by Wilma Counts
“Why not?”
“It would not be proper,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
He appeared thoroughly indifferent to her logic.
“Your mother will be there as a chaperon, and it would be even less proper for my fiancée to remain in this squalid cottage.”
Grace attempted to remain firm against his persuasive charm. “We cannot just move back in.”
He stepped closer, reaching up to brush back a flaming curl that had escaped her bonnet. “I thought you wished to be rid of this place?”
“Of course I do.” She attempted to ignore his tender touch. “It is horrid, but I see little use in moving our belongings only to move them back when you return to London.”
Alexander shrugged. “We shall concern ourselves with that later. For now we should concentrate on getting your mother in far more comfortable quarters.”
Grace wavered. He knew precisely where she was most vulnerable. Only this morning she had been cursing the frigid air that had made her mother shiver even as she sat beside the fire. How tempting it would be to return her mother to the comforts of Chalfried, even if only for a few weeks.
Still, she was not entirely certain that she should allow this gentleman to simply arrive on her doorstep and disrupt her life once again. “You are becoming far too fond of taking command of my life,” she charged.
His gloved fingers moved to brush over her cheek and then cupped her determined chin. “I am only attempting to be sensible.”
His grasp was light, barely noticeable, and yet it sent a jolt of awareness through her entire body.
“I only wish this were over.”
His low chuckle floated through the chilled air. “I do not know. I have found it rather intriguing to possess a fiancée.”
“You must be jesting.”
“You are beautiful and talented, and when you are not breathing fire you possess a certain charm. Besides, having you as my fiancée allows me to do this.”
The fingers on her chin tightened as he swooped downward to claim her lips in a brief, scalding kiss.
It took far more effort than Grace wished to confess to pull from his grasp. If she were not quite convinced she was destined to become a staid old spinster she would fear she enjoyed these kisses more than was proper for a maiden.
“Really, sir, you must halt this,” she forced herself to protest.
“Why? It is so excessively enjoyable.”
“Someone will see.”
His blue eyes flashed with humor. “That was precisely my intent. If you will look closely you will discover Wallace skulking just at the fringe of the woods.”
A flare of disgust shivered through her body as she carefully bent to pluck the persistent Byron from the hem of her cloak and at the same moment glanced toward the trees beside the cottage. It took only a moment to spot the round form ridiculously attempting to hide behind a narrow trunk.
Grace straightened, pressing the satisfied kitten to her racing heart. “He is spying upon us . . . the toad.”
“Of course.” Alexander appeared remarkably unconcerned by the unseemly habits of his guest. “He has no desire to believe that we are indeed engaged.”
“Why did you invite him to Chalfried?”
Surprisingly, Alexander seemed to hesitate at the sudden question before his charming smile returned.
“I have discovered that it is best to keep a close eye on my enemies.”
Grace shivered at the thought of the vile man spying upon them. “I wish you would have kept a close eye on him in London.”
He tilted his head to one side. “But then we might never have met.”
A small pang plucked at her heart, but on this occasion Grace could not blame it upon the sleeping Byron. Hoping to disguise the absurd reaction, she offered him a small smile. “Yes.”
Alexander gave a sudden laugh. “Minx.”
Lost in each other, neither noticed the door to the cottage being pulled open, and it was not until a small gasp broke the silence that they turned to view Arlene framed in the doorway.
“Oh, my,” Arlene muttered.
Taking Grace by the arm, Alexander led her toward the bemused matron. “Mrs. Crosswald. Good morning.”
Arlene regarded him with wide eyes. “What is occurring?”
“I am having you moved back to Chalfried.”
“Moved back?”
Alexander was at his most persuasive. “Cousin Edward would not have wished his family to live in such surroundings.”
Arlene lifted a hand to her heart, a sudden light entering her pale eyes.
“No . . . but the entail.”
Alexander waved a dismissive hand. “The entail means that I can have whomever I wish live at Chalfried.”
Grace’s lingering unease at disrupting her mother’s life with yet another move fled at the unmistakable relief that rippled across her mother’s countenance.
“That is so kind,” Arlene breathed.
“Not at all.” A mysterious smile played about his mouth. “I have my own motives.”
Arlene’s happiness briefly dimmed. “Oh, yes. Mr. Wallace.”
Alexander gave a soft chuckle. “Actually I was thinking more of my desire to hear Grace’s beautiful music.”
Grace experienced a peculiar flare of warmth at his words, even as she told herself she was being a goose.
“Yes, she does play quite lovely,” Arlene predictably agreed.
Alexander slid his gaze toward Grace. “Like an angel.”
Thoroughly discomforted, Grace pulled together her tattered common sense. If she did not take care, she would be behaving like the veriest simpleton. “Mother, we should begin packing,” she retorted in crisp tones.
“Of course.” With a brilliant smile for Alexander, Arlene bustled back into the cottage.
About to follow her mother, Grace was halted as Alexander reached out to grasp her hand and raise it to his lips.
“I very much look forward to having you near, Grace. And, of course, you must bring Byron. I owe him a great deal.”
