Hot Silk

by Sharon Page

  Maryanne reached for Grace’s hand. “You didn’t have to throw yourself into marriage—”

  Grace picked up a tiny china figurine of a harlequin playing a violin. She would throw it if need be. Wouldn’t her sisters just let her talk? Being dramatic was the only way she could ever get any attention. “I wanted to marry and then…then I fell in love. At least I thought I was in love. I loved Lord Wesley, my friend Lady Prudence’s brother. When I went to their house party, I—”

  “You gave your innocence to him?” Venetia gasped.

  “But what about Devlin?” Maryanne added.

  “You bedded both men?”

  She almost lost her courage to tell her story looking at the shock on her sisters’ faces. “Not at the same time!” she cried. Wait…both her sisters were blushing and looking rather self-conscious at her comment.

  “No!” Maryanne held up her hands in protest. “We’ve never done anything such as that. But, well, men do like to spin fantasies in the bedroom.”

  “Then you can’t judge me!” Grace cried. “Yes, I gave my innocence to Wesley. He had told me he wanted to marry me. I said yes, we made love, and then after…after, he laughed at me. It had all been a wager, a joke. And there was nothing I could do. Our distant cousin knew about it, Lord Wynsome. It was all horrid—”

  “Grace—”

  Both her sisters were rushing to hug her. But she put down the harlequin and stepped back. “I want to finish! After Wesley’s horrible words, I raced out of the room and ran straight into Devlin. He guessed everything. He made sure neither man would ever speak a word of what happened. He even spanked Wesley, who is his titled half brother!” She thought of that horrible scene with Wesley, when he’d held up their carriage and had intended to use her to hurt Devlin.

  “No wonder Lord Wesley Collins has left England,” Venetia muttered.

  Grace whirled around and paced, darting around the furniture that filled the drawing room of Venetia’s Brighton home. She had to keep moving—she didn’t want to surrender to a hug just yet. “So I did take Devlin to my bed that night. I know it was wrong and scandalous. But he was so noble to me that I wanted what I thought would be my only memories of lovemaking to be…good and not horrible.”

  Maryanne forced a hug on her then. “Grace, we don’t judge you. It is hardly your fault that Lord Wesley lied to you, but…”

  Embraced by her sister’s slim arms—Maryanne was taller than she and very slender—Grace cautiously asked, “But?”

  “Are you certain you love Devlin? That it wasn’t just heartbreak?”

  “It’s been over two years since that night, and not one day has gone by that I haven’t thought of Devlin.” Grace heard the tears in her voice and swallowed hard. “I am quite certain I’m in love with him. No matter how much I tried to deny this intense, overwhelming yearning for him, I could never forget it and I know I never will.”

  “Do you know…how Devlin feels about what happened between you and Lord Wesley?” Maryanne asked softly. She slipped her arm around Grace’s waist.

  “Yes,” Venetia added, “That is quite important.”

  “He doesn’t blame me, if that’s what you mean. He has never held it against me.” She wondered if her sisters would. From their worried expressions, the glances they shared, Grace was certain her sisters wished she had been more cautious, more circumspect, more…dutiful. But Devlin had never judged her for what she had done.

  Venetia smiled. “He sounds to be a good man. But we suspect you did not leave here to go to Lady Prudence’s house party, that you lied to us. Was it Devlin you went to see?”

  Grace felt tears spring to her eyes. “No. I had been writing to the Countess of Warren. Our grandmother.”

  Venetia froze. “Why?”

  “I wanted to heal the rift, to put aside past quarrels and anger. I wanted to know her.”

  “Did you meet her?” Maryanne asked.

  Around the lump in her throat, Grace managed, “Yes, but she rejected me. She’d heard of my behavior from Lord Wynsome. She called me wanton; she threatened me never to make our connection known.”

  “Horrid old cat!” Venetia cried.

  Grace wiped her eyes, for the tears itched. She had thought her sisters would be angry at her, not at their grandmother. “She had written me a letter in which she told me that she wanted to see her granddaughters. That it had been her husband, the earl, who had forbid it. But when I met her, she was cold and cruel. I could not understand it.”

