“Well, Musgrave, I wish you luck in your pursuit.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes, I’m afraid there’s nothing here I’m interested in.”
Frederick grinned, glancing back at his prize. “Afraid I can’t say the same, old chap.”
Julian swallowed down his revulsion—for him, for her, for the whole sordid arrangement. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you back in London.”
“Perhaps.” Not if Julian could possibly avoid it. He took one last look at her, lovely and oblivious, before he turned around and left.
Grace hadn’t seen Frederick since they’d arrived, but that was hardly surprising in this crush. Lord Bromley invited far too many people for his small villa. She’d managed to find chairs for Lady Marlbury and Lady Bosworth, but she’d been left standing all night. Her feet were sore and her back ached.
“Miss Godwyn,” Lady Marlbury said, breaking off in the middle of her gossiping with Lady Bosworth and fluttering her handkerchief. “It’s so warm in this room.”
“Yes, it’s quite crowded. Perhaps I could get you some punch?”
“Oh, yes, that would be delightful. Thank you, dear.”
Grace smiled, dipped into a curtsy, then left to go fetch the punch, which had been the point of Lady Marlbury’s observation about the temperature in the first place. Lord Bromley’s villa was a warren of small rooms, all filled to overflowing with overheated guests. It was slow going, wending her way through the crush of bodies without throwing an elbow here or there. In the middle of the parlor, she felt a hand slide intimately around her waist and yelped.
Frederick had crept up behind her and was now smiling down at her.
“Finally, I’ve caught you alone.”
She forced a lighthearted laugh. “We’re hardly alone, Mr. Musgrave. This room is as crowded as the Burlington Arcade at Christmas.”
“Well, then follow me. And remember, it’s ‘Frederick’ now.” He winked at her and took her hand, pulling her behind him through the crowd. How nice it would be if her fluttering pulse was the result of excitement rather than dread. He was a respectable gentleman from a good family and in time, he stood to inherit enough to leave him comfortably well-off. He was by far her most promising option not involving wages. Swooning over a lover’s declaration was not in the cards for her, and if Frederick meant to propose, she’d accept and get on with learning to live with him.
Frederick tugged her through a narrow door and she found herself in a tiny anteroom. Hardly even a room, holding just a small shelf of ledgers and a desk, perhaps the butler’s office. The salient point, however, was no one else was in it. Frederick released her hand and spun around to face her. She opened her mouth to say something, perhaps some little quip about his eagerness or the scandalous way he’d whisked her into this secluded closet, but before she could say a word, he’d surged forward and pinned her against the door.
Of course this would be a part of it. Frederick didn’t seem the kind to confine himself to a courtly, chaste proposal on one knee. He’d want to take a few liberties, so she’d pretend to receive him enthusiastically. A bit more preamble wouldn’t have gone amiss, however. A little conversation, a profession of feelings.
He ducked his head to the side, pressing his lips to her neck. A chill shuddered down her spine.
“Mr. Musgrave...”
“Always so bloody prim,” he muttered. “Can’t wait to get you out of these clothes and see the tiger underneath. Might have been a bit more fun last night, but we can enjoy ourselves now just as well.”
He was still pressing wet, sloppy kisses to the side of her neck and grasping at her waist, but Grace went still.
“Last night?”
“At the festival. After I’d gone through all that bloody trouble to buy the costume off the bloke from the parade.”
Her voice, when she spoke, was high and strained. “That was you?”
“Yes, but you escaped me, you minx. And then I lost track of you in those bloody dark alleys.”
“I was afraid.” Terrified. She’d been terrified.
She could feel his smile as he grinned into her shoulder. Then he nipped at her earlobe. His rasping breaths were loud in her ear. “A little fear can make the pleasure sweeter.” Her heart had pounded just as loudly in her ears last night, the heavy footsteps right behind her as she raced through the dark. And Frederick thought she’d enjoyed it.
She pushed at his shoulders. “I believe we’re getting a bit carried away.” He was getting carried away. She, on the other hand, was repulsed.
“On the contrary,” he growled into her shoulder. “I think we’re finally heading in the right direction.”
Then his hand curl around the back of her thigh, and to her horror, he began to gather her skirts up.
“Mr. Musgrave...” she protested again. And then “Frederick!” when that did no good.
“Don’t worry, no one will come in.”
“It’s not others I worry about. It’s myself.”
He kissed her neck—an openmouthed, wet kiss, leaving her cringing. “You don’t need to worry about that, either. I’m sure we’ll come to a fine arrangement. There’s no reason to hold back on the festivities, though. We can settle our business later.”
“Later?” She squirmed, trying to shake her skirts back down as he fought to drag them up.
“After.”
She gripped his forearms hard, forcing him to stop. “Do you mean to... You want to... Before we’ve...”
Frederick leaned back just enough to look at her, a matter of inches only. His bulk still towered over her, pinning her in place. The lust in his expression had been supplanted by irritation. “What does it matter, if it’s before or after?”
She scowled. “It matters a great deal to me.”
