by Joyce Alec
How foolish I was.
“His name, and official title, is The Lord Henry Fortescue,” my father went on. “He is the second son of the marquess, and quite wealthy, the heir of a great inheritance from his family. Lord Henry comes from a long line of intelligent men, and I have heard that he is quite an avid reader and enjoys hunting on occasion.”
Father knit his fingers together and leaned across the desk toward me.
“Darling, are you well?”
I looked up at him, my eyes wide and my cheeks hot. “Of course,” I responded.
I smiled, though I knew that it must look forced.
“He really is a good man,” Father continued. “I know how strange all of this must be, how sudden. But I promise you, and I hope that you know, that your mother and I would never allow you to be matched with someone who was less than perfect for you,” he said. His blue eyes twinkled merrily. “You deserve nothing less, of course.”
I did smile in earnest this time, at least a little.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“I understand that the idea of marriage is quite startling, and even exciting,” my father added. “I think that you will find that…”
But the rest of his words were lost to me.
It was as if I had just been woken from the most wonderful dream I had ever had in my life. The sort of dream that you never want to wake up from, but as soon as you do, it starts to fade into nothing more than a memory.
Was that all that night of the ball was going to amount to? A memory? Was I just supposed to bury those feelings, so recently realized, so that I could wed a man just to appease my parents?
Nothing I could say to Mother and Father would make them understand. If I were to mention the man at the ball, they would ask why I was so attached to him. I would have to confess the kiss, and that would evolve into a very uncomfortable argument. And if I were to simply tell them that I found him quite enticing, they would ask who he was, and when I could not answer, they would move on just as swiftly.
It did not matter. I was trapped with no escape.
The realization of that truth settled heavily on my heart. I was foolish. And what did it lead me to? This room with a broken dream and a broken heart.
All the possibilities and all the excitement were gone from my body.
And they left a great hole inside of me.
“Grace, dear, you look rather sad.”
I looked up again.
“Is it perhaps a bit of nerves?” my father asked.
I tried to look happier for my father’s sake, but it was quite a struggle.
“Perhaps,” I responded. “All of this is just very sudden. I think that I might need some time to get used to the idea of being engaged.”
It was hard to say that word: engaged.
Father seemed pleased, and he rose to his feet. “Take all the time you need. At least, until our Yuletide dinner, when you will be meeting the gentleman.”
I attempted to smother the fear rising in me.
“I should go find Mother and see when she wants to leave for town,” I said, also getting to my feet.
Father inclined his head. “Quite a good idea, my dear.”
And I excused myself from the study.
Out in the hall, I attempted to hold myself together as I rounded the corner leading to the conservatory. Once I knew I was alone, and that Father would not be walking by, I leaned against the wall and rested my head against its surface.
Taking deep, steadying breaths was not helping nearly as much as I hoped it would.
What had I been thinking? Did I truly believe that I could somehow end up with this mystery man? I had been ridiculous and childish. Had I not realized that eventually a proper suitor would appear in my life? With my father’s connections and standing in society, it was only a matter of time before I was matched up with a suitable gentleman.
As a viscount’s daughter, it was very fortunate that I was marrying the son of a marquess. My betrothed was the second son, meaning he would not inherit his father’s title or vast fortune, but as my father said, Lord Henry was wealthy and came from a prominent English family. I had always believed my parents would allow me to choose my future husband, but my father did have my best interest in mind.
The match was truly a splendid one. Even in my miserable state, I could understand that this union was desirable, and that any woman would feel blessed to be marrying the son of a marquess. I would be happy and comfortable for the rest of my days. I could acquire the latest fashions from London, perhaps travel across Europe. My children would be privileged by their father and mother’s connections, and they would be well educated and want for nothing.
And yet, I was forlorn. Why did it still feel as if I had to sacrifice one life for another one? Why did it feel as if the life that was only a possibility was more desirable?
This engagement allowed me to know that my future was secure. With the masked gentleman, none of that was certain. There was no guarantee that I would ever see him again, let alone be able to have a life with him.
Was it possible that the only reason he was so charming, so romantic, was because I could not see his face? Did he have no fear of consequence when we danced, and when we kissed? Did he cast aside propriety for a night in hopes of being able to live as an anonymous person?
Something in my heart told me that was not true. I could not believe that the fire I had felt between us was not real, that he had not felt it as well.
I sighed heavily and pulled myself away from the wall. That was enough feeling sorry for myself.
That night at the ball had been wonderful. It had been magical, and I would cherish that memory for the rest of my days.
Life did not always turn out like a story. Romance and love did exist, but it was very likely that what had happened at the ball was just infatuation—not likely to ever manifest into a happy marriage.
I had to grow up. I had to be realistic. Life was not some romantic fairy tale. It was about duty, honor, and learning to love someone. Choosing to love them.
I could do that. Perhaps this Lord Henry would be handsome. I hoped that he was kind and caring. It would be wonderful if he had a good sense of humor.
