He could recount every act of a man in love, but he had no heart to give. She envied Juliette to have been loved so much, to have the ability to hold onto Lovingdon’s heart, even beyond the grave. Theirs was the sort of love she longed for, not this macabre travesty perpetuated by Vexley.
She glanced around surreptitiously. She had to find a means of escape. She didn’t think asking for sanction would work, not if the vicar owed this man. The pistol was the problem, for even now Vexley had it in his coat pocket. He could retrieve it quickly and easily enough if she tried to run. He’d offered up a demonstration when they first arrived.
How could she have been so blind as to consider him a viable suitor? Who would have thought there was such a thing as a gentleman being too charming?
He wasn’t at all like Lovingdon, who was not overly charming. He argued with her, got put out with her. He didn’t seek to win her over with flowery words, but he’d managed to do it with honest ones. He was good and noble. As angry as she’d been at his reasons for marrying her, she couldn’t deny that she admired his willingness to go into an arrangement that would bring him nothing but misery, to make amends for the fact that he’d compromised her. If only she could be content with that: duty instead of love.
If she had not run him off, she might not be here now.
Although it was equally likely that Vexley might have done him harm. She had long ago ceased to look back and wonder what if . . .
She heard footsteps echoing in the vestry and her heart began to race. The vicar.
Vexley grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Do as you’re told and it’ll all go very quickly.”
“I do not know how to be any clearer, but I have no intention whatsoever of marrying you.”
“You will, that I don’t beat you. Make a fuss here and you will be black and blue for a week.”
She needed to catch him off guard. Lowering her gaze, she tried to look as docile as possible. “Yes, my lord.”
“Now where’s that blasted vicar?”
The footsteps increased in tempo, moving quickly, growing louder, nearer. Vexley glanced back over his shoulder. Grace shot her fist straight up, aiming for his chin—
But he flung her aside before she could make direct contact. She merely grazed him as she stumbled and landed hard on the floor. She heard an animalistic growl, and a huge beast was flying through the air. It slammed into Vexley and took him down.
Not a beast. Lovingdon.
She watched as the two men struggled and rolled. Fists flew. Grunts echoed. She rushed to the altar and lifted a gold candlestick. The heft of it would do nicely. Turning back around, she saw that Lovingdon had gained the upper hand. He was on top, straddling Vexley.
Thunder boomed.
The gun. Oh, dear God, the gun.
Both men went still. Her ears rang. Candlestick poised, she approached cautiously. “Lovingdon?”
He rose slowly and delivered two quick punches to Vexley’s nose. He struggled to stand. As he revealed his foe, she saw the blood on Vexley’s chest. It was a horrid sight, but she felt no sympathy. Relief swamped her, and the candlestick clattered at her feet. She rushed to Lovingdon and threw her arms around him. He grunted.
“You’re all right,” she sobbed, tears welling in her eyes. “You’re all right. I was so afraid—”
“I wouldn’t have . . . let him . . . hurt you.”
“I wasn’t afraid for me, you silly man. I thought he’d hurt you.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “You’re safe.”
“You saved me.”
“I’m not a dragon slayer, Little Rose. I’m only a man.”
She felt thick and warm liquid easing through her clothing. Vexley’s blood. But why was it still so warm? Why was there so much of it on Lovingdon?
Pulling back, she saw the red blossoming over his shirt. “Oh, my dear God.”
He gave her a sweet, sad smile as his fingers barely grazed her cheek. She could see the pain in his eyes. He dropped to all fours.
“Lovingdon!”
He slid the rest of the way to the floor. She fell to her knees, placed his head on her lap, and pressed a hand where the blood flowed. And then she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Help! Dear God, someone help!”
Chapter 16
Grace sat in a chair beside the bed where Lovingdon lay as still as death. They were into the second night since his encounter with Vexley. After collapsing onto the floor, he’d not awoken. From time to time he mumbled incoherently. She wiped his fevered brow, held his clammy hand. It all seemed so futile.