Six
While walking down the long hall, Grace paused to rearrange the flowers in a large vase. From there she moved to straighten the ghastly watercolor and was on the point of checking for dust on the ivory inlaid table when she abruptly realized what she was doing.
For heaven’s sake, one would think that she was mistress of Chalfried rather than a temporary guest.
Her hand pulled back as if she had been scalded.
Drat, Alexander.
It was all his fault.
Ever since her arrival at Chalfried he had made her feel as if it were more her home than his own. He consulted her on the daily menu; he requested that she choose the flowers from the hothouse, and he even insisted that she be the one to explain the estate ledgers during their long afternoons together. It was little wonder she occasionally forgot that she was not the lady of the manor.
Rather disturbed by her thoughts, Grace staunchly resolved to keep closer guard on her wayward fancies. Any domestic tendencies would be better served in making the cottage more habitable, she told herself sternly. That was, after all, her true home.
Deciding she was in need of a bit of distraction, Grace was on the point of seeking out her mother when she was abruptly halted by the distinct sounds of Byron’s cries.
With a frown, she attempted to determine where the sound came from.
“Byron.” She moved further down the hall, slowly pushing open the door to the study. “Byron.”
Her heart shuddered to a halt as Boswan rose to his feet, holding out Byron by the scruff of his tiny neck. From the moment she had moved to Kent she had not liked the wretched man. Now she would gladly have smacked his smiling face.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I thought you would come looking for this rat.”
“Hand him over immediately.”
He smirked at her imperious tone. “Not so fast, Miss Honeywell.”
So
mething in his oily tone sent a chill down Grace’s spine. She might detest Boswan, but she would be a fool to underestimate him. He had obviously lured her into the study for some nefarious purpose. A purpose she was certain to dislike.
“What do you want?”
He slowly moved from behind the desk, dangling the protesting Byron with a callous indifference. Grace could only grit her teeth in frustration.
“I’ve been thinking there’s something mighty queer in this supposed engagement,” he taunted.
Grace sucked in a sharp breath. Good heavens. She should have suspected that it was only a matter of time before Boswan revealed his disbelief. In truth, it was a wonder he had not confronted her the moment the news of her engagement was announced.
“I do not comprehend why,” she attempted to bluff.
“I ain’t no sod,” he warned. “Not a month ago you were cursing the name of Dalford. Now you say that you’re engaged? Fah.”
Grace struggled to maintain her stern frown. She could not very well deny his accusations. She had made little effort to conceal her feelings toward the gentleman who was responsible for taking her home.
“My engagement is none of your concern.”
His smile revealed blackened teeth. “Mayhap not, but I figure that there might be a few interested in knowing there be something queer in the air.”
Courage, Grace, she silently chastised herself. She would not be bullied by this ruffian.
“If you have something to say to me, Boswan, then please just say it.”
His smile disappeared as a cunning expression settled on his razor features.
“I be thinking I would be willing to keep my lips tied if you were to hand over a few hundred pounds.”
Grace felt her mouth drop. So, that was the reason he had not brazenly scoffed the notion of an engagement between herself and Alexander, she seethed. His devious mind had clearly concluded the situation could be used for his own gain. A very, very large gain.
“Have you gone mad?” she gritted.
He took another step closer, and for the first time Grace could smell the scent of brandy on his breath. She shuddered in revulsion. How could Edward have ever hired such a sorry man?
“I be figuring that is what you cost me by sticking your nose in where it bloody well doesn’t belong.”
She faced him with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “Money that did not belong to you.”
“Says you,” he growled, angered by her accusation. “By my reckoning, that old skinflint owed me twice as much. Money that I intend to get one way or another.”
A tiny voice in the back of her mind urged her to flee. Nothing could be served by arguing with the ridiculous man. But the knowledge that he was indeed vengeful enough to spread a rumor that there was something odd in her engagement kept her feet firmly planted upon the carpet.
And, of course, she could not leave Byron with the monstrous brute.
She placed her hands on her hips as she glared into his cold eyes. “Surely you do not believe that I have a few hundred pounds lying about?”
“No, but I believe Mr. Dalford is certain to have,” he said slyly.
Grace gave an abrupt shake of her head. “This is absurd. I will give you nothing.”
With an ugly snarl Boswan stepped closer. Close enough that Grace could smell the sweat of his body.
“Oh, I believe you will. . . .”
“Do not take another step, Boswan,” a voice from the doorway commanded.
Grace’s knees nearly buckled with relief as Alexander moved to her side, his expression as harsh and icy as a Russian winter. Boswan on the other hand was not nearly so pleased with the interruption. The smug confidence wilted to a sickly smile.
“Mr. Dalford, I was just . . .”
“Spare me whatever lie you are attempting to utter. I have heard every word,” Alexander cut in ruthlessly.
With an effort Boswan attempted to regain command of his faltering composure.
“This here be between Miss Honeywell and myself.”
“Not anymore,” Alexander assured him in dangerous tones; then, turning, he regarded the silent woman at his side. “Grace, will you please return to your chambers?”
Although anxious to be away from Boswan, Grace found herself hesitating. Absurdly, she discovered herself reluctant to leave Alexander alone with the scoundrel. What if he became violent? She could not bear for him to be harmed.
