White Regency 03 - White Knight

by Jaclyn Reding

  Tedric, Lord Cholmeley simply stared at his niece, no doubt taken aback by her dogged determination, she who had meekly accepted whatever Fate had doled out for her through the first three-and-twenty years of her life. Well, let him stare till his eyes turned to dust. She would not sit idly by and accept this.

  But instead of arguing with her as she had expected, Uncle Tedric did the most peculiar thing. He began to laugh, a chuckle first that quickly progressed to a sidesplitting, shoulder-shaking roar. Tears sprang to his eyes even as he looked at Grace, hands poised at her hips, chin thrust forward. He only laughed all the more as she stared at him in growing disbelief.

  What the devil was he about? Grace had expected a quarrel, even threats—but mirth? Not when the rest of her life depended upon this very moment. Regardless of his current financial predicament, did he feel nothing for her, his only niece, his sole blood relation?

  Helpless tears came to her eyes, causing him only to laugh more. Unable to bear his hilarity any longer, Grace turned to flee the room.

  “Grace! Wait a moment. You don’t understand.”

  But she was already at the stairs, wondering if the Cholmeley coachman knew the swiftest route to Pickpocket Alley.

  “Grace, no, you are mistaken. It isn’t the present duke who is to be your husband. It is his grandson, Christian, Marquess Knighton.”

  Grace stopped cold halfway up the stairwell. It was not so much at the news that it wasn’t the old duke who was to be her proposed husband, but at the name her uncle had given her in his stead.

  Christian, Marquess Knighton.

  Knighton.

  Knight.

  She suddenly thought back to a day months earlier, not long before her grandmother had died. The two of them had been sitting together on the terrace outside the dowager marchioness’s bedchamber at Ledysthorpe, a quiet and peaceful place that faced onto the banks of the River Tees several miles inland from the restless North Sea. It had been a lazy summer afternoon—chilly, Grace remembered, for her grandmother had urged her to wear a shawl. Grace had been reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales aloud while the dowager had been sitting in her chair, eyes closed, listening. The memory of that day was suddenly so vivid, Grace could hear the words now…

  A Knight there was, and that a worthy man,

  That from the time that he first began

  To riden out, he loved chivalry,

  Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy…

  And though that he was worthy, he was wise,

  And of his port as meek as is a maid.

  He never yet no villany had said

  In all his life unto no manner wight.

  He was a very parfit gentle knight.

  Grace remembered that she’d looked up while reading to see that Nonny had nodded off, as she so often did. She had set the red ribbon marker between the book’s pages to mark her place, thinking to work a bit on her drawing while Nonny dozed. Just as Grace had moved to set the book aside, with an abruptness that had unsettled the spaniel nestled in her lap, the dowager had sat up, suddenly awake.

  “You know you will have to marry.”

  Grace remembered wondering if perhaps her grandmother had been dreaming. “Yes, Nonny, I know that. Someday I will marry just like you did, but I do not wish to think on it just now. I do not wish to think of ever leaving Ledysthorpe. This is my home. I love it here.”

  “I came here a young bride from what had always been my home, dear. A lady makes her husband’s home her own when she is married. It isn’t so very far off for you, either, my dear, this marriage I speak of. Once I am gone, you will be unable to avoid it any longer.”

  “And where are you off to, then?” Grace had asked, coming to her side. “A jaunt across the Continent, perhaps?”

  Her grandmother had smiled, reaching to rest a hand against the side of her granddaughter’s cheek. “My dearest, I am not long for this life. I feel it in my heart. And once I am gone, I will be unable to do much in the way of protecting you. Tedric will have charge over your future, at least until you reach five-and-twenty. I had hoped to remain long enough to see you to that anniversary of your birth and past that restriction in your inheritance, however I fear now I will not. But know that should I die before you have reached that majority, even though I shall be gone, I will do whatever is within my power to bring you a good husband.”

