The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

“Pardon?” Ramsey turned to Heathcliff.

  Lucas snickered.

  Ramsey shot him a glare that silently commanded him to shut up.

  Lucas chuckled louder.

  Bloody brilliant.

  “So?” Heathcliff asked rather impatiently.

  “So, what?” Ramsey asked, tugging on his coat sleeves; damn it was hot in there.

  Heathcliff tipped his chin to the side and studied his friend. “Have you been into the brandy early?”

  “What? No. It’s bloody hot in here.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Lucas murmured just over his glass of champagne.

  “Where have you been? I ask again because clearly you didn’t hear the first two inquiries.”

  “Oh, that. Interesting. I’d think you’d be wanting to convey some rather interesting information.”

  At this, Heathcliff stilled, his eyes narrowing with intelligence and he leaned forward. “You saw John.”

  Ramsey gave a curt nod.

  “Before I ask how, the more important question is how you’re dealing with the information,” Heathcliff whispered.

  Lucas moved into the close confederacy and his expression was one of understanding. Apparently, Heathcliff had communicated the knowledge to Lucas.

  “I’m still processing it.” Ramsey swallowed.

  “Understandable,” Lucas remarked. “What I don’t understand is how we weren’t aware of the possible connection. You’d think it would have been whispered about for ages.”

  “I think it was, but hushed. You know my father, the scandal—” Ramsey paused. That was it. It had to be.

  “What?” Heathcliff asked impatiently. “You figured something out.”

  Ramsey nodded absentmindedly, realizing the music had ended. He turned expectantly, waiting for Lord Westhouse to return Grace to her guardian.

  But amongst the sea of faces, he didn’t see Grace’s.

  “Where is she?” Ramsey whispered, turning to Heathcliff and then immediately scanning the room.

  “Who?” Heathcliff asked.

  “Grace, damn it! She should be done by now. The music . . .” He trailed off and started to turn around to scan the people behind him.

  “Damn,” Heathcliff remarked.

  Ramsey searched, coming up empty. His mind had merely one goal: find her. He turned to Heathcliff. “When did you see them last?”

  “Same as you, on the bloody dance floor.”

  “I’d wager Ramsey saw her more readily than you,” Lucas replied, arching a brow, but his expression was sober as he searched Ramsey’s gaze. “We’ll find her.”

  “What could he mean by taking her from the room?” Ramsey asked, then his heart chilled with fear. He couldn’t possibly, he wouldn’t suspect that—

  “Let’s split up. Ramsey, you take the gardens. Heathcliff, take the halls, and I’ll take the ballroom.” With a curt nod, the gentlemen all went their separate ways, and Ramsey made a direct line to the nearest exit to the garden.

  He wasn’t sure Westhouse would go that direction. It would be too obvious.

  Unless . . .

  Unless he was waiting to be found.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Grace rubbed the sore area of her arm that Lord Westhouse had just released. Anger burning, she spun to face him, ready to give him a large piece of her mind when she noted the way he held his fingers to his lips. She wouldn’t have heeded him, but the whole situation was so absurd, she paused just long enough for him to whisper. “I’d watch that devil’s tongue you’ve got, Miss Grace. If you make too much noise, people will hear and if they find you here, alone with me, you’ll be ruined.” He paused for effect. “You don’t want that, do you?”

  She wanted to let him know that she was already quite ruined. Or at least ruined enough, but she thought better of it. Her heart pinched at the idea, because Lord Sterling, Ramsey, hadn’t come to the ball. At least he wasn’t there yet. Hope sprang eternal and all.

  But he wouldn’t be looking for her in the garden.

  And she suddenly felt quite alone. She rubbed her arms, trying to think clearly through her rather undesirable situation. The horrible man had a point, and if people found them alone in the garden, she would be forced to marry him. It would be a scandal, and she didn’t want that type of attention. No. She simply wanted to get away from Lord Westhouse and sneak back into the ball without anyone the wiser.

  How had she thought she loved him? Or at least was falling in love with him? It was so obvious now that she wasn’t in love with him. She studied him in the flickering torchlight and moonlight of the garden. He was still handsome, that was undeniable, but there was something hard in his eyes, in his expression. Gone was that tenderness that she’d thought he had for her. Did that mean it was an act? Had his intentions toward her been a ruse? If so, why?

  And why in the hell did she not notice it? How had she been so blind? It was infuriating, frustrating, