She was wondering at his indifference, trying to understand why it seemed he was doing everything humanly possible to avoid being in her company when just the night before he had touched her more intimately than she’d ever been touched. Their meeting in the cemetery had taken him unawares. He hadn’t expected to find her there, coming upon him so quietly as he knelt before his father’s gravestone. The moment he had seen her, the memory of his failure the night before had come back to him like a dousing in Westover’s ice-cold fish pond. He hadn’t meant to rail at her as he had; he was simply unaccustomed to having someone—most especially a wife—suddenly insinuating herself into the most private moments of his life. Even more so, he was unaccustomed to having anyone affect him.
As Grace sat lost to her thoughts and her upside-down tale, Christian took the opportunity to look at her, truly study her for the first time. When one considered it, the old duke hadn’t done badly in his choice of a wife for him. Grace had the loveliness of generations of aristocratic blood. Her hair was the perfect shade of blonde, not too light nor too dark, but the color of honey warmed by the summer sunlight. Lashes framed eyes that were brilliant blue, inquisitive, and full of strength and spirit. Her nose was straight and unobtrusive, her mouth full and pleasingly shaped, her skin unblemished, untouched…
Christian had known his wife—whoever his grandfather decided upon—would be an innocent. The great Duke of Westover would never consent to a secondhand maid as the mother of the future heir. Christian wondered, though, if the duke had assumed Grace’s delicate features betokened a meek and accepting manner and an easily governed nature. It was a mistake one might make when first faced with her. It had been for that reason alone Christian had sent up the tea the previous night. He had known Grace wouldn’t be accustomed to strong spirits and hoped they might ease her fears at giving over her innocence to a virtual stranger. He had prepared himself for her apprehension, even her tears. What he hadn’t been prepared for was her trust.
Christian could see Grace now in his mind’s eye as she lay beneath him on the bed, clad in that prim nightgown even as her virgin’s body awakened for him. Her soulful eyes had told him that while she might fear the unknowing, she would never question anything he might do to her. Though she knew next to nothing about him, she’d had faith in him, something few others had ever shown him. That simple gesture had taken away any thought he’d had of indifference toward her, and his plan to keep her at a safe distance had slipped like sand through his fingers.
But if his reaction to her emotionally had taken him unawares, the physical response of his body to hers had undone him completely. In his life, the position he’d been born to, marriage was as certain and as inevitable as death. It was his duty, his sole purpose in life, to sire the next Westover heir, and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised had the old man insisted on standing present to assure that Christian fulfilled his end of their bargain in bedding her. Bedding his wife once had been exactly what Christian had planned on doing, and without spilling his seed to deny the duke the one thing he wanted more than anything else in life.
An heir.
But from the moment Christian first touched Grace, knew the scent of her, tasted the softness of her skin, looked into the bottomless blue of her eyes, he’d been lost. Every thought he’d had of restraint and control had vanished in a haze of lust and passion and need. But what did it mean, this reaction to her, really, truly? It signified nothing, he told himself, nothing at all. So he’d had one night where he’d lost his command over his body. Regardless of Westover tradition, chances were that Grace wouldn’t conceive a child from that one encounter. And one encounter was all it would be. The mystery of her was past, her virginity no longer an issue to be dealt with. He had done his part. He would not again visit his wife’s bed, not until the time came that he was ready for a child—and that wouldn’t be until his grandfather was dead and gone.
For a moment Christian wondered why he shouldn’t just tell Grace the truth, explain that he could not be a husband to her in the physical sense because of the agreement he’d made with the duke. But then she would want to know the reasons why he had made such a promise—why he had agreed at the age of nine to give over his firstborn son to the duke. It was something she could never be told, not when the lives of his mother and sister hinged upon it.
