The butler’s face took on a ghoulish quality in the light from his candle, the sharp angles of his face more pronounced. “I am aware of that, madam, and I see no reason to discuss the matter further with Mrs. Stone. However, in the future, should you have any questions that concern either the marquess or the members of his family, I feel certain that his lordship would prefer that you direct them to him rather than the servants. We of the household are not privy to anything more than conjecture about the events of the past.”
“Indeed, Ambrose. However, may I remind you that his lordship’s family is now also my family as well?”
The butler looked at her a long moment. Finally he said, “Of course, my lady.” He then turned without another word and continued down the shadowed stairwell.
They walked for some time, past suits of armor and ancient objects of weaponry that glimmered with a sinister cast in the candlelight. Hoping to ease the direction of her thoughts, Grace found herself wondering wryly how many heads had been lopped off by the various instruments of torture they passed—and if any of them had been newly wedded Westover brides.
They arrived at an arched double doorway and the butler stepped aside, allowing her to precede him. Grace found herself at the entrance to a vast chamber set with a long polished table that stretched across its center. The table would easily seat thirty and when filled would hold enough to feed the entire village of Ledysthorpe. At the far end of it, nearest the blazing hearth, sat Lord Knighton, looking rather like the king at his court. Only there weren’t any courtiers present, no performing troubadours, just the empty chair to his right that had been set with a service obviously meant for her.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said at her approach, leaving Ambrose to stand at the door.
Christian rose from his seat. “Good evening, my lady. I trust you found the ducal chambers to your liking?”
Grace took her seat. “What little I saw of them before Ambrose arrived to escort me to dinner was most agreeable.”
“My apologies. I had thought to give you more time to ready yourself for dinner, but the cook had been awaiting our arrival. The food was already prepared.”
Grace wondered that he had abandoned his pressing business to share the meal with her, but kept that thought to herself. She unfolded the linen napkin, placing it in her lap. Two footmen came forward from the nethershadows to serve them, ladling out steaming turtle soup into each bowl.
“I was wondering, my lord,” Grace said after taking a sip of her claret, “why is it we are only staying here at Westover Hall one night? If you have business to attend to, we could certainly stay longer.”
Christian didn’t look at her, but instead took up his soup spoon. “There are more urgent matters in London that require my being there. It will not take long for me to see to what needs attending here. We will leave for town on the morrow as planned.”
He began eating, as if to say the conversation was at an end. Grace, however, couldn’t help her curiosity. “But if we are to leave on the morrow, wouldn’t it have been a more prudent choice to simply pass the night someplace between Little Biddlington and London, or perhaps even just return to the city rather than travel nearly a day’s ride west?”
Christian laid down his spoon. He looked at her squarely. “Yes, my lady, it would have been a more prudent idea, and had I a choice in the matter, that is precisely what we would have done. But there is a tradition among the Westovers, one of which you are unaware. Call it one of your ‘rules,’ if you will. You see, all new brides must spend their wedding night in the Westover ducal bed—more precisely, they must lose their virginity in it. It is believed that doing so ensures the next male heir.”
And at that, Grace’s mouth fell open. A moment later, her soup spoon clattered to the floor.
Chapter Eight
When Grace returned abovestairs after dinner, she found a copper bathtub awaiting her in the withdrawing room set off from the main ducal bedchamber. The water was strewn with soft-colored rose petals and it steamed invitingly, as a freshly stoked fire crackled in the marble hearth nearby. Mrs. Stone had set out everything Grace might need—soap that was stamped with the Westover coat of arms, a washcloth, towels, and a thick robe. She had even placed Grace’s nightshift and hairbrush on the dressing table with a note that she should call with the bell pull for assistance in dressing afterward.
