by Amy Quinton
Worse, he imagined a lifetime without Grace, and the agony was nigh unbearable. He doubled over, his stomach queasy and ready to review his last meal. His mouth watered in preparation of being sick, saliva dripping from his lips. The notion of never again seeing her smile, of never hearing her voice, of never touching her skin, was inconceivable and too painful to contemplate. He would never have the right to touch her again.
Was this love?
Is it love when she is the first thing you think of when you awaken and the last thing you think of until you fall asleep at night?
Is it love when you’d rather tear out your heart than never see her again?
It must be, for who would ever conceive of such a thing but one who is faced with the idea of never seeing, never holding, their dearest again?
The realization hit with force—a solid jab to the gut that brought him all the way to his knees.
I love her! I completely and utterly love her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
And though having no proof of Swindon’s duplicity made everything infinitely more difficult, difficult was not impossible. And anything not impossible meant there was a chance.
I am a duke!
He held the highest and most powerful title in the aristocracy with more wealth than he knew what to do with, yet what use was having all of that power and position when he was powerless to control the direction of his life?
He sat back on his arse and leaned against the wall with a silly, stupid grin on his face. If any one of his staff saw him, they’d consider him a candidate for Bedlam.
He loved Grace Radclyffe. The more he said it, the happier he felt. And he refused to live without her. No, he was incapable of living without her. Society and their hypocritical judgments could go hang. He knew just what to do. He jumped off the floor with a newfound spring in his step. He had to get ready. He had to go get her.
* * * *
Dansbury House…
The next morning…
“Rise and shine…you lazy toff.”
Ambrose smiled at the answering groan emanating from within the mound of blankets. The covers were rumpled and piled high in the middle of the large bed that dominated the bedroom. Somewhere within that nest of blankets lay his friend, Cliff.
Ambrose opened a second set of curtains and turned to see if the light was bright enough to highlight his sleeping friend; he’d already opened the bed hangings before shouting out his unconventional greeting.
He watched as Cliff opened one eye, searched the room, found him standing amidst the draperies, and glared with that one eye for what felt like a full minute. The sun interrupted his friend’s stare by choosing to peek out from behind a cloud, bathing the room in more light. Cliff winced and squeezed both eyes shut.
Ambrose laughed at his friend’s uncontrollable grimace. The bright light must’ve hurt, and it seemed to purposefully seek out his friend as always seemed to be the case when one was sporting a nasty hangover.
Ambrose resumed his duties—waking his friend and adding more light to the room—while whistling a jaunty tune and ignoring Cliff’s discomfort. He jerked open another set of drapes; the curtain rings jingled as they rattled against their rod. “Why are you still abed?”
Cliff ignored him and all but growled, “What do you want? Just tell me, then go away.”
“Don’t you recall what day it is? It’s my wedding day. Why aren’t you up and dressed for it?” Ambrose pulled open the last set of drapes. Dust leapt into the air, dancing in the sunbeams. He fanned away the motes in front of his face and suppressed a cough.
Cliff moaned. “I don’t like you right now, and I certainly don’t like your fiancée, so of course, I’m not planning to attend your ill-fated nuptials. Remember? I told you an age ago…” Cliff’s words tapered away as he dozed off again.
Well, Ambrose couldn’t allow that, now, could he? He walked to the bed, bent over, and slapped his friend about the face, good-naturedly but with purpose, of course.
“Enough!” Cliff bellowed, swatting away Ambrose’s hands. He rolled away and presented his back.
Ambrose really shouldn’t take such joy in his friend’s suffering, but he was walking too high in the clouds at the moment to care. He leaned in, undeterred by the outburst, and sniffed. “Damn, but you smell like a distillery, Cliff. Long night?”
“You could say that,” Cliff murmured.
Ambrose plopped down on the edge of his friend’s bed and leaned back against the footboard, causing Cliff to roll back toward him with the added weight. “Hmmm…sounds like an interesting story. I look forward to hearing about it…another time.”
“Please. Hold your breath while you wait, but do it at your house. Your death would have me answering all sorts of inconvenient questions. Besides, disturbingly cheerful morning people make me ill. And since when did you become a disturbingly cheerful morning person, anyway?” Cliff burrowed into the bed clothes, his last words muffled by the thick quilt.
Ambrose had glimpsed Cliff’s smile just before he disappeared beneath the covers. “Ha! I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor with your head. Excellent. But seriously, I need you to get up.” Ambrose nudged what he presumed was his friend’s leg. “Now. I have a task for you.”
Cliff poked his head out from under the covers. “Am I going to like this?”
“Oh, you’re going to love it.”
Cliff raised one brow in question, clearly unconvinced.
Ambrose laughed at the sight of Cliff’s serious face, for the man sported rumpled hair and a thick crease down the side of his face from the press of sheets against his skin for too many consecutive hours; it was completely at odds with his thoughtful mien.
“Don’t look at me like that. You will. You care too much about Grace to see her remain unhappy for the rest of her days, living and working without the man she loves. You’ll relish this task. I promise.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but, exactly, what are you planning?” Cliff’s look suggested he didn’t want to know the answer to that question.