The possibilities were endless.
I realized that I should tell Sarah what Father had told me. She would wish to know. And maybe she could help me to see that this was a good match for me, that I should not worry nor grieve about what could have been.
On the other hand, she was just as excited as I had been about my masked stranger from the ball.
When I was a young girl, no one had told me that love was this difficult. Part of me wished that I had never met the mysterious gentleman, that I had never danced with him. It would make this news of betrothal much easier to handle, and it would be a much more joyous occasion in my life.
I had two weeks to forget about the man at the ball. Two weeks to make my peace with what had happened and attempt to convince myself that he was not all that I had made him out to be in my mind. Two weeks to come to terms with the idea that I was going to be a bride to someone I did not even know yet.
I started back down the hall toward the library, hoping that Sarah was still there. What an emotional day it had been. When I had risen that morning, I was the happiest woman in the world. When I went to sleep that night, I would be more confused than I had ever been in my life.
I had to give Lord Henry a fair chance. That was the mature choice. I did not want to meet him embittered and angry. That would not be a very kind introduction. I had to be my prettiest, happiest self.
The sadness and woe would hopefully disappear by the time I met him, and hopefully, the perfect man in the mask from the ball would be nothing more than a pleasant, distant, mostly forgotten memory.
4
Christmas Eve, and our Yuletide dinner where I was to meet my betrothed, came ever closer. It was only days away. I often found myself thinking of the impending introduction, wondering
whether Lord Henry was going to meet the expectations I had for him. Father sent letters to several of his friends to confirm that what Lord Walford had said about his son was true. He believed he could alleviate my nervousness with reassurances of his character.
He was not entirely wrong. It did give me great comfort to know that the man I was to marry was well-mannered, accomplished, and the generous sort. No one seemed to have a bad word to say about him.
When the letter from Lord Walford arrived a week before Christmas confirming the dinner, I found myself very nearly excited for the first time since before the masquerade ball.
A great flurry of activity was present in the house as we prepared for the Yuletide dinner. Mother wanted everything to be absolutely perfect for our guests.
“It has been some time since the estate has had the honor and pleasure of hosting a marquess,” she continued to remind everyone, especially the staff, all of whom were excited and working diligently.
“But what of our cousin, Lord Doringham?” Sarah had asked one afternoon. “He is a marquess. Is he not?”
“Well, yes, but this is quite different. Grace is marrying into our guests’ family.”
Sarah had rolled her eyes in response.
Christmas was the happiest time of the year at our home, but this year, with all the preparations for the feast, it was filled with anxious anticipation and overwhelming joy. I caught several servants singing under their breath as they worked merrily, cleaning and decorating every corner of the manor. Fresh candles were made, and the whole house smelled of nutmeg and bread.
The cooks were preparing a special dinner, and we were often stopped and asked to sample various dishes. New tortes, roasted pheasant, and even a tea that came all the way from France. It all seemed so extravagant to me, and I said as much to my mother.
“Darling, we wish to make the best impression we can to your betrothed and his family,” she said, nodding to one of the cook’s assistants, who had brought a soup for her to sample. “Oh, yes, that is truly delicious! Here, dear, try some of this.”
I took the spoon from her, but did not try it. “Surely, this extravagance is too much.”
She gave me a quelling look. “It is Christmas, after all, dear. It is quite all right to be a bit elaborate, if only occasionally.”
I did not wish to upset her by telling her that half of the truth was no better than a lie. Still, the idea of indulging in such a fancy meal had its appeal. I just hoped that my betrothed did not expect such elegance at every family affair.
And the soup was rather delicious.
I was certainly not unhappy with the decorations that were slowly making their way inside our home. Sarah and I sat on the stairs in the foyer as some of the footmen pulled in large, fat pine trees from the surrounding forests, shaking snow from their branches before they crossed the threshold indoors. They were set up in the dining room, the drawing room, and the parlor.
We were delighted as we hung pinecones from their branches, along with red winter berries, ribbons, and small candles. We tucked small, wrapped packages between the branches, and were pleased with how beautiful the finished trees looked.
It was difficult to look at the pine trees and not think of the man in the mask from the ball. Everything about that night had been so magical, so elegant, that everywhere I looked, I was remined of him. The cold air was even reminiscent of standing on the terrace with him, gazing out into the night sky, the glittering stars as a backdrop for our dance.
It was better if I just remembered that Christmas trees were lovely, and that they would continue to be lovely, even if I never saw him again.
With the leftover berries, Sarah and I made garland to wrap around the banisters of the staircase.
As we sat on the hearth watching Father instruct a few of the servants to move some of the furniture around in the drawing room, we tied the strands of berries together with string, the warmth of the fire at our backs.
“How are you feeling about all of this?” Sarah asked me. I could hear the caution behind her words.
I tied another strand of berries onto the one I had on my lap. “I am feeling content,” I replied, a bit more forcefully than I intended.
