The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  “You didn’t want one. You like being bossed around.”

  “I live for your guidance,” Lord Sterling replied dryly, then turned to Lady Kilpatrick. “A pleasure, my lady.”

  “So happy to see you, Lord Sterling. I trust you are well?” Samantha replied

  “As well as can be expected in a crowded London ballroom with eyes boring into your back,” he replied, not too quietly either.

  So he knew about the staring. Interesting.

  And Grace found it rather odd that he was willing to be so loud about his displeasure when the viscount said he was so concerned with propriety.

  Just another mystery.

  Oh well, it kept the evening interesting.

  “And how are you faring, Miss Morgan?”

  What she wanted to say was, as well as can be expected in a London ballroom with eyes boring into your back. But what she said was, “Far better than I was fearing.”

  He nodded, a grin tipped his lips and his gaze lingered a little longer on her face than it had last night, but he turned his attention back to the viscount before she could read much into his expression.

  But there was something she’d never seen before in a man’s gaze, at least while looking at her.

  It was something dangerously akin to appreciation.

  And it made her feel beautiful.

  And for once in her life, she actually believed that it might be true.

  Chapter Six

  Ramsey resisted the urge to crack his knuckles as the quadrille began. Even though just a spectator, he watched each step carefully as if performing it himself.

  He was on edge, restless and practically itching. Something bad was going to happen, he could feel it in his bones.

  And damn it all, he had the sickening suspicion it was going to all center on Miss Grace Morgan.

  He’d almost choked when he first saw her. In a word, she was transformed. He’d already noticed her beauty the night he’d first met her, but he was more distracted by her frank and fresh manner than her appearance.

  Not so this evening.

  If anything, it was the complete opposite.

  Which didn’t settle well. He didn’t have time for women, or at least women of gentle breeding. He took a tumble now and then with one of the more discerning demimonde, but that was a business transaction, calculated and without attachments.

  As soon as interest, affection, and emotions started coming into play, women became as distracting and disastrous as a hurricane in the Caribbean.

  But his understanding of the trouble women caused didn’t stop him from appreciating the view of Miss Grace. Once Heathcliff had begun the introductions, gentlemen had lined up to meet the fresh face of the ton. It hadn’t taken more than a quarter hour for her dance card to be utterly filled. Even now as she lined up for the quadrille, he wondered if she were already speculating on who her suitors would be.

  Women always did; it was in their nature to hedge their bets.

  While men did it in the gentlemen clubs, women did it in the ballroom.

  A wink here, a look over there—they were all methods of placing bets on different games, all hedging the prospect of gaining a husband, the wealthier the better.

  It made him of the persuasion that gentlemen’s gambling was nobler than the games played by the women. At least at the faro table, you always knew what you were betting and the rules of said game.

  Yet even as he considered the moral aspects of it all, his eyes never left the form of Miss Grace. He bit back a smile as she nearly stepped on another gentleman’s toes while turning a little too quickly. It was ironic for her to boast a namesake that didn’t apply to her in any sort of fashion. It was clear that she wasn’t graceful, and rather than find it offensive, he rather liked it. It added to her character.

  Not that it was important to approve of her.

  It was of no consequence.

  He turned his attention to the ballroom, studying those in attendance. The party was well attended, with most of the more elite ton assembled in the stuffy ballroom. He resisted the urge to tug on his cravat, and glanced longingly toward a hall that ended in a path that led toward a small garden. He remembered that garden from a party nearly two years ago.

  The garden kept its secrets well.

  He could easily quit the party and head to Temptations, or even Whites. But he felt somewhat obligated to attend, loyalty to Heathcliff and all that. Bloody inconvenient.

  The music for the quadrille ended and Ramsey turned back to watch the dancers abandon the center of the room. It wasn’t hard to spot Miss Grace; with her bright red hair, she would be impossible to miss. Lord Mackey escorted her to the edge of the ballroom, depositing her back at Heathcliff’s side without incident.