Christian could, he knew, through his influence and that of his grandfather, arrange a marriage for Eleanor quite easily and be done with running from the past. As a Westover, she would be sought after by any of the best of society’s families. But Christian had vowed he would never do that. He had vowed that Eleanor would be given the luxury of choosing. She would meet a man, talk to him, share her thoughts, know as she should know the man she would spend her life with. She would reveal her love of music, her fondness for lemon tarts and gillyflowers. She would admit to him her distaste for mushrooms. She would discuss her favorite books, would show her talent for poetry. She might meet with a boor or two or maybe even three, but she would eventually find the one man who shared her likes and dislikes and who cherished her. She would be allowed to imagine herself in the role of wife long before his permission as her brother and the family patriarch was sought. And when that time came, when the honor of her hand was requested, she would be given the choice to accept or decline.
Put simply, Eleanor would be permitted the one thing Christian had known all his life he would be denied. Eleanor would be given the chance to fall in love—and then the very ugly truth that put at peril her every chance at this happiness would pose a threat to her no longer.
Christian looked at Grace again. Her brow was furrowed now and her mouth was pressed in a frown. For a moment he wondered that she had perhaps been as much a victim as he in this marriage. Then he wondered where that thought had come from. He wondered at her reasons for wedding him, a man she had only seen once when she had come tumbling through the wall of his dressing room. She was a nobleman’s daughter, certainly lovely to look at. He had read the marriage contracts and knew she had brought a sizeable dowry. Surely she could have had any number of noblemen interested in wedding her. What had she gained by agreeing to be his wife? And why had his grandfather chosen her above all others? Had she been bolstered by the myth of who society thought him to be?
She could have no idea what she had agreed to when she had consented to be his wife. Grace thought him honorable, a gentleman worthy of her devotion. Her head was filled with dreams of a white knight on a charger coming to rescue her. She could know nothing of the past. The Westover secrets were long buried, unknown to the rest of the world. She knew only what she had been told, smooth words meant to influence the romantic whims of a fanciful young lady.
Thus, Grace could have no clue she had just married a murderer.
Chapter Thirteen
Knighton House, London
Grace studied her reflection with care in the tall pier glass near her dressing table. The gown was fine and her hair was perfectly coiffed, pulled up high off her face in a crown of golden curls. Not a single flounce showed out of place. Everything appeared to be perfect, but the image that met her critical eye only brought her to frowning.
She turned a bit to view her left side. The frown grew to a scowl. To the right side and the scowl hardened into a furrow at her brow. It would be a blessed miracle if she made it through this night.
She was to attend a ball at the home of a very important society figure, someone whom she had never heard of before but who, it seemed, everyone else in creation had. She would attend with Christian, their first appearance together as the Marquess and Marchioness Knighton. Everyone would be watching, of course, looking their fill at the unknown lady who had married the man everyone else had wanted to marry. They were expecting a goddess and no less, a mortal endowed with immortal beauty. They would be looking for a woman of taste and elegance, refinement and—grace—something she was sorely lacking.
Funny how life had a way of mocking you, she thought
, bestowing upon you a particular appellation and then taking away any possibility of ever living up to it. Far worse was knowing that her lack of social polish was a flaw her husband had evidently noticed. Grace had overheard as much the very morning after their arrival in London, when Christian had been talking to Eleanor in his study, charging his sister with the task of transforming, as he’d put it, “their country mouse into a proper marchioness.”
Mouse, Grace had thought, her heart sinking to the very depths of her soul. What a disappointment I must be to him. Later, as she’d sat staring out from her bedchamber window seat, her arms hugging her knees to her chin as tears trailed down her cheeks, she came to realize that hidden within her misery at Christian’s words lay a challenge. She would prove Christian wrong and become the marchioness he had expected to wed.
Perhaps even a marchioness he could love.
She’d been given a fortnight, time for the tumult that had erupted following the announcement of their marriage in the newspapers to settle. Once news of their secret ceremony became known, the knocker had begun sounding daily, hourly even. It was just as Eleanor had said—everyone, it seemed, suddenly wanted to make her acquaintance. People she had never before met sought her out. Invitations and calling cards arrived in bundles, but Grace put off accepting them. After all, the transformation from country mouse—ahem, miss—to marchioness required careful preparation.
