“Enough,” he wheezed, “I’m certain I’ll have no difficulty getting the dress on now.”
However, despite their best efforts, it proved impossible to do up the laces at the back of the dress, so the Reverend had to content himself with covering the whole ensemble with a shawl. The bonnet unfortunately resulted in him resembling a drunken doxy, but as the Reverend pointed out, “We only require the disguise to hold until we’re in the chapel, then I’ll have the Duke’s ear.”
Opening the door slightly, the Reverend peered into the hall. Luckily, the coast was clear. Turning back into the room he ordered Freddy to ‘stay’ in a firm whisper. The hound’s wagging tail drooped slightly but he obediently lay back down by the fire.
Ten minutes later the Reverend arrived without incident at their arranged meeting place where he waited impatiently behind a hedge for Percy to bring the cart round. He would have preferred to take the curricle but was mindful that any alteration to the curate’s customary routine may well prove to be their downfall.
The next half an hour would be of crucial importance to his daughter’s future happiness.
It would also decide whether or not he would have another opportunity to consume an excellent Sunday roast the likes of which he’d partaken in not two hours before…
∞∞∞
Nicholas Sinclair waited impatiently in the Blackmore family chapel with only Malcolm for company. As soon as the service was over, he would be leaving again for his estate in Scotland. He told himself it was time to set his most northerly estate in order.
His Scottish seat bordered the banks of Loch Long and the house was sorely in need of repairs. It was Nicholas’ intention to do much of the work himself wherever possible, mainly because he feared it was the only way he’d ever get some sleep. Fortunately, the land was far too wild for anyone of breeding to chance spying him dressed as a common labourer.
Looking down at his fob watch, Nicholas frowned. The curate was late. At this rate his coach wouldn’t leave Blackmore before dark. He was just about to call the whole service off when there was a slight commotion at the entrance to the chapel.
Percy Noon, looking more flustered than the Duke had ever seen him, hurried towards the small pulpit while behind him shuffled a truly revolting looking individual. The only indication that the creature was female, was the fact she was wearing a skirt and bonnet. Indeed, she resembled a trollop the like of which commonly frequented the London docks.
Recoiling, the Duke stepped forward, halting the woman before she reached the front of the chapel which appeared to be her destination. Behind him the curate was launching into the service with the general confession of sins which for some obscure reason he was shouting at the top of his voice.
Doing his best to shut out the bellowing behind, the Duke attempted to address the woman. At the same moment the curate reached a crescendo with an ear-splitting, “AMEN.”
“QUIET,” Nicholas yelled, completely losing his temper. Sudden silence descended. “What the deuce is going on?” the Duke snapped, glancing between the curate and the strange creature standing before him.
The doxy lifted her hand, and Nicholas instinctively stepped back, mistrustful of her intentions, just as a whirlwind of fur came charging into the chapel, crashing into the woman and knocking her straight into his arms. With a grunted humph, Nicholas fell backwards, ending up on the floor with the peculiar female lying on top of him. Stunned for a second, they remained motionless staring wordlessly at one another.
“DOWN FREDDY,” the doxy yelled abruptly
“What the devil…?” Nicholas bit out, watching incredulously as the woman removed her bonnet, leaving him staring into the uneasy eyes of Blackmore’s vicar. Without moving, the Duke simply raised his eyebrows in question.
“Your grace, I’ve come to beg your indulgence of my daughter.”
∞∞∞
After finally managing to disentangle themselves, the Reverend and Percy were unceremoniously instructed to wait in the drawing room until the Duke saw fit to attend them.
Grace’s father was quite cheered by the fact that his son-in-law had not simply thrown them out on their ears. Percy on the other hand looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy. Reverend Shackleford glanced irritably at his curate. It was clear he was going to have to give Percy a few pointers on how to conduct himself when rubbing shoulders with England’s finest.
Naturally, the Reverend was completely unmindful of his own impropriety in sitting in the Duke of Blackmore’s drawing room dressed as Haymarket ware.
Freddy of course, was completely unconcerned about the mayhem he’d contributed to and was now warming his bones happily by the fire.
Half an hour later, the Duke strode in, his face like thunder. Any confidence the Reverend might have possessed flew south in response to the murderous look in his grace’s eyes. Without speaking, Nicholas Sinclair strode over to pour himself a large brandy before finally turning towards them.
“You have exactly two minutes to explain yourselves.” The Duke’s voice was icy, prompting Percy to let slip a small involuntary moan. Ignoring his scatter witted curate, the Reverend coughed. “Your grace,” he began warily.”
“One minute thirty seconds,” interrupted the Duke.
Hastily the Reverend abandoned all caution. “Your grace, I have no doubt that my daughter is mindful of the disgrace she has brought to your name, but it was all a complete misunderstanding…”
“So, you are telling me that my wife did not do the things she was accused of?”
“Err, well no, not exactly…”
“Then pray enlighten me as to exactly why she elected to jump out of a hay barrel, despite being a duchess of the realm?”
“Well the thing is…”
“And exactly why, if it was all, as you insist, a misunderstanding,” the Duke interrupted coldly, “you thought to abduct your own daughter to prevent any further misunderstandings being deposited at my door.”
