“Pardon me. I was . . . well, I was deciding what height of footstool I’d need to compare with you in height.” She glanced down the hall, a new wave of heat feeding the surely crimson blush on her face.
“Footstool?” He asked, his tone disbelieving and yet, diverted.
She risked a glance at his face, hoping to be able to read his expression. He didn’t seem offended, just . . . curious. Curiosity she could work with without fear, or at least, much of it. “Yes, footstool. Since I’ve already made a cake of myself, if you don’t mind me asking, just how tall are you?”
His lip twitched into a smile. “Six feet and three inches.”
She returned the smile, only hers was far broader. “Ah, I wasn’t far off. I was guessing around six feet, two inches.”
“Very astute.” He nodded, his grin widening. “And how tall are you, Miss Grace?”
“Not very common dinner conversation, is it?” she teased. “Five feet and six inches. Not much above average for England, but I was a veritable giant in India,” she added with a daring smile.
“India you say?” He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, and I’m assuming if you’re considered a giant, I cannot imagine the category to which I’d belong.”
She tipped her chin upward, then narrowed her eyes. “A Titan.”
He let out a loud laugh, then sobered slightly as if abashed by his unrestrained amusement. “A Titan?”
“Yes, you are aware of Greek mythology . . .” she asked with slight sarcasm, then regretted her bold move. Sarcasm wasn’t ladylike.
Well, neither was telling a gentleman he was a Titan, she supposed.
She glanced to Samantha as the viscount pulled out her chair for her. At least she couldn’t hear the conversation.
“I’m very well versed in Greek mythology and history,” he answered. “And it’s obvious that you know your studies as well.”
She glanced at him, curious as to what his verdict on her education would be. In her experience, there were only two reactions: offense at a woman receiving such an extensive education, or begrudging respect—which was usually earned only on rare occasions.
She was rather expecting the first reaction.
He didn’t reply, but simply pulled out a chair for her, then took a seat himself.
As the soup was served, the viscount turned to Lord Sterling. “We’ve received several invitations, but so far I haven’t selected which event will be our first to attend. Do you have any suggestions?”
Grace sipped her beef barley soup and listened intently. It was an odd paradigm. Weren’t women usually the ones who knew the answers to social questions? Yet, in her experience, both the viscount and Lord Heightfield were better versed in society, parties, planning, and gossip than any woman she’d ever met.
Of course, she had never been to London before, and all her conjecture might very well change once she met some of the ladies in residence. But for the moment, the truth still held.
Lord Sterling’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered the question. “Can you tell me the invitations you’ve received?”
“Yes.” The viscount nodded. “Herford, Longfitt, Sheffold, and . . .” He frowned then turned to his wife.
“Lord and Lady Drummel,” Samantha supplied with a helpful smile.
The viscount nodded, then turned to his friend.
Lord Sterling took a spoonful of soup and ate it as he seemed to consider the names mentioned. “For the moment, ignore Longfitt and Sheffold. Both are grabbing for attention and all the focus will be on their daughters. Both families have girls in their first season.”
“Noted,” the viscount replied.
“You don’t want to be vying for attention, though the season is especially well populated this year.” He shook his head. “But the quality is low, if you gather my meaning.”
The viscount arched a brow.
Samantha tipped her chin in an almost scolding manner, and then returned to her soup.
And Grace wondered if maybe Lord Sterling was placing her in that same group of low-quality debutants—whatever that meant. It most certainly wasn’t a compliment.
“Herford is a good choice, and so is Drummel. Old, established titles and an appearance will be respectable, and they are sure to be well attended,” Lord Sterling finished, his expression satisfied.
The viscount clapped his hands once. “Then we shall start there. Thank you for your insight, it’s quite valuable.”
“I’m happy to assist.” Lord Sterling gave a dismissive gesture.
