He was tired of dreaming and guessing. He needed to know for certain if he had a future—or even a present—with Kate.
He picked up a pebble from the garden walkway, hefted it, and took aim at Lady Oxbury’s bedroom window.
Chapter 7
Grace cradled her tea cup in her hands and drew in a deep breath. To think she had imbibed so much champagne she’d cast up her accounts! At least Lord Dawson didn’t know that detail, thank goodness, though he must have noted her overindulgence.
She muffled a moan, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. How could she have been so buffle-headed? The first glass had gone down so quickly—she’d been thirsty from the dance and a little nervous. She was not used to having such a large, handsome gentleman paying her attention—a gentleman who had already announced he wished to marry her. So when he’d offered her a second glass, she’d taken it gratefully.
And then she’d been so happy seeing Aunt Kate and Mr. Wilton together, she’d had to have a third glass in celebration…or was it a fourth?
She took a sip of her tea. She would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Baron Dawson. She would have stayed in the ballroom and danced with the men who couldn’t find another partner. She would have endured and even been anxious to go back to Standen and listen to John drone on about his plants.
She put her tea cup down so abruptly it clinked against the saucer. She had an odd, very empty feeling in her middle.
Perhaps a biscuit would help. She reached for the plate.
Hermes’s ears pricked up as Grace’s teeth sank into the crunchy treat. He was at her side before she’d swallowed her first bite.
“Let me guess—you want a biscuit, too?”
Hermes barked twice, wagged his tail, and looked beseechingly up at her, appearing pitifully hungry.
“But you just had some cheese.”
The little dog put his paws on Grace’s knee and stared intently into her face, his ears drooping. Somehow he managed to convey most eloquently that it had only been a very small bit of cheese, and though he was a small dog, he had the energy and the appetite of a beast twice his size.
“Hermes!” Kate stepped out of her dressing room wearing a voluminous nightdress. “Leave poor Grace alone.”
Grace laughed. “But he is so persuasive. Mayn’t I give him a biscuit?”
“That will encourage him, you know, but…all right. Just one, otherwise he’ll beg himself into gluttony.” Kate turned to Marie. “Hermes had his walk tonight, didn’t he?”
“Aye. Jem, the boot boy, took him out to the back garden.”
“Splendid. He should sleep well tonight, then.” Kate smiled. “Thank you, Marie. That will be all.”
“You don’t look terribly sleepy, Hermes,” Grace said as Marie left. She held out a biscuit and Hermes snapped it out of her hand, then licked her fingers to get every last crumb. His tongue tickled. “Do you ever feed this dog, Aunt Kate?”
“Constantly. It’s a wonder his belly doesn’t drag on the floor.”
“Yes, I’d say—” Grace examined Kate’s nightdress more closely. “Where did you get that? It looks ancient.”
“It is ancient.” Kate sat in the other chair and tucked her feet up under her. “But it’s very comfortable.”
“And very threadbare. You might want to replace it while you’re in Town.” Grace couldn’t resist; Hermes was dancing at her knee, his eyes so large and pleading. She offered him a bit of her own biscuit. He nipped it out of her fingers and trotted over to eat it by Kate. “Well! Does he think I’ll steal it back from him?”
“Perhaps he realizes he’s pushed his luck.”
“Hmm.” Grace cleared her throat slightly. Speaking of pushing one’s luck…“I should say…I mean, well…” Best get the words out. She spoke in a rush. “I am so sorry about tonight. I don’t understand what happened. I’ve had champagne before, but I’ve never been ill.”
“A little champagne goes a long way. Did you have anything to eat at the ball?”
“N-no.” Her stomach had been far too unsettled to sample the duke’s lobster patties.
“And not at the luncheon either.”
“I wasn’t hungry. I was too nervous, I suppose.”
Kate shrugged. “I imagine if you’d eaten, the champagne wouldn’t have affected you so much. Next time don’t drink on an empty stomach.”