He sputtered a laugh. “You wish to hammer out the arrangements in advance? You are a level-headed little thing, aren’t you? Very well. I’ve got a nice set of rooms near Hyde Park which will be yours for the duration. There’s a maid who works half days, but you can have her full days, if you’d like.”
A sick suspicion began to unfurl in her gut. A set of rented rooms were not what Mr. Frederick Musgrave would offer a potential bride. They were, however, precisely the sort of arrangement he might offer—
She shoved him backwards with all her strength. “I’m not sure I like what you’re proposing, Mr. Musgrave.”
He sighed in frustration. “Should have known a prim thing like you would drive a hard bargain. Shall we settle the monthly allowance then, too?”
“We shall settle nothing that isn’t a proper proposal of marriage.”
Frederick paused, then frowned, then broke out in laughter. “Very wry, Gracie. I knew you had wit.”
“I am not in jest, Mr. Musgrave. I don’t know what you thought this might lead to, but I assure you I had only the most proper of intentions. I still do.”
He sobered slightly, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “You’re serious. You honestly expected me to propose?”
Grace drew herself upright, as starched as she’d ever been. “Anything less is a grave insult to my honor, sir.”
Frederick began to laugh again, a disdainful chuckle that made her skin crawl. Oh, how she wished she were bigger, stronger, male. She’d wallop him. She’d knee him in the crotch and watch him crumple up in agony. She’d split his lip and blacken both his eyes. But as it was, all she could do was stare at him, as haughty as a queen, and remind herself she deserved better, even when everyone else seemed to have forgotten it.
“You can’t be serious,” Frederick gasped between gales of laughter. “That I, the son of an earl, could possibly propose to the hired companion of my grandmother.”
I’m the daughter of a visc
ount! She wanted to scream it in his face. But it didn’t matter how noble her family had been when none of them lived to protect her. Blue blood moldering in the grave was the same as no blood at all. So instead of the withering set-down she longed to give him, she merely raised her chin another fraction and glared at him. “A younger son, I believe. And I am no paid companion, sir. I am your grandmother’s guest.”
Frederick scoffed. “You tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night, Gracie.”
“It’s ‘Miss Godwyn’ to you.”
He stopped laughing, and took a step closer, crowding her against the door again. With one finger, he nudged her chin up to look her in the eye, even as she tried to avert her face.
“Come on now, Gracie,” he crooned softly. “Be reasonable. My offer is quite good. I’ll see you’re well looked after.”
Lord, how she hated him. Everything about him repulsed her, and he’d just insulted her in the worst possible way. And still she couldn’t spit in his face as she longed to. Because she was dependent on the charity of his grandmother, and couldn’t risk angering him more than she already had.
She loathed her vulnerability, loathed how she was constantly forced to debase herself to stay in favor with unworthy animals like Musgrave.
“I’m sure you feel your offer is quite generous, Mr. Musgrave.” She spoke with all the calmness she’d learned from many years under Lady Grantham’s careful tutelage. “But I’m afraid my honor forbids me to even consider such a thing.”
“Honor won’t keep you fed, Gracie.”
Oh, how well she knew it. “Nevertheless, I am a lady. I beg you to consider me as one and please do not think of me in such an inappropriate light again. Now, I must return to your grandmother. She must be wondering what’s happened to me.”
“I doubt it,” he snarled. “You think anyone here cares what happens to a sad little thing like you?” She knew her rejection made him cruel, and she could only pray he didn’t choose to force her. She could fight back, but Frederick’s strength might overwhelm any physical resistance she could make.
Again, she drew on her wavering innate sense of self, her belief, however pathetic, that she was worth more, to herself, if to no one else. “I care, and that is all that matters. Now please step back and let me leave.”
He hesitated, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together in frustrated lust. Grace held her ground and stared him down. She would not be insulted and manhandled by this entitled brat.
It must have been no more than a few moments, but it felt like years as Grace held firm and willed him to back down. Finally, he relented, shoving himself back from the door in a move full of disgust.
“Go, then,” he snarled. “Go clutch your precious virginity to your bosom like a treasure. Lord knows, no one else will care about it.”
“Do not speak to me this way again,” she snapped.
He laughed. “Who’s to stop me, Miss Godwyn?” He drew her name out in a mockery of respect.
She hated that he was right. No one would stop him. There was no father, no uncle, no brother, no cousin, to claim her honor as his own. No family would enfold her in their care. She had only herself. And no one cared a fig about her honor but her. Was she worth this struggle? In time, would she come to believe Frederick had the right of it? As the years passed and she wasted away as a hanger-on or servant, would she look back on his insulting offer as the chance she’d let slip through her fingers? Was this the best life was going to offer her?
She didn’t even look at Frederick as she slipped out from underneath him and out of the room. Back in the overfilled parlor, full of well-dressed, laughing guests, enjoying the winter in the South of France without a care in the world, it seemed hard to believe a man had just offered to make her his mistress, and been insulted when she thought herself too good for it.