Anxious for the bath, Grace quickly began to undress herself, unfastening the buttons at her bodice and slipping her gown from her shoulders. As she stepped from it, she looked at the silk pooled at her feet, the gown she had worn to become a wife. She hadn’t truly thought of it as her marriage dress, for it was not the one she had always dreamed of wearing—the gown Nonny and her own mother had worn as brides. If you wear this dress, Nonny had promised her, your marriage will certainly be blessed with the happiness and contentment that both I and your mother found in our own marriages.
But with the duke’s haste for the wedding, her grandmother’s gown had not arrived in time from Ledysthorpe. Grace had instead worn the most comely gown she owned, the same gown she had worn to the ball when she had fallen through the wall into • Lord Knighton’s dressing room. After what had happened that night, she hoped the gown wasn’t ill fated.
Grace picked up the gown and draped it carefully across the foot of the bed—the ducal bed—the Westover ducal bed. It was a large, heavily carved thing set high off the ground and draped in dark rich velvet. The words Christian had spoken to her during their dinner together that night whispered through her thoughts.
All new brides must spend their wedding nights in the Westover ducal bed—more precisely, they must lose their virginity in it…
Grace was not totally naive about what took place between a man and a woman, with the eventual result of children. She had been raised in the country among horses and dogs and farm animals. While it all seemed quite surreal to her, somehow she had always thought that when that time came in her life, she would know something more of the person with whom she would share the experience than simply his name.
Grace turned from the bed and pulled the pins from her hair, letting the weight of it fall to her waist. She stepped into the tub, slipping beneath the clear water, its warmth enveloping her body and setting her skin atingle. As she bathed, she considered the idea that this night might bring about the conception of a child. It was the reason she had been chosen, she knew, the reason the duke had come looking for a bride for his grandson. It was the expectation of most every society bride—to produce an heir and a spare. What a different mother she would be she thought—not at all like the ladies who had come to visit her grandmother at Ledysthorpe during her childhood.
From the time she had turned thirteen, Nonny had allowed Grace to sit and take tea with her and her guests, despite the disapproving looks of the other ladies. Grace had sat quietly, sipping at her cup, listening as they talked of seeing their own children for naught but a quarter hour every day as if it were a chore and not a privilege. How they would proudly boast of delivering their children from nearly the moment of their birth into the hands of a hired wet nurse and then, later, to a nursery maid. How they would then evince astonishment when their children grew up ill-mannered and speaking in the vernacular of their caretakers. Listening to them day in and day out had only shown Grace that when the time came for her to have her own children, fashionable or not, she would embrace her role as mother faithfully. She would sing them to sleep, she would feed them at her own breast, and she would teach them the same ideals Nonny had passed on to her. More than anything else, Grace was determined that she should never give her children cause to believe they had not been wanted.
Grace took up the small ewer that stood beside the tub and leaned forward to rinse herself. As she dipped the ewer into the tub a second time, she heard the faint sound of a door opening and closing in the adjoining bedchamber. She went instantly still. He had come? So soon? She waited but the only sound she heard was the nervous
drumming of her heart and the water dripping down around her.
Grace rose from the water and was just stepping out of the tub when the door across the room suddenly swung open. She did the only thing she could think of. She quickly grabbed the robe that had been set out for her, shoving her arms into the sleeves as she said, “Please allow me my privacy, my lord. I’m at my bath now.”
But it wasn’t Lord Knighton who stood there at all. Instead it was a young maid of no more than eighteen years bearing a tray in both hands.
She bobbed a quick curtsey. “Beggin’ pardon, my lady. I was just bringing you your tea. Lord Knighton thought you might like a bit before retiring this e’ening.”
Feeling quite foolish, Grace took up a towel and began rubbing the wet ends of her hair. “Yes, thank you. Please just set it there.”
“Aye, my lady. Would you be wishing me to help you brush out your hair and dress for bed, my lady?”
Grace looked at the maid, tempted to accept. In the end, she decided it would be better to occupy herself as much as possible while she waited for Lord Knighton’s arrival. “No, thank you. I think I can manage.”
The maid bobbed again before leaving, closing the door behind her.
