The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  It was an oddly exhilarating combination.

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked as the music came to an end.

  “It’s certainly not an insult,” he replied.

  Apparently, he wasn’t going to explain his answer further because he led her to the viscount’s side, bowed, and then departed. She watched his back as he wound through the scene of people, and then through the doors that led to the foyer, leaving the ballroom entirely.

  “Why is Lord Sterling leaving?” Grace heard Samantha ask the viscount. She turned so she could better hear the answer.

  The viscount shrugged. “Probably to work. He’s overly diligent. I’m surprised he stayed as long as he has.”

  Grace turned back to where Lord Sterling had left, her curiosity concerning the man ever growing.

  Who was the man who kissed ladies one moment, insulted them the next, then disappeared to work at a nameless place she wasn’t allowed to know about, let alone visit?

  One thing was for certain.

  She wanted to find out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ramsey stood up beside his study desk at Temptations the moment the knock sounded at the door.

  He had been waiting.

  It was only a matter of time, and honestly, he was shocked it had taken as long as it had.

  Sure enough, like an executioner headed for duty, Heathcliff walked into the room, his expression unreadable.

  Ramsey took a breath, already knowing that he wouldn’t fight back. No. He’d taken the past few hours to resign himself to the fate that awaited him.

  He’d do the honorable thing. He’d marry the girl; he would have to do it. Honor demanded it, and more importantly, he’d done the stupidest thing in his life—well, almost the stupidest thing in his life—and kissed his best friend’s ward when he was supposed to be protecting her from the other rogue.

  Well, he’d made his bed, and it was his turn to lie in it. Hopefully, Heathcliff would not bloody him up too much; if he were to suffer through a wedding, he didn’t want to wear two black eyes for the occasion. He lifted his chin just slightly, waiting, bracing for the blow that was surely only moments away.

  Heathcliff approached the desk and frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Ramsey was about to answer, even though he couldn’t find the most articulate response. He wasn’t sure what had come over him in that forbidden moment when he’d kissed Miss Grace. What excuse did he have? Insanity? Desire? Need? All were true, and all were bloody worthless as far as excuses.

  “Are you well? You look as if you’re about to be violently ill.” Heathcliff took a step back as if expecting Ramsey to cast up his accounts that very moment.

  It was Ramsey’s turn to be confused. “Pardon?”

  “I told cook to stop making the tattie scones with those green potatoes. Makes me sick every time too. Sit down, it’ll pass.” Heathcliff gestured to Ramsey’s chair and then took a seat as well on the opposite side.

  Ramsey sat dubiously, wondering when the thunder would take place.

  “So, what did you find out about Grace and Westhouse?” Heathcliff asked casually, crossing his ankles as he leaned back in the chair.

  But was it too casually? Ramsey couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t he know? Didn’t Miss Grace tell him what had transpired between them? He was certain she’d at least confide in Heathcliff’s wife, but . . . maybe he had assumed incorrectly.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. But it would certainly be surprising.

  Curious.

  Heathcliff arched his brows, encouraging Ramsey to answer.

  Ramsey cleared his throat and relaxed his rigid posture. “He was moving in for the kill when I arrived, bloody bastard. Needless to say, my intrusion broke up the tender moment.” Ramsey’s chest felt tight. He wasn’t lying to his friend, but he damned well wasn’t telling the truth either.

  “Bastard,” Heathcliff swore under his breath.

  Ramsey also left out the portion that would implicate Miss Grace in accepting Westhouse’s attentions. No need to draw attention to that portion of the conversation; it would only lead to more questions.

  Ones that he really didn’t want to answer, especially if Heathcliff wasn’t aware.

  The last thing he wanted was another wife. And that’s certainly what he would end up with if Heathcliff knew the truth.

  Or at least, the whole story.

  “What do you suggest we do now? Do you think he’ll stop his attentions or do you think you just encouraged him to fight harder?” Heathcliff asked, sitting up and leaning over his knees, tenting his fingers as he leaned against his hands in query.