  “But however will I know who is the right husband if you are not here to advise me?”

  The dowager had smiled again, saying only, “You will, child, because you are of my blood. I had only to dance once with my true love and I knew I would spend the rest of my life loving him. It will be the same when you have found your own one true ‘very parfit gentle knight.’ “

  Her last words whispered like the soft summer wind through Grace’s thoughts. Gentle knight. Knight…

  Was it possible? Could this Marquess Knighton be the one her grandmother had spoken of? Had Nonny somehow sent him to protect her as she had promised, or was she being silly and the significance of his name merely a coincidence?

  “Grace?”

  At her uncle’s summons, Grace came into the doorway of the study where he yet sat. She thought again of her grandmother, whose own marriage had been arranged and which had still brought her great happiness. Her mother and father had met only days before their wedding and, according to Nonny, they could not have been more in love. All her life, Nonny had read Grace countless tales of the great lovers—Tristan and Isolde, Heloise and Abelard—whose loves had survived against great, almost insurmountable odds. Nonny had promised her granddaughter that one day she would have the same, that she would be given her own knight in shining armor.

  Grace thought then of what would happen if she didn’t agree to the marriage. Where would she go, what would become of her should her uncle end up in debtor’s prison? She had no acceptable means of supporting herself; few ladies of her social standing did. She had never been to Westminster before, but from the sounds of it, it likely wouldn’t be a pleasant place. The way things presently stood, it seemed she really had no choice in the matter. She would have to marry eventually. It was the role she had been raised to fill, all she had been taught to expect. Why not, then, marry the duke’s grandson? At the very least, he was nearer her own age.

  “I would see him first before I could ever agree to wed him.”

  Tedric looked as if he might refuse. His mouth flattened into a thin line and his brow drew close over his eyes. After a moment, though, he nodded. “I will see what can be arranged. But I cannot promise anything.”

  Several evenings later when Uncle Tedric was on his way out—probably for his club, Brooks’s—he stopped a moment at the parlor door where Grace sat playing at the pianoforte. She had often heard it said that music had a way of uplifting one’s spirits—especially, Grace had found, when one vented one’s spleen upon the keys.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see her uncle lingering in the doorway but she continued to play her piece, striking the keys with renewed vigor. When she had finished, he came into the room, applauding softly.

  “That was lovely, Grace. You are growing more and more accomplished each time I hear you.”

  It was quite a compliment, considering that on the last occasion he had listened, she had been twelve. Grace looked at him over her music sheet. He was smiling at her, his eyes filled with a contrived warmth.

  “You shall make a fine duchess some day, Grace. Your name portends it.”

  Grace took little solace from his comment. Instead she turned the music sheet over for the next piece. Ah, perfect—fortissimo. She glanced at him. “I’ll take that as indication that you have arranged for me to meet the marquess?”

  Tedric nodded, obviously pleased with himself as he adjusted his kid glove. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Grace lifted her fingers from the keys. She folded her hands in her lap, waiting.

  “Meet is perhaps the wrong choice in words. You see, there can
be no introduction, no conversation between you. His grace the duke expressly forbids it.”

  “He forbids me to meet the man I’m to spend the rest of my life with? What does he seek to conceal?”

  “There is nothing to conceal, my dear. Lord Knighton is considered to be the bachelor among the ton, quite the buck about town, sought after for his wealth and title as well as his looks by every suitable young lady with a mind toward marriage. It is precisely because he is in such demand that the duke doesn’t want the marriage between you made public until after the ceremony has been performed. It is really for your benefit as well as the marquess’s, Grace. An announcement beforehand would create a public stir. Any hope of peace in your life would be gone. Your every move would be watched, your every gesture criticized. Some desperate miss might even attempt to prevent the wedding from taking place altogether. Thus it will be a private ceremony, in an obscure church in the country somewhere, arranged by special license.”

  “I am not even to be allowed a formal wedding ceremony?”

