The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  Lord Westhouse approached as she waited with the viscount and Samantha. The viscount had just returned to their party, and as such, Samantha hadn’t the opportunity to ask him about Lord Westhouse. However, it was made abundantly clear that the viscount knew of Westhouse. As the gentleman in question closed the distance, the viscount swore quietly, his voice carrying a venom Grace had seldom heard. Her senses tingled, and she wondered what the next few moments would hold.

  “Viscount Kilpatrick.” Lord Westhouse bowed respectfully, offering a gracious smile.

  “Westhouse,” the viscount returned, his expression stoically void of emotion.

  “It’s good to see you again. I haven’t seen much of your society of late,” Lord Westhouse said by way of conversation.

  “I’m sure I was sorely missed,” the viscount returned.

  Grace’s gaze shot to Samantha, who was also watching the interchange with great interest.

  “I requested this dance with your lovely ward, if I may?” While the words were framed to be a question, Lord Westhouse reached his arm out to Grace, not waiting for an answer from her guardian.

  Grace deliberated for a moment, but as they had gained the attention of those around them, she decided that it would be best to simply smooth things out.

  Lord Westhouse bestowed upon her the most charming smile and led her away, clearly not interested in the viscount’s response.

  Not that the viscount ever gave one.

  It was strange, and a shiver of trepidation tickled her back as Westhouse led her onto the ballroom floor.

  As he held her in the frame of the waltz and led her into the swirling dancers, he spoke. “Please forgive me. There was one time that I called Kilpatrick a friend, but there was a . . . situation . . . that was misunderstood and I’m afraid we haven’t gotten past it as of yet. It is hard for me to be at such odds with a great man such as he, but I confess, I haven’t made efforts to mend the rift either,” he sighed, his gaze open and honest.

  Grace felt her lips twitch in a sympathetic smile. “That must be very difficult. I did sense some . . . tension.. . . It’s good to know that you don’t bear him any ill will. He is truly a wonderful man and kind guardian.”

  “He would be the best of guardians, I’m sure,” Westhouse replied, and to his credit, didn’t wince when she stepped on his toe.

  “Pardon,” she murmured.

  “For?” he asked, tipping his head as they continued to dance.

  “For stepping on your toes,” Grace nearly mumbled, hating that she needed to mention it out loud. Maybe she shouldn’t have apologized. But it was pointless to pretend that it had not happened. Wasn’t it?

  “Oh, that. It’s less than nothing. My youngest sister used to do the same thing.” He gave a quick smile.

  Grace’s heart melted a little bit more. Someone who didn’t mind when she stepped on their toes? It could be love.

  Leave it to her to find the one man who could tolerate her dancing the waltz and have him at odds with the very man in charge of her future.

  They conversed throughout the dance, and when the waltz ended, she was escorted back to the side of the viscount, and Lord Westhouse requested to speak with the viscount privately.

  Samantha watched the men leave, then turned to Grace. “I do not know much, but what I do know I do not like.”

  Grace’s soaring heart deflated, and she met Samantha’s gaze. “He said that there was a bit of a problem with their former friendship.”

  Samantha frowned. “Well, I suppose that it is very respectable for him to admit as such. Perhaps he is not who he once was.”

  Grace watched as the men disappeared into the crowed and hoped sincerely that Samantha was right.

  But only time would tell.

  Which was the devil when you were born impatient, like her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ramsey dispatched the missive to Heathcliff that he was returning to London, and then for good measure, sent one to Lucas’s residence as well. He wasn’t entirely certain that Lucas would have returned to London as of yet, considering that Ramsey was cutting his trip a bit short, but he wished to be thorough in all things.

  And what a blessing to be through, not out of obligation but because he wished to be. What freedom he had experienced in the past week, and it was high time he moved on from this horrific past, and onward to a future that held hope.

