The most popular theory was that the Duke had sustained horrific injuries to his face and figure which had left him completely hideous and therefore unsuitable as marriage material for any highborn lady. This of course was the reason he had chosen to marry a local clergyman’s daughter.
Drawing rooms across London were filled with matchmaking mammas and their daughters speculating with shuddering delight as to just how repugnant the Duke would turn out to be. And whether his new Duchess was merely plain or similarly afflicted by some kind of disfigurement.
Predictably there were no polite regrets for the upcoming Marquis of Blanchford’s ball for naval heroes.
∞∞∞
Of course, Grace had no idea of the gossip travelling like wildfire throughout London’s Beau Monde. Had she known, she wouldn’t have been so certain that her recent misdemeanours would not eventually reach the ears of the fashionable elite.
Instead she'd woken in the arms of her husband who had made love to her for the second time in a most satisfying manner. To Grace, Nicholas’ confession in the early hours had been akin to declaring his love for her. In her naivete she believed that nothing could come between them; that no gossip could touch them.
Nicholas on the other hand had only informed his wife of the facts. He had yet to communicate the root cause of his nightmares. The true reason he woke up sweating and sobbing night after night and was so terrified of opening his heart or of allowing anyone to get too close.
The actual cause was his complete and utter anguish that he’d failed to save his only son.
∞∞∞
The Duke and Duchess of Blackmore’s coach arrived at their townhouse in Grosvenor Square late in the evening. Thus, they were only observed by a few of the square’s servants running late night errands. Nicholas stepped down first, taking care to find his footing before reaching for Grace’s hand.
He remained silent as they moved up the stairs together, the door opening at precisely the moment they reached the top step.
Stepping inside the home he had not seen since his youth, Nicholas immediately experienced the cold distant feeling that had accompanied his previous visits after his mother had died.
He became aware that Grace was clutching his arm as she looked around. “Tis lovely Nicholas,” she offered in a small voice, “A bit dark but no less charming.”
“Welcome home your grace, my name is Bailey.” If anything, the butler was older than Huntley, and smiling at him, Grace was actually worried he would keel over at any second. She glanced over at Nicholas and released his arm. She couldn’t help but notice her husband’s earlier relaxed manner had taken flight. Instead she was standing next to a cold stranger. She frowned, feeling her heart sink. The Duke stripped off his coat and handed it to the elderly butler before turning to look down at her.
“It is yours to do with as you like,” he said carelessly.
For whatever reason Grace realized her husband had no love for this house. Before she could make another comment, they were joined by tall thin woman who offered a quick curtsy along with a wide smile, immediately setting Grace at ease.
“Welcome your grace. I’m Mrs Jenks, your housekeeper.”
Nicholas nodded. “Could you prepare a cold repast in the small drawing room. We have not eaten since lunch.” Mrs Jenks nodded and made to show her mistress the way.
“Has my valet arrived?”
“He is attending to your rooms your grace,” Mrs Jenks informed him. Then she paused before continuing hesitantly. “You are probably aware your grace that we are particularly under serviced. The old Duke… your father… did not wish to keep on more than a token number as he only very rarely ventured up to London in his latter years.”
Nicholas nodded again. “It’s my intention to rectify the deficiency as soon as possible. I will require a full complement of servants to be retained at all times. The first of which will be a lady’s maid to attend my wife. We will discuss requirements tomorrow in my study.”
Mrs Jenks smiled again, clearly relieved. “If you would be good enough to follow me your grace.”
Grace smiled gratefully at the housekeeper and followed her up the stairs. The only light came from the candles flickered in the sconces on the walls, emphasising the gloomy atmosphere. The small drawing room however was much more welcoming. It was decorated in varying shades of pale green which had clearly seen a feminine touch.
“This was my mother’s favourite room.” She turned as Nicholas walked through the door behind her. Grace nodded and looked around her in delight. “Your mother plainly had beautiful taste. Please don’t think me rude Nicholas, but if the rest of the house were decorated as this, it would be extremely pleasing.”
“My mother never got the chance to redecorate the rest of the house before she died, and my father had no time for fripperies. To him this was simply somewhere to stay when he had business in London.”
Grace frowned, seating herself on the sofa nearest to the fire and removing her cloak. “Your father must have been a very unhappy man,” she murmured.
“I hope so.” Grace recoiled at the bitterness in her husband’s voice and berated herself for bringing the matter up. There did not seem to be anything else to say and they lapsed into a slightly uneasy silence as they waited for the cold repast to be brought up. Grace made herself comfortable against the velvet cushions, contenting herself with furtive glances at her husband’s saturnine features. Eventually she could stand the tense silence no longer and was on the verge of requesting Nicholas show her to her bedchamber.
Fortunately, just as she was clearing her throat to voice her request, the door opened to admit Mrs Jenks and a young girl who was carrying a tray almost as big as she was. Fighting the urge to jump up and help, Grace forced herself to remain seated, knowing her assistance would not be welcome. She remained unmoving until the door closed behind the servants and her husband invited her to pour the tea.