First, she would need suitable clothing, an entire wardrobe of it. Morning gowns, day gowns, dinner and ball gowns, carriage dresses, garden dresses, walking and riding dresses. There were gowns fashioned just for the theatre, others for the opera; some for evening, others for full evening. The differences between them all still somehow escaped her, but Grace knew she must never, ever wear one at any time other than its intended one. Along with each ensemble came the necessary trappings—parasols, wraps, gloves, hats, shoes, and stockings for each. It amazed her that the acquisition of a mere husband could triple the size of a woman’s baggage.
With the exception of the final fittings, Grace had yet to wear any of her newly acquired wardrobe. No occasion had yet come about that would require anything more than her own comfortable—if somewhat countrified—gowns, made of lackluster colors that helped to keep her inconspicuous. No one would dare think that the Marchioness Knighton would go about in homespun. Bonneted and blandly dressed, she could still manage the occasional sojourn to Hookham’s without drawing unwanted notice. But Grace knew she wouldn’t be able to hide herself away forever. The time would eventually come when she would have to emerge from her refuge of anonymity, face the curious eyes of society, and present herself as Marchioness Knighton.
Not just any gathering would do, she’d been told. It must be neither too grand nor too modest, neither distinctly Whig nor Tory. The choice of it would need to be made carefully. After much consideration, the news, when it had come, had not given her even the slightest measure of excitement. Instead it had filled her with an immediate and utter sense of dread.
Christian had informed her of the event in a manner that was fast becoming custom. He’d passed the word through his valet, Peter, who’d delivered it to Liza, the young maid whom Grace had befriended on her wedding night at Westover Hall. Not long after their return to London, Grace had been advised that her lack of a personal servant would be unacceptable in her new role. It made no matter that she hadn’t found the necessity for one through the first three-and-twenty years of her life. A marchioness—and more importantly, a future duchess— required a maid.
When told she would need to begin making inquiries after one, Grace’s efforts had extended only so far as to send off a letter to Liza offering her the position. The lively maid had turned up at the doorstep of Knighton House within days, bags in hand. Since then, Liza had become Grace’s helpmate, confidante, and collaborator in everything she did. She rode with Grace in the carriage and walked beside her along the Serpentine in Hyde Park early in the mornings when no one else was yet about. Liza suggested styles in which Grace could best wear her hair and colors for gowns that would complement her complexion. But more than just a ladies’ maid, Liza had become Grace’s friend, something which, other than Nonny, Grace had never truly had before.
True to her brother’s request, Eleanor had come to Grace’s rescue in all matters of society. It was she who had hired the dancing master to spend hours teaching Grace the proper execution of a quadrille. It was she who had educated Grace on the various personalities of the ton, riffling through every invitation and calling card to designate the ones Grace should or should not accept. And it was she who had persuaded the most sought-after modiste in London, Madame Delphine, to come to Knighton House for a round of consultations and fittings and last-minute alterations, though it was the busiest time of the season. Grace would never have been able to bring it off without Eleanor’s support. Just the arrangements for the gown Grace would wear on this first occasion had taken nearly a week. They had spent days mulling over stacks of fashion publications and engravings. After considering dozens of fabric swatches and numerous bits of trimmings, the gown that had been created was the most elegant one Grace had ever seen.
Made from the palest sea-green silk damask, the gown fell in an elegant line to a hem that was corded underneath in order to make it swing gracefully—quite like a bell—when she moved. The skirts were decorated in a woven floral pattern with varying shades of blue and golden threads, and soft petal-shaped sleeves came off a cross-over bodice that was stitched with gold edging. It was indeed exquisite, certainly not the ensemble for a country mouse. Its deeply cut bodice however, was causing Grace’s present dismay.