  Tomorrow he would depart from Glenwood Manor and start the journey to London. And as the sun set and he retired to his rooms, he inhaled deeply, savoring the feeling of the absent ghosts that haunted his memories. His father was still a bastard; that would never change. What had changed was the elemental foundation of who Ramsey saw himself to be: enough.

  One word could carry a universe of meaning.

  It was the same word that lulled him into a deep sleep that night, with the thought that tomorrow promised continued hope.

  So it was with that hope that he rose, bid farewell to Mrs. White with a promise to return sooner rather than later, and departed.

  The trip was just as uneventful as the one that preceded it; the only change was the atmosphere of the carriage. It was merely one night on the road, and by the second day, they approached the city limits of London. The smoke greeted him first, then the constant buzz of activity that never slept in the busy capital. When he arrived at his residence, he sighed in a relieved manner, and stepped thankfully from the carriage. He regarded his home with more affection than before, but perhaps it was simply that he could hold other emotions in his heart, and that the bitterness and anger had vacated the real estate.

  Regardless, he felt lighter, as if the weight of the world, his world, was no longer resting on his shoulders as if he were Atlas.

  After greeting his butler, he took the stairs to his room and refreshed himself from the long trip, and in short work he was back in his study surveying the stack of correspondence that awaited his attention.

  In keeping with the new theme when he departed, there were several invitations to social events, all of which held no interest for him. He tossed them to the side and selected the more important missives that required his attention. As he was finishing the last missive, a knock came at the door. Ramsey set the missives to the side and called, “Yes?”

  His butler opened the door, allowing Heathcliff to all but stomp within.

  “Good afternoon to you, too,” Ramsey sighed. Whatever Heathcliff had to say, he was quite certain he wasn’t going to like it, not with his friend acting as such.

  “Do you remember when I said I didn’t need your assistance with my ward?” Heathcliff said by way of greeting.

  “Vaguely.” He shrugged, enjoying how the tables had turned. Normally it was Heathcliff who was calm while Ramsey was in a dither.

  Heathcliff paused at Ramsey’s response, offering a quick glare. “Stop enjoying my agitation. Once I tell you what, or should I say, whom, she is associating with, you’ll be just as frustrated. More so, if I’m assuming correctly.”

  “What concern do I have over whom your ward associates with? What is it to me?”

  “Oh, it’s something to you.” Heathcliff sank into a chair.

  “Am I to wait in suspense or are you going to tell me?” Ramsey inquired.

  “Westhouse.”

  Ramsey felt the blood drain from his face, only to surge to his fists as he clenched them, wanting to pound Westhouse’s face with a rounder. He wasn’t usually a violent sort, but that man brought out every combative fiber in Ramsey’s being.

  “How in the hell?” Ramsey asked.

  “I don’t know, the bastard already knew her at the ball the other night and they’ve been in close confederacy since. Each ball she attends, he is there paying her court. I’ve given John strict instructions that he is not to be admitted into the house for calling hours—a detail I haven’t shared with my wife or ward, but I want no part of him.”

  Ramsey nodded in agreement. “Does he know? Is it possible that he
knew her association with you, and in turn me?”

  “I’m not sure. ’Twould be quite a stretch.”

  Ramsey stood and paced about the room, the rhythmic footfalls helping him think. “What of Miss Grace? Have you tried to reason with her, let her know that he is not a man to be trusted?”

  Heathcliff gave his head a shake. At first Ramsey though it meant he hadn’t discussed it with Grace, but as Heathcliff spoke, Ramsey’s blood boiled hot against that bastard, Lord Westhouse.

  “I tried to inform her of his character but it would seem that he circumvented that quite well. He already had mentioned to her his ‘tentative’ relationship with you, and how he had done you a disservice, et cetera, basically bled all over her and she bought it. In her opinion, he is a changed man.”

  “Bloody hell,” Ramsey swore.

  “It’s a miserable mess. And my wife agrees with me, and has tried to speak with Grace as well, but, in case you hadn’t noticed, my ward can be quite . . . stubborn when her mind is set. And I’m afraid it’s quite set on Lord Westhouse.”