“Perhaps I should remain,” she said softly.
“Please.” Reaching out, Alexander plucked Byron from Boswan’s grasp and pressed the maltreated kitten into Grace’s hands. He smiled tenderly at her anxious expression. “Byron is no doubt wishing to return to his mother.”
She met his dark blue gaze for a long moment, then realizing she would only be in the way, she gave a slow nod of her head.
“Very well.”
She allowed herself to be led out of the room and even took a few steps down the hall before she halted at the sound of the door closing. Although it might be ridiculous to suppose that a gentleman with Alexander’s firm muscles and swift intelligence would need her aid, she could not make herself walk away.
He did not know Boswan as she did, she told herself. He had not seen him furiously attack a groom or beat a poor hound that had the ill fortune to cross his path. For all she knew Boswan might even have a gun hidden in his coat.
The unwelcome thought sent a sharp pain through her heart. She could not leave until she knew Alexander was safe.
Pacing from the pedestal cupboard to the sideboard table, Grace listened intently to the muffled sounds resounding from the study.
After what might have been an eternity, the door to the study was abruptly thrown open. Grace turned to be confronted by a furious Boswan.
“Oh.”
Halting in midstride he regarded her with a feral grimace. “This is the second occasion you have ruined a plum chance for me,” he grated. “I’ll be back, and when I come you’ll be sorry for it.”
Grace instinctively held Byron closer to her bosom, a motion that was not lost on Boswan. Thankfully, at that moment Alexander stepped into the hallway and pointed a slender finger in Boswan’s face.
“Out.”
It was one word, but it sent the older man scurrying down the hall like a rat fleeing from a burning barn. Once alone Alexander turned to face her with a hint of resigned amusement.
“I thought I requested that you return to your chamber?”
She waved aside his words. “What occurred?”
His expression hardened as he recalled the encounter. “I have requested that Boswan pack his belongings and leave before sundown.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
Grace frowned with concern. “What if he speaks with Mr. Wallace?”
A hint of ice was visible in Alexander’s blue eyes. “Then I have assured him he will swiftly discover himself on a boat sailing for the Indies.”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
Grace gave a tiny sigh. What a relief it would be to know that Boswan was gone from Chalfried forever.
“Can you be certain he will leave?”
“I will have my groom keep a close watch on him.”
“Wretched man,” she breathed, shivering in spite of herself
Moving closer, Alexander lifted a hand to gently brush her cheek. “He will not be allowed to harm you. I will make quite certain of that,” he promised in low tones.
For a breathless moment Grace swayed toward the strength of his large form. Never had she had anyone to depend upon. Her father had been no more than a stranger, and Edward had never encouraged more than a distant acknowledgment of each other. How often had she longed to feel secure? To know that regardless of what occurred there would be someone who would ensure that all would be well?
Then abruptly she stiffened her spine. What was she thinking? She was no helpless miss having to depend upon others. And even if she
were, she would be a fool to depend upon a gentleman who would soon be returning to London without one spare thought for his pretend fiancée.
“You do not need to protect me.” She forced herself to step from his lingering touch.
“No.” His lips twitched with reluctant humor. “You are remarkably independent, and I have no doubt that you would have soon bullied Boswan into submission. But I wish to protect you.”
She regarded him with a faint frown. “Why?”
“Because the gentlemen in your life have been a shocking disappointment thus far,” he retorted. “And because you are my fiancée.”
A week ago those words would have made her bristle with antagonism. Now a peculiar sensation inched down her spine.
“You are not my fiancé,” she said as much for herself as for Alexander.
“Of course I am.” He gave a low laugh. “And I for one intend to enjoy our brief engagement.”
That tingle once again followed the curve of her spine. Really, it was most unaccountable. “What do you mean?”
His amusement only deepened at her breathless words.
“Nothing more devious than the pleasure of your company.” He held out his arm. “Come. I have something I wish to show you.”
Seven
Alexander glanced down at the maiden by his side. At his insistence she had muffled herself in a heavy cloak and bonnet, but only a few moments in the brisk breeze had reddened her tiny nose and teased a handful of fiery curls about her pale features.
A familiar warmth flooded his chilled body. It was odd, he acknowledged. He had met the most beautiful, the most exotic, the most sophisticated, and the most charming women that London and St. Petersburg had to offer. But while he had indulged himself with an occasional mistress, none of them had made him go to such efforts to be at her side or caused him to lay awake nights, pondering a means of bringing a smile to her face.
Indeed, he had to remind himself more than once that their engagement was a mere farce to protect both their reputations.
His sense of contentment was briefly disturbed as he recalled his encounter with Boswan.
The bloody fool. Had he truly expected Alexander to stand meekly aside and allow Grace to be bullied by a common thief? Boswan was fortunate that he had not wrung his scrawny neck. That had certainly been his first thought when he had entered the study. Only the knowledge that the local magistrate was bound to take a dim view of him shedding blood within his first month of arriving in Kent made him hesitate. In the end he could only hope that his threats would be enough to convince Boswan that remaining near Chalfried was a very unhealthy proposition.