  “He’s not going to just walk away. There’s a reason for his intrusion; we just don’t know it yet. Have you found anything on your end? Has John uncovered any leads?” Ramsey frowned as he concentrated on Heathcliff’s words.

  “Just confirmation of what we already knew. He’s not suspected to be after a wife, and he’s not deep enough into debt to be a fortune hunter. He’s financially stable, but reckless in his personal life. The rumors are that the women on staff at his London home are more courtesan than parlor maid. At least that part of his character is already well known to us.”

  “Not shocking,” Ramsey remarked, agreeing.

  “Indeed. So, if he has so many other women to feed his fantasies, why turn to my ward?”

  “That is exactly what we need to find out.” Ramsey leaned forward. “Could it have to do with Miss Grace’s family? Her parents? Her past? Any sort of correlation that we could potentially uncover?”

  Heathcliff gave his head a decisive shake. “They—Grace’s parents—were hardly in the country at all; they roamed about. It would be hard to make any correlation between them and Lord Westhouse. He’s never been one to travel.”

  “Then we can assume that it has nothing to do with her history, so that leaves . . .” Ramsey leaned back in his chair slowly.

  “You.” Heathcliff spoke the word simply, but it carried a weight that settled over Ramsey’s shoulders.

  “How in heaven’s name, though? I’m not connected with her in the slightest! There’s no reason for him to single her out with me in mind!” Ramsey reacted angrily.

  “I haven’t a clue. But you’re the only common denominator in the whole complicated problem.”

  Ramsey sighed. “What a bloody mess.”

  “Indeed. I’m half tempted to just sequester her from attending any events till we can be certain what he’s about.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, but I have doubts about your being able to achieve it.”

  Heathcliff let out a beleaguered sigh. “She is rather stubborn.”

  Ramsey scoffed.

  Heathcliff narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze questioning.

  Ramsey sobered immediately, no need to raise suspicion.

  Heathcliff’s gaze shifted, and Ramsey was immediately on edge at the adjustment. “You’re not . . . interested in her, are you?” He articulated the words carefully.

  Interested? No. Attracted, yes. Dangerously so. However, to Ramsey’s great benefit, Heathcliff had asked the first question, not the second. So it was with a mostly clear conscience that he said, “No.”

  Heathcliff shrugged. “Well, until we figure this out, would you mind keeping one of her waltzes in reserve if we are in attendance at a party? Keep talk down, and try to manage the situation while we figure things out.”

  “Of course, raise suspicion about my designs on her as well.”

  “At least it will be speculation about you, rather than he.”

  “You mean, in addition to his.”

  “At least the speculation won’t be entirely about him.” Heathcliff all but rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Besides, I trust you. You’re not going to do something stupid. He, however, I do not trust.”

  Ramsey’s chest tightened, his breathing grew shallow and he nearly vomited the truth out at his friend’s statement of faith in him, but h
e barely restrained himself.

  There was no need to reveal what happened.

  Because it would never happen again.

  That was how he would make penance. If he wouldn’t be honest, at least he would be honorable and keep his distance. He’d dance the damn waltz with her to keep her from Westhouse, but nothing more.

  As Heathcliff gave his leave and quit the room, Ramsey nodded, vowing to be worthy of his friend’s trust.

  Yet as the door closed, leaving him with his traitorous thoughts, he wondered if perhaps this was one of those times where the spirit was willing, but the body was weak.

  Because even as he swore he’d never do it again . . . her kiss haunted him.

  And he didn’t want to be rid of that ghost.

  * * *

  It was with that same trepidation that Ramsey accepted the invitation to the Martins’ rout that evening. It was a popular party and would be well attended, no doubt attracting half the ton, including Lord Westhouse.

  While Ramsey wasn’t proud of his lack of self-control, he also knew that his nature was far more honorable than that of Lord Westhouse. If Miss Grace had to be at one of their mercies, it would be his.