Had she really slipped down so far in the social structure? And if Frederick looked at her as nothing more than a doxy to be purchased, did other men? Was there some stink of poverty and desperation clinging to her, no matter how refined her accent, no matter how perfect her manners? Her thoughts danced back to the night before, and her dark, handsome stranger stealing a kiss in a courtyard. She’d thought he’d been swept away in magic and romance as she’d been. In reality, he was probably just sampling her wares, to see if she was worth offering for. Mortification swept through her, and fast on its heels, fear.
She’d lived in fear of the future from her earliest days. But things took on a grim new prospect. Time had apparently run out and she was still as alone and unprotected as she’d always been. That false hope she’d nurtured during her years with Gen—thinking she’d found her way back into the circle she’d been born to—finally snuffed out.
Frederick left Menton the next day. For all his glowering, he did not approach her again with a renewal of his horrid offer.
She poured out the whole mortifying tale in a letter to Lady Grantham. It had been an accident which originally sent her into Genevieve’s care, but one she would always be grateful for. Her father had just died, leaving her alone in the world at fifteen. Just as the rent was coming due on their sad, rented rooms, leaving Grace with nowhere to go, a letter had arrived, informing her of the death, some many months prior, of a great aunt she’d known nothing about—her mother’s last remaining family member. Grace would have preferred a living relative to take her in, some family somewhere who cared about her, but she was presented with something almost as good. The late Lady Meecham had bequeathed a sum to be spent on finishing Grace with Lady Grantham.
Unfortunately, Lady Meecham’s understanding of Lady Grantham’s school was several decades out of date. Perhaps once the finest families in England had sent their daughters to Lady Grantham for a last bit of polish before presentation. But for some time, the new Lady Grantham had been busier with working-class heiresses, bringing them up to snuff for Society and introducing them to impoverished European nobility. The esteemed lady herself was dead, and the mantle of Lady Grantham was now carried by her great-niece, Genevieve.
When Grace had appeared on her doorstep, her care paid for, but without another penny to her name, Genevieve took her in. Perhaps the mysterious Genevieve had seen something of herself in Grace. Whatever it was, Grace had known her happiest years with Genevieve. She’d met her dearest friends, Victoria and Amelia, there. Victoria, with her beauty and great fortune, had married high, and was now the Duchess of Waring. Amelia, heiress or not, had predictably flouted everyone’s expectations and married a working-class shipping magnate. But despite their mercenary training, her friends had both found love in their marriages.
Gen had done her best to point Grace toward promising prospects, but orchestrating the great alliances of her heiresses had required the majority of her efforts. And to be fair, in the early years, Grace hadn’t put in much effort herself. Marrying a man you didn’t love just for security was an unpleasant business. Happy for the first time in her life, she had been in no great hurry to bring it to an end.
When her third Season began, the ballrooms of London seemed flooded with fresh-faced, wealthy young girls. Grace, with no money, no family, two years on the market already, and unremarkably pretty, had faded away in comparison. When the dowager had invited her to Menton, it had seemed a promising opportunity, a new place, new faces. But as a companion, she was less than forgettable; she was invisible. And somehow it had happened. She’d slipped into this in-between place, no longer a debutante, but still haunting the fringes of Society. Off the shelf as a marriage prospect, but with no clear plan for her future.
She couldn’t hang on for much longer, hoping for a miracle. If no viable prospect had presented himself by the end of this Season, then she would have to abandon those hopes and find some way to support herself.
* * *
March 2, 1897
Dearest Grace,
/> I read your latest letter with great anxiety and sadness. The appalling nerve of Musgrave, to make such a suggestion to you, a woman of obvious quality. Trust me when I say he will pay for the affront. It might take me some time, and he might not know what he’s being punished for when it comes, but believe me, it will. I’ll see to it.
Now, onto the issue at hand. We simply must find you a husband. I know you’ve given up and think it impossible, but I’m convinced if we apply ourselves, we can find a suitable—honorable—man who will offer for you. At present, I only have one pupil and she’s too young to be out in company much. I can devote myself fully to the effort. Indeed, there’s nothing I want to do more.
You must come home to London, dearest. I know you’ve promised to spend the winter with the dowager, but I’m sure she’ll understand if you tell her I have need of you. Time is short. The Season has already begun. We only have a few months to find a suitable man and convince him you will make him the very best of wives. I’ll expect you shortly.
Sincerely,
Genevieve, Lady Grantham
Chapter Three
“Genevieve, I’m not sure there’s any point.”
Grace had come when Genevieve implored her to, but she didn’t have much hope of finding success. “I’ve already spent two Seasons in London—three, if you count the beginning of last year—without serious interest from anyone. Nothing will be different now, except I’m another year older and a bit more desperate. And you know how men love desperate women.”
“Don’t be defeatist, darling,” Gen said as she poured the tea. Morning sunlight flooded her yellow and white parlor. Gen, dressed in her trademark all black, looked like an elegant little raven set down in the midst of it. Most of Grace’s happiest memories occurred in this room. Hours of laughing and talking with Victoria and Amelia, lessons in deportment from Gen, which often devolved into more laughter. The only enjoyable part of her miserable life had played out in this house. “And as for admirers, you know as well as I do you had plenty.”
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 4