The Reverend opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time he could remember, he was at a loss for words. All his carefully crafted arguments simply vanished into the ether.
“She assumed you didn’t love her,” Percy suddenly blurted out, adding, “your grace,” when both men turned to look at him.
The Duke refrained from speaking, merely raising his eyebrows ominously, but somehow Percy found the courage to continue.
“Your wife lo… loves you your grace,” he stammered, glancing frantically towards the Reverend who was silently regarding his curate open mouthed.
Swallowing, the small man continued, warming a little to his theme. “Sh… she could not bear to live in a loveless marriage your grace. She feared you would turn to a mistress to… to slake your needs…”
The Reverend blinked, before interrupting vehemently, “Steady on Percy, my daughter would never say such a th…”
“She could not endure being near you without your grace’s heart being involved.” Percy’s impassioned speech got louder, and the Reverend subsided, regarding the stranger next to him in astonishment.
“Your grace… sir… please, I beg you… give Grace another chance,” the curate begged fervently. “She is truly miserable without you… as I am assured you are without her.”
Augustus Shackleford closed his eyes in horror at Percy’s final words. This was it; they were done for. Keeping his eyes determinedly shut, the Reverend waited with bated breath for the axe to fall, until at length the ongoing silence became too much.
Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was Percy’s white face, rigid with shocked disbelief at his own presumption. Heart thudding, he reluctantly turned his attention towards the Duke, still ominously silent, dreading his grace’s wrath at the curate’s impertinence.
To his bewilderment, the look on Nicholas Sinclair’s face was far from furious. Instead, the Duke looked pensive as if he’d actually listened to Percy’s impassioned plea, and his posture almost appeared to have r
elaxed slightly.
All things considered, the Reverend thought he might possibly be hallucinating.
The fact of the matter was that Augustus Shackleford was entirely done to a cow’s thumb and now wanted nothing more than to take to his bed, but he feared to move lest he inadvertently rekindle the Duke of Blackmore’s ire.
All three men remained motionless. Only Freddy’s soft snoring permeated the silence. After what seemed like forever, the Duke tossed back the rest of his brandy and rang for the butler. While they were waiting, his grace eyed them both with weary exasperation, but his earlier anger seemed to have dissipated.
When Huntley finally opened the door, Nicholas gave the elderly butler orders to escort their two visitors out and to have his coach brought round to the front.
Chapter Twenty One
After her father’s fervent vow to put things right, Grace found herself repeatedly waking up in a cold sweat over what he would do.
After several sleepless nights, she decided her only course of action was to take matters into her own hands before the Reverend took the opportunity to make the situation considerably worse. She had no clue of his intentions, but given that his last solution encompassed kidnapping, she was firmly of the opinion that she needed to put a halt to any action he and Percy were currently plotting between them.
Anger was finally beginning to replace heartache, and she resolutely ignored the small voice warning her of the dire consequences the last time this happened.
Whatever mistakes she’d made, Nicholas had contributed his fair share. And what’s more, she was his wife dammit. Whether he wished it or no, she was the Duchess of Blackmore, and while the ton may forever consider her a provincial upstart with no breeding or manners, she was nonetheless owed more consideration than her husband was currently giving her.
She’d remained banished in her cottage for nigh on three months, waiting, hoping, praying Nicholas would finally condescend to speak with her. Well enough was enough. She was done playing the martyr.
If her husband refused to come to her, she would go to her husband.
And she would remain by his side whatever his personal thoughts on the matter.
Determinedly she packed her belongings and after dragging them down the stairs, left them in the kitchen to be collected. Then wrapping herself in her thickest cloak, she donned her boots and started walking. If she succeeded in keeping a brisk pace, she would arrive at Blackmore before dusk.
∞∞∞
Nicholas hadn’t been astride a horse since his brother’s death. However, after he’d finally succeeded in dispatching what he had no doubt were the worst two incumbents currently in the employ of the Anglican Church, he’d found himself suddenly frantic to see his wife. Against all odds, the curate’s impassioned pleas earlier had finally succeeded in cracking open his defences.
Abruptly, all his could think about was his own foolish pig-headedness. He no longer cared what Grace had or hadn’t intended. All that mattered was having her in his arms.
Nicholas realised he was not his father to never forgive or forget a mistake. After the overwhelming hurt of Peter’s death and his father’s betrayal, he’d thought to live his life without the closeness of another human being. Firstly his son and then his wife had shown him the absurdity of that path. For good or ill, he loved. He had no wish to spend the rest of his life bitter and lonely.
God’s teeth, he only now realised just how close he’d come to turning into his father.
Somehow, he would persuade Grace to return to Blackmore with him and give him the opportunity to spend the rest of his life showing her just how much he loved her. With Grace by his side, he believed he would succeed in finally freeing himself from the night terrors that plagued him.
Which was why he'd shunned his coach and now found himself galloping over the uneven countryside on his old horse Delilah. Incredibly, it felt as though he’d last ridden the mare only days ago, and he couldn’t deny it was unexpectedly glorious. In the space of twenty minutes he arrived at Grace’s house.
