“Name one.”
“Anthony Batchelder.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Do be serious, Gen. He’s a disgusting little cad, making love to every woman in London under thirty.”
“And a few over thirty,” Gen murmured. “All right, then, how about—”
“If you say ‘Victor Cheadle’, I’ll laugh in your face. He’s a would-be bigamist who kidnapped our poor Amelia.”
“Only Amelia could manage to get herself kidnapped by a suitor. She’s a magnet for trouble. Besides, I wasn’t going to say Cheadle. You’re far too poor to be of interest to Victor Cheadle.”
Grace sobered, and reclined back into the corner of the sofa. “That’s precisely the problem. Nearly every man in Society seems to need a wealthy wife these days. I’m too poor to be of interest to any of them.”
“Not every gentleman in England is cash-strapped. Only a great number. There are some who, while not wealthy, are modestly comfortable still.”
“I’d happily settle for modestly comfortable.”
“Then we need to draw up a list of suitable candidates and do what we can to toss you into their paths.”
This was the reality of the situation, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. She was a realist, but her sense of right and wrong stubbornly refused to be silent. “It’s so distasteful, Gen.”
Genevieve leaned forward and covered her hand with her own. “I know, darling. But it’s how the thing gets done. Trust me, it’s my job. And now, I mean to do it for you as I’ve done it for other girls. We can find someone, I’m sure of it.”
Out in the entrance hall, the bell sounded.
“I wonder who that could be at this early hour?”
“Perhaps you’ll soon have another student. Only an American millionaire would pay a social call at this hour of the morning.”
“Or an old friend who doesn’t stand on ceremony.”
Grace sat up quickly and saw Victoria, resplendent in an expensive burgundy braided walking suit, standing just inside the parlor door.
“Vic!” Gen cried, jumping to her feet and hurrying to embrace her. “What on earth are you doing here? We didn’t think you meant to come to London at all this Season.” Grace stepped forward next to hug one of her dearest friends. Victoria had always been beautiful, but in the past year, as her marriage of convenience blossomed into genuine love, she’d taken on a whole new glow of happiness.
“We don’t have any plans to reside in London this Season,” Victoria confirmed, tugging off her gloves and following Grace back to the sofa. “But when Gen wrote and told me you were coming home, I had to come up for a quick visit.”
“And how are things at Briarwood?” Gen poured a cup of tea for the new arrival.
“Quite well. So well I’m going to join Andrew in Italy to be there at the tomb site, now the holidays are past.”
Victoria’s husband, Andrew, had transformed entirely during their marriage. Now elevated to the dukedom, he was a noted archaeologist, and madly in love with his wife. Grace pushed away the twinge of envy she felt hearing Vic refer so casually to her husband and their shared life and interests. She’d never begrudge Vic her happiness, she only mourned sometimes that she’d never find such a life for herself.
“That sounds exciting, although we will miss you.”
Victoria set her tea aside and leaned forward. “I confess, I had another motive in coming to see you, Grace.”
Just then, a footman entered the room. “Your Grace? We’ve finished bringing in your trunks. Where would you like them?”
“Just bring them in here, Fowells, thank you.”
“What trunks?” Gen asked. “Don’t tell me you’re fleeing Waring now.”
Victoria laughed, as if such a thing were patently impossible. “No. I’m sorry I can’t be here as you and Grace take on the Season again, but I have something to offer which might help.”
She rose to her feet and threw open the first trunk the footmen set down on the carpet. Pushing aside layers of delicate tissue paper, she drew out a glorious blue satin ball gown, set all around the wide, low neckline with tiny velvet bows and silk roses.
Grace began to shake her head. “No, Vic. I can’t. I know you mean well, but this is too much.”
Victoria rounded on her. “It’s not what you think. I ordered all of these for myself last fall. But by the time they arrived... Well... let’s just say I won’t be able to get into any of them this Season.”
“What are you talking about? Your figure is stunning, just like always.”
Victoria smiled, a small, secret smile, and there was a glow in her eyes which was impossible to miss. “Not for long.”
“Oh, Vic,” Gen breathed. “Do you mean it?”
Victoria nodded, grinning widely. Gen cried out and hugged her.
“A baby?” Grace could scarcely believe it. Family was the one thing Victoria had always wanted. And now she’d have it. “Vic, I am so, so happy for you.” She grasped Victoria’s hands and kissed her cheek.
“So you see, in a month’s time, I won’t be able to wiggle into any of these.” Sentiment banished, Victoria was all no-nonsense practicality. “By the time I’m this size again, these will all be hopelessly out of date. It’s not charity, Grace, so leave off with that pained expression of yours. You really must take them. Otherwise they’ll molder away in the trunks and be ruined.”
Grace struggled for something to say as Gen pulled one beautiful gown after another from Victoria’s trunks. It wasn’t always easy to be the penniless friend of two heiresses like Victoria and Amelia. She’d managed it, and kept her pride intact, by never allowing herself to depend on their generosity. Over the years, they could have assisted her in a million large and small ways without noticing the expense in the slightest, but Grace had always steadfastly refused.