The thought of drinking anything stronger than tea was revolting. “You do not need to worry. I’ll never touch champagne again.” Grace rubbed her forehead. “Did I…did I embarrass myself too dreadfully?” She grimaced. “I should be happy if I am too disgraced to attend another society event.”
“No, you did not embarrass yourself at all. I didn’t know you’d imbibed too freely until we were riding home in the carriage.”
“Truthfully?”
“Truthfully.” Aunt Kate put her tea cup down and leaned forward. “However if you are feeling more the thing, we do need to talk.”
This did not sound good. Could she plead a recurrence of her indisposition?
“Grace, about Lord Dawson…”
Grace’s stomach twisted. A recurrence was definitely possible. “W-what about Lord Dawson?”
“He…Well, you know your papa would be mad as a buck if he learned you’d been in the baron’s company.”
Papa…Baron Dawson…
Grace leaned forward as well. “Aunt Kate, why did Papa never tell me about Lady Harriet?”
Kate’s expression suddenly turned guarded. She sat back, putting more distance between herself and Grace. “Lady Harriet?”
“The Earl of Wordham’s daughter—Lord Dawson’s mother.” And the love of Papa’s life? But what about Mama? Grace’s mother had died in childbirth when Grace was only two. Grace didn’t remember her—she’d only seen her portrait in the family gallery—a petite woman with red hair, large brown eyes, and a serious expression. She’d thought Papa had never remarried because his heart had broken when she’d died.
Perhaps his heart had broken, but not for Mama.
Grace’s stomach twisted again.
Aunt Kate wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I suppose your papa thought it was ancient history—which it is.”
“Except he is apparently still wearing the willow for Lady Harriet.” Grace’s voice caught slightly. “Didn’t he love my mother at all?” She shouldn’t care; she knew that, but she still felt betrayed.
Aunt Kate patted her hand. “I’m sure he did, Grace. I always thought he and your mother had a very comfortable relationship. Lady Harriet was just his first love, and”—Aunt Kate blushed—“first loves are very intense. You shouldn’t assume my brother still has feelings for Lady Harriet.”
“No? Why else would he continue to hate the Wilton family?”
Aunt Kate laughed humorlessly. “Because your father feels his honor was injured by a Wilton, I suppose. He does not forgive or forget, Grace, which is why you cannot cultivate a friendship with Lord Dawson.”
Grace sighed. Aunt Kate was right. A wise woman would make a point of avoiding Lord Dawson for the rest of the Season. Besides the fact Papa detested the man, it was clear the baron was a very strong-willed individual, the sort of man who could have the unsuspecting believing that up was down—the sort of man in whose presence she drank too much champagne.
Unfortunately she did not feel at all like being wise. No, she felt like being slightly reckless—though not regarding champagne or any other spirits. But with regard to the baron—and waltzing and lingering in gardens without studying the plantings…
This trip to London was a small window—a small interruption—in the gray wall of her existence. A glimmer of magic, a brief portal into fairy tales and happily ever afters. She would enjoy it as fully as she could for as long as she could.
She would be wise and dutiful once she returned to the country and married John.
Grace put the biscuit she’d been nibbling back down on her plate. She suddenly had no room for it—her stomach
felt heavy, leaden, as if she’d swallowed a cannon ball.
“You don’t need to worry, Aunt Kate. I’ve already told Lord Dawson his suit is hopeless.”
“Suit?” Kate shrieked. She fumbled her cup, spilling a little tea on her nightdress. “Surely he hasn’t proposed? He just met you.”
Right. Grace knew that…well, her head knew it. Her heart seemed to have a very different opinion—it felt as if she’d known the baron forever.
“Apparently Lord Dawson is not a man to waste time.”
Unlike John. John had never kissed her. That hadn’t seemed such an oversight until now.
She hadn’t expected John to be amorous. She knew he was more interested in acquiring a bit of Papa’s land than in acquiring her. She’d thought he’d be a comfortable husband. Neglectful, perhaps, but she didn’t want much attention.
