Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1)

by Beverley Watts

  Of a sudden he wondered whether Grace would consider staying in London beyond the end of the Season to oversee any renovations while he returned to Blackmore. Surely she would enjoy shopping for the latest fripperies. If he could persuade her to do so, he would be killing two birds with one stone in eradicating the uncomfortable presence of the old Duke and distancing himself from his wife’s allure.

  Putting his seal on the last document with a flourish, the current Duke of Blackmore did not stop to wonder why his perfect solution didn’t make him feel happier.

  ∞∞∞

  Reverend Shackleford couldn’t help wondering whether his current troubles had been sent by the Almighty to test him. Frowning into his ale tankard he shook his head sadly. He had always been on such good terms with God. He worked tirelessly for the good of his congregation and his family. Why the church coffers were healthier than they’d been in a decade and he had not only secured his eldest daughter an incomparable match but done his utmost to ensure she didn’t make a complete cake of herself and ruin them all in the process.

  Sighing, he took a sip of his ale before finally admitting to himself that his plan to abduct Grace had not been one of his better ideas. Percy, usually his loyal companion, had spent most of the last two weeks on his knees. The Reverend had finally only put his foot down when his curate requested a hair shirt. He would never have believed that Percy would turn out to be such a chucklehead.

  The problem was Percy Noon was the Reverend’s sole confident - apart from his Creator, and there were some things it did not behove a vicar to chat with the Almighty about. Kidnapping and the resulting devil’s own scrape being one of them.

  It was clear that his curate was wallowing in the very depths of remorse over their escapade, which was all very well, but Percy’s regret didn’t solve the problem of potential repercussions.

  In particular the fact that they had been spied upon by the little varmint who’d brought the Duke’s original letter to the door. Now the rapscallion was demanding a whole shilling to keep his mouth shut.

  If the Good Lord did not frown on murder, the Reverend would be sorely tempted.

  As it was, for possibly the first time ever, he was at a loss as to what to do. And without Percy he had no one with which to formulate a plan. Gloomily he stared down into the depths of his ale. There was no getting away from it, he’d made a mull of the whole thing and now the Almighty was punishing him.

  “Now then sir, it’s not often I get to see a man of the cloth in such a fit of the blue-devils. Allow me to procure you another ale and if you have a mind, partake of some lively conversation to lift your spirits.”

  Startled, the Reverend looked up at the large jovial sounding individual standing in front of him. The candlelight in the Red Lion was only sufficient for him to receive a vague impression, and under more usual circumstances he would have sent the presumptuous fellow on his way.

  However, on this occasion, three things conspired to ensure Augustus Shackleford’s ruin. The first being the fact that he was sorely in need of a sympathetic ear; the second that Freddy, who could spot an ivory tuner from twenty yards away, had unusually remained at home; and thirdly, the Reverend didn’t have enough coin in his pocket for another pint.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Grace spent the days prior to the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball almost entirely with her new companion. Felicity Beaumont proved to be excellent company, possessing a dry wit that served as a perfect foil for Grace’s more impetuous personality.

  They remained for the most part within the townhouse but on occasion indulged in an early morning stroll in the gardens in the centre of the square opposite. When Grace chafed at their confinement, her companion sternly informed her that a duchess of the realm should under no circumstances be seen out and about dressed as a milkmaid lest she be the object of not only censure but also ridicule. “And,” she informed Grace severely, “the ton are veritable experts at ridicule.”

  Since this observation touched on Grace’s very fears, she forbore to mention it again, and swallowing her anxiety, applied herself diligently to absorbing the rules of comportment and propriety drilled into her on a daily basis by Miss Beaumont.

  She met with Nicholas every evening for dinner which by the same necessity consisted of only the two of them. For Grace the time they spent together was bittersweet. While she craved her husband’s company, it was difficult to hold any kind of conversation when they were seated at opposite ends of the dining table. She found herself longing for the sunny breakfast room back at Blackmore.

  She was unsure of the Duke’s plans once her official come-out was over. Would he wish to stay longer in London? While it would be nice to finally have the opportunity to give and receive calls, to sample the delights of Vauxhall Gardens, or simply promenade in Hyde Park, Grace couldn’t help but feel an imposter. She would never be all the crack. Apart from anything else, she was far too clumsy. The most she could hope for was that she didn’t embarrass her husband, and the longer she stayed in London, the more likely that event would be.

  In truth she hankered after the rolling hills of Devonshire with the distant smell of the sea and the almost constant cawing of seagulls. At her very heart, she was a country girl and she knew deep down inside that was all she would ever be, no matter what title she wore.

  Lost in her thoughts, it was a while before Grace became aware that Nicholas was speaking to her and she hurriedly put down her spoon, misjudging the angle of her bowl in her haste and watching with dismay as it tumbled to the floor. Colour flooded her face as Bailey laboriously bent down to retrieve the silverware, dabbing carefully at the resulting stain on the floor.