In truth Nicholas was consumed with trepidation. He had not expected to confide in his wife, but the desire to unburden himself had been simply too overwhelming. While perhaps not a conventional beauty, Grace had a sweetness of spirit that was hard to ignore. What would she say if she knew the full truth?
That her husband had fathered an illegitimate child with a basket maker who’d died giving birth to him?
For ten long years, Nicholas had paid for his son’s upkeep, seeing John whenever his was in port, until the lad had been old enough to accompany his father to sea.
To his death.
Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the memories away with agonising practice. No one knew the cabin boy had been his son. Not even John himself.
But for the first time, he was tempted to confess the story in its entirety. Desperate for another living soul to fully understand the depth of his grief.
Would Grace turn away from him or would she provide the comfort and absolution he ached for?
And that was the main reason for his fear. For good or ill, he finally recognised that his wife was becoming far more than simply a means to an end.
∞∞∞
Grace winced for the umpteenth time as the dressmaker missed the fabric with the sharp pin and got the skin at her side instead, forcing herself not to move lest the woman fuss at her again. She’d been standing on the block for most of the day, draped with more fabric than she’d ever seen in her life.
Walking dresses - in a wide variety of colours of course; riding habits – despite the fact that she couldn’t ride; ball gowns – at least half a dozen – despite the fact that to Grace’s knowledge she would only be attending one ball; bonnets; shawls; gloves; slippers. The list went on and on. To Grace’s mind, it was all a colossal waste of money.
Automatically following the dressmaker’s instructions, Grace’s thoughts drifted back to Nicholas. While he’d come to her room to make love to her each night, he had yet to remain until the morning. Her husband continued to enflame in her a passion she’d previously
thought impossible, taking her again and again to giddying heights with his wild kisses and intimate caresses, before bringing her and himself to shuddering fulfilment. But once their desire was slaked, he always bade her goodnight, and returned to his own chamber.
While she had woken more than once to distant shouts and cries, she had nevertheless remained in her own bed, understanding that Nicholas preferred to distance her from his torment. She was finding it more and more difficult to suppress the hurt that he favoured Malcolm over his wife to ease his suffering.
After their discussion at the coaching inn, she’d been so hopeful he would turn to her. But the gap seemed wider than ever. She longed for their closeness to extend beyond the bedroom but had no idea how to bridge the gulf that persisted between them.
She sighed. Perhaps in due time.
They’d been in London for five days, and although they now had a full complement of household servants, including a pleasant but talkative lady’s maid who delighted in regaling her mistress with all the latest on-dits, they had yet to leave the gloomy townhouse. Grace knew Nicholas had been too busy to show her the sights of London, but they had not received any callers either, and while she was filled with trepidation at the idea of entertaining, she couldn’t help but wonder, given their social standing, why no one had even left their card.
“Très magnifique.” The satisfied words brought her back to the present, and glancing into the full length mirror and Grace couldn’t stifle the pure feminine thrill she felt when she saw that the fashionably French modiste had wrapped her in the most beautiful shimmering gold fabric, announcing in her broken English that “Thees vill be the one for madam’s debut. You vill be ravishment.”
Of course, providing she didn’t turn in to a human pin cushion by then.
“Voila, you may step down your grace.” Finally.
Grace inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as she waited for the dressmaker to remove the fabric from her shift and reached for her dress, feeling moderately better once she was fully clothed again. She supposed she should be grateful she hadn’t actually fallen off the block while the woman poked and prodded her. “You will have this ready in time for the ball?”
The woman nodded, handing off the fabric to her assistant. “Bien sur, of course madam.”
Grace glanced at the clock. In another hour, she would be partaking of a light repast together with a well-bred though apparently penniless lady who Nicholas was considering employing as her companion.
Initially Grace had looked at her husband in horror when he’d broached the subject. She realised he was simply seeking to expand her education concerning the habits of London’s High Society lest she make a complete cake of herself – certainly a very strong possibility Grace had to admit. However, it felt very much as though he was employing someone to spy on her.
Guilty conscience Grace supposed ruefully thinking of her earlier excesses as she made her way to the five o’clock appointment. Mrs Jenks had informed her that her guest – one Lady Felicity Beaumont – had arrived and been placed in the small drawing room.
In truth Grace realised that her husband was being extremely lenient in allowing her to interview Miss Beaumont alone, so it was imperative she didn’t let him down. Squaring her shoulders, Grace plastered on a determined smile and waved at Bailey to open the door.
“Her grace the Duchess of Bla….”
His words stuttered to a halt as Grace stepped forward, caught her heel in the fringe of a rug and pitched forward her full length on the floor.
Chapter Fourteen
Grace didn’t move for a few appalled seconds. Her embarrassment was such that she wondered if she should simply lie there until someone came to take her to her bed where she would remain until she was at least ninety.
“The first rule of the ton my dear, if you’re going to cause a scene, make sure you do it with style.” Grace looked up at the owner of the authoritative if slightly dry voice to her side.
“I should think you have sustained a fractured ankle at the very least,” the diminutive lady continued, her voice now firm and confident. “The rug in question is very clearly a hazard and should be removed forthwith.”