  Ramsey frowned. Perhaps he was overreacting.

  Then again, the night was young.

  Damn it, he was going to be there for a while.

  As the music started up for a Scottish reel, Ramsey watched as another gentleman collected Miss Grace for his reserved dance.

  Good Lord, this is what people did all night, and on purpose. He couldn’t imagine anything duller.

  Seeking distraction, he noted a lady with a tall feather in her turban. She walked by him, catching his eye. There was a provocative sway to her hips and a welcoming smile on her lips that was a tempting diversion. He dipped his head, acknowledging her. When she smiled, he returned the gesture, only to have a gentleman come up beside her and gesture for her to precede him in the crowd.

  Married.

  That was a scandal and disaster waiting to happen. Hell, it could even end in a duel, something in which he had no inclination to participate.

  Ramsey took a mental step back and turned instead to the dance floor.

  So far Miss Morgan hadn’t harmed anyone in this dance, and he was oddly growing hopeful that she’d make it through the song without incident.

  Such had become his life.

  He needed some air, and he’d only been at the ball for an hour.

  Twisting his lips, he glanced back at the hall and made the decision to head that direction.

  As the music ended, he made his way toward the hall and the promise of some fresher air found in the garden beyond.

  The stars were visible from the stone patio, and he took a deep breath of the recently rain-soaked air. Various couples were milling about, some laughing loudly, others speaking softly, all self-involved and ignoring him, just as he liked it.

  The music from the ballroom carried into the evening, and he found it soothing to his tight nerves. When the next song ended, he sighed, spun on his heel and headed back to the ballroom. Just as he was halfway down the hall, he heard the unmistakable sound of shattering crystal.

  His blood froze, the sound echoing in his memory like a ricocheting bullet.

  The sound reminded him of his father hurling the crystal port decanter at the wall.

  The shattered fragments were a symbol of what his life had become when he broke the news that fateful day.

  Divorced.

  Betrayed.

  No heir.

  Scandal.

  Ramsey took a deep breath and pulled himself into the present, shaking his head to dispel the haunting memories. Striding forward, he tried to leave his thoughts behind him just as another sobering thought hit him.

  Miss Grace. Bloody hell, tell me it wasn’t something she did.

  Why did he have the sneaking suspicion that she was at the heart of whatever just broke in the ballroom? The buzzing of people’s words filtered through the hall like a beehive, and he could have sworn her name was on the breeze.

  As he got to the edge of the ballroom, the sea of people parted just enough for him to get a quick glance at the activity that had caused all the fuss.

  Miss Morgan was desperately trying to assist. Good Lord, was that Lady Downing? Damn it all to hell. This was going to be horrific. Ramsey searched desperately for Heathcliff and Lady Kilpatrick.

  Sam
antha was pushing through the crowd, rather brazenly in fact, and was soon standing beside Miss Grace, helping Lady Downing right herself. Once the dowager was again seated, Lady Kilpatrick and Miss Grace handed several handkerchiefs to the woman, only to have a footman appear with more napkins to assist, while another footman bent to collect the scattered crystal.

  Miss Morgan glanced up.

  Pale skin was quickly turning a bright red of humiliation as she cast her eyes down in what was a classic expression of self-recrimination.

  That was when the scolding started.

  “Good Lord, girl. Why try to kill me? It won’t get you noticed, I guarantee that! And where are your manners? What in heaven’s name is the matter with you? Didn’t you ever learn to walk slowly? And for Pete’s sake, watch where you are going!” Lady Downing glared, her rheumy eyes boring through Miss Grace.

  Ramsey gave a slight shiver.

  He’d happily face down any loan shark over an offended dowager any day.

  A loan shark can be bought.

  A disgruntled dowager’s wrath was as cold as a glacier, and just as severe.

  Bloody hell, where the devil was Heathcliff?