But this was different...wasn’t it? Vic hadn’t made the dresses up for Grace, but for herself, and now she didn’t need them, for the best possible reason. She had to admit, the idea of plunging back into the London social scene decked out in the dresses of a duchess instead of her serviceable gray taffeta was terribly appealing. As dreary Grace Godwyn in her same out-of-date dress, men had overlooked her for years. But dressed like this, people couldn’t help but take notice.
Gen was already busily assessing each gown with her sharp eyes. “You’re a bit thinner than Vic, but my Mabel is a terror with a needle and thread. She could have these nipped in for you in a thrice. This one will do wonders for your complexion.” She thrust a celadon green walking dress into Grace’s hands. “Oh, but this one is a bit too much. A married duchess can get away with claret satin, Vic, but not an unmarried viscount’s daughter.”
“I’m no one’s daughter,” Grace heard herself murmur, staring at the heap of finery spread out across the parlor.
Genevieve rounded on her and grasped her by the shoulders. “Yes, you are. You are the daughter of the Viscount Haddon. For too long you’ve been happy to let the world forget it, but I won’t let you this time. You were born to this world in a way few people are and it’s time you claimed your place in it.”
Vic came to stand beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. “Amelia and I can’t be here with you like in the old days. But let me do this for you. Take these. Set London on its ear. You can do it, Grace.”
She stared at the sumptuous dress in her hands and tried not to feel like a fraud playing a part. With a hard swallow, she forced a smile and nodded. “All right. I will.”
Gen smiled. “Very well, then. We’ve got a ball tomorrow night. Let’s decide which of these exquisite creations you’ll appear in.”
* * *
It was Grace’s fourth ball at the Miltons’ in as many years and they hadn’t improved at all. The Miltons always invited too many guests, and things turned i
nto a terrible crush almost immediately. Their kitchen staff was sorely lacking, so the food—what little of it there was—always disappointed. But the Miltons knew everybody, so everybody came. It was the place to be seen, and Grace desperately needed to be seen.
As much as she hated to be dependent, she couldn’t help but be grateful to Vic for the dresses. Tonight she’d worn the blue satin. It did wonders for her coloring and set off her ordinarily dull gray eyes. Genevieve’s lady’s maid, Mabel, had done quite the job tailoring the dress for Grace’s willowy figure, and she’d spent hours on Grace’s hair.
From the first year Grace had put her hair up, she’d favored a simple twist, a style somewhat at odds with current fashions. Although she’d tried to frame it as a signature look, the reality was, it was a style she could accomplish on her own, and she’d never had the luxury of a lady’s maid. Tonight, Mabel’s clever fingers had arranged it in a pile of glossy chestnut twists atop her head, with several long curls brushing her neck and shoulders, all of it sprinkled with tiny white flowers.
It was only a fancy dress and a fresh hairstyle. It shouldn’t have mattered so much. Except it seemed as if it did. In her first Season, she’d had her share of superficial male interest, but once her circumstances had become known, the gentlemen had abandoned her, forced to pay their compliments to the young ladies with fortunes. She was still the same penniless Grace, but her transformation made everyone momentarily forget it. She’d been asked to dance four times. For a girl who’d become accustomed to spending the evening making small talk with the chaperones, it was quite a change.
Determined to do this right, she forced herself to smile at everyone, to laugh at every gentleman’s jokes, even when they weren’t funny. She threw herself into tedious conversations with gusto, feigning interest she didn’t feel in the slightest. She was shocked to see how well it worked. Gentlemen whom she’d met before approached her as if she were brand new to London. If they didn’t remember her from the last three Seasons, she didn’t bother to jog their memories. No point in reminding them of the impoverished, dull creature she’d been before. The old Grace Godwyn had been banished. This Grace Godwyn was the daughter of a viscount, and a young lady much in demand. It seemed as long as she believed it, they did, too. For now, at least. All that remained was to secure the attention of a suitable gentleman before the spell wore off and she was back in the attic with the mice and the pumpkin.
After her last quadrille, unused to so much activity, she’d begged the next dance free so she could seek out some punch. Belatedly it occurred to her, as she was pouring it for herself, a viscount’s daughter in demand should have sent some eager swain to fetch it for her. Wasn’t that what they all did?
Genevieve found her at the refreshments table as she sipped her punch. “I’ve hit on someone you ought to meet, if you can manage it.”
“I’m listening.”
Gen tilted her chin slightly, an almost imperceptible motion which nevertheless directed Grace’s eyes exactly where she wanted them to go, to a gentleman standing across the room in conversation with the hosts.
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Rupert Humphrey.”
Grace narrowed her eyes and examined the gentleman in question. He was quite large, well over six feet and perhaps as much as sixteen stone, clean-shaven, with blunt, unremarkable features speaking of the same brute strength as the rest of his physique. Despite the pugilist’s build, his clothes were well tailored and his thick, sandy blond hair was neatly trimmed. He looked well dressed, but uncomfortable in this setting. “He seems respectable enough.”
Genevieve leaned in closer, so her words could only reach Grace. “He’s the heir presumptive to his uncle, the Earl of Adderbury.”