  “And Devlin was there.”

  Grace frowned. “Yes, he was. He had not wanted me to see the countess. He did not want me to get hurt.”

  Venetia tapped her lips and then she took Grace’s hand and led her to the settee. This time Grace willingly sat, sinking into the satin-covered cushions, and her sisters sat flanking her.

  “How did you find Devlin, or did he find you once more?” Venetia asked. “Or have you been secretly seeing him for two years?”

  “I don’t think she has.” Maryanne shot a frank look at Venetia. “I think she would not have been so discontented and restless if she had been.”

  Venetia gave a wry smile. “That’s true.”

  Grace knew there was no way but to tell the truth, and she felt courage with her sisters she never had before. She felt like an equal, not like the bothersome baby. “Devlin held up my carriage. He had been watching me for two years.”

  “And he held you up for what reason?”

  “To embark on an affair.”

  “So he has never offered marriage.”

  Grace shook her head and sank back against the chair. She did not want to discuss this. Of course he had not offered marriage. He had told her, hadn’t he, that he had nothing to offer her because he was a wanted man? That he would come to her as an honest man or he would not come at all.

  She rather wished that a nurse would bring one of the children down, either Venetia’s sturdy six-month-old son Richard Nicholas Charles Wyndham, or Maryanne’s month-old baby boy Charles Dashiel Blackmore. Such large names for such tiny little men.

  Either little boy would be a distraction, a desperately needed one.

  Venetia crossed her arms beneath her breasts, narrowed her hazel eyes in great seriousness, and tilted one auburn brow. “He hasn’t offered marriage, has he?”

  “I want to use my dowry.” She faced Venetia with courage. “I intend to buy a ship with my dowry and rescue Devlin, whether he has offered me marriage or not.”

  “Rescue him!” Maryanne’s brows shot up. Her sister wrote popular books of adventure and passion, all dismissed by the critics but adored by readers. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘rescue him’?”

  “Get him out of jail and get him out of England,” Grace answered.

  “You cannot run away,” Venetia declared. “I completely forbid it.”

  Grace was ready to run to the mantel and grab the mate to the vase she’d thrown and crush it in her hands. But she paused. She was a grown woman. She did not have to throw pottery in a tantrum. She had to take charge of her life.

  “Why do you forbid it?” she asked. She would not scream at her oldest sister, but Venetia had no right to forbid anything. She would actually listen to her sister speak for once instead of flying into dramatics. “Because he’s a pirate?”

  “No—because I don’t want to think of you living a dangerous life where you are hunted by the British Navy! Because I want you to stay and be happy—to find the happiness Maryanne and I have found—”

  “I think that is the problem, Venetia,” Maryanne interjected, and Grace shot her a look of surprise. Her middle sister usually sided with Venetia, the most bullheaded of the three of them. “Grace wants an entirely different kind of happiness. She wants adventure.”

  “It’s sorely overrated,” Venetia cried. “Do you want more nights where you are held at gunpoint? Do you want to see Devlin shot in front of you?”

  She flinched at that and Maryanne cast an angry glare at Venet
ia. “You are the one being overly dramatic. I’m sure if Grace and Devlin were to sail away and Devlin were to cause no more trouble, the king and the British Navy would never trouble themselves again about him.”

  “But it means she would never come back! We’d never see her again! Just as Mother has said she will not come back to England, Grace will not either.”

  “But that is the way of life.” Maryanne reached around Grace and placed an impulsive hand on Venetia’s arm.

  “I wanted us to be happy as a family.”

  Grace knew she must speak for herself—she couldn’t play the youngest child any longer, letting others speak for her while she sullenly kept her agreements and disagreements bottled inside. “We will be, we just won’t live at each other’s sides.”

  Venetia sighed. “I’m being foolish, I know. It’s just that I had the chance to make your life perfect, Grace—”

  “There’s no reason why it won’t be perfect, Venetia,” Maryanne added.

