by Gill, Tamara
She nodded, a small downward tilt to her lips. “Agreed.”
Chapter 7
The road to London and to Mr. Grant’s estate became passable the following day. The family doctor was summoned from London and would now be on his way to Chidding Hall. Clara sat in a chair in the conservatory, a blanket over her legs as the day, although clear, was chill.
Mr. Grant had set off for his estate early this morning, but had promised to return this afternoon, with everything he would need to reside here for the duration of her father’s illness. After her papa’s outburst, his physical assault of her, something he’d never done in his life, Mr. Grant had decided to stay. Even as a child neither of her parents had laid a hand on her, so for him to shake her, his grip punishing and cruel had been out of character.
The tisane, whatever Mrs. Pennell had made up, worked wonders yesterday, and they had given more to her father today. He was sleeping, which under the circumstances was probably best.
Footsteps sounded on the tiled floor and she turned, placing the unread book in her lap aside. Pleasure and relief in equal values ran through her at the sight of Mr. Grant striding toward her. She’d never noticed his athleticism before, but how she did now. Not to mention their two kisses plagued her mind almost as much as her father did. What did it mean, their slip of etiquette?
Did it mean anything at all or was he simply so angry at her that he’d kissed her as further punishment? Not that it had been a punishment at all. The sweet words he’d breathed against her lips had not been a penalty to bear. They had sent her heart to pound and her body to want and need things she’d never known before in her life.
And now he was here to stay. However would she behave herself with him?
“Mr. Grant, you’re back.” He smiled and the breath in her lungs seized. When had he become so handsome? His wavy brown locks accentuated his chiseled cheekbones and strong jaw. His nose was perfectly straight, and his eyes, large and the kindest she’d ever seen, gleamed with pleasure. She could not recall thinking of him so fondly in London. Clara frowned as he came and sat beside her and he reached up and smoothed her brow with his thumb.
“Is something troubling you? Is everything well with your father this morning?”
She nodded, ignoring the fact that his touch did odd things to her. “He’s asleep and better today. He ate breakfast in bed, but the tisane Mrs. Pennell made has put him to sleep.”
Mr. Grant leaned back on the stone chair they sat upon, staring up at the sky through the glass roof. “The doctor should be here this afternoon and that should alleviate some of the pressures on you, Lady Clara.” He turned and looked at her, his eyes skimming over her in appreciation. She’d seen that look before from other gentlemen in the ton, most especially Lord Peel, but with Mr. Grant bestowing such glances affected her like nothing she’d ever known.
“Please call me Clara, Mr. Grant. I think we’re past correct forms of address after all that we’ve been through these past few days.”
He grinned and she had to look away lest she lean over, clasp him by his too-good-looking jaw and kiss him again. “This is where you may say in return that I may call you by your given name too.”
He chuckled, leaning toward her and with one finger tilted up her chin. “You may call me Stephen, Clara.”
Her name was but a whisper and she swallowed, biting her lip at the gravelly, deep voice in which he’d said her name. Never had her name sounded so evocative or, dare she say it, sensual before in her life.
“Stephen,” she whispered, but even to her own ears it sounded like a plea. No doubt he heard the need, the want in her tone and without further prompting, he closed the space between them and kissed her.
Clara sighed at the rightness of having him in her arms once again, clasping his nape and kissing him back. His hair was soft under her gloveless fingers, his skin warm. He licked her bottom lip and she gasped as he deepened the kiss. His mouth covered hers with delicious wantonness and she could not get enough. For a man that she’d once reviled she certainly enjoyed his kisses.
She could no longer say that about Stephen, that she disliked him. Over the last few days he’d shown a side of himself as loyal and kind toward those in need. She supposed the night he’d helped her in Covent Garden she should have recognized that trait of his, a caring nature. With her, here and alone he was different. Gone were the harsh looks, the dismissing words whenever they had interacted. The man kissing her now could not be more different and she could not be more changed too, since seeing this side of him.
“I should not be kissing you like this.” He leaned his forehead against hers, holding her gaze. “We’re enemies, are we not?”
Clara clasped his jaw, kissing him quickly before pulling back. He let her go, but he watched her, his eyes wary and curious as to what she was going to say. “We are, or at least, we always have been in the past.”
He leaned back in the chair, a small smile playing about his very kissable mouth. “Whatever we are, I will tell you this truth, Lady Clara. I enjoy your kisses and would welcome more of them from you if you were in agreement.”
Heat bloomed on her cheeks and she bit her lip, not sure where to look at Stephen’s words. She enjoyed his kisses as well, more than she ever thought she would, but what then? She was a duke’s daughter, expected to marry someone of equal rank to her. Mr. Grant was only circulating in their social sphere due to whom his sisters had married. Kissing him could not lead anywhere. But it did not mean they could not enjoy this time together while he was a guest here at Chidding Hall.
A little doubt niggled at her conscience that she should not give him false hope that their newfound intimacies would lead anywhere permanent, but she also did not want to lose him. His support, protection and help in regard to her father. It was a selfish thought, but she had no one else. As an only daughter, there were no siblings to call on, she had no cousins, aunts, or uncles. Her father was all she had, and now Mr. Grant, who offered to help. She would not throw away such support, not for anything, not even the little guilt that taunted her that she was being unfair.