They would have a child or two or three—she couldn’t quite imagine the actual getting of those children, but surely John would manage the deed with a minimum of fuss—and she would be content. At least he would never be unfaithful—well, besides his occasional visits to his mistress, Mrs. Haddon.
No, “passion” and “John Parker-Roth” were not usually found in the same sentence unless the subject was vegetative. Roses or gardens evoked John’s emotions, not women and weddings.
“You can’t marry Lord Dawson.” Aunt Kate sounded both stern and worried. She was frowning.
“I know that.” Grace frowned back. Grace had not been the only woman in the garden tonight. “But you can marry Mr. Wilton.”
“What?!” Aunt Kate squeaked so loudly, Hermes raised his head.
“You can marry Mr. Wilton.” Grace leaned forward. “I have no idea why you failed to mention his proposal when we had our little chat in the retiring room earlier, but no matter. You are a widow; he is a bachelor—you are both free. You can marry as soon as you want.”
“Ah. Er…” Aunt Kate turned bright red. Was that a good sign?
“Did Mr. Wilton propose again tonight, Aunt Kate, when you were in the garden together?” Aunt Kate would have told her already if he had, wouldn’t she? Well, perhaps she would have if Grace hadn’t been foxed—and then sick. “I saw you waltzing with him. You looked…radiant.”
“Ah…radiant?” Kate looked more horrified now than radiant. “You must be mistaken.”
“No, I assure you. I—”
Ping!
Kate bolted to her feet as if electrified. Hermes leapt up and, barking madly, dashed to the window.
“It sounds as if someone’s throwing pebbles,” Grace said. “Who could it be?”
Ping!
Hermes danced in front of the curtains, then grabbed a mouthful and tugged. Kate stayed frozen in place. She was as colorless as an ice sculpture.
“Shall I see who’s there?” Grace started across the room, but Kate’s hand shot out to grab her wrist.
“No!” Her calm, self-possessed aunt was acting surprisingly agitated.
“Aunt Kate, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” Kate tore her eyes away from the window and smiled weakly—but jumped when another pebble hit the glass.
“You know, Grace, this has been quite a comfortable coze”—Ping!—“but I’m suddenly very tired”—Ping!—“and I do think I’d like to go”—Ping!—“to bed”—Ping! Ping!—“now.” Kate tugged Grace toward the connecting door and opened it. “You should go to bed as well. You need your rest.”
That was true. Grace was still feeling a little ill from her encounter with the champagne. “All right.” She paused to listen. “And it sounds as if the noise has stopped. Whoever was out there has probably left.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Kate literally pushed Grace over the threshold. “Sleep well.”
“You, too, Au—”
Slam!
If Grace had been standing any closer, the door would have hit her in the nose. She stared, and then shrugged and turned away. Apparently Aunt Kate did not wish to be disturbed. Just as well. Now that she was alone, she realized she was completely exhausted.
She climbed into bed and lay down cautiously. Thankfully, the room did not start rotating. She glanced at the bedside table. Good. Marie had replaced the basin, so if she should have an unfortunate recurrence of her indisposition, she would not be completely disgraced.
How could she have been such a noddy? She should have noticed the bubbles going to her head. To think she—
But she had not been thinking, had she? She’d been feeling. She’d been enchanted by a certain tall, handsome baron.
Oh, dear. She leaned over and blew out the candle. What was she going to do? Baron Dawson was not a man to take no for an answer, and she must tell him no.
She couldn’t break Papa’s heart again. She couldn’t align herself with a family that had stolen away his first love and caused him such great pain he still ached all these years later. She most certainly couldn’t give him grandchildren with Wilton blood running in their veins.
Grandchildren…babies…her babies and Dav—
No. Not Lord Dawson’s babies—John’s babies.
Her stomach lurched a little. Was she going to have to use that damn basin?
And she couldn’t ignore the effect her actions would have on John, either. He was expecting to marry her. He and his family would be hurt—embarrassed and insulted—if she jilted him. She would hate that.
She turned over on her side. Fortunately, her stomach did not object.