Thank God for Drake. He’d found them at the church, and with the aid of the vicar and Vexley’s driver, carried Lovingdon to an inn. He’d roused a constable to place Vexley in gaol until it was decided what to do with him, then secured a rested horse and fairly flew back to Mabry Manor to retrieve Dr. Graves.
Drake hadn’t wanted to risk Lovingdon in a bouncing carriage over rutted and mud-slogged roads. He hadn’t trusted the local physician, whom he’d thought in all likelihood was another of Vexley’s men. He stayed only long enough to see the bleeding stanched and then left Grace in charge. She had thrown her father’s name around to give weight to her words, and while many may not have heard of the Duke of Greystone, enough had that she was listened to. Or perhaps it was simply that she wouldn’t tolerate not being obeyed.
Lovingdon had lost a good deal of blood before Graves took the scalpel to him to do what he could to repair the damage done. But she could tell by the expression on the physician’s face that he didn’t hold out much hope for Lovingdon returning to them as strong and bold as he’d been before the bullet struck him down.
Her family and Lovingdon’s had taken over the inn. It was as quiet and somber as a church, and while people offered to relieve her, she wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t give up these last minutes to be with him.
She wanted to hear his voice, just once more, to see his smile. She wanted to gaze into his eyes and know that he recognized her. She wanted to thank him for showing her that she could be beautiful, even with imperfections.
However had he borne it when Juliette was dying? And precious Margaret?
She understood now—with resounding clarity she wished she didn’t possess—why he had broken. Her own heart felt as though it had turned to glass and at any moment would shatter beyond all recognition.
Somewhere a clock struck two. She was alone with this man whom she loved more than life. She wanted to beg, plead, cajole him into fighting—but his pain was so much more than physical. She understood that clearly now.
She pressed her lips to the back of his hand, a hand that had brought her pleasure and comfort and now brought her strength.
“What a silly chit I was. I thought love only mattered if I were loved in return, but I have learned that it is enough to love, and that one must love enough to care more for the other’s happiness. I want nothing more than for you to be joyful and unburdened. So let go, my darling, go to Juliette. I know she awaits. Let go.”
Let go. Juliette awaits.
Lovingdon was vaguely aware of the mantra urging him to let go, to release his hold on this aching body.
Yes, he needed to let go. He understood that now as he floated in oblivion. It was time, time to let go.
With a clarity born of deep memories, he envisioned Juliette as he’d loved her best, with her pale hair floating around her shoulders like gossamer moonbeams, of her blue eyes dancing with devilment. Her smile that welcomed and warmed.
And Margaret. Almost a mirrored reflection.
He loved them so damned much. But for the first time it didn’t hurt to think of them. A kaleidoscope of memories washed through him, and each one lightened the weight of their passing. Why had he held the recollections at bay? Why had he thought they had the power to rip him apart, when in truth they were strong enough to lace him back together? So many wonderful moments. He wanted to hold them close, but they slipped through his fingers. They weren’t solid.
They were mist.
They didn’t hold his hand. They didn’t press warm lips to his knuckles. They didn’t splash salty tears upon his skin.
Slowly, so very slowly, he cracked open his eyes. The room was dimly lit, but enough light escaped the lamp to cast a halo around Grace. She looked awful . . . and beautiful. With her eyes closed, she held his hand against her cheek. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her dress looked to be that of a servant. His last conscious memory was of her standing in the church. He vaguely remembered voices circling about him—Drake, Graves, his mother.
And Grace. Always Grace speaking to him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered now. “You can let go.”
“I did.”