  Looking down the table at her husband, she anxiously clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap, waiting for his censure. Instead he lay down his napkin, rose from his place and walked down the table towards her. Perhaps he intends to beat me she thought a trifle hysterically as she watched his tall form move gracefully towards her. He reminded her of a panther, and despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but admire his physique.

  To her surprise, instead of chiding her when he finally stood next to her chair, Nicholas held out his hand. Grace eyed it as she would a snake and after a couple of seconds her husband questioned drily as to whether he had something unsavoury on his fingers.

  Shaking her head in embarrassment, Grace hastily took his proffered hand and allowed him to lead her to a door, previously unnoticed in the corner of the room.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he stopped in front of the closed door.

  “It came to me that you may not know how to dance,” he answered, pushing open the door.

  Grace froze as they walked into the room, seeing a long forgotten small ballroom before her. “We do not have to,” she said softly, turning to face him. “Miss Beaumont has informed me she has been able to secure a teacher who has a reputation for discretion.”

  Nicholas placed his hand on her waist, the other pulling her hand up with his. “It is of no consequence. However, if you prefer, think of this as a favour to me. I have a need to practice this new-fangled waltz I’m told is all the rage in the ballrooms of London.” He gave a wry smile. “And considering the last person I practiced with was Malcolm, you are truly doing me a great service.” His light-hearted words drew an incredulous giggle which had clearly been his intention. Smiling warmly down at his wife, Nicholas adopted an air of mock seriousness.

  “One dance, Grace. Now pay attention to my steps.”

  Grace bit her lower lip, stifling her laughter, and did as he asked, doing her best to make allowances for his injuries as they moved about the wooden floor. After a few moments, she gradually learned the simple steps and began to move in tune with her husband until he was whirling her about the floor, their steps kicking up the dust around them.

  “You are a natural,” he murmured as he eventually slowed their steps, pulling her against his strong form

  Grace smiled tr
emulously up at him. The feel of him holding her close was beyond delicious and as she looked into his warm but troubled eyes, she realized she was developing feelings for her inscrutable husband…

  Oblivious to his wife’s thoughts, Nicholas looked down at her and quirked another smile. “You will do very well Grace, of that I am sure, and I promise I will do my best not to tread on your beautifully slippered toes.” He set her away from him and Grace expected this to be the moment he excused himself. However, her husband clearly had not finished surprising her for the day as he proposed accompanying her for coffee in the small drawing room.

  For that one moment, Grace acknowledged she had never felt such happiness.

  She was to remember that precise moment many times in the weeks and months to come.

  ∞∞∞

  Giles Northrop could not believe his luck. As the penniless son of a distant relative of Viscount Northrop, he had spent his whole life on the fringes of the ton. Generally considered beneath the touch, he had been ridiculed and despised in equal measure for as long as he could remember. It was his sole ambition to be finally accepted in the higher echelons of English society.

  His visit to Devonshire had been more of an impulse. For three reasons. The first being a rumour that a prime bit of blood was purportedly to be put through her paces at Exeter racecourse, and secondly it provided a much-needed escape from an almost certain ignominious end at the hands of his dubious companions who accused him of trying to cut a wheedle.

  However, his principal motivation was the knowledge that the illusive Duchess of Blackmore’s father resided in the area and if there was one thing Giles Northrop was good at, it was sniffing out gossip.

  Indeed, he could not have hoped for a more favoured outcome. He was entirely persuaded that his chance meeting with Reverend Shackleford in the Red Lion would finally lead to his long-coveted acceptance by the ton.

  ∞∞∞

  “Oh, your grace, have you ever seen anything so beautiful,” her maid Dorcus breathed reverently as she unpacked a silver-grey satin cloak that seemed to shimmer in the light.

  Grace shook her head mutely. She was surrounded by boxes. She had never in her life seen so many clothes. She had previously considered it all a scandalous waste of money since she was of the opinion that the majority of the beautiful gowns would be unlikely to see the light of day once she returned to Blackmore after the ball.

  She sighed, picking up a pair of exquisite lace gloves. Unfortunately, her return to Blackmore appeared to have been postponed. It was now all too likely she would find use for most of her new wardrobe given the fact that her husband had intimated his desire that she remain in London to oversee the refurbishment of the Sinclair townhouse.

  Grace frowned. In fact, Nicholas had all but ordered her to remain here while he returned to the Estate in Devonshire.

  It seemed to her that every time she felt they were making progress, Nicholas pushed her away. After her impromptu dancing lesson, her husband had elected to keep her company for the remainder of the evening, but she very quickly realised he had done so to discuss their temporary separation. He had only stayed until she had reluctantly agreed to his demands. He had not even come to her bed once he’d excused himself.

  Restlessly, she threw the gloves onto the dozens already laying on her coverlet. She had been so very optimistic after their dance and now she was plunged into the depths of despair.

  She thought back to her reckless wish that Nicholas cast her aside, allowing her to live her life on her own. Now she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing his enigmatic beautiful face, of not tasting his lips on hers. She had never before experienced the feeling of safety she felt in her husband’s arms and she truly couldn’t imagine living without it.