  Ramsey paused his pacing and sighed. “All reasonable efforts have been attempted, so that leaves the more unreasonable ones. Is Lucas in town yet?”

  “Next week. You came back early, thank God.”

  “It’s nice to be missed.” Ramsey gave a tight smile. “But I must confess I don’t cherish the idea of dealing with the devil. Yet it must be done. There has to be some sort of underlying reason for him to single her out.” Ramsey frowned.

  “That is what I suspect, but so far John has been unable to come up with any motive.”

  “Aside from me, you mean,” Ramsey remarked.

  “Yes, but what does Grace have to do with you? Nothing.”

  “True. I don’t understand. Keep John on the task.”

  Heathcliff nodded. “Any other suggestions in the meantime?”

  Ramsey sighed. “Well, my social calendar just filled up. When is the next event you’ll attend?”

  Heathcliff gave a shrug. “Tonight, of course, though I’d much rather rescind our invitation. No doubt the devil will be in attendance.”

  “No doubt. Tell your ward that I’m in town and wish to have the supper dance. Ask Lord Greywick to dance with her for the second waltz; his wife, Lady Greywick was instrumental in your vouchers for Almack’s, correct? Certainly he will not mind.”

  “I’ll send a missive to him directly once I get home. He’s an affable sort of fellow, I always liked him, not a thing like his bastard of a father.”

  “I know all about that, sadly. The former Lord Greywick was a pain in the ass, nearly destroyed Lucas’s chances with his wife.” Ramsey shook his head. “I doubt a tear was shed at that man’s funeral.”

  “I wasn’t there to witness it, but I’m of the same conviction. It’s a bloody boon that his son is a good egg.”

  Ramsey nodded. “Good, that takes care of both waltzes, and that way we can stifle any chatter about a match. That’s enough damage control for one night. And it will buy us some time to try and ascertain his motives.”

  Heathcliff nodded, his expression pensive. “One question, and I’m only asking because my wife will certainly ask and I want to hear it from you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Is it possible that Lord Westhouse has turned over a new leaf?”

  Ramsey gave his most disbelieving expression and then sighed in a frustrated manner. “Does a leopard change its spots? Can you dress a pig and make it a lady? No. Since Eton he’s been a bastard, and there’s nothing material to prove he’s otherwise changed. Have John double check on that, if you wish for a second council on the subject. I’m sure he’s left not only ruin in his wake, but much more.”

  “I’ll notify John as well. That’s a good idea, I should have thought of it.”

  “You’re preoccupied.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Now, is there anything else?” Ramsey asked.

  Heathcliff shook his head. “No, thank the Lord. Isn’t this enough?”

  Ramsey gave a small smile. “Well, until this evening then.”

  “Yes. We’re attending the Rohners’ Ball.”

  “Ah, yes. I just tossed the invitation away. I’ll be sure to accept it immediately.”

  Heathcliff paused and regarded Ramsey. “You’re a good friend, Ramsey. Thank you.”

  Ramsey accepted the compliment, for the first time feeling like it might be true. “Thank you.”

  With a swift nod, Heathcliff quit the room, leaving Ramsey with the unpleasant expectation of meeting an old enemy.

  Apparently it was the season of facing the ghosts of the past.

  But Westhouse was certainly one he could go without ever seeing again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Grace was exceptionally careful to pay attention to each detail of her dress for the evening. Her hair was pinned perfectly, and her maid had tucked several soft white feathers into her coiffure to add a little more elegance. Her dress was a lovely shade of cream, just the perfect hue that set off her fiery red hair without washing out her complexion, or making it pink—or so the modiste had said when she’d picked out the fabric. Honestly, she couldn’t figure out if the modiste was completely accurate, but she did feel beautiful as she gazed at her reflection, so that certainly had to mean something. It wasn’t every night that she felt like she belonged in a crowded London ballroom with the most elite of the society, but tonight . . . tonight she did.