  But Ramsey was resolved to be distant, aloof, and above temptation. So it was with a false sense of security he attended the party that evening.

  He tugged on his shirt cuffs, straightening his shoulders and tipping his chin up ever so slightly as he walked into the already well-attended ballroom. The music filtered through the air, muted by the buzzing of a hundred conversations while footmen wound around people offering refreshment. He’d seen it all a thousand times, and it had never taken on any shine in his opinion. It was a mystery why so many people lived for these events, when he’d rather avoid them all together.

  A lady caught his eye, her fan slowly moving in front of her face as she gave the signal for him to come closer.

  He walked in the other direction.

  That was another thing he’d never understand. Why flirt with a fan? Bloody useless if you asked him. No. He was on a mission. Find Heathcliff, locate Westhouse, keep Miss Grace occupied for a waltz, then leave.

  It sounded simple.

  But, seeing as it involved Miss Grace, he had the nagging suspicion it wouldn’t be as easily executed as it sounded.

  She was a menace in every sense of the word, especially to his peace of mind. He’d tried in vain to force all thoughts of their kiss to the furthest reaches of his mind. But the memories always flooded back.

  It was one bloody kiss.

  It shouldn’t have meant anything.

  It shouldn’t have affected him so.

  Yet, it did.

  Which was why it had him so concerned. It didn’t make sense. And he couldn’t abide things that stood against reason.

  Irritated, he turned and scanned the room for Heathcliff once more, his gaze meeting that of a pair of startling green eyes.

  She was not more than a few yards away, close enough for him to see the small arch of her brow as she studied him, unabashedly.

  There was nothing coy about her.

  Nothing flirtatious.

  Just brazen, bold, and beautiful.

  His heart started to pound harder, deeper, as if it were performing in a race.

  All his grand deceptions about his immovability emotionally came crashing down, and Ramsey was forced to reconcile himself with the truth.

  He was in trouble.

  And once again, it defied reason.

  He should turn and quit the room.

  He should hightail it back to his study at Temptations.

  Instead, he put one foot in front of the other, meeting her inquiring gaze.

  She tipped her head, as if curious as to his intentions. It was an honest question, one he didn’t have an honest answer to. He wasn’t sure about anything at the moment, except that he would be damned if Westhouse connived his way into her life.

  Not without a fight.

  A swift movement caught his gaze and he flickered his gaze away from Miss Grace to watching the swiftly approaching figure of Lord Westhouse.

  Apparently, the fight was about to happen sooner rather than later.

  Pity it wasn’t in a place less civil. Ramsey squeezed his hands into hard fists, fantasizing about the pleasant crunch Westhouse’s nose would make under a solid swing of his fist.

  But in society, fighting had to take on a more cloak-and-dagger camouflage.

  It was a good thing Ramsey had learned the art well.

  Because judging from the expression on Westhouse’s face, they were in for a long night.

  Round one, Ramsey thought, watching as Heathcliff turned from beside Miss Grace, noting the approach of each gentleman.

  He stiffened at the sight of Lord Westhouse, and as his gaze shifted to Ramsey, he gave the slightest nod.

  Ramsey almost felt pity for Westhouse, almost. With two against one, it was hardly a fair fight.

  Even if it would never actually come to physical blows.

  “Ah, Lord Westhouse,” Miss Grace greeted, causing Ramsey’s hackles to rise.

  He should have known.

  Miss Grace wouldn’t make this easy on them. No.

  He took a deep breath, and closed the distance. “Westhouse,” he all but clipped.

  Let the gauntlet be thrown.

  “Ah, Sterling,” Westhouse replied in a polite tone that was overlaid with venom, but only those who knew him would have noticed its presence. “Good evening. I’m just collecting Miss Grace for our first dance.” He turned to Grace and offered his hand.