  “But how do you plan to get Devlin out of Newgate? I doubt bribery will work—he’s far too important a prisoner. And you don’t know that he would even take you with him. He’s offered you nothing.”

  She heard Maryanne’s sharply drawn breath.

  “He’s offered me his heart.” Grace refused to be goaded into throwing more vases. “He was willing to let himself be captured to protect me! He could have run to save himself, but he wanted to ensure that I was safe. He was willing to face prison, to face a noose, for me. He let himself be taken to prison to make himself worthy of me. I believe in him, even if none of you do.”

  “A pirate willing to give up his freedom must be in love,” Maryanne added.

  Venetia wore a troubled frown, her brow furrowed, and, for the first time, Grace thought her eldest sister looked exactly like their mother. Venetia—who had always thought her artistic talent meant she was the most like their scandalous artist of a father.

  Perhaps nothing was exactly the way they had always assumed it was.

  Grace had always thought she’d be happy making a proper marriage and bringing her mother back into high society. Now the very thought made her nauseous. She had always believed she was the most like their mother—well bred and not truly prone to scandal.

  But perhaps her sisters were the responsible ones and she was, at heart, the wildest of them all.

  Venetia had opened her mouth, and Grace had stiffened, expecting a lecture, when a footman opened the drawing room door. “A visitor has arrived for Miss Grace Hamilton,” he said on a bow. “Lady Prudence Collins. She has been shown to the west parlor.”

  As the door shut behind the servant, Venetia stared at her in astonishment. “Lord Wesley’s sister? What could she want?”

  “I expect to blame me for her brother’s failed life as a highwayman and his flight from England,” Grace said airily, and she left them gaping at her in surprise.

  A long time ago she would have been bubbling with excitement to see Prudence. They would fall naturally and comfortably into conversation, laughing, gossiping, hugging. Her friendship with Lady Prudence had made Grace believe she belonged in that world—the privileged world, the world of blue blood, elegance, titles, and wealth.

  Grace walked with a purposefully slow gait down Venetia’s hallway. Painted in white and pastels, it looked bright; Brighton was where London escaped oppressive heat for breezy sunshine. Who belonged less in this house right now? Lady Prudence or her?

  One of the west parlor doors had been left open and Grace paused there. The rustle of silk came from within. Grace smoothed her skirts, though she didn’t care how she appeared to the woman who had once been her friend, yet had rudely cut her.

  She just needed a moment. A moment to compose herself.

  She strode into the room, head high, spine straight, her walk imbued with the elegance of a lady. One look at Lady Prudence and she faltered—her ladyship wore a lavish gown and spencer of sky-blue silk trimmed with a fringe that seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. Her bonnet appeared to be a bouquet of roses held together with ribbon.

  No. Clothes would not intimidate her—not when she’d survived a knife at her throat and a pistol pointed at her head.

  “Hello, Lady Prudence. Might I ask what you have come for?” As a greeting it was neither deferential or polite. But it was the truth. All she wanted to know was what Prudence wanted.

  Startled by her voice, Lady Prudence swept around. She had been standing by the window, staring out at the garden, drenched in sunlight. Her black curls gleamed and her gray-blue eyes were as hard and flat as the sea before a storm.

  “My brother has left for the Continent, and our family name is blackened by scandal. The fault lies with you and that horrible criminal, Devlin Sharpe!” Prudence stood, shaking, like a slender tree buffeted by stormy winds.

  “Your brother is running from what he believes is cowardice,” Grace responded. She could not bring herself to use soothing words when she knew Prudence only wished to shout and rail at her. “Not to mention his disgusting behavior toward innocent women.”

  “What are you speaking of?” Lady Prudence snapped. Apparently, Prudence believed Grace’s inferior social status meant that she must accept being used as a whipping post, but Grace refused to do it.

  “Lord Wesley held up Mr. Sharpe’s carriage,” Grace continued. “He was quite drunk, he almost shot Mr. Sharpe, and he almost got himself killed.”

  “That murderer wounded him—”

  “No, Prudence, keep quiet. Devlin told me about your suitor. He told me about the bruises, that your lover had hit you. Prudence! How could you have accepted that?”