Her eyes flew open and she stared at him as though he had risen from the dead. Perhaps he had. Dear God, he’d certainly felt dead these past two years. Until this marvelous woman had knocked on his bedchamber door. Until she challenged him and irritated him. Until she’d shown him what it was to want, to desire, to dream of something grand that would last a lifetime. Until she’d revealed profound courage and strength that far exceeded anything he’d ever possessed. She thought she needed someone who truly loved her because she believed herself imperfect, when in truth she was perfection. He’d known her when she was a girl but never truly known her as a woman—not until recently. Now she haunted him and occupied his thoughts.
“I let Juliette and Margaret go.” His voice was rough, ragged, sounded strange to his ears.
Tears welled in her eyes. Because she hadn’t released his hand, he had only to unfurl his fingers to touch her cheek. Her soft, damp cheek. “God help you, Grace, but I love you. I want to marry you. I need to marry you. I will marry you.”
She shook her head. “You’re delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m deliriously in love with you, and I do know what I’m saying.” Sliding his hand around, he cupped the back of her neck. “I am too weak to sit up, however, so come lay down beside me.”
She gave him some water first before nestling against his uninjured side. “I feared he’d killed you,” she said softly, her hand curled on his chest.
“I feared it as well, and all I could think was that I hadn’t had enough time with you. I want years with you, so many that we’ll lose count.”
“I don’t know if I can promise you that, Lovingdon. We never know how much time we’ll have.”
He knew she was thinking of the malignancy, that it could return, that this time it could take her. The thought terrified him, but he wasn’t going to hide from it, he wasn’t going to deny himself time with her just because of what might happen. “Whatever time you have, Grace, whatever time either of us have, I want to spend it with you.”
He heard a small sob, felt hot tears hit his skin.
“I thought you wanted a man who loves you,” he teased.
Nodding, she lifted herself up on her elbow and skimmed her fingers along his jaw. “I love you. We shall be so happy together. But first we must get you well. I should fetch Dr. Graves so he can examine you.”
“In a bit.” His eyes began to grow heavy and he pulled her back down to him. “For now, just sleep. Sleep with me and never leave me until I am a crotchety old man.”
He thought he heard her promise, but it hardly mattered. He would be grateful for whatever time he had with her. Be it a day, a month, a year. A moment.
He didn’t know how long he slept, but when he awoke, light spilled in through the window. Grace was sleeping against his side. His arm was numb and would no doubt hurt like bloody hell when she left him, but like all hurts, it would subside, and she would soon be back in his arms. Tenderly, with his other hand, he brushed aside the strands of hair that partially hid her face. He was quite looking forward to all the mornings he would awaken to her in his bed.
Her nose twitched, she smiled, and slowly opened her eyes. So like her to be optimistic and smile before she saw what the day held.
“Good morning,” he rasped.
“’Morning.”
“Not exactly how I envisioned our first morning together.”
“You can’t flirt with me just yet, not until Dr. Graves has seen you.” Leaning up, she brushed a quick kiss across his lips, rolled out of bed, and with a tiny squeak came up short. “Father.”
Lovingdon saw him now, standing near the foot of the bed, arms crossed. He didn’t appear at all pleased to see that Lovingdon had survived. Or perhaps he merely looked as though he had grand plans for a painful death for the man who had taken his daughter into his bed without benefit of marriage. Even if nothing except innocence had transpired the night before.
Lovingdon struggled to sit up, fell back against the pillows. He supposed an inch was better than none. “I know you refused to give us your blessing when I asked for it, but I intend to marry your daughter with or without it.”
Grace jerked her head around. “You asked for his blessing?”
He nodded. “The morning after . . . the night that we argued.”
She looked at her father. “And you didn’t give it?”
“I didn’t give any of them my blessing.”
Grace blinked, stared. “Any of them?”
Greystone looked at the ceiling. “Hmm. Yes. I think there were twenty-two, twenty-three, who asked for your hand in marriage.”
“You denied them all?” Grace asked.