  And damn the woman, she took it, turned her back, and walked with him onto the dance floor.

  Leaving Ramsey standing beside Heathcliff with a disapproving frown.

  “That was unfortunate timing,” Ramsey remarked.

  “At least it wasn’t a bloody waltz.”

  “That’s mine,” Ramsey replied with a possessive tone. He shook his head.

  If Heathcliff noted the tone of his voice, he didn’t offer a response to it.

  “In my mind, I saw this scene playing out differently,” Ramsey spoke after a moment.

  “Was blood involved?” Heathcliff asked quietly, but with a smile in his voice.”

  “A great amount.”

  “We were thinking the same thing,” Heathcliff replied. “I need you to come by tomorrow. There was some news that John uncovered and I need to discuss it with you.”

  Ramsey nodded, his gaze never leaving the two dancers that had escaped.

  “I’ll be there midafternoon.”

  “Very well.” Heathcliff paused. “At least he’s getting his dance over with. He can’t ask for more without causing talk and I do think I at least have Grace’s help in that department. She promised that only one dance would be accepted.”

  “How did you wrestle such a promise?” Ramsey asked with a little irony in his tone.

  “In return, if she cooperated, I promised to tell her about Temptations.” Heathcliff sighed.

  Ramsey almost choked. “Dear Lord, what were you thinking?”

  “She’s been inquiring, relentlessly I might add, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. At least it gave me what I needed most. Cooperation.”

  “No, my friend that is called blackmail.” Ramsey shook his head. “She’s more of a menace than I gave her credit for, which is saying a lot.”

  “She’s a good girl,” Heathcliff added in her defense. “She’s not a wilting English flower, and I don’t wish to break her spirit. It’s her defense, and while I could press the issue—I am her guardian—I don’t wish to destroy her free will and strong spirit.”

  Ramsey turned to his friend. “Growing soft in your old age?”

  “Apparently.” He shrugged.

  “Well . . . at least you have her cooperation.”

  “I’ll take the victories I can win without much fighting. I’ll save that for Westhouse when I can finally give him the facer he deserves.”

>   “Me first,” Ramsey remarked, then turned his attention back to the dancers.

  Me first.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Grace had lived in India, there was a house on the corner that had a beautiful front garden. In the lush garden was a small flock of peacocks. The females were lovely, but nowhere near the magnificence of the males with their long feathery tails that would spread wide to display their colors. The males would strut about the lawn, showing off to all who would take a moment to watch. They were proud of their feathers, and would often fight other males to show dominance.

  As the dance ended with Lord Westhouse and he led her back to her guardian, she had the same sensation from long ago when watching the male peacocks.

  Lord Westhouse’s shoulders were broad and straight, his chest slightly puffed up as he all but strutted with her at his side to where the viscount and Lord Sterling waited.

  The viscount didn’t appear as combative as Lord Sterling. Rather than puff his chest up like Lord Westhouse, Lord Sterling’s height made him tower over them all, as if a king surveying his subjects. It was a different display, but just as evident.

  At once she decided that peacocks were overrated. All this display, for what? What was the prize? Her? Unlikely. It was about ego, attitude, and dominance. With a beleaguered sigh, she stepped from Lord Westhouse at the earliest opportunity and stood by Samantha, mentioning the need for some lemonade.

  Let them peacock for each other; she had no use for it.

  But at least one good thing came from the whole mess with Lord Westhouse and the viscount. She would finally learn what the viscount did when he left the residence for the evening. The mystery had been eating her alive, and with everyone so close-lipped about it, it nearly drove her mad! What delicious secret was she finally ferreting out? It was heady to know that she’d finally learn what had been concealed for so long. She was, however, loathe to give up any further dancing opportunities with Lord Westhouse, but she also saw the wisdom of her guardian’s request. There was, after all, no reason to cause talk. And truth be told, she was rather put out with Lord Westhouse’s behavior when he’d stormed off from Lord Sterling’s intrusion.