Ambrose crossed his arms, all but daring his friend to disapprove. “I’m going to ask Grace to marry me.”
Cliff lurched upright; the covers falling to his waist. “What? Are you crazy? Have you forgotten you’re about to be married in…oh,” he squinted over at the clock on the mantle, “about half an hour to someone else?”
“Of course, I haven’t forgotten—could you?” Ambrose rubbed one hand down his face as he always did whenever he contemplated the fact that he’d almost married Beatryce. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer. No, I’m simply not going to marry Lady Beatryce, and that’s all there is to it.”
Cliff cringed, then said, “Good God. It’s about bloody time. But what about contractual obligations, your word, and all that other shite you’ve been spouting for the last month?”
Ambrose all but snorted. “Funnily enough, I never actually asked Lady Beatryce to marry me. We just announced our betrothal as if I had. And I never actually signed the betrothal contract either.” Admitting it aloud made his heart feel lighter. It was amazing how freeing it felt to let go, despite breaking his implied word.
“Damn me, you’re actually going to do this, aren’t you?”
“You may depend upon it, and I need you to go to the church and inform Beatryce of the change of plans.”
“Ha! Of course.” Cliff fell back and threw his arm over his head. “But why don’t you do it?”
“I don’t have time. I don’t want to waste another minute without my Grace. I need her like I need air, and I’m on my way to Oxford to tell her that, or something like it. I’m sure much begging and groveling will be involved.”
Cliff laughed from beneath his arm, still hiding his eyes, but changed the subject. “What about our investigation? Did you get my note?”
Ambrose shook his head and stood. He understood his friend all too well. “I did. Don’t worry about the place b
eing cleared. I have a plan, but that’s for later. Right now, you need to get up. You do want to make it to the church before all hell breaks loose, don’t you?”
Cliff’s grin, visible from below his armed sun block, was answer enough. Cliff loved setting the ton on its collective ear. “Well, I'd say good luck, then, but you don’t believe in luck do you?”
“I’ve always thought of luck as a sentiment for the unprepared.”
Cliff laughed. “So, you’re prepared then?”
Ambrose’s heartbeat fluttered at the thought of just how unprepared he was. “Perhaps not, but then, I met Grace, and I was wholly unprepared for her, yet she is the best thing that ever happened to me, so I might be willing to concede the possibility that not only does luck exist, but that I could use a bit of it from time to time. Especially now.”
He could imagine Cliff’s shocked expression at that sentiment. Yes, he’d been the all-too-level-headed, logical duke for far too long; it was time to relax his guard.
“And by the by,” Ambrose added before stepping out the door, “I’ll be paying you back for asking my woman to marry you…later.”
And he laughed as he made his way down the hall and out the door to his future—to Grace.
* * * *
St. George’s Church…
Hanover Square, London…
Forty-five minutes later…
“Where the hell is he?”
Dansbury leaned against the door frame, arms and legs crossed, as he watched Lady Beatryce pace the antechamber of St. George’s Church. She had spoken out loud to herself, and she had yet to note his presence. He suppressed a stab of indignity over the fact that he was so easily overlooked.
The chamber was made up of marble and stone, and her footsteps and voice echoed loudly around the room. Since the groom had yet to arrive, her nervous wandering was understandable.
“Hello, Beatryce.” His voice, tinged with sarcasm, added to the already heavy tension permeating the air.
Beatryce whirled around and faced him. Her eyes seemed to widen with fear before she snapped, “What are you doing here?”
“Let’s just say I’m here to spread good tidings and cheer, and all that rot…though perhaps not for you.”
She smirked, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety. “So are you going to spread your good cheer or stand there staring at me all morning?”
He frowned at her unfortunate choice of words, but then forced a smile to his face. “Yes. Well. I am here to inform you that there has been a slight change of plans. Stonebridge, you see, has finally, shall we say, come to his senses? You see, he won’t be joining us here today. He’s headed to Oxford to marry Grace, his love.”
Chapter 27
“Oh, God!” Beatryce screamed, her eyes unfocused in fright. She actually screamed.
Dansbury was stunned by the look of horror that flitted across her face as she cursed aloud. Her obvious fear threatened to undermine his resolve, but only for a moment. He only had to think of her last confrontation with Grace to harden his heart, but still, he watched her, wary. She was the consummate actress.
She rushed over, her eyes pleading. She grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket with both hands. “Please, Dansbury, please, you must take me with you. Please.”
He was taken aback. Beatryce? Begging and fearful? When hell froze over! He checked the urge to look outside to see if it was snowing despite it being summer. He reminded himself that she was a gifted actress. She had nearly entrapped his best friend into marriage—a tremendous feat that—and he smiled at her knowingly. She was up to something. Though a part of his gut screamed at him that this wasn’t an act—that she was genuinely frightened. It didn’t matter. She had squashed any sympathy he felt for her through her actions towards Grace.
“I’m sorry, Lady Beatryce, but you’re confusing me with someone who gives a damn.”
He turned his back on her, prepared to leave.
“Wait.”