The conversation lulled slightly, and Grace turned to Samantha, curious if this was a time for her to introduce a topic, or if she should wait. Blast, she could never quite remember when it was polite to speak and when she should keep her mouth shut.
It was a struggle, that.
Samantha gave her an encouraging smile.
Grace took a deep breath.
“When is Heightfield to arrive?” Lord Sterling asked a moment before Grace was about to speak.
She nearly choked on her words in an effort to stop them before she interrupted.
The footman removed the soup and soon brought another course, all the while the viscount answered Lord Sterling’s inquiry.
“In the next month, or so he has said. I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrived earlier.”
“I’m quite surprised that he’s stayed away as long as he has,” Lord Sterling answered.
“He’s quite . . . preoccupied.” The viscount gave a sly glance to his wife, who blushed.
Grace turned her attention to the plate before her, slicing up a bite of potato.
“Ah yes, I’d imagine so,” Lord Sterling replied.
At the next pause in conversation, Grace was ready to practice her table conversation skills. She breathed in, glanced to the side to make sure that Lord Sterling’s body language didn’t imply that he was about to speak, then, assured of her success, she spoke. “It was quite the rainstorm today,” she stated.
Then she realized it wasn’t a question, rather a very polite, very neutral, very unremarkable statement. She hastened to fix her error. “It reminded me of thunder. Is it quite common for it to rain in such a fashion?”
There, much better! She was pleased with her first attempt outside of the protective walls of Kilmarin in Scotland.
She turned to Samantha, and returned her warm, approving smile. The weather was always a safe topic, was it not?
The viscount nodded. “It rains like that more often than I’d like, but at least it usually doesn’t last long.”
“Were you ever in the monsoon season in India, Miss Grace?” Lord Sterling turned to her, his blue eyes alight with inquiry.
A smile bent her lips. “Why yes, I was. It’s much different than rain here, at least in my very short experience of being in London. In Bangladesh, the monsoons sweep through slowly so that the rain seems as if it will never end, like a continuous circle of clouds that just repeats over and over. The air is so thick you feel as though you’re not breathing it, but drinking it. The worst part is never being fully dry. If you’re not wet from the rain, the humidity is enough to keep you damp.” Grace grinned widely, the memories flooding her. In her mind’s eye she could smell the fragrance of the rain on the parched earth, the sound of the first raindrops that signaled the need to take shelter, and the roar of the downpour when it finally hit.
“And did you enjoy it?” Lord Sterling asked.
She thought about it, then shook her head. “I hated it.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’d far rather the desert than the rain.”
“Ah, that will never do. We English are proud of our weather, as dreary as it is,” Lord Sterling replied.
“It’s good to be proud of one’s home,” Grace agreed. “But just because you find pride in something, doesn’t mean it’s the best option.”
“How so?” the viscount asked, his smile wide, clearly enjoying the conversation. A swell of pride hit Grace, and she smiled at the irony of it. Hadn’t s
he just mentioned that being proud of something didn’t mean it was the best available? That was certainly the truth. She was proud of her conversation, but it most certainly had room for improvement!
“You’re amused,” Lord Sterling commented.
When Grace shared her irony, he grinned, then the grin gave way to laughter.
When she turned from Lord Sterling, she saw that the viscount’s expression was somewhat astounded as he watched his friend. Grace wasn’t sure how to interpret such a reaction, but decided it wasn’t a bad one. She glanced to Samantha then, and upon seeing her approving smile, the first swells of hope danced through Grace.
She could do this.
She would do this.
London, look out . . . ready or not, Miss Iris Grace Morgan was about to make her mark.
For better.
Or worse.
Chapter Four
Ramsey couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much in one evening. In fact, it was entirely possible that he never had laughed that much in the span of a few hours.
Heathcliff ’s ward was a delight, a breath of fresh air. And he was certain of one thing regarding her: London society was going to eat her alive.
A tremor of fear shivered through him as he remembered her wide, innocent, wonder-filled gaze. She was utterly guileless, and as frank as they came.
And while those were good, even enviable character traits, they weren’t ones that were safe.
She would offend some, gain the scorn of others, and be despised by all. He was sure of it, and he was also certain that he wasn’t overreacting. Surely Heathcliff knew this, and certainly Lady Kilpatrick was aware and had taken some measures to help the poor girl protect herself.
Ramsey tapped his finger on his study desk. Maybe he should check, at least warn them about his prediction for Miss Grace. At least then, when it all went to hell, he could at least feel less guilt because he was honorable and spoke up to his friend.
It was a bloody shame that the spark would be extinguished in Miss Grace’s eyes, but it was the way of the world.
Sparks die.
Shame wins.
And people are fickle.
It was an undisputed truth in his world.
The rain pelted against his study window, and he turned absentmindedly to gaze at the light. The rainwater created small streams down the glass, distorting the view outside, but he wasn’t looking further than the glass. It was oddly comforting, the rain. He’d grown up in Dorset, one of the wettest places in England, but rather than resent the near constant drizzle, he’d grown fond of the consistency of it. You could always count on the rain.
It was welcome when there was so much in his life that wasn’t as consistent.
Or refreshing.
Or nourishing.
The sound of the raindrops softened, signaling the slow decline of the downpour, and Ramsey sighed.
It was only midday, but already he was exhausted, a bone deep exhaustion that never truly dissipated. He felt older than his thirty and two years. It was bloody disruptive to be so fatigued of heart, but it was expected when there was war always waging within one’s soul. He shook his head to clear it, and thought back to the events of the previous evening.
Dinner was superb, and the company was dazzling, but he simply couldn’t move past Miss Grace. Miss Iris Grace. For the life of him he couldn’t imagine why she’d wish to be called something other than Iris. It wasn’t a common name, and it might distinguish her from the other ladies coming out that season. But, he reminded himself, it was none of his affair.
And he would be wise to wash his hands of the whole sordid business.
Lord only knew what could potentially go wrong with both Heathcliff and Lucas coming back into society. A smirk twisted his lips as he blew out a small chuckle. Perhaps he should head away to Scotland! Leave the whole mess to them to deal with.
But as tempting as the thought was, he knew he’d never act on it. The truth was, they might end up needing him. And he owed it to them to be around, to pay attention, and step in should they ever need him.
Not so long ago, they did the very same for him.
And their intervention saved his life.
So, it was with that sobering reminder, Ramsey made the decision to call upon Heathcliff, and at least give him some advice concerning his debuting ward.
And then he’d walk away from the mess.
Simply hide in the shadows, pay attention, and then if disaster struck, he would be waiting.
With a determined nod, Ramsey strode to the door. Tugging on his shirtsleeves, he ordered his carriage readied. And in less than ten minutes, he was sinking back into the soft leather of his well-appointed carriage and on his way to Heathcliff’s residence.
The rain had let up, allowing for some orphan sun-rays to pierce through the clouds and warm the earth. The air tasted clean, a rare occurrence for London, and Ramsey smiled in appreciation of the gift from the rain.
Soon, the carriage stopped at the curb of Heathcliff’s home, and Ramsey stepped on to the wet earth before taking the steps two at a time to the door.
Before he could knock, John answered.
“My lord.” He bowed. “I’ll announce you.” John didn’t waste time, simply opened the door, stepped aside, and then proceeded down the hall to notify Heathcliff of his arrival.
Ramsey had the temptation to simply follow John down the hall; Lord only knew how many times Heathcliff had ignored Ramsey’s butler and interjected himself into his home unannounced, and often even unwanted.
Bloody frustrating.
Ramsey waited, choosing manners over gratification. And his patience was rewarded by a quick return of John with an application for Ramsey to follow him down the hall to the parlor.
Heathcliff was in his study, as Ramsey had assumed due to the hour, and as such, Ramsey was quite at ease with the familiarity of his surroundings.
“What did you want, old chap? Since it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw you, I suspect there’s something on your mind.” Heathcliff leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, the picture of utter ease.
Ramsey arched a brow, but took a seat across from his friend. The door clicked shut behind him, signaling the departure of John. “He’s a far sight better than Wilkes,” Ramsey started.
Heathcliff chuckled, his eyes squinting slightly with the force of his grin. “Ach, don’t be saying such things. You know that Wilkes has the best intentions. He’s a good butler.”
“He is, but I do think you made the right choice in employing John to take over his position temporarily. Wilkes is surely enjoying his little vacation in Bath.”
“I’m sure I’ve ruined him for work forever, blast it all. It was Samantha’s idea, you know. After I said I was planning on hiring a guard for the door, she inquired about the current butler, and well, she’s a softhearted lass. Especially when I said how long he’d been with the family.”
“I’m surprised he stepped down.”
“I was too, but then I learned he was getting awfully arthritic. Of course, that was when Samantha decided on the whole season in Bath for him.” Heathcliff shook his head. “Who ever heard of sending a butler to Bath?”
“Only us.” Ramsey chuckled.
“Aye, only us. Let’s keep it that way. Or else I’ll have servants making demands.”
“Yes, Mrs. Marilla. I still can’t believe she puts up with you,” Ramsey remarked with humor.
“She’s dealt with far worse than I, though I think my wife was surprised by someone so fair and young.”
“Age isn’t always the number of your years, my friend.”
“Isn’t that the truth. Mrs. Marilla is at least eighty at heart. Poor lass. The least I can do is give her honest employment. She deserves far more.”
“But she’s happy with safety,” Ramsey added, his mind flickering back to when they’d found her.
Literally.
It was after a par
ticularly rowdy party at Temptations. They’d locked up after dispatching the last guest at dawn, and then taken account from the night before. They were finishing up their duties when a servant boy came in, his face white.
“There’s a girl in the alley, dead!” The boy was panting, and Lucas stepped forward, asking the boy the particulars.
When the boy didn’t answer, Lucas shared a look with the other two, and they all walked out into the morning light.
It wasn’t a memory Ramsey liked to revisit.
Orphaned, abused, and then beaten, Mrs. Marilla had only made it as far as the alley before collapsing.
But that was long ago, and Mrs. Marilla had overcome much in the past ten years. Her loyalty was unwavering to each of them, and as such, she had proven many times an excellent spy. It wasn’t the usual employment for a woman, but Mrs. Marilla had an uncanny ability to tear down people’s defenses and ferret out information.
“Ramsey, are you even paying attention?” Heathcliff snapped his fingers, and Ramsey blinked.
“Sorry. Damn it all, I need to figure out a way to get some sleep.”
Heathcliff paused, then tipped his head ever so slightly. His gaze grew empathetic. “Are you still having the dreams?”
Ramsey nodded.
“I’m sorry.” Heathcliff stood and walked over to the sideboard, then poured himself a snifter of brandy, and then another one. He walked over to Ramsey. Holding the offering, he gave a small smile to his friend.
“Thank you.” Ramsey accepted the snifter. “Starting early.” Ramsey lifted the glass in a toast.
Heathcliff shook his head. “Depends on if you’ve slept, which it looks like you haven’t. So for you, it’s late my friend.”
“Here, here.” Ramsey agreed, taking a sip. The warm liquid was deliciously smooth. “French?” he asked.
Heathcliff gave a knowing grin. “Maybe.”
“Traitor.” Ramsey teased.
Heathcliff chuckled, then sat back down in his chair. “Now, what was it that you came to discuss with me?”
Ramsey took another sip of the exquisite brandy and then leaned forward.
“Your ward.”
“Interested already?” Heathcliff leaned back, perfectly at ease, as if the words he’d just spoken weren’t the most insane, idiotic thing he’d ever uttered.
The Temptation of Grace Page 4
