by Aubrey Wynne
“Do you hold me in your affections, Lady Grace?” This was the issue. The rest could be addressed, but if she did not have the same feelings that he did then it was all pointless. Her gaze drifted again to his palm, pretending to fiddle with the burn.
“Mrs. Whitten should be back any moment and I’ll apply the poultice.”
His mouth fell open. She would ignore him. She would not answer him. She would pretend as if this discussion had not happened. “By god, I won’t allow it.”
He stood, the chair clattering against the stone floor. She gasped. Her glistening green eyes blinked at the sudden movement. One arm came around her waist and yanked her against him; the trembling lips undid him. His last shred of self-restraint drained from his body. Kit tipped his head and claimed her mouth, soft and yielding. Her curves fit against him as if they had been cut from one mold. He eased up slightly and brushed his lips against hers, caressing and coaxing. A tremor passed through him as she sighed, her breath mingling with his. Citrus and vanilla enveloped him, intoxicated him. She was everything he had dreamed of. She was nothing he had expected.
He lifted his head, scrambling for a pittance of sanity but her arms went around his neck. The slight surrender sent a tremor down his length, his trousers tightening with desire. Kit buried his head in her neck, trailing hot kisses up the pale skin, feeling her pulse beneath his lips. He made a line across her jaw, ending with her mouth. Her chest rose and fell in short breaths. His tongue traced the line between her lips, and she gasped, opening them. He dipped inside and tasted the sweetness of her. When she fingered the hair at the back of his neck, the throbbing in his breeches threatened to explode.
Kit pulled back and held her close, running his hand along her back. “By God, Grace. I will have you. You cannot deny me.” He tipped her head back and kissed her tenderly again. Her head began to shake back and forth, her entire body trembling. But as she locked her gaze on him, it was not fear but anger in her glistening eyes.
“I can’t. I can’t do this.” She pushed away from him, looking around as if lost. “Oh, god. Oh, god. I cannot do this.”
Mrs. Whitten hurried into the kitchen. “Here we are. It will just take a moment and we’ll have that burn fixed in no time.”
Kit saw the panic in Grace’s eyes. He wanted to grab her again and shake some sense into her. He tried words instead. “No, cease this nonsense now. I said, I won’t allow it.”
“My lord, it’s just a poultice. I swear to you, it won’t hurt you any.” The cook clucked at him as she waddled over to the table. “Now here you go… Oh, my lady. What is the matter?” She looked accusingly at Kit.
An agonizing moan ricocheted through the kitchen, and Grace picked her up dress and ran from the room. Mrs. Whitten glared at Kit, and he shrugged his shoulders, his mouth set in an angry line. With a snort, he mumbled, “Thou art not false, but thou art fickle.”
Grace dashed up the second flight of stairs, pushed open her door, and slammed it closed. She sank against the hard wood, welcoming the pain against her spine. How could she be such a green girl, a clunch. It had been a simple request and had filled her with joy until uncertainty smothered the rapture, and the sharp taste of self-doubt coated her tongue. The words had stuck in her throat.
The kiss had been so unexpected. And wonderful. And terrifying. His touch, his body, the taste of him consumed her. She was on fire and melting, losing herself in the passion. With horror, she remembered throwing her arms around him like a trollop. She had clung to him and lost all reason when his lips touched hers. A tiny explosion, like gunpowder in the cup, had rocked the careful foundation she had built to protect her future. His passion could convince her to give up everything she held dear. The world that cushioned her from pain and heartache.
She’d escaped to the safety of her room. The protection of a future without love. The safety of loneliness. She cradled her head on her knees and let the tears flow, tension of the last month wash over her, cleanse her. Sunderland had shown her nothing but courtesy and consideration. He was handsome, charming, and kind. Sammy and her father liked him immensely and if she were to make a list, he would check every quality of a perfect match.
A soft knock on the door. “Gracie? It’s Eliza. May I come in?”
With a sigh, she rose, wiped her face, and shook out her wrinkled skirt before she opened the door. Eliza entered and hugged her. “Oh my dear, what happened? I saw you racing down the hall as if the devil himself was after you.”
“Lord Sunderland wishes to…woo me.”
“You cannot be surprised. He is your escort on our daily walks in the garden, your attentive partner in any of the parlor games. His eyes follow you across a room. Did you not expect this?” Eliza’s eyebrows drew together. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“He kissed me.”
Eliza gasped then beamed. “Oh, Grace. How wonderful. That is more than courting. He wants to marry you.”
She nodded, the pounding of her heart drowning out her ragged breath.
“What did you tell him?”
Grace could not meet her cousin’s eyes. She simply shook her head.
“I pray it was not a harsh cut. He has been through so much with the death of Carson.”
Grace clutched her chest. He bared his heart to her, still freshly bruised from the loss of his brother, and she acted as if he were an abhorrent brute. “The kiss was… I couldn’t think…and then I panicked. I fled. I saw a husband, and leg shackles, and patronizing looks when I mentioned improvements on the estate and—”
“Grace Beaumont, stop it. How can you know what sort of husband he will make? Has he shown you a domineering nature? Has he been patronizing in any way?”