The duke looked unabashed. “You wanted love, sweetheart. I knew to a man who truly loved you that it wouldn’t matter whether I gave my blessing.” His gaze came back to bear on Lovingdon. “Seems I was right.” His brow puckered. “Although I didn’t take a man of Vexley’s ilk into consideration.”
“He asked for my hand in marriage?” Grace asked.
“He cornered me at the ball. He seemed to take my response civilly enough. I misjudged him.”
“I think we all did,” Lovingdon said, once again feeling his strength draining.
“I’ll fetch Graves,” Greystone said. He began to walk out.
Grace rushed after him and wound her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you for your blessing.”
“Be happy, sweetheart. Be very happy.”
Grace turned, strode back to the bed, sat on its edge and took Lovingdon’s hand.
He threaded his fingers through hers. “You will be happy.”
She smiled. “I know.”
Chapter 17
As Grace sat at her vanity while Felicity pinned her hair, she gave her gaze freedom to wander over to the red vase filled with her favorite flowers—red roses. They had arrived first thing that morning with a missive.
Because they’re your favorite, you should have them today.
—L
Her heart had done a little somersault. It had been six weeks since the Midsummer Eve’s ball. Lovingdon’s wound had healed. When he needed fresh air, he had invited her for an open carriage ride through the park. As he’d grown stronger, they walked.
And talked. They spoke of everything. Their upcoming wedding. The trip they would take to Paris. All the exhibits they would see.
While rumors concerning what exactly had transpired following her family’s country ball were scarce, everyone was well aware that the Earl of Vexley was persona non grata in the eyes of London’s most powerful families. He’d lost his membership at Dodger’s. No woman with any dowry welcomed his courtship and he courted no woman who had no dowry. He was seen about London sporting two black eyes and a broken nose. As he had taken to mumbling when he spoke, many thought he might have a broken jaw.
They were right.
Grace knew the nose was the result of Lovingdon’s punches in the church, and she suspected that Vexley’s broken jaw was the result of Drake spending a little time with him in gaol. As a lord of the realm, Vexley had neatly sidestepped arrest for abducting her and shooting Lovingdon. He’d claimed self-defense on the latter charge, asserting he was convinced Lovingdon meant to kill him. Considering the murder
ous rage she’d seen on Lovingdon’s face when he flung himself at Vexley, she suspected the earl’s assumption was correct. But with the other families delivering their own messages to Vexley—and no doubt additional blows—she was convinced he’d suffered enough. He was ostracized. She doubted he’d ever regain his place in Society, and was rather embarrassed to admit she’d ever found him charming.
Her attention wandered again to the red roses and the vase that held them. She would have them delivered to her new home so they were waiting for her when she arrived this evening. The other glass pieces were already there, as were most of her belongings.
Today she was going to become a wife, but more than that, she was going to marry a man who loved her, imperfections and all.
When her hair was done, she stepped into her wedding gown of lace and pearls. Felicity gently padded the left side. Grace knew that Lovingdon wouldn’t care if it was flat on one side but she liked the symmetry, and on this day, at least, she was vain enough to care.
Carefully, she placed the pearls at her neck, pearls her mother had given her, pearls given to her mother by the man she believed to be her father. Grace sometimes found it difficult to believe the life her mother had led, the life that had brought her here to capture the heart of a duke.
Now she possessed her own duke’s heart.
She had no doubts that Lovingdon loved her. Even if he hadn’t known her favorite flower, she had no doubts where his affections lay. It was strange to think that she once doubted her ability to gauge love, but Lovingdon had told her to trust her heart, that it would know. By Jove, but he was right about that.
Flowers, listening, gazing into her eyes, touching her, small but important things he had cited as examples—Lovingdon did them all, without thought or artifice. He didn’t need her dowry, but apparently what he did need was her love. He possessed it in abundance.
A rap sounded on her door all of three seconds before her mother opened it. She smiled. “Don’t you look beautiful?”
“I feel beautiful. He makes me feel beautiful.”
When the Duke Was Wicked Page 22