  The carriage was waiting out front as she passed through the foyer and met up with Samantha and the viscount. She regarded him with a slight uneasiness. He’d been quite assertive in his statements regarding Lord Westhouse, and as such, she felt obligated to give his words weight. However, it fought against every instinct in her mind and heart, so she constantly felt at war within, making her edgy whenever the viscount was around. It wasn’t the best of feelings, but it was tolerable. And the elation that overtook her when with Lord Westhouse far overcompensated for the uneasiness from the viscount’s disapproval.

  As they all entered the carriage, she smoothed her skirt and turned to the window, preparing for a mostly silent ride.

  “Did I mention that Lord Sterling was back in residence?” the viscount offered as they started down the road.

  Grace turned her gaze to him. “No, I wasn’t aware.”

  The viscount gave a dismissive nod. “He requested the supper waltz with you, and I agreed. I assumed you’d wish to see him since he’s been gone for several weeks.”

  Grace gave a slow nod. Something felt a little off. “Of course, I’m happy to oblige.” And she was, but as she thought about it, it smacked of planning.

  “And I spoke with Lord Greywick earlier today, he mentioned that he hadn’t made your acquaintance yet, and requested the second waltz.” The viscount gave an innocent smile. “You know, his wife is the one to thank for the Almack vouchers.”

  Grace was sure her suspicions were well-founded by this point. He was most certainly trying to control her waltz dances, keeping them occupied so that she couldn’t dance with Lord Westhouse.

  Her anger simmered just below the surface as she took a breath to calm herself. A temper to match her hair—her father had always said that and it was more than accurate.

  As his ward, she understood that he had the power and obligation to oversee her transition into independence, or rather marriage, but that didn’t mean that she needed to appreciate that, at least now. Most times she did appreciate it, but not at the moment.

  No.

  At the moment she wanted to give him an earful.

  But that wouldn’t help her cause.

  What she needed—she thought about it for a moment while the viscount awaited her response. Let him wait.

  What she needed was Lord Westhouse to prove that he was a changed man. Not that she fully understood the nature of the huge trespass for which he had to atone, but apparently there was more to the story than either side had shared. But, but, if Lord Westh
ouse could prove to them that he was a man of honor, a man of good principles, then they would not meddle so. That had to be the answer.

  She’d suggest it tonight.

  After all, if he were everything he said, then it would be no effort at all. Would it?

  Her temper abated, she turned back to the viscount and realized that he was still awaiting her response. He raised an eyebrow.

  Samantha cleared her throat.

  “Yes, of course. I’d be honored,” Grace replied, quickly searching her memory for the image of Lord Greywick. Certainly she’d at least seen him before, even it if were just across the crowded ballroom.

  “Brilliant.” He nodded in a very satisfied manner.

  Grace had the urge to raise a brow in sarcastic query, but stifled the impulse.

  “That dress is so very lovely on you, Grace. I’m very pleased with the modiste’s recommendations on the color. It suits you perfectly.”

  “Thank you.” Grace nodded graciously. “I rather thought it was quite beautiful as well.”

  They continued in polite conversation till they reached the Rohner residence. After they stepped from their conveyance, the music from the ballroom greeted them as if floating on the air. Its welcoming sound beckoned them into the ballroom, which was already crowded with people in conversation. In the middle of the ballroom, the cotillion was being danced, and Grace searched the dancers for Lord Westhouse’s familiar face. He had mentioned in passing that the cotillion was one of his favorites.

  When she didn’t see him, she regarded the rest of the ballroom, her eager eyes searching for his dear face. As one who had never been in love, or even experienced infatuation, it was a delicious, heady feeling to have that special connection, that need to see another person.

  The viscount excused himself to speak with another gentleman several yards away. Samantha took her arm and led her toward Lady Greywick. She was standing beside a classically handsome gentleman, and judging by the protective arm at her back, Grace made the assumption he was Lord Greywick.