  As a girl, Grace had always dreamed of a grand wedding. In fact, when Princess Charlotte had wed Leopold of Coburg, she and Nonny had read every news report and had pored over every engraving they could lay their hands upon. Grace had always known that she would wear the dress both Nonny and her mother had worn before her in a church that would be filled with fragrant flowers. It would be a day she would never forget, the day on which she joined her life with her husband’s— that nameless, faceless knight Nonny had always assured her would be hers.

  She now had a name, yes, but the face was yet unknown. And if she could not meet him, speak to him, how would she ever know for certain he was the one?

  “I’m sorry, Uncle, but I have already told you I cannot wed a man I have never met.”

  Tedric shook his head. “On the contrary, my dear, you said you would ‘see’ him before you would agree to wed him—and see him you shall.”

  “You know that is not at all what I meant when I—”

  He held up his hand to silence her. “There is to be a ball, Grace, at the Knighton town house. It is to introduce Lord Knighton’s sister to society and is certain to be a crush. You will attend this ball; I will escort you. Since you haven’t yet been introduced to society, no one will know who you are. We will go, you will see the marquess—you can even watch him for a while if you’d like—and then we will leave. This is the best I can offer.”

  Grace looked at her uncle, hearing again the words of her grandmother. I had only to dance with my own true love and I knew I would spend the rest of my life loving him…

  “But for one last thing, Uncle.”

  “And that is?”

  “I would share a dance with him.”

  Tedric shook his head. “Impossible!”

  “Why, sir? It is a single dance. You have already said no one will know who I am, including Lord Knighton.”

  Tedric fell silent in contemplation of her request. After a moment, he appeared to smile. “I think perhaps the marquess is in for a bit of a surprise from his wife.” “Potential wife.” Grace drew a breath, wondering why her pulse had suddenly quickened, but decided that a clandestine dance with one’s potential future husband without his knowing did have a measure of excitement

  “Then you will do it?” she asked. “You will arrange for me to share a dance with Lord Knighton?”

  Tedric turned and headed for the door. “I don’t quite know how I’ll accomplish it, but yes, Grace, I will find a way for you to have your dance with the marquess.”

  Chapter Four

  Grace passed the next three days trying not to think about the Knighton ball. She forced herself to concentrate on thoughts of the weekly menu or the furniture that needed polishing even as she forged through her wardrobe for something suitable to wear. By the time the morning of the ball dawned, she had thrice convinced herself to abandon the venture, then even again as she was walking down the front stairs with her uncle to leave.

  When all was said and done, she did go and their coach arrived at the Knighton town house shortly after ten. For the first moment or two, Grace thought surely she must be dreaming, for as they came into the ballroom, she could only think that it was like stepping through a magical door into the legendary land of Cockaigne, where the rivers flowed wine, the houses were made of cake, and the pavements were lined in honey-iced pastry.

  Music and laughter rang out in this enchanted setting that was indeed every bit a fairytale. The ballroom was bathed in brilliant candlelight from chandeliers whose crystals winked like diamonds. Flowers the likes of which she had never seen spilled from ornate china and ormolu vases that were set about the room, filling the air with an exotic mixture of their various perfumes. Liveried footmen stood off to one side, awaiting any request, while numerous other servants wove their way among the throng of guests bearing silver trays filled with every sort of delicacy imaginable. Brightly colored chiffon festooned each window opening and doorway, and one could have sworn that the tables set in the supper parlor were groaning beneath the weight of their delights. Jewels glittered about necks, ears, and fingers. Elegant satins glowed against the candlelight. Everywhere she looked gaiety and opulence were evident. Everywhere except—

  Grace glanced down, took one look at herself, and blanched.