  The bastard was just arriving on the hellish scene. But Ramsey was quite certain that even Heathcliff’s legendary charm was going to have a worthy foe in the face of Lady Downing’s wrath.

  If it weren’t so damning to Miss Grace, the whole episode would have been diverting to watch.

  But because of his loyalty, he thought it in bad form to reap any entertainment value from the situation.

  Heathcliff began speaking to Lady Downing, his smile striking her with full force.

  The old sour-faced woman actually gave a small smile in return.

  This, this was why Heathcliff handled the disgruntled gamblers. He could charm the scales off a snake and then sell them back to it, for profit.

  It was simply a stroke of some sort of benevolent God that Heathcliff had a small semblance of moral compass; God save them all if he didn’t.

  Lady Kilpatrick slowly eased Miss Grace from the center of attention, after she’d, again, offered her apologies to the dowager. As they left the disaster zone, the spectating crowd parted for them, like Biblical Red Sea.

  That, Ramsey decided, was not good.

  He could almost hear the thoughts of the people watching their exodus.

  Fool.

  Don’t touch them.

  Serves her right.

  Untouchable . . .

  Hadn’t he said that something was going to happen? He hated being right. Ramsey glanced back to Heathcliff, and seeing that he had the situation well in hand, Ramsey disappeared back into the crowd.

  There was no further need for his presence and he started to head toward the exit, when he saw Lady Kilpatrick walk back into the ballroom, Miss Grace following close behind as they skirted the edge of the room. As Lady Kilpatrick continued, Ramsey noted that Miss Grace lagged further and further behind. The music had continued, the dancers were once again swirling about, but even with all the other distractions, he swore he could hear her thoughts.

  They’re right.

  I don’t belong.

  What was I thinking?

  Unworthy.

  Maybe it was because he had spoken those words to himself for so long, believing them and owning them, that he understood the expression on her face. Maybe it was because somehow they were kindred souls.

  Regardless, it compelled his feet to move, and before he could consider his actions, he found her at the edge of the ballroom, arms wrapped round her body as if protecting it.

  “Come.” He spoke softly, and didn’t wait for a reply. Without a backward glance, he walked along the edge of the room, then paused in an alcove.

  She wasn’t far behind, and when she stepped into the alcove with him, he strategically situated them so that those looking into the alcove would see him, not her.

  Propriety would be met, but she would be shielded. It was the least he could do.

  “Don’t.” It was a single word, but it carried a wealth of meaning.

  Miss Grace blinked, tipping her head just a fraction of an inch. “Pardon?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Don’t. I know what you are thinking, and it’s wrong.”

  A bit of the spark he’d seen earlier flared to life in her eyes, and it pleased him. “I wasn’t aware you were a mind reader.”

  “I’m not, but I am quite intuitive on certain things, and this is one of them. You’re thinking you don’t belong, that you knew you’d do something stupid like this, and that you are disappointing Heath—Viscount and Lady Kilpatrick.” He finished, lifting his chin, daring her to contradict him.

  Her defiant gaze flickered to the ground and he noted the way her jaw clenched. There was a slight sigh before she raised her gaze to his. “Am I wrong to think those things?”

  He mentally applauded her willingness to be honest. “Yes. While it was unfortunate for you to . . . do whatever you did. I rather missed the whole mess, but only you can let it define you, Miss Grace. And I, for one . . .” He took a step closer to her. “Rather thought you stronger than that.”

  He issued the challenge, offering the opportunity to rise to the occasion rather than offer sympathy.

  Sympathy was for fools, for those too weak to accept the challenge of rising above. And he was quite certain that Miss Grace needed the gauntlet thrown, rather than a soft word and kind pat.

  Like a pet Yorkie.

  Ramsey gave a slight shiver at the thought.

  “I just made a cake of myself,” she retorted with enough heat to warn him, but not loudly enough to draw attention.

  “I know.”

