers almost certain to come their way.
Watching his wife’s hands repeatedly clench and unclench, he suddenly realized she wasn’t afraid. She was terrified. Frowning, he leaned forward and was pleased to note that she didn’t shrink back. So, it wasn’t his presence she feared.
“I know that mayhap our marriage has been less than ideal up until now, but I can assure you it is my sincere wish that we do well together.” His voice was rough as he forced himself to continue. “As you are aware, I'm a private man but perhaps we might find some common ground to ensure our union is tolerable to both of us.”
Grace cleared her throat and looked for a second as if she would burst into tears. Nicholas cursed himself. His declaration hadn’t been romantic. But then he had no intention of love coming into the equation at all.
When Grace finally spoke, her voice was low, almost a whisper. “You are too generous Nicholas.”
Nicholas didn’t feel generous, in fact he felt like a complete cad, but he didn’t pursue the conversation any further, deciding instead that silence was preferable to making matters worse with his clumsy attempts at idle chatter. A mere two hours later, just as twilight descended, they pulled up in front of a coaching inn in which Nicholas had already secured them two rooms for the night.
By the time it was fully dark, they were cosily ensconced in a private dining room, Grace gratefully sipping a warming glass of mulled wine, while the Duke opted for his usual large brandy. A few minutes later their meal was brought in. A hearty mutton stew followed by a freshly baked apple pie. Simple but wholesome fare.
Despite her earlier feelings of despair, Grace found herself ravenous. Mayhap it was the third glass of mulled wine, but she began to feel a little more like herself. She had never before been this timid creature, afraid of her own shadow.
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 7