  The pale blue-gray silk she had chosen was one of her best gowns, but its modest design indelibly marked her a rustic from the country. The styling or her hair—a simple topknot of curls that bounced clumsily about her ears when she moved—made her lack of style even more apparent. Uncle Tedric had arranged it so that they would arrive at the ball deliberately late in order to make their entrance as inconspicuous as possible. Grace was certainly thankful for that now.

  These noble people had been born to the life of privilege, had never known a day of choosing their own clothing or dressing their own hair. Grace had been born the daughter of a marquess, yes, but it was distinction made only in name, for she had been raised in the country more like a milkmaid than a noblewoman. Nonny had believed that simple living gave one character. How the ladies present this night would gasp were they to learn Grace didn’t have her own ladies’ maid, but instead relied upon her uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Bennett, to fasten the hooks at the back of her gown when she couldn’t reach them. How could she even pretend to assume the role of Marchioness Knighton, much less that of the future Duchess of Westover?

  Just as Grace convinced herself to have her uncle take her home and forget the entire affair, a young lady of perhaps nineteen separated herself from the masses, coming forward. She smiled politely at Grace before presenting her gloved hand to Uncle Tedric.

  “I’m so happy you could come, Lord Cholmeley. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  She was everything a lady should be—slender, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Grace, with her cocoa brown hair caught up in a graceful sweep beneath an ornamented ostrich plume that drifted softly as an angel’s wing when she moved. Her gown was made of white embroidered net that draped over pale rose-colored silk set with sparkling brilliants that winked in the candlelight. It was quite the most elegant creation Grace had ever seen.

  Tedric took the lady’s hand and bowed over it. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, my lady.” He turned toward Grace. “Lady Eleanor Wycliffe, allow me to introduce my niece, Lady Grace Ledys.”

  Grace bowed her head, wishing she had something more ornate than the simple ribbon fillet laced through her curls. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” she said quietly.

  “Grace,” Uncle Tedric said, “Lady Eleanor is Lord Knighton’s sister. This evening’s ball is being given in her honor.”

  “Yes, it is to be my coming-out. Such a peculiar term, do you not think? Makes one think of a pillow that’s been overstuffed!” Lady Eleanor linked her arm through Grace’s, whispering, “Your uncle has informed me of your wish to share a dance with Christian. I’m sure Lord Cholmeley wouldn’t mind lett
ing me have you to myself for a bit first to get better acquainted.” She squeezed Grace’s hand. “Especially if we are to be sisters.”

  When Grace had been a girl, she’d dreamed of having a sister, someone she could talk to and share secrets with, or discuss books over tea as she and Nonny had done. And now, suddenly, here was this lovely young lady offering herself for the role and she hadn’t even noticed that the shoes Grace had worn were too dark for her gown.

  Grace smiled at Lady Eleanor, immediately and utterly charmed. Tedric wisely took his cue to leave.

  “I shall be in the gaming parlor should you have need of me. Grace.” He bowed his head. “Lady Eleanor.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Lord Cholmeley,” Lady Eleanor said, stopping him short, “but there is to be no gaming at the ball tonight.”

  “No gaming?” Tedric looked horrified, as if she had told him that his beloved tailors, Schweitzer and Davidson, had just that morning closed shop.

  “It was at my request, my lord. I didn’t want anything tempting the gentlemen away from dancing with all the ladies tonight.” Lady Eleanor smiled sweetly, leaving Tedric little choice but to quietly agree.

  “Might a gentleman then find a glass of port somewhere without fear of having it knocked against his shirtfront?”

  “Of course, my lord.” She motioned through the door. “Down the hall there is a parlor where you will find port and brandy being served.”

  When he’d gone, Lady Eleanor directed Grace away» from the doorway, taking her slowly about the periphery of the vast ballroom. As they walked, she asked Grace about her childhood at Ledysthorpe, how she liked living in London, and how she had come to live under her uncle’s guardianship.

  “My parents were lost in a boating accident when I was a young child. I was raised by my grandmother and it was with her that I lived at Ledysthorpe until she passed away late last year.”