Grace had never before exposed this much of her bosom, not even when clad only in her underthings, and she felt as if she were walking about with half a gown to cover her. When she had voiced these misgivings during the round of fittings, all three of them—Eleanor, Madame Delphine, and Liza—had assured her that this was the fashion and that every lady at the ball would be envious of how well she wore it. Grace couldn’t bring herself to imagine it so—in fact, she was certain that if she didn’t tumble out of the thing, she’d surely catch a cold in her chest from it.
But perhaps, she’d thought hopefully, she just might manage to catch her husband’s eye with it, too.
Though Eleanor hadn’t spoken those words precisely, Grace knew they’d been in her thoughts at the fitting that morning. She had proclaimed how her brother wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes from her. She wasn’t the first in the household to have noticed the disregard Christian showed his new wife. In fact, it was something that everyone in the household had taken notice of.
A good many times over the past two weeks Grace had overheard the servants whispering to one another, remarking on how soon after their marriage the lord and lady had taken to separate beds, and that the door adjoining their bedchambers had yet to be found unlocked in the morning. Since the first night at Westover Hall, Christian hadn’t come to her bed. At first, she thought perhaps he was waiting to find out whether she was with child, and that perhaps it only required one such interlude to conceive. But with so many taking notice of his inattention, Grace could only conclude that there was something wrong between them. The only problem she faced now was how to fix matters, especially when Christian was so rarely at home. He left in the mornings and returned sometimes late at night. When Lady Frances had broached the subject of his absence to her son, Christian had merely replied that he had business to attend to. Hoping to combat her loneliness, Grace had thrown herself into preparations for her society introduction, wanting everything to be just right. Tonight, she thought, staring at her reflection. Tonight I will show him that I can be the wife he had expected.
Liza came into the bedchamber then, humming a cheerful tune. “Well, I think I managed to get the last of the creases out of this shawl. Took quite a bit of steaming and pressing.” She held it up for Grace to see.” ‘Tis a pretty thing, to be sure.”
Indeed, it was. P
ale cream Kashmir-designed silk, tasseled and embroidered with small trailing floral cones along each border, it had been Nonny’s when she’d been a young lady, a gift to her from Grace’s grandfather on their marriage. Grace had always admired the shawl and it had been among the many things Nonny had bequeathed to her. Since it had always held such loving memories, Grace had a secret wish that it might bring her good fortune for the evening.
Grace took the length of fabric up, holding it out a moment to look at it before she wrapped the width of it snugly over her bodice. She closed her eyes and for a moment or two it felt almost as if her grandmother were softly hugging her, for the shawl still carried Nonny’s unique lilac scent.
Grace turned with a smile toward Liza to display the shawl. “How’s this?”
But Liza was frowning, shaking her head in disapproval.
“My lady, I’d not be doing my position as your maid any justice if I were to let you leave this house looking like that.”
Grace looked at herself again in the glass. “I know. That was my thought exactly. The modiste must have measured the bodice of this gown too small. I don’t wish to fault her—anyone can make a mistake—so that is why I will be sure to wear the shawl over it.”
“My lady—no. If you do that, every lady at the ball tonight will laugh at you.” Liza pulled the shawl away, setting Grace’s arms each at an angle. “There is an artistry to the wearing of a shawl just as there is to wielding a fan. You should simply drape the shawl about your back, like this…” She set the soft fabric over each elbow and then arranged it so that it was wrapped just below the tiny capped sleeves of the gown. The position of Grace’s figure thus, with her back slightly arched, only made her bosom that much more conspicuous.
The maid stepped back to survey the result. She straightened a flounce and then took up the heated tongs from the fire to reset a loose curl from Grace’s coiffure. She stepped back to study her figure again. “There, that’s perfect. No, wait—” Liza reached forward, grabbed the high waistline of Grace’s gown and gave it a quick tug—downward. Flesh Grace had never thought to expose to daylight let alone to a crowded ballroom— swelled above the dangerously low edge of the fabric. Liza stood back with a grin. “There. Now that is perfect.”
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