“I am in agreement,” she said, sliding over to lean on his chest. “As strange and new as all of this is to me, I’m glad that you’re here. Thank you for your support with my father. I’ll forever be grateful.”
He pushed a lock of hair from her face, his thumb tracing down her cheek to run across her bottom lip. “The first time that I saw you in London I will admit to being a little taken aback at your beauty. Your golden locks, perfectly coiled atop your head most days, your brows,” he said tracing one, “a faultless outline to the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. From across the room those eight years ago, I knew they were the color of a tempestuous ocean after a storm.” He chuckled a little. “Little did I know just how wild a storm you would be.”
Clara swallowed the lump in her throat at Stephen’s words. No one had ever complimented her in such detail before. Oh, she’d had compliments on how pretty she looked, what a lovely gown, her perfect smile, but no one, not even her father, had ever explained in such detail her features and no admirer had ever said that when they had seen her for the first time that they had been taken aback, dazed into staring and taking their fill.
Which was what Mr. Grant had seemed to do.
“And then I ruined your illusion by opening my mouth and putting you in your place, if I recall.”
He shook his head, frowning. “If I remember correctly, the first time we spoke it was I who put you back in your place for being rude to my sister.”
Clara laid her head against his shoulder. His arm wrapped about her back and held her against him. “Please know that I am very happy for your sisters and their marriages. I will admit to being injured by Marquess Graham, that I hoped and thought his courting of me would lead to marriage. I suppose I did not take my ire out on his lordship and rather redirected it at your sister.” She looked up at him and met his surprised visage. “I will apologize to her the next time I s
ee her.”
“She would like that very much. Louise is not the type of woman who likes to have enemies. I think if she could, she would enjoy having you as a friend, and I think you, Clara, could do with a friend who was honest and loyal.”
She sighed. How true that was. Her friends in London were as fickle as they came. Most of them had married now, some were even parents of small children, but still they gossiped, made fun of debutantes who were less fortunate in looks or stature than themselves. They flirted and teased each other’s husbands to the point where Clara had wondered if some of her friends were having rendezvous outside the marriage bed. Stephen was steadfast, loyal, and something told her his sisters would be as well. In the future she may need that sort of support if her father continued to decline and she was left with no one.
“I will make amends, I promise.” She closed her eyes, lulled by the sound of his heart beating under her ear. How was it that in only a short time she’d become so very comfortable around him? The comforting thought was her last before sleep enfolded her.
Stephen had Lady Clara’s maid pull back her bedding so he may place her on the crisp, clean sheets. He’d allowed her to sleep against his person for some time in the conservatory, before he realized that his back would cramp if he stayed in the position for too much longer. Even though it was not yet luncheon, Clara had a lot on her mind of late, so many worries and responsibilities it was only probable that she was exhausted. Caring for the Duke and the ducal properties would not be easy and would be time-consuming.
He headed back downstairs to the library. He would read for a time before the doctor arrived, which should be early this evening if his calculations of travel were correct.
At some point he too fell asleep and only woke to the sound of voices in the foyer, one of those a man’s and Clara’s, who was greeting the guest. Stephen rose quickly, checking his cravat and sliding on his coat as he stepped out into the foyer.
Clara spotted him, and turned the older gentleman his way. “Dr. Miller, this is Mr. Grant. He was unfortunately waylaid here for some days due to the river coming down and has been helping me with Papa. As I stated in my letter to you, it was Mr. Grant who stopped father from shaking me.”
The doctor shook his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Grant, and thank you for your time here assisting Lady Clara. It is most appreciated, I’m sure. Now, shall we go upstairs and see his Grace?”
“Yes, this way if you please, Dr. Miller.”
Stephen followed and stood at the back of the ducal suite as the doctor went about his inspection of the Duke, who was awake and sitting up in bed, his discarded mail on the bedside cupboard.
The doctor did what looked like a few tests with the Duke’s hands, reactions, and then he spoke to him at length, questioning him about all sorts of subjects that Stephen wondered whatever had to do with anything. Even so, the doctor continued, before showing Lady Clara a vial of liquid that was to be added to his tea every morning. “Shall we discuss this further in the library, Lady Clara? I would welcome refreshments if it’s not too much trouble,” the doctor said, standing.
“Of course,” Lady Clara said, settling her father before leaving the room. They headed down to the library. Clara rang for tea and biscuits, notifying the staff that there would be an extra guest for dinner and to prepare a guest chamber.
During the time the tea was being prepared they spoke very little about the Duke. When a footman brought in the tea and Clara asked for them not to be disturbed, only then did the doctor explain his findings.
“Regarding your father,” he said, placing down his cup and saucer after taking a sip. “I do not have good news, Lady Clara. In the few weeks that you’ve been home I can see a marked decline in his cognitive ability and there is a slight tremor affecting his hands that you may not have noticed. In London I was not certain the Duke suffered from the affliction that I’d seen before, but upon inspecting him again today, I fear that he does indeed have a similar disease I’ve seen in only a few of my patients in the past. I’m so very sorry, my dear, to be the one to tell you this, but he will not survive its progress.”