The small cottage was in complete darkness despite the dwindling light of early evening. Frowning, he dismounted quickly and tethered the horse to the gate. With mounting dread, Nicholas strode up the path to the front door which opened immediately, adding to his growing concern. After only a slight hesitation, he walked in, calling Grace’s name. It took only seconds to determine the cottage was empty. And within the next two minutes he discovered his wife taken all her belongings.
He was too late. Grace had gone.
∞∞∞
Grace was certain it had not been so far the last time she’d thought to walk to Blackmore in the hopes of catching sight of her husband. This time she felt as if she’d been walking for hours, made worse after discovering very early on that fashionable boots were not made to withstand the rigours of the countryside in winter. Grimacing, she recalled the last time she’d taken this path had been on a dry bright sunny day. Now dusk was falling much faster than she’d anticipated and everything suddenly looked the same in the muted light.
Swallowing, she looked around, forcing back the first stirrings of panic. This was Devonshire for goodness sake. She knew this land like the back of her hand and had been lost in it more times than she could count, always being chanced upon eventually by her father or Percy.
A sudden sick feeling of dread paralyzed her as she abruptly realised that in this instance, no one knew she was missing. It might well be days before anyone discovered she’d left the cottage.
Feeling suddenly faint, Grace sat down on a large boulder. She was no stranger to this landscape and consequently to its hazards. While generally fairly clement, the weather had been known to cause havoc to the unwary. If she was unable to find her way and the temperature chanced to fall more than a few degrees, there was a possibility she would freeze to death.
Her mind began to visualise the various ways she might succumb to an early demise, each imagining more gruesome than the last. She was just recollecting the local legend of Old Nick himself galloping through the darkness, intent on crushing careless travellers with his coal black steed, when, all of a sudden, she heard the sound of hooves.
Jumping to her feet, she had no time to run but simply stared transfixed at the oncoming beast, huge in the gloom. “GRACE,” a hoarse voice shouted which sounded to her now rampant imaginings like the howling of demonic forces. Motionless Grace watched helplessly as the steed bore down on her, only narrowly avoiding trampling her to the floor by rearing up and moving aside at the last second.
The horse stood still, blowing and tossing its head as the rider quickly dismounted and strode towards her.
Unhappily, before Nicholas had the opportunity to ascertain if she’d been hurt, his wife muttered something about infernal justice and promptly fainted at his feet.
∞∞∞
Grace woke in an unfamiliar bed. Blinking, she raised herself onto her elbows and glanced round. The furnishings were masculine as was the recumbent figure snoring softly in the chair next to the bed. With her heart in her mouth, Grace recognised the tall form of her husband. Collapsing back into the pillows, she tried to remember what had happened for her to end up in what she had no doubt was the Duke of Blackmore’s bed.
Glancing back towards Nicholas, her heart missed a beat as she saw he was awake and staring back at her. Swallowing nervously, she made an effort to sit up, belatedly realising that she was dressed in only a chemise.
Rising quickly, her husband moved to her side but for some reason paused without touching her. Glancing up at him enquiringly, Grace realised he was waiting for her permission before laying his hands on her. Shyly she took his proffered arm and allowed him to help.
When he’d finally plumped the pillows behind her to his satisfaction, he sat down on the side of the bed and stared at her sombrely. Grace felt her heart leap at the expression she saw there. He was finally looking at her with all the love and longing she’d dreamed of. Fighting b
ack tears, she raised her hand and touched his face gently, marvelling at his sheer masculine beauty.
“Forgive me,” he murmured hoarsely.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, fighting back the tears. “I love you Nicholas.”
In answer, he groaned and pulled her unresisting body into his arms, his mouth swooping hungrily down on hers. With a smothered sob of joy, Grace returned his kiss, revelling in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, feeling him shudder in return as he pulled her closer, gathering her willing body into his.
“God I’ve missed you.” His voice was husky against her lips before he deepened the kiss.
The exquisite sensation of her in his arms, the feel of her lips clinging to his was almost unbearable joy to Nicholas. Finally, he opened his heart and allowed the last of his resistance to melt away in the arms of the woman who meant everything to him.
“Heal me Grace,” he whispered brokenly when he finally tore his mouth from hers, “I can’t do this without you.”
“We’ll do it together my love,” she murmured resting her head against his chest, tears of joy and relief quickly soaking into the fine linen.
Closing his eyes, Nicholas gently rested his head on his wife’s, finally allowing himself to admit what he’d known, almost from the moment his wife had thrown up on their wedding day. Leaning back, he tilted her face up to his and stared down at her with aching tenderness.
“I love you Grace,” he breathed softly, “God how I love you. Can we start all over again? Will you be my wife, my partner, my Duchess?”
Epilogue
“Well Percy, I think we have time for a small celebratory drink before we attend the reception at Blackmore.
"We may have been well and truly in the basket my friend, but I think we can safely say all’s well that ends well. It was without question an ingeniously devised plan of action executed with meticulous timing. Not to mention daring.”
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 14