  Prudence recoiled. Her hands flew up to her throat as though she could not believe Grace would attack her. “Nothing changes the fact that Sharpe killed him—”

  “Your suitor cheated and shot first.” She didn’t want to hurt Prudence; she wanted to make her see the truth.

  “He killed him.”

  “It is true, my lady, but do you not understand that Devlin was forced to do it to protect you?”

  Tears welled in Prudence’s eyes and sympathy twisted so hard within Grace that it physically hurt. She moved forward, to offer a hug, to offer support, but Prudence lifted her hand as if to slap her.

  “Don’t touch me!” Prudence cried. “You’ve bewitched Wesley. You’ve stolen him from me, stolen his heart.” Clutching her lovely skirts, Prudence retreated toward the bank of windows.

  “That’s madness. Wesley pursued me to hurt Devlin—he doesn’t care one jot about me. In fact, I believe he thinks of no one but himself. That is why he has left you, Prudence. He has fled to indulge himself, lick his wounds, and behave like a spoiled child—and unfortunately he is not mature enough to spare you a thought.”

  “That’s not true. You destroyed him, you calculating tart. I warned you, but you went after him, seduced him, and—”

  “Enough!” Grace cried. “You cannot speak to me that way. Do you know that your brother belonged to a club of gentlemen who specifically preyed on innocent girls? They made wagers on how many virtuous girls they could destroy.” She had told her family about this, though she had not specifically explained how she knew. And she’d felt guilty that she had not said anything two years before. “My brothers-in-law, the Earl of Trent and Viscount Swansborough, put a stop to their horrible club. Wesley fled, I’m sure, because he feared what they would do to him. Because he is a coward. Any scandal is his own fault. He deserves a much worse punishment than escaping England.”

  Prudence’s face turned pale.

  Grace softened her voice. “Prudence, you must carve your own way in the world—you should find love, marry, have a family. You must not blame others for the mistakes you and Wesley have made. You have to accept responsibility and strive to do better, strive to find happiness.”

  Prudence stormed toward the door, following a path that led between the wing chairs and octagonal tables and settees and away from her.

  Car
ve out your own way in the world. Those had been Devlin’s words to her.

  As she watched Prudence run out of the room, Grace realized that she had not been worrying about what Prudence thought of her. Her worries had been for Prudence herself.

  She no longer cared what the ton thought of her.

  She felt as though that was beneath her now. Love and hope and kindness were far more important.

  “So you see, her plan is to try to break Devlin out of jail. I can just imagine the thoughts in her mind—she will sneak in and somehow free him and it will all be very adventurous and exciting. She’s always been dramatic and she refuses to even think of how dangerous it will be.”

  Venetia gave her husband her most imploring look but sighed inside. All she had ever wanted to do was save herself and her family.

  Now her impetuous youngest sister wanted to be the rescuer. But Grace was too naïve to understand how very dangerous that was.

  “She’ll get herself killed,” Marcus growled, and Venetia felt a spurt of calming relief. She’d known Marcus would understand.

  “I doubt you’ll be able to stop her.” Dash slipped his arm around Maryanne and kissed the top of her head. The implication was clear—Maryanne had risked so much out of love for him, just as he had risked all for Maryanne.

  “I can’t let her race headlong into danger.” Marcus groaned. Venetia saw that streak of gray in his hair, that he had teasingly argued had been placed there by the entire trio of Rodesson’s daughters.

  “I think there’s a way to have Devlin exonerated,” Marcus continued. “He’s done much clandestine work for the Navy—secured land, raged battles, all in secret. And he’s kept those secrets, despite his flagrant disregard for the law in other ways.”

  “He was trying to make his way in the world!” Maryanne leaned forward, waving her hands to include them all. “Haven’t we all struggled to do that? Each and every one of us? We all had to make mistakes to find our places! As did our mother and Rodesson.”

  Venetia met Maryanne’s firm gaze and nodded. She so admired her younger sister, who had always been quiet and who had proved she had a deep understanding of human nature. No wonder Maryanne’s stories were so well loved.