Grace walked to the tea tray, dropping into the chair in her favorite way with her feet tucked up beneath her as she took up the teapot and poured herself a cup. It had been thoughtful of him, she mused, to send the tea to her. Grace took a sip and instantly coughed. Her eyes watered and her throat burned. The tea was laced with something quite strong, spirits more potent than the occasional bit of claret she was accustomed to. She very nearly abandoned the tea, except that after a few seconds, it began to fill her belly with a most pleasant warmth.
Grace took up the cup and drew another sip, wishing that Lord Knighton had thought to have the maid include a biscuit along with the tea. She realized now she was quite hungry. Dinner, while fine, hadn’t tempted her beyond a sparse few bites. In truth, she hadn’t been able to eat much of anything after hearing Lord Knighton’s comments about the traditions of the ducal bed. Grace took another sip of the tea, peering into the pot that was yet two thirds full. Taking up the tray, she headed for the ducal bedchamber, thinking she would just have another cup while she changed into her nightclothes and brushed out her hair and waited for Lord Knighton to come.
When next Grace noticed the time, it was nearing midnight. She had emptied both the cup and the teapot. She had even fashioned a ribbon in her hair, tying it in a pretty bow atop her head. She wore her favorite nightdress, the white linen one with the small pearl buttons along the front. She had read three chapters further in her novel. Still there came no sign of Lord Knighton.
Grace yawned, sinking back against the thick, goose-down pillows on the ridiculously large ducal bed. She wiggled her toes, which did not even reach halfway to the other end of the mattress, and decided that the bed could easily sleep herself, Lord Knighton, and Ambrose and Mrs. Stone too. Perhaps even the footmen who had served them their dinner. Grace giggled at the image that presented itself, that of sacrificing her innocence on the great Westover ducal bed while the unflappable Ambrose glared at her from the other side of the mattress.
She stared at the huge tree-trunk-sized posters and wondered why the figures carved in the dark gleaming wood suddenly appeared to be dancing. She thought of the other virginal Westover brides who had lain on this same spot before her. Had the figures danced for them as well? Perhaps that was part of the tradition. She glanced over the side of the mattress, looking for the floor, but she couldn’t see it. No doubt the bed had been chosen for this particular tradition because it was so high, leaving frightened young maidens less willing to flee for fear of a broken neck.
The clock struck half past twelve and still Grace was alone. Perhaps Lord Knighton had perceived her dismay at dinner—surely the sound of her soup spoon dropping to the floor and the sight of her mouth hanging open had given him some indication. Perhaps he had decided to forgo the tradition of this bed and this night. The candle on the table beside her was guttering low; the others had long since gone out. The fire in the hearth was burning more slowly with each turn of the clock.
Grace’s vigilance in watching the door started to falter as she fought to keep her eyes open. She touched a hand to the side of her face. The tea and whatever had accompanied it had brought a flush to her cheeks, warming her throughout. She kicked at the coverlet. It was growing very late. She closed her eyes, thinking that Lord Knighton must surely have decided to retire for the evening after all, but to another bedchamber, in another part of this gloomy, spooky house. Yes, that must be it…
In what seemed the very next moment, there came a click from across the room, echoing strangely to her ears. Grace opened her eyes with some effort—and even then only managed to pry them halfway—to see a figure hovering at the edge of the wavering shadows given off by the ebbing fire. It was the maid again, she mused on a half-conscious thought, and if she was returning with more tea, Grace hoped that this time it might be with something to eat.
” ‘Scuse me,” she measured out, “but might I trouble you to bring me a biscuit, please?” Grace wondered why her own voice sounded so odd and woolly to her ears.
There came no answer. Grace blinked, watching as the figure drew closer to the bed. Funny, she thought, but the maid appeared to have grown taller from the last time she had come, and broader, especially across the shoulders.
The figure emerged into the light and Grace saw that it was not the maid after all.