She shook her head, swiping at her wet cheeks.
“If you knew his mother better, these fears would subside. Meek and obedient are the last words I would use to describe her. As she is the woman who raised him, I cannot imagine he would settle for any less in his own wife. He respects her and loves her.” Eliza tipped her cousin’s chin with a finger. “But you know that, don’t you?”
Grace bobbed her head.
“What is the real reason?”
“I cannot leave Papa and Sammy. I cannot lose the two people who have kept me from drowning these past years. Living without them petrifies me,” she said in a whisper then let out a breath. “It’s not my independence I am fighting for. Oh lord, it is what I have been hiding behind.”
Her cousin’s voice softened. “You’ve finally realized it.”
“You knew?”
“Yes, but it isn’t something I could tell you, is it? You would have stomped your foot and denied it until you turned blue.” She smiled sadly. “It was something you had to discover on your own.”
“I’ve been such a fool.”
“If you refuse a courtship, you will never know what you might have lost. Or gained.” Eliza crossed her arms, a stern look sharpening her features. “So what is the plan? You always have a plan.”
“I think I owe Lord Sunderland an apology.” A teary smile formed, and Grace hugged her best friend. “Thank you.”
“It’s what friends do. We will always be here for each other. We are family.”
Grace never had the chance to offer an apology. Entering the drawing room before dinner, she found Lady Falsbury in tears. Eliza sat next to her, an arm around the older woman. She looked at Grace, concern darkening her violet eyes.
“What is it?” Grace hurried across the room. “Is there anything I can do?”
The marchioness shook her head. “We received a note that Falsbury’s carriage overturned. He’s hurt but we have no idea what condition he is in.” She held a handkerchief to her dark eyes. Grace noticed the circles beneath.
“Your father rode along with Kit so he could return quickly with news.”
“Where did it happen?”
“The toll gate south of here,” answered Eliza.
“That’s only twenty miles away. We’ll know
soon enough, my lady. I’m sure he’s fine.” Grace hoped her voice sounded more confident than she felt. This poor family did not need another tragedy so close on the heels of the last.
The cook had left out a cold meat supper for Lord Boldon. The ladies remained in the drawing room and Eliza and Grace continued to keep up Lady Falsbury’s spirits. Sammy had gone to bed long ago, tired from a swim in the pond after dinner. The sound of hoofbeats on the drive had all three hurrying from the room. As the butler opened the huge oak door, Grace saw her father dismounting. His great bay gleamed in the lamplight, his coat covered in sweat. The urgency of the ride could mean one of two things. Had he rode like the devil to bring them good news or bad?
He met them in three strides and smiled at the marchioness. “He’ll live, my lady. The physician is worried about a cracked ankle and swelling on the knee. But he was fit enough to yell orders to the innkeeper and complain about the price of the carriage.”
The proper Lady Falsbury nodded, wiped at the tears spilling from her eyes, and promptly fainted. Eliza screamed as Lord Boldon scooped up the exhausted woman and carried her back into the drawing room. Grace yelled for smelling salts but there was no need.
“Gracious, tell me I didn’t swoon.” Lady Falsbury leaned her head against the back of the sofa. “I haven’t done that since I was a girl. We had that terrible hot summer and I insisted on playing a game of Graces.”
“It’s been a trying day, my lady.” Eliza smoothed the hair from her mother-in-law’s forehead. “Take a drink of this cordial.”
She smiled and obliged, soon able to sit up on her own. Grace listened with amusement as her father recounted the details of the afternoon.
“It seems some fop had tried to show off his new pair of steppers. Unfortunately, the horses had more experience than he did, and they soon parted company.” He shook his head at the folly of youth. “The runaways headed straight for the toll gate, and your husband’s driver couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. The horses made a sharp turn to avoid Falsbury’s team but overturned the phaeton.”
“What about the animals?” asked Grace. She hated the thought of a fine animal being sacrificed for some peep-o-day boy.
“I’m happy to report no fatalities today. However,” he bowed to his hostess and cringed as he continued. “I’m afraid your new chaise has seen some significant damage. Only one side will open and two wheels need replacing.”
She waved her hand. “It’s only money. It makes no difference.”
“I’m to inform you that your son will remain at the inn until the carriage is repaired and the doctor feels your husband is able to travel. It will be at least several days before they arrive.” He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the brandy snifter.
“Oh, goodness. You must be parched. Please, pour yourself a drink then Grace will accompany you to the dining room. There should be some cold meats and cheeses. If you want anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She smiled at her daughter-in-law. “My dear, would you stay with me a while longer?”
Eliza smiled. “Of course. I’ll walk with you to your rooms when you are able.”
“I tell you my dear, I don’t think my heart can take much more.” She cupped Eliza’s cheek in her palm. “I thank the heavens above when you were sent to me. What would I do without you?”
Eliza’s back was to Grace but she heard her mumbling and watched her cousin fuss over the woman. She realized, as she quietly shut the door, that Eliza had found a loving family. She had married Carson as an outsider, but somehow his death had provided a place for Eliza in the Falsbury household. The two women were devoted to each other and the strong affection was apparent. A line from one of Lord Milton’s poems came to mind:
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
Milton’s sable clouds had certainly found a silver lining for Eliza.