Stephen moved over to sit beside Clara, taking her ice-cold hand. He rubbed it, trying to force warmth into her body, but she was silent and still, shocked he had no doubt.
“My father is dying?” she asked at length, her voice almost inaudible.
The doctor nodded, reaching out to squeeze her arm. “I’m sorry, my lady. You must prepare yourself for the progression of the disease to strip your father of who he once was. He will forget how to do things for himself, he may become angry and upset and be quite pleasant on other occasions. His food will need to be cut up in smaller portions for him so he will not choke and I would suggest that you do not let him wander about alone. He may become disoriented and lost. He will become a danger to himself and I would suggest the hiring of a caregiver. I have one whom I can suggest and write to if you approve.”
She did not answer and Stephen met the doctor’s eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Miller. That would be most kind.”
The doctor’s attention turned back to Clara, concern in his gray orbs.
“Is there anyone we can summon to help you? Family or friends you may want here, my lady?” Stephen asked, holding her hand and hoping the terrible gray pallor of her skin would go away.
She shook her head and his heart broke at the sight of the unshed tears welling within her blue eyes. “I do not have anyone. Father is all I have, Stephen.”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight as she succumbed to her tears, her body shaking in his hold.
“Do you have any idea, Dr. Miller, how long his Grace may have left?” Stephen did not really want to know, but with Clara as upset as she was, he doubted she would remember to ask such a question, and yet it was be something she would want to know. His surmise was right as she lifted her head, dabbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Dr. Miller?” she queried. “How long did your other patients have before the end?”
The doctor looked down at his hands clasped in his lap, his knuckles white. “Your father seems to be nearing the end stage of the disease. I would surmise three months if you are lucky, one if you’re not.”
Clara gasped, her face draining of color altogether.
“It is a shock, my dear. I know, but I would suggest you take this time to spend it with your father as best as you can. Try to keep a brave face in front of him, take him out on picnics or rides in the carriage, just be certain to have his caregiver or Mr. Grant with you at all times. The medication I gave to you will help calm him when the need arises. Give it to him in the morning and then he should be quite manageable during the day. When he no longer is, you know your time is limited.”
“Thank you, Dr. Miller,” she whispered, clutching at Stephen’s hand. “I will make the most of the time I have left with Papa.”
Chapter 8
Clara had adhered to her promise to Dr. Miller over the next month and a half. They had made day trips to their neighbors, taken tea and cakes out in the woods surrounding the ducal property. At one point even a deer had walked up uncommonly close to them as they sat and ate. Her father had smiled and laughed at the brazen animal and the day had been one to remember.
Stephen had stayed at the estate during the entirety of her father’s illness, helping the caregiver Dr. Miller had sent to them from London and being of any assistance he could. The man had done everything for the Duke that Clara could not do herself and she would be forever grateful for making her father’s last few weeks comfortable and pain-free.
A quick rap upon her door pulled her from her sleep and she sat up so quickly the room spun a little.
“Who is it?” she asked
“Lady Clara, it’s me, James. You need to come to the Duke’s room. Straightaway, my lady.”
Before her father’s valet’s words had stopped she was out of bed and wrapping a shawl about her shoulders. She ran from the room to her fa
ther’s. He lay still on his bed.
“He is unresponsive, my lady,” the doctor stated, checking her father’s pulse. “I cannot wake him.”
“Father,” she said, getting up on the bed to sit beside him. He had grown frail and much older than his fifty-four years during the past month and she was certain that if he were to walk into a London ballroom the ton would not recognize him today. “Papa, please wake up.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she ran her hands over his cheeks, shaking him a little. “Papa…please, please don’t leave me alone.”
Her father opened his eyes, meeting hers and hope bloomed in her chest. He gave her a tired, little smile and her heart broke. She was losing him. Her only family and he was going away. “I will never leave you, my darling. I will always be with you. In here,” he said, lifting his hand and pointing at her heart.
She nodded and tried to smile, but even to her it felt wobbly and uncertain. “I love you,” she said, unable to stop the tears or the sob that escaped in front of all who stood behind her, Stephen included.
“The moment you were born you were the love of my life, my child. I’m proud of you, my dear.”
She hugged him, holding him close as the last of his worldly breath left his body. The comforting hand of Stephen’s slid over her back, stroking and supporting her in this time.
How would she ever survive without her father and Stephen, who too now would be going back to his estate? The realization made her heart ache even more and her chest burned as if she could not get enough air. She was going to be alone, an unmarried woman without a protector, without any family. Tears slid freely down her cheeks. However would she manage?
Five days later she stood in the drawing room downstairs after having laid to rest her father in the family mausoleum. All of London looked to be in the room, her friends and their husbands had made the journey from London, including Lord Peel. The gentleman whom she had not seen since Covent Garden stood to the side of the room watching her as if she were a juicy piece of meat that his wolfish teeth wanted to rip apart.