“The earl’s wife hasn’t produced a son yet?”
“The earl is unmarried. A rather infamous bachelor.”
“Ah, a libertine.”
“Of a sort. But his tastes don’t run to...wives.” She raised one expressive eyebrow.
Genevieve believed in preparing her young ladies, who rarely married for love, for whatever they might face, including gentlemen who needed a wife but didn’t necessarily want a woman. As a result, Grace knew far more about human proclivities in the bedroom than was perhaps proper for an unmarried young lady. “I see. So there will be no issue.”
“Highly unlikely. Which leaves Mr. Humphrey, eventually.”
“A future earl.” Grace took a deep breath and made herself ask about the rest. “And his finances?”
“Quite solid, actually. His father died young and he’s been raised as the ward of the earl. Another uncle, the third son, made his way in manufacturing, and did quite well for himself. He died last year, leaving Mr. Humphrey suddenly the heir apparent to both the title and the money.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Pardon?”
“He’s to inherit an earldom and a fortune, and there seems to be nothing outwardly wrong with him. Why is he available?”
“He’s perhaps not...” Genevieve trailed off. “He would not be your equal in some ways.”
Grace let out a frustrated breath. “Don’t be coy now, Gen. Just tell me what’s wrong with him.”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “He’s in perfect health, as you see. Only...he has a reputation of being something of a boor.”
“Is he mean?” She was willing to put up with a great deal from a husband, but she wouldn’t shackle herself to an abusive bully, not after the taste she’d gotten with Frederick.
“No. That’s not what I meant. He grew up in the country, and he’s spent very little time in London Society. He’s not as quick-witted as some of the more cultured young men. I doubt he shares many of your interests. He’s more interested in physical pursuits.”
Grace suppressed a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Hush. I’ve done you a disservice making you as worldly as you are.”
“Believe me, I’m grateful. Now please, do speak plainly.”
“He simply prefers physical pursuits over intellectual or artistic ones. As I understand it, he prefers the country to London. He’s mad for hunting and horses, and perhaps not much else. When he came of age, he was only an earl’s ward and without money. Without good looks, charm, wit, or fashionable interests to recommend him, he was written off socially.”
“But he’s not poor anymore, and he’s in line to an earl.”
“First impressions can be hard to overcome. He’s stayed away a long time, and has only just come back to London this Season. I believe in time, the young ladies might be convinced to overlook their earlier prejudices where he’s concerned, but at present, they haven’t.”
“So I could get in early. That’s what you mean.”
Gen shrugged. “If you don’t, someone else will.”
Grace watched Mr. Humphrey across the room. A man more interested in horseflesh than humans, who’d care nothing at all for books and art, but with fortune and a title in the offing. She drew a deep breath. “He sounds perfect.”
Genevieve made the introduction, in a roundabout way. She didn’t actually know Mr. Humphrey, but she knew Lady Montcrieff, who did know him. When that lady stopped to greet him, Gen made sure she and Grace were only an arm’s length away. It was the easiest thing in the world to call a greeting to Lady Montcrieff before she’d quite disengaged from Mr. Humphrey and before she knew it, Grace was curtseying and extending her hand to him.
“How very nice to meet you, Mr. Humphrey.”
He was not handsome, although not unpleasant to look at. There was nothing at all refined about his features, but there was a kindness to his expression she rather liked. He smiled, a friendly, open smile, and she liked his face even more. “Quite nice to meet you, too, Miss Godwyn.”
From the clumsy way he’d grasped her fingers to
the overly casual salutation, his manners showed a marked lack of polish. But she didn’t sense any entitlement or ill temper behind it. He was simply unsophisticated.
“Are you enjoying the Season so far, Mr. Humphrey?” At this point in her life, she could make her way through these conversational introductions in her sleep.
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Well enough, I suppose. The London crowds aren’t my favorite.”
“You don’t like the city?” It was time to forget she’d been strategizing about him with Gen from across the room not twenty minutes earlier. From this point forward, he would be a blank slate to her.
“Not at all. The country life for me, if I have a choice. And you, Miss Godwyn?”
She loved London. She adored everything about it, the galleries and museums, the booksellers, the theatres, the constant visual stimulation. But her actual wants and desires had nothing to do with this situation. She had a perfectly good opportunity before her and she meant to take full advantage of it before someone else did. “I confess, I prefer the country, too. It’s so much more peaceful, don’t you think?”
She smiled at him, her sunniest smile, which felt foreign on her face. Mr. Humphrey seemed to like it a great deal. He smiled in return. “I do, Miss Godwyn. Tell me, do you like to hunt?”
Inwardly, she groaned. Outwardly, she gave a wistful sigh. “Unfortunately I’ve not had the opportunity to hunt, living as I have here in London all my life. But I do love horses.” She preferred them neatly harnessed and pulling a carriage, but it didn’t signify.
Apparently she’d hit on the right topic, because his eyes lit up. “I confess, horses are something of a passion of mine. One day, I aim to have a right grand stable, the best in England. It will have to wait until I have land of my own, however.”
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 5