Chapter 14
“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
August 1815
Boldon Estate
They had returned to Boldon over two weeks ago. Lord Falsbury had been unable to travel for almost a week, so there had been no opportunity to apologize to Lord Sunderland. He’d preoccupied her thoughts ever since. She passed several men clipping the lawn. Their long scythes swung in smooth, practiced strokes. Grace watched for a moment, losing herself in the soft beat, listening to the swish, swish of the blades slicing the clover. Life had fallen into its usual rhythm but Grace was unsettled. Daily tasks that had once given her pleasure were now a chore. The days stretched in front of her like an endless desert, no relief in sight. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
She walked toward the herb plot, breathing in the earthy scent of soil and floral, pungent and sweet. White cabbage and lettuces were abundant, rounded heads and broad leaves creating a light and dark green patchwork against the stone wall. Purple cabbage, used for pickling, added a lovely color to the section. Sammy’s favorite, the asparagus, was already dying out. The gardens encompassed several acres now and continued to expand.
It had taken much persuasion to convince Papa to build another greenhouse. When she had seen her father bending, she had played her trump card. He would have fresh cucumbers in January. Oh, how Papa loved cucumbers. The two stone buildings faced the north so the remaining three walls maintained exposure to the sun. The expensive rows of glass, encased between the red-brown brick, flashed in the afternoon light. The older building would house the tender plants that could not withstand the English winters. The second building would soon boast heat, and more work for a local gardener. The boiler had to be kept going throughout the long, cold months.
Continuing down the path, she stopped to snip some chamomile. Papa was breaking in a new horse. The herb placed in a hot bath would ease his sore muscles. She absently rubbed a stem of rosemary and held it to her nose.
Rosemary is for remembrance,
Between us day and night.
Wishing that I may always,
Have you present in my sight.
What must he think of her? How could she face him again? And why did his opinion worry her so? The accident had been fortuitous; she had not fled the Falsbury Castle to avoid him. Yet, she found his view of her was vital to her happiness. That made her grit her teeth. Independent women did not measure their contentment by a man’s attention.
She had avoided marriage for several years. So, the whole situation had worked out rather well. But her mind continued to play back scenes from the past month. His devilish grin, his antics with Sammy, the teasing and games in the evening. The last day together haunted when she closed her eyes. Her body betrayed her then, waking in a sweat, panting from the kiss he could never have given her at the castle. Papa watched her, a question in his eyes. He knew what she did not want to admit.
“And when I cannot have
As I have said before,
Then Cupid, with his deadly dart,
Doth wound my heart full sore.”
She loved him, with every muscle in her body, every breath in her lungs, every thought in her muddled mind.
Oh god help me, I love him, she whispered.
Is this how her mother had felt? The desperate, mad rush of desire, the trembling of her body, the racing of her heart when those dark eyes took her in from slipper to smile. She missed that crooked grin when he and Sammy played some foolish game and tried to pull her into it. His voice would come back to her in a familiar phrase or remembered conversation.
“My lady.”
She jumped and turned too quickly, putting her hand out for balance. Mr. Chenwick looked aghast.
“I did not mean to startle you, Lady Grace. You have a visitor and your father has not returned from his ride yet. He is in the library.”
“Who?” She struggled to bring her mind back to the present.
“A Lord Sunderland, my lady. Where shall I have him wait?
”
Do not panic, her brain scolded. Composure, calm.
“Please instruct the butler to have him wait in the drawing room. Could you also have Master Samuel join us there?”
The thin, graying tutor hastened back to the mansion. Grace clutched the chamomile, crushing the delicate white flowers and followed at a sedate pace. Deep breath, she told herself, deep breath. She pulled her gloves off, handed the napkin of herbs to Mrs. Woolley, and removed her bonnet. “Could you make some tea, please? I shall be in the drawing room with our guest. Sammy will be joining us and I…”
Mrs. Woolley looked at her expectantly. “Yes, my lady?”
“Could you please remain in the room until my father returns or our guest leaves?”
“Of course, I’ll bring the tea straight away.”
Kit paced the room but stopped at a portrait of who could only be Lady Boldon. Her daughter had the same intelligent eyes and shining auburn hair. They might have been sisters. It must have been hard for Lord Boldon to see his wife’s younger image after her death. He remembered how difficult it had been for Eliza when he had arrived at Falsbury. Oh, he had missed this family. Several times, an antic of Sammy’s would cross his mind and a laugh would burst from him. He had been rehearsing this speech under his breath for a week. His valet was beginning to think he was headed for Bedlam.
Weston had invited him to the Wicked Earls’ Club. He’d gone, looking for some distraction. A woman to bed, in particular, to rid himself of the tension he could not shake. Coventry had smiled in understanding and set him up in Carson’s old chambers. It was as if his brother’s old devil hovered over him. He’d drunk too much port, lost too much in whist, and then headed up to the room. The girl had been a lovely lady-bird, soft and feminine, blonde and buxom. Exactly what he’d always ordered up.