It was Lord Knighton standing in the bedchamber with her. He was wearing a dressing robe, and his feet were bare underneath. He was watching her intently. And he was coming toward the bed.
Grace’s last thought before he reached her was that apparently he had decided to uphold the Westover tradition after all.
Chapter Nine
Christian watched Grace as he started toward her. It was late, he knew, and a small part of him had thought perhaps she’d have fallen asleep. He hadn’t expected to be so long in coming there.
He’d spent the better part of the past few hours with a bottle of brandy, telling himself he was allowing Grace time to prepare for the inevitable conclusion to the evening, when in truth, it was he who had needed the time. Not since he’d been a boy of fifteen, when he’d confronted his own virginity with Lord Whitby’s seventeen-year-old daughter in the hayloft of the Westover stables, had he felt so awkward and uncertain.
He was about to consummate his marriage, while at the same time he would not consummate his marriage.
At nine years of age, a boy is not yet fully able to fathom the repercussions of his actions. He does without thinking, never considering what the consequences might be five, ten, or even twenty years later. So when Christian had stood facing his grandfather the duke hours after watching his father die, his only thought had been to protect the family he had remaining, his mother and his unborn sibling. He would have agreed to cut off his left arm if he’d had to, but the duke had had other thoughts in mind.
“You will live the life I choose for you, Christian. You will follow the course I have chosen for you; you will wed when I decide you will; and, when the time comes, you will give me your firstborn son.”
How easy it had seemed all those years ago, how far off in the future, how fair. Two lives for two lives; his mother and the babe she carried for his own and that of a child that he couldn’t even begin to imagine. It had seemed almost as if he were getting the better part of the bargain and even as his mother had begged him not to, Christian had entered into the duke’s agreement, scribbling his nine-year-old signature across a contract the duke had hastily drawn up. What choice had he? If he hadn’t, the duke would have seen them all destroyed.
So Christian had passed the next two decades living the life that had been chosen for him. He had now married the woman chosen by his grandfather and he would do his duty in making her truly and completely his wife—but he would be damned if he
was going to play the role of Westover stud and beget the next unfortunate male heir while that diabolical old man yet lived. So he had made a plan. He would take his wife’s virginity, honoring his agreement with the duke, but he would never bring the encounter to its usual conclusion by spilling his seed within her womb. In that, his grandfather would be denied the life of yet another innocent. It was the only way Christian could endure living with the bargain he’d made, the only way he could face himself in the mirror every day. And for that reason above all else, he was determined that he should feel nothing while seeing to the business of deflowering his wife.
Christian came across the room to stand silently at the side of the bed. Grace didn’t move, didn’t make a sound; she simply stared at him from where she lay buried among the pillows, lost on that huge bed. Her hair was loose and curling about her shoulders, shimmering like liquid gold as it spilled over the bedclothes. Christian checked an impulse to reach out and test its softness. He focused his attention on her wide eyes instead.
Grace blinked. “Yer not the maid,” she said, her words coming too quickly for her mouth to properly form them. “Yer Lord Knight’n.”
“Yes, my lady, but I think it would be better if you would call me ‘Christian.’ “
“Chrish-dinn,” she repeated, nodding slowly. She closed her eyes a moment then looked at him again and smiled. “I am Gra-ce.”
He resisted the urge to smile in return and said instead, “Grace, would it be an accurate assumption to say that you drank the entire pot of tea I sent up to you?”
“Uhmm,” she nodded. “You took a very long time in coming.”
“I am sorry. Matters took longer than I had expected.”
In fact, Christian had never realized before then just how much thought went into the taking of a wife’s virginity. All the while he’d been downstairs, he’d tried to consider the best means for approaching the task, weighing one against the other until in the end it had come down to a sort of preconjugal checklist, a practical plan for a hapless bridegroom. First, he had offered her a bit of brandy to ease her maidenly fears. From the looks of her now, it had worked. Next, he would need darkness to protect her modesty…
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