  “And yet, you want me to waltz right out there—”

  “I wouldn’t waltz if I were you; that might draw attention. Most people simply walk, but . . .” He hitched a shoulder.

  She glared, clearly not appreciating his attempt at humor.

  Ladies were so irritatingly literal when they were angry. Annoying, that.

  “Well, what are you going to do? Hide? Let them win? Cower? I guarantee that is exactly what they think you should do, and then they will whisper behind your back, and then to your face.”

  “They’ll whisper regardless.” Miss Grace shrugged, giving a very unladylike eye roll to punctuate her statement.

  Even if it was unladylike, Ramsey had to agree with the gesture. London elite had earned many an eye roll from him as well. “Yes, but the question is . . .” He took a step forward, met her gaze with a frank one of his own, and continued. “What do you want them to whisper about? How you ran, or how you had the bravery to rise above?”

  Her green eyes sparkled, then kindled with what looked suspiciously like courage, but then she glanced down to the floor, hiding his view of her expression.

  The first measures of the waltz started playing, and Ramsey turned to the ballroom, watching the dancers start to assemble in the middle of the floor.

  Before he could second-guess his instincts, he held his hand out.

  Miss Grace glanced from his hand, to his eyes, then back, her brows arching in a question.

  “Or was I wrong? Are you not brave enough?” he challenged.

  It wasn’t a second later than her hand was firmly placed on his arm, following him from the alcove into the room.

  As they stood in the frame of the waltz and began to melt into the other swirling dancers, it was only then that Ramsey realized that he had given the London Ton something entirely different to whisper about.

  Himself.

  Chapter Seven

  “It could have gone much worse.”

  Grace sighed as she picked at her piece of toast on her white china plate. Normally more than happy to break her fast and enjoy whatever cook prepared for the morning meal, this morning she wasn’t as inclined as usual.

  Samantha’s comment didn’t exactly help, either.

  “Yes, it could have been worse. I could have permanently
injured Lady . . . whatever her name was,” Grace replied, giving up her pretense at eating and instead lifting her teacup.

  “I assure you there was no permanent damage.”

  “No, not to her at least, just my reputation.” Grace sighed dramatically and took a long sip of tea.

  “Lady Downing.”

  Grace lowered the teacup. “Pardon?”

  “Lady Downing, that’s the lady you, er, upset.”

  Grace set down her teacup. “Of course you’d be able to find a way to say it in such a delicate manner; upset.” Grace snorted, earning a glare from her former governess. “Pardon, but I did more than merely upset her.”

  Samantha cleared her throat delicately. “Well, it is of no consequence. No one will even remember that now. We need to thank Lord Sterling for that.” Samantha lifted her teacup and shrugged a shoulder delicately.

  Grace frowned. “Why? Not that I’m against thanking him, I’m just failing to understand what part he played.”

  Samantha lowered the teacup, then glanced to Grace with a questioning expression in her hazel eyes. “My dear, Lord Sterling doesn’t dance with women.”

  Grace blinked, then tipped her head in confusion. She’d heard about men like that, and she was quite certain she met a few of them in India, but... “Oh, I had no idea. I suppose I wouldn’t though.” She blushed and glanced down. “I suppose many women in London are disappointed with his . . . alternative choices.”

  When Samantha didn’t readily answer, Grace glanced up in confusion.

  “Alternative choices?” Samantha blinked, then her eyes widened. “Good Lord, I didn’t mean that.” She set her napkin down, even though she’d just picked it up. “How do you even know about that . . .” Then she held up her hand. “Never mind, I don’t need to hear.” Samantha shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s that Lord Sterling doesn’t dance with anyone. He’s quite the confirmed bachelor and I’d be willing to guess that the last person he danced with was his wife.”

  It was Grace’s turn to be surprised, and she nearly choked on the tea she’d just sipped.

  “He’s married?” She lifted her napkin and patted her lips, trying to process the information and think back to the conversations. Never once had he mentioned, or anyone else mentioned, his wife.