Despite his better judgment, he stopped. It wasn’t the force of her command that halted him, but the quiet, yet resigned confidence he detected in her voice. He turned to face her, his hands on his hip, brow raised in question.
“I can help you, if you help me. I can…I can lead you to what you need to know…to solve your investigation. I know where my father keeps his secret papers.”
He was shocked. How the hell could she possibly know? He reached her in two long strides and grabbed her. He gripped her harshly, shaking her in his anger.
“Tell me what you know. Tell me now!” he yelled.
She held her hand up to shut him up. “Shhhh. Are you crazy? Lower your voice. First, get me out of here, safely and without being seen, and then I’ll tell you what I know. Not before. And be quick about it.”
He growled in frustration. She stood with her arms crossed, seemingly at ease and in command of the situation, but he noticed she kept looking at the door, fear flitting across her face with each glance.
Damn. He had no choice. He had to pursue any lead.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
He held out his hand. She took it without hesitation.
* * * *
Oxford…
He’s likely married by now. Grace wasn’t sure exactly what time the festivities were to take place; she hadn’t been invited, of course, but she knew it was today—and it nearly killed her, the pain was so powerful.
She hadn’t bothered to get out of bed today—there was no way she would be able to see people with a smile on her face knowing that inside, her heart was breaking all over again.
Logic couldn’t mend a broken heart, though it did stop her from making a fool of herself by flying back to London to beg him to take her back—not that it would have stopped the impending nuptials, but when you’re heartbroken things rarely made sense.
She could just imagine how handsome he looked in his wedding finery. Perhaps he’d wear an emerald pin in his cravat to match his eyes. She rolled over and punched her fist into her pillow. How ridiculous was she to torment herself so by thinking such things?
She buried her face in her pillow to muffle her scream. Her bedroom door clicked open.
“Oh, B-Bessie, I’ll be f-fine. I’ll be d-down in a bit. Maybe. Eventually,” came her muffled, sob-broken voice.
Male laughter made her jerk her head up in surprise. Had she finally lost her mind in her grief? It couldn’t be him. He was probably on his way to his honeymoon by now.
“Actually, I’m not. And yes, I am really here.”
Goodness, was she talking to herself? Out loud? She closed her eyes, but the tears fell regardless. She must be dreaming, but she didn’t want to be.
“Yes, you are, and no, you’re not dreaming, my love. I really am here.”
She felt the bed dip as Ambrose sat beside her. She still hadn’t looked away from her headboard—afraid to see an empty room and know for sure she was going mad. Now, with the undeniable evidence of the added weight to the side of the bed, she rolled over to her side and looked up at him.
There he was—looking down at her with love and tenderness in his eyes.
“Ambrose? How?”
She reached out to touch him, though still afraid she’d find he was a figment of her imagination.
“I’m not going to marry Beatryce, my sweet. In fact, I quite rudely left her standing at the altar…literally—well, hopefully Dansbury caught up with her and explained the way of things first; I didn’t really have the time. I came here as fast as my horse could run.”
“The way of things?”
Good God—it was like when they had first met in the garden so many months ago. Her brain was racing, unable to make sense of what was happening, unable to form coherent words, yet trying to process it all.
“Silly woman. Don’t you know? I love you.”
He slid off the bed and knelt beside it.
“Grace, I want to spend my life making you…us…our children…happy. I was cold and lonely—miserable—bef
ore I met you and you gave me a glimpse of how different—how much better—life was meant to be. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I was wrong. Now I know. All I want is you and the life we could have together. I never expected it to happen this way, but I can’t bear to wait anymore. Will you make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?”
She was stunned. There was no other way to describe it. She searched his eyes for the truth behind his words. His true desire. His words were more beautiful than she could have ever dreamt—words she had longed to hear so many times—including mere minutes ago. So why wasn’t she throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him relentlessly between frantic screams of “yes”? It was what her instinct and her heart told her to do. It was what she wanted; yet still she hesitated.
“I’m not sure. Oh, how many times have I dreamt of hearing you say those words? And now that you’ve said them, I’m not sure. I don’t know.”
He lost the smile. She was sure he wasn’t expecting her not to say yes.
“Grace, you love me. We love each other. I…”
“I know I do. I know you think you do. But is love enough? I need to know what kind of man you are. I thought I knew. The man I saw when I gave myself to you was the man of my dreams. But your actions after make me wonder if I only saw what I wanted to believe. Who are you, really, and do you even know?”
“I see.”
“I don’t see how—I’m sure I don’t. I can’t believe I’m saying this at all. I’ve been crying all night over the thought of you marrying Beatryce. I love you. But just like you thought you had to put aside your wants for the good of the estate, I find myself needing to make this decision with my head and my heart. My heart says yes, of course, yet you’ve been a certain type of man for most of your adult life. That day we spent together, when you pretended you were not the duke, I saw a man who was so much more. A man with compassion and strength. That is the man I need and who I want to be the father of my children. But is that man you?”
“Yes. I know it is. But let me show you. Come back to London with me. I’ll prove it. I know it’s inconvenient, but please, just believe in me.”