Sarah’s green eyes narrowed. “You have not said a word about that man from the ball since Father told you about Lord Henry.”
I avoided her gaze. “And?”
She sighed in exasperation, brushing a stray curl from her face.
“What?” I asked.
“Am I supposed to believe that you have just forgotten about him entirely?”
I did not answer her. I fumbled with a knot; my fingers were shaking slightly.
“Grace, that man was everything to you a fortnight ago. I had never seen you so excited about anything in your whole life. And the fire in your eyes…” She trailed off.
Still I said nothing. The fire crackled behind us.
“Why are you not talking to me about any of this?”
“Because there is not anything to talk about,” I answered sharply, rounding on her.
She stared at me for a few moments, and then lowered her gaze to the berries in her fingers.
“I am sorry,” I said, more gently. “It is just that there is nothing more to say. I am to marry Lord Henry, and…” I trailed off. “And that shall be the end of this conversation. I see no sense in discussing anything else.”
Sarah looked back up at me, studying my face.
“And you will just accept this arranged marriage?”
I took a steadying breath. “Yes,” I told her, as honestly as I could. I knew that I could not say it enthusiastically.
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“I am,” I replied. “Truly. I am very fortunate to be able to marry someone like Lord Henry. You have heard all the wonderful things Father has said about him.”
I picked up another twig of berries and began knitting it to the others.
“He is kind,” I began, “handsome, well accomplished. He loves his family dearly, and his estate is not so far away that I could not come home for visits.”
I smiled and looked at my sister.
“I have imagined him to be a sort of knight in shining armor. Strong, attractive. Enjoys reading. Listens to the birds early in the morning. Has a cup of tea every afternoon at the same time and in the same place.”
Sarah did not seem convinced, so I continued.
“Best of all, he has wonderful connections. Perhaps we can find you a husband among his group of friends.”
She gave a great harrumph and pursed her lips together.
“Connections or not,” she said, “he is not the man that made you come alive with passion.”
Her words struck me like a knife. It was the same thought that continued to spring up in my mind, a thorn in my flesh.
“That does not mean that I will not fall in love with him in the future,” I responded, telling her the very same words I often told myself.
“That is true,” she said quietly. “Well, if you are content, then I shall be as well.”
“Thank you,” I said earnestly. I did not have the heart to ask her to forget about the masked man for my sake, but I knew that was what I needed. Saying it out loud would have been too difficult. I was grateful that Sarah had seemed to understand me, and the struggle it was to not reopen that wound.
Christmas Eve arrived before I was ready for it. Mother fussed over my hair for hours, insisting that I adorn my curls with the golden pin I had worn to the masquerade ball. She also insisted that I wear my best gown—a dark bottle green with golden buttons—and ensured that it was tied more tightly than usual before I followed her down the stairs later that evening.
I stood beside Sarah in the foyer, my mother talking excitedly with our governess. Father was out in the garden, awaiting the arrival of our guests. The minutes ticked by, and my mind whirled. Would Lord Henry be handsome? Would he be amiable? Compassionate? Was he excited about our betrothal?
M
y palms were clammy, and goosebumps covered my arms. I was glad that my dress had long sleeves.
Sarah held my hand as we waited, and when Father opened the door to inform us that they had arrived, she squeezed it affectionately.
With my heart beating rapidly against my chest, I tried to remind myself that he was most likely nervous, but just as aware as I was of the importance of our first meeting.
The marquess stepped through the door first. A tall man, with dark hair greying at his temples, and a thick, bristling moustache. He was quite handsome, and he walked with a grace equal only to my father’s. He stepped into the foyer, removing his tall bowler hat.
“Good evening, Lord Walford,” Mother said, bowing.
My sister and I followed suit.
“It is my great pleasure to be able to visit you and your family in your home, Lady Graystone,” he said, taking her proffered hand.
He turned his eyes to my sister and me, who were standing together beside the staircase.
“Lord Walford,” my father began, stepping back inside. “These are my two daughters, Lady Grace Graystone and Lady Sarah Graystone. Grace and Sarah, this of course is Lord Walford.”
“How do you do?” Lord Walford asked, inclining his head.
“It is an honor, my lord,” I said. My sister echoed my words.
As I rose from another curtsy, I noticed that a young man was standing behind Lord Walford.
“Ah, yes,” he said, gesturing to him. “There you are, Henry. Please join us and meet your betrothed.”
His gaze was on the ground at his feet, but as he stepped up closer to us, he looked up into my face.
And I froze.
“Lady Grace,” said Lord Walford, “may I introduce to you my son, The Lord Henry Fortescue.”
I could not believe it. It could not be.
The gentleman had neatly trimmed dark hair, the same shade as his father’s must have been in his youth. A strong jaw, a narrow, pointed nose, and an easy smile. He was remarkably handsome, and could not be older than five and twenty.