Grace managed to get to her knees, giving a small apologetic smile up at Bailey who was hovering anxiously at her other side, before turning back to the lady still regarding her quizzically.
“I fear it wasn’t this particular rug at fault madam, but rather my penchant for tripping up on any and all possible obstacles, however large or small they may be.”
“I think perhaps my version of events is much better my dear,” the lady, who could only be Miss Beaumont, argued.
Climbing to her feet, Grace smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at telling untruths.”
“Then the members of the ton will surely eat you alive your grace.”
Blinking at her guest’s cutting assessment of her peers, Grace finally endeavoured to gather her wits and remember her manners. “Please be seated Miss Beaumont. It was not my intention to prove just how much I need taking in hand, at least not on our first acquaintance. Mrs Jenks will bring us some tea shortly.”
Miss Beaumont gave a snort of laughter. “Well you certainly have wit girl, but that may not be enough to carry you through the snide comments and the malicious gossip that is most likely even now circulating the drawing rooms of London.”
Grace’s response was delayed as Mrs Jenks brought in a tray of tea and tiny cucumber sandwiches. Grace smiled up at the housekeeper in thanks, before eying the sandwiches thinking they would be very unlikely to keep her stomach from complaining until supper. However, she gave no indication of her concern and managed to perform her duties as a hostess with the necessary aplomb resulting in Miss Beaumont nodding her head approvingly.
Feeling a little more comfortable with the small though clearly formidable lady sitting opposite, Grace took a deep breath, deciding to voice her concerns.
“May I ask you a question Miss Beaumont?”
“Felicity, please your grace, and most certainly.”
"The gossip you speak of. Is that why we have received no callers?”
Her companion shook her head, taking a sip of her tea. “Very unlikely my dear. If anything, the juicier the on-dit, the more likely your front door will need replacing by the end of the season.
"No, your grace, the most likely reason you have yet to receive any callers is simply because there are hardly any ladies of your equal rank. They will no doubt be waiting breathlessly for you to call on them first. Of course, that will not happen until after you have made your formal bow.” Miss Beaumont paused and frowned slightly, placing her teacup down and partaking of a cucumber triangle.
“Under normal circumstances I pay no heed to gossip -malicious or otherwise, but in this instance, I believe it may be of use to know what is being said and I will therefore endeavour to find out what I can – discreetly of course.”
“I am very much obliged,” Grace responded with relief. “I think we shall deal very well together Felicity.”
“That is certainly my hope your grace…”
“Just Grace, please.”
Miss Beaumont nodded in acknowledgement, giving a slight smile.
Grace smiled back, clapping her hands in delight.
“Well then, my dear, if we are to whip you into shape, there is certainly no time like the present. Pray remember that showing any overt enthusiasm, no matter how fortuitous the information you are receiving, is considered very bad form within the ton. That, more than anything else will focus attention on both your background and lack of breeding.
“And Grace, it will make not one jot of difference that your husband is a Duke if the ton collectively decides to hold you in contempt.”
Grace stared at her new mentor in trepidation. “But surely not everyone would give us the cut direct. Why you yourself Felicity stated not a few moments ago that you personally pay no heed to gossip.”
Miss Beaumont shook
her head sadly. “People like me do not count my dear. We are simply invisible to those who set the rules. My advice would be to listen and pay heed to my advice without intimating whence it came.”
Grace frowned. “You are painting a very bleak picture of the members London’s Fashionable Society. I cannot help but wonder whether it might behove me to simply return to Devonshire and therefore avoid any prospect of irreparably ruining the Sinclair name.”
“Unfortunately, that in itself would be enough to feed the gossip mongers my dear,” Felicity responded with a rueful smile. “For good or ill, you married into one of England’s highest-ranking families and the ton will have their pound of flesh.
"No Grace, our best course of action is to ensure that you are a success when making your formal bow. Then, and only then should you still wish it, you may return to the wilds of Devonshire with both the Sinclair name and your own reputation intact.”
∞∞∞
Nicholas wondered whether he had been completely beef witted in leaving Grace to form her own opinion of Miss Beaumont. It clearly flew in the face everything he’d been taught. But therein lay the rub. Nicholas was determined he would not be as his father.
Truth be told, his thoughts were turning more and more to his wife. In day to day matters, he found himself wondering what Grace would think in each situation, what she would do. He’d sworn he would never allow himself to get close to another human being after losing both his brother and his son, but despite his efforts to keep his distance, Nicholas feared he was becoming entirely too comfortable with her presence. And even more disconcerting, he found himself wanting to make her happy - and not just in the bedroom.
Frowning he looked down at the accounts he was working on. His father had left the Sinclair finances in a very healthy position, but the current state of the townhouse indicated just how miserly he'd become in his latter years.
The Sinclair London abode had urgent need of improvement. Nicholas had ensured its smooth running by substantially increasing the number of servants under its roof, but the furnishings remained dark and dreary no matter how much they were cleaned and polished. Nicholas had no interest in choosing their replacement apart from removing the overpowering imprint of his father seeming to permeate everything.
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 9