  The very worst thing had happened. She had fallen in love with Nicholas Sinclair.

  How could she have been so foolish? She’d known from the beginning that her husband had no desire to elevate their relationship beyond that of uneasy companionship, but she had hoped, oh how she had hoped for more - especially after, well… after he had introduced her to the delights of the marriage bed.

  How could she have been so naïve? In truth she was well aware that to most men, coupling was no more important than winning in a game of cards, but if there was one thing she’d learned - her husband was not most men.

  Sighing again, she rose to her feet and instructed Dorcus to continue. The maid curtsied, clearly thinking her mistress slightly addled in her lack of interest in the beautiful garments littering the bedchamber.

  Making her way downstairs, she wondered what would happen if she revealed her true feelings to the Duke and begged him to take her home with him. When had Blackmore become home. She pictured her husband’s response to such a declaration and shuddered, shaking her head at her idiocy.

  Perchance the best way to his heart would be to prove to him once and for all that she was no simpering ninnyhammer and she could very well demonstrate that by transforming the Sinclair Townhouse into a warm welcoming home. His mother had clearly had beautiful taste and Grace completely concurred with the old Duchess’s choice in soft furnishings. All she had to do was imitate what had already been done.

  Feeling more light-hearted than she had in days, Grace decided that first things first, she would ensure she continued to pay the strictest attention to Miss Beaumont's instructions on comportment and etiquette between now and the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball.

  She would show Nicholas Sinclair that she was worthy of the title he’d bestowed upon her.

  ∞∞∞

  It was a long time since Augustus Shackleford had gone to bed quite so foxed and as he awoke the next morning with the inside of his mouth feeling as though some unknown creature had crawled inside and promptly cocked up its toes, he wondered for a few seconds where he was before recognising the furnishings in his bedchamber. Looking down at himself, he was horrified to note he was still wearing all his clothes. He racked his brain to remember exactly what had happened.

  He recalled a rather large fellow offering to keep him company, but after that things became hazy. The Reverend took comfort from the fact that he was definitely in his own bed. The problem was, he had no recollection of how he’d got there. This did not look good at all. He wondered whether any of his congregation had observed him in his cups. If that were the case, he was well and truly in the basket.

  Even worse, if the little rapscallion had chanced to witness his conduct, the varmint could well increase his demands to a guinea. Groaning, the Reverend struggled to sit up, trying his damndest to resist the overwhelming urge to cast up his account.

  This was most unlike him. Augustus Shackleford enjoyed a drink as much as the next man, but he was not prone to indulging to excess. After all he was a man of the cloth and while it had to be said that he was tempted on the odd occasion to bend the rules - Percy’s request for a hair shirt being the result of one such indiscretion he had to admit - the Reverend firmly believed himself a good man at heart who did his best for both his family and his parishioners.

  Of course, they might not always see it that way, but Reverend Shackleford’s main concern was the hereafter, and on occasion that called for sacrifices in the here and now that were not always entirely appreciated.

  Well it did for anyone other than himself.

  Resting his head in his hands he strived to recall the events of the last evening. The house was suspiciously quiet and looking at his pocket watch he was aghast to discover it was nearly eleven o’clock. Why had no one woken him? And where the devil was Percy? Frowning he realised it was Thursday and Percy would be working on the sermon for the upcoming Sunday.

  The Reverend sighed. He could expect the piece to largely comprise dire warnings of the fire and brimstone awaiting those who strayed from the path of righteousness. Unfortunately, it had to be said that most of the sermons his curate drafted tended to be directed towards the person giving the address.

  Climbing to h
is feet he paused for a moment as the room began to spin slightly. God’s teeth he could be dead in his bed with no one the wiser. Groaning, he made his way out of his bedchamber and down the stairs.

  A situation such as this called for a stiff brandy if he was to feel anything like himself before the day was over. Mayhap Mrs Tomlinson would put him together a small repast of bread and butter to accompany it. He felt positively bilious at the thought of eating any of the cook’s porridge which had likely been standing since seven and could now doubtless be sliced and placed in the middle of a sandwich.

  The Reverend was on his second brandy and just congratulating himself on his swift action in putting an end to what could have been a very sticky situation, when he heard a loud wailing coming from the hall. Frowning he determined to remain closeted in the study in the hope that whatever disaster was underway would simply take itself elsewhere. Unfortunately, the next word shrieked ensured that was unlikely. “AUGUSTUS.”

  His study door was promptly thrown open to reveal Agnes Shackleford, hair wild, bonnet askew and a kerchief clutched in both hands which she was in the middle of shredding. His wife was clearly up in the boughs about something and the Reverend felt himself go cold all over.

  Clearing his throat, he rose hurriedly to his feet and crossed the room to Agnes who now looked to be on the verge of swooning. “Dearest,” he muttered, reluctantly patting her on the shoulder before glancing wildly at four of his daughters who were gathered white faced at the door.

  “What on earth has you so agitated my dove,” he continued in his most placatory tone, trying to ignore the sick sense of foreboding causing the second glass of brandy to curdle ominously in his stomach.