Which was a feat in and of itself. Ramsey could name a great many things that his friend had said that were insane and idiotic but this, this, trumped them all.
“No,” he replied, irritated.
“Oh, pity that. You would have made my life much easier.” Heathcliff shrugged.
“A thousand apologies. I forgot that I live to make your life easier,” Ramsey replied with heavy sarcasm.
“Don’t work yourself into a lather,” Heathcliff said. “What was it, then?”
Ramsey pursed his lips, then sighed. “I’m afraid that your ward, as refreshing as she is in face and character, will not make a good impression on her debut. It is my recommendation that you coach her further in keeping her peace around others, and not being so . . .” He searched for the right word. “. . . Altruistic,” he finished.
Heathcliff blinked. “Just when I didn’t think you could become more of a straight-laced idiot, you say something like that, which makes me think you’re headed for Bedlam. Do you have any idea what you sound like when you say things like that? Good Lord, you’d put Lady Jersey to shame with your allegiance to propriety.”
Ramsey glanced down at the rug, then back to his friend. “Am I wrong?”
Heathcliff opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He sighed. “No.”
Ramsey bit back a bit of a triumphant smile. “Then why the long-winded insult?”
Heathcliff tapped his finger on the desk. “Because you sounded like an arse when you said it that way.”
“And you never sound like an ass.” Ramsey rolled his eyes.
“I never said that,” Heathcliff responded, leaning forward in his chair. “I’m often an arse, as my wife tells me.”
“I have plenty experience of my own from which to glean proof,” Ramsey added.
“True enough.”
“So?”
“So . . . what?” Heathcliff asked.
“So, what are you going to do about her?” Ramsey asked impatiently. It would be a boon to be able to fix the problem before it actually became one.
“Nothing.” Heathcliff shrugged.
Ramsey sighed. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Damn the man. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“I mean, nothing. There’s nothing I can do. We’re attending the Drummel rout tonight, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do since we already indicated that we’d attend, and there’s no way I can modify or try to modify Grace’s behavior before this evening. At least any more than what my wife has already done. Good Lord, if you think she’s frank now, you should have met her a month ago. But I must say, I rather liked her less restrained.”
“You’re Scottish, you think self-control is unnecessary.”
“That’s not fair.” Heathcliff looked slightly offended.
“Perhaps not, but accurate at least of you.” Ramsey didn’t care a whit if he offended his friend. Lord only knew how many times the tables had been turned in his direction! Heathcliff wasn’t truly offended anyway; Ramsey could tell by the way he was holding back a grin.
Pain in the ass.
“So, nothing. I gave my warning and nothing will come from it,” Ramsey stated.
“Your advice is appreciated, but I’m afraid it can’t be put into action.”
“You’re trying to make it sound better,” Ramsey accused.
“Yes. Did it work?” Heathcliff smiled.
“Damn you,” Ramsey replied without any heat in his tone.
“If I had a pound for every time you’ve said that to me—”
“It’s still the truth,” Ramsey replied, then stood. “Well, then I suppose that is all that is necessary. Keep a sharp eye on her, and I’ll . . .” Ramsey breathed out a slow breath, reconsidering the words he was about to say.
“Yes?” Heathcliff stood, preparing to walk his friend to the study door.
“I’ll attend as well. To help keep an eye out. Between you and Lucas, we have more than enough drama and scandal for a decade. Your ward doesn’t need to add to the equation. I’ll help.”
“That’s not necessary,” Heathcliff said in response, his expression frowning.
“I wasn’t asking for permission.” Ramsey arched a brow, meeting his friend’s gaze.
Heathcliff sighed.
Ramsey waited.
“Very well. Just do me a favor?”
Ramsey nodded, but he was more than a little skeptical.
“Take a nap, you’re no fun when you’re like this.”
Chapter Five
Grace slowly twirled, studying the reflection in the mirror.
Like a caterpillar just realizing it wasn’t one any longer, she studied the beautiful dress that was like fragile butterfly wings, wondering if maybe, if she stepped out on that proverbial ledge, she could actually fly.
The dress made her think it was possible.
It made her want to think it was possible.
But what if she didn’t fly, but simply fell?
The worst part? There was no way to know until after she jumped and tested her wings.
But the dress, dear Lord, she’d never had anything as beautiful. In the shop during the fittings, she’d looked at it, of course. She wasn’t blind. But, the fit, the final stitching, the way the fabric seemed to shimmer. . . it transformed her.
Samantha had said that the pastel shades of purple were all the rage this season, and the modiste agreed. Grace wasn’t sure why it mattered if she had one color purple over another. They all looked quite similar to her, but Samantha had insisted on the muted violet fabric, and now that everything was finished, Grace finally understood why.
Expressive green eyes came alive with the hue of the gown, and she almost didn’t recognize her own gaze. Though never one to boast about thick lashes, for once her reddish-tinted brow and eyelashes didn’t disappear into her pale skin, but came alive. Even her few freckles paled as the color enhanced the cream tones of her skin.
It was settled.
She would wear this dress for the rest of her life.
She twisted her lips at her own absurd thought. Maybe not wear the dress every day, but she was going to march down to Bond Street in the morning and order several other gowns made of the same fabric. Would Samantha protest if she requested to purchase the entire bolt of cloth?
Grace gave her head a slight shake and took a slow breath to ease her spinning mind. She needed to focus, to concentrate on not just looking the part of the lady, but actually being the lady. Her hair was woven with little seed pearls, and looped elegantly with just enough strands to frame her face. She fancied that she looked like one of the Greek goddesses she’d seen in a museum somewhere.
Perhaps a little more clothing, but just as hauntingly feminine.
A knock sounded on her door, and she straightened her posture a fraction more, and practiced a graceful walk to answer it.
Samantha was on the other end. Her expression widened, her breath caught ever so slightly just before a wide, approving smile illuminated her hazel eyes. “Breathtaking, my dear. Utterly beautiful.”
Grace was surprised to see a shining tear gather in the corner of Samantha’s eye.
“Are you well?” Grace asked, immediately on alert.
“So well, very well. Do not concern yourself over me. I’m just so . . . thrilled and proud of you. You look every inch the lady, but Grace—” Samantha paused, took a breath, then continued. “You’re a lady at heart. I know how you think; at least I understand it enough to be able to conjecture how you’re feeling. You’re hoping that the outside will fool people into believing you’re a lady inside as well. But I’m telling you, it’s already true. You are every inch who you appear to be. It’s not all smoke and mirrors, or trying to fool someone. . . you truly are a gently bred, well-trained, well-spoken, graceful, and vibrant lady. Don’t question yourself; it is a great disservice to who you are,” Samantha finished, reaching out gently to grasp Grace’s hand.
Drat. Tears prickled Grace’s eye
s as well, and she was sure she was about to turn blotchy and ruin the effect of the dress. But Samantha’s words, they were everything she needed to hear.
Everything she was already thinking.
And for her, Lady Samantha, daughter of the Duke of Chatterwood, a true lady of birth, character, and title, to say that she was one as well . . . it meant the world.
Especially since she had been the one to add the much needed polish to Grace’s life.
“Thank you.” It seemed so wretchedly insufficient a phrase, but it was all she could say. Words were simply not enough.
“It has been my pleasure. And we aren’t finished yet. This is simply the next step, and you’re ready.”
Grace took in a deep breath. “I am.”
“Then let us go, and show London all they are missing by not having made your acquaintance.” Samantha gave a quick squeeze to Grace’s hand and stepped back into the hall.
“Yes. They are missing so much,” Grace replied with a little sarcasm, earning a mock glare from Samantha.
They traveled down the hall, down the stairs, and to the foyer, where the viscount waited for them. He was dressed in his evening kit, cutting a fine figure. He grinned at his wife, then kissed her hand when she reached him.
Turning his attention to Grace, he gave an approving smile. “You are going to be the name on everyone’s lips tomorrow. Mark my words.”
“Let’s hope for a good reason, rather than a poor one,” Grace added with a smile.
“Never fear. You’ve already won the battle. I can see it in your eyes. You know who you are, Grace. And the battle that is most fierce is always the battle within ourselves.” The viscount gave her a sharp gaze, then turned to the door.
In short work they were driving down Mayfair toward the Drummel estate. Samantha had explained that Lord Drummel was an earl from a very old and established peerage. His family had retained the title for over three hundred years, and as such, they were very respected. The very elite of the ton would be in attendance, and only very select ladies would make their début at such an event.
No pressure.
Grace tugged on her gloves a little more tightly, and closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, her heartbeat. In what seemed like too short a time, the carriage slowed, then stopped. Grace glanced out the window, watching as several carriages waited before them, making a line of waiting gentry to enter the party.
At least that meant she had a few moments to herself to mentally prepare herself.
Not that she hadn’t been doing that all along. But now that the moment was closer, there was a slight edge of panic in her throat that she kept trying to swallow away.
“Breathe, dear.” Samantha reached over and grasped her hand.
“Trying.” Grace gave a tight smile.
“The worst you imagine is always worse than what will be,” the viscount replied.
Oddly enough, that was quite helpful. The panic slowly eased away, and she didn’t feel the need to breathe quite so shallowly. Their carriage pulled forward, and soon the door was opened by one of the Drummels’ footmen.
As she waited for her turn to exit, she whispered a quick prayer, then put on a smile as the footman offered his hand in assistance.
Don’t trip.
She put one foot down on the step, then set her other foot on the terra firma. When her other foot hit the gravel, she whispered a prayer of thanks. It shouldn’t be so important, but falling from the carriage had happened before, and this was the last place on earth she wished to repeat such an event.
People would surely be talking about that in the morning.
“Come,” Samantha whispered softly as they started toward the marble steps. Wide pillars framed the entrance, reminding her of the Grecian ruins she’d seen in a history book. The white marble was glistening, polished to a mirrorlike finish. Torches were lit beside the entrance to assist with illuminating the area, and the sound of music floated out past the door. Gentlemen and ladies all politely waited to go in and be announced. As the time came for their party to enter, she saw the viscount whisper their names to be announced.
She held her breath, walked behind Samantha, and then heard, “Lord and Lady Kilpatrick and Miss Grace Morgan.”
The viscount continued on, taking the stairs down to a foyer that opened to a wide ballroom just to the left.
Nothing significant happened.
No one seemed to bat an eyelash.
It was oddly disappointing and yet relief flooded her.
She wasn’t quite sure what she expected to happen. Maybe a glance, two perhaps. In her nightmares the whole ball would go silent and stare while crickets chirped in the background. She knew that wasn’t going to happen, but she did expect . . . well . . . something.
But nothing was better than something bad, she figured.
She gave a mental shrug and then focused on the stairs. Of course there would be stairs. Biting her lip ever so slightly, she navigated one step after another, thankful that her slippers weren’t overly prone to sliding. At the last stair, she breathed a sigh of relief and lifted her gaze to follow the viscount and Samantha. A few steps ahead, she picked up her pace to catch up, and nearly tripped on her hem, but righted the problem quickly before anyone was the wiser.
Or so she hoped.
Breathing deeply through her nose, she lifted her head high, and while her inclination was to smile wide and brave, she knew that she would be expected to remain impassive and neutral in expression. Schooling her features, she walked behind her guardians and into the ballroom, eyes wide. The sweet music of the string quartet added the perfect background to the wonder of the scene before her.
English lavender dusted the tables, the scent rising from vases on each table. White linen tablecloths accented the light purple buds and the fragrance was heavenly, immediately soothing and familiar. Grace couldn’t stop the smile that tipped her lips from their carefully neutral position. Footmen in silver and navy livery offered orgeat and Madeira on silver platters, and the whole room moved as if alive. The dancers were their own accent to the kaleidoscope of color and movement, and for the first time in all her memory, Grace actually wanted to dance. Usually dancing was just a way to advertise her inability to perform the correct steps at the correct time.
Especially the waltz. Good Lord, she hated that dance.
But the way the people moved, their flowing steps, their turns and steps were lovely, engaging, and she wanted to be a part—even if she were to be the less graceful addition.
“You’re doing perfectly.” Samantha turned and whispered the encouraging words over her shoulder, just loud enough for Grace to hear.
After smiling in response, she continued studying the room. The viscount shook the hand of some older gentleman. When she heard her name, she snapped her attention back to the viscount.
“And this, Lord Drummel, is my ward, Miss Grace Morgan.”
This was her cue, and Grace bent into a practiced curtsey, offering a warm smile to their host. “A pleasure.”
Lord Drummel was a full head shorter than the viscount, and far more well fed, but his features were kind, as was his smile. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Morgan. Is this your first time in London?”
Grace nodded, holding her tongue, remembering that it was always wiser to keep her peace rather than prattle on.
“I see, and how do you like it?” he asked, his salt and pepper eyebrows arching in question.
She was saved having to answer by the arrival of a woman with regal stature. Nearly taller than Lord Drummel, she was as lean as he was well fed.
“Ah, Miss Morgan, allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Drummel.”
Grace executed her curtsey once more, taking extra care to perform the action perfectly. Something told her that Lady Drummel would notice a misstep faster than a hawk would see a mouse in a field.
“An honor, Lady Drummel,” Grace spoke softly.
“Miss Morgan.” She nodded, then turned to the vi
scount. “And Lord and Lady Kilpatrick. We were thrilled to receive your acceptance of our invitation.”
Her eyes were sharp and shrewd as she gave a quick study of Samantha, then dismissed whatever she was looking for as if not present.
Not that any part of that made sense. Grace made a mental note to ask Samantha later.
“It was our pleasure to attend, Lady Drummel,” Samantha replied, all sweetness and light, but Grace noted the slight tightening around her eyes.
They made small talk for a few moments longer before moving on and allowing their host and hostess to greet other guests. As they moved from earshot, Grace saw the way the viscount protectively placed his arm around Samantha’s waist.
Maybe, Grace thought, she wasn’t the only one under scrutiny. And perhaps they weren’t as unnoticed as she thought.
Maybe the ton were simply better at appearing disinterested when they were just the opposite.
The music ended, the dancers disappeared, and then the music restarted in the Scottish reel. Couples lined up to perform the dance, and Grace scanned their faces, knowing it was vain, but searching for something, someone familiar.
“Ah, just in time.” The viscount gave a quick smile and strode forward.
Immediately Grace recognized the gentleman as Lord Sterling, but what caught her attention was the way the ton behind him followed him with their eyes.
Good Lord, is that how they did it? Wait till you turned your back and then stare? She gave a quick glance behind herself, just to check.
When it proved fruitless, she turned back to watch the approach and attention gained by Lord Sterling. Women scanned him from head to toe, while gentlemen tugged on their shirtsleeves and stood a little straighter.
In that moment, she decided she would never, not in a hundred million years, understand the way London Society worked.
Nor did she wish to.
“You made it.” The viscount shook Lord Sterling’s hand in greeting.
“I wasn’t particularly given a choice,” he remarked.
Grace wondered what that meant.
The Temptation of Grace Page 5