She had to tell David no, but here in the dark, in the privacy of her room, she could dream. What if she could tell him yes?
That would be wonderful. She could waltz with him at every ball as many times as she wanted. She could go off with him into society gardens without giving the ton anything to gossip about. And once they were in those gardens…
She smiled and burrowed deeper into her bed. There would be no botany lectures. No, they would do all the wonderful things they had done tonight—and perhaps a few more. She could tell David was holding back this evening.
His body was so hard and strong—so different from hers. Yet he’d been so gentle. She’d felt sheltered and safe. And the feel of his lips and his tongue and his hands…He had provoked so many entrancing, exciting sensations.
The throbbing…oh. The throbbing had started again. She was hot and damp and unsettled. She stretched, but even the friction of the sheets against her skin was too much.
She turned over on her stomach and pressed against the mattress, but that gave her no relief.
Thinking about David had been a mistake. She would never get to sleep at this rate. If only she could remember some of John’s discourses on plant classification, she would fall asleep in minutes—but she’d never paid enough attention to remember any of his lectures.
There was no help for it—she would have to count sheep.
She turned over on her back, closed her eyes resolutely, and started at “one.”
It must be Alex outside—who else could it be?
Kate rushed to the window. Why had she chosen to wear her oldest nightdress tonight? It looked like a rag, it had been washed so many times. The lowest scullery maid would be embarrassed to own it. It certainly wasn’t an appropriate garment for a seduction. She should change.
There was no time to change.
Had he left? She hadn’t heard a stone hit the window for a while. Hermes had stopped tussling with the curtain and had collapsed, panting, on the floor.
Surely Alex hadn’t left. Please God, don’t let him have left—though why she was asking the Divinity to assist in her liaison—
Hermes jumped up and started barking again as she shoved aside the curtain.
“Shh, Hermes. You’ll wake the dead.” Alex wouldn’t rush off after coming all this way.
All right, so Oxbury House was only a few blocks from Dawson House, but still, he’d made the trip, which must mean he wanted…
She wouldn’t think about what he
must want.
She tugged on the window latch.
There was no real hurry. Alex must have left. Why would he stay, after she’d forgotten to unlock the servants’ door and then ignored his attempts to get her attention? He likely was halfway home by now.
Damnation, the old latch wouldn’t budge. She pulled with both hands. She had to get the window open. He might not have gone far. Maybe if she shouted—
If she shouted all of London would wonder why Lady Oxbury was hanging out her bedroom window, yelling into the darkness.
At least her room was at the back of the building. Perhaps no one would notice.
If she couldn’t get this bloody window open, no one would notice. She could shout all she wanted—only Hermes would hear her.
She jerked harder on the latch. Was it rusted or painted shut? Surely the blasted window had been opened sometime in the last forty years, or however long it’d been since Oxbury’s mother’s death. The servants must have aired the rooms before she and Grace arrived. Whatever the case, the damn window wasn’t opening now. She pulled one last time, as hard as she could.
Finally! The latch screeched open. She shoved on the window. It protested, too, but went up slowly. She leaned out…
She couldn’t see a thing—or hear anything, either, Hermes was making such a racket.
“Shh, you silly dog.” She held her breath, listened…
She heard a low, male chuckle. Where was it coming from? Under the tree? The shadows were too thick to tell.
“Alex?” she whispered urgently.
“Hallo, Kate.”
“Alex!” She collapsed against the windowsill in relief. He was still here. “I’m sorry about—”
“Shh.” Another low chuckle. “Shall I come up? We can…talk then.”
She shivered at his pause. Yes, they could talk—and do other things. “Yes, come up. Can you manage the tree?”
“Of course.”
There was nothing “of course” about a forty-five-year-old man—even a man in as splendid physical condition as Alex appeared to be—climbing up a tree and through a bedroom window. She bit her tongue and said a few prayers as she watched him shed his coat and waistcoat and make his way up through the branches. She picked Hermes up and stepped back when he reached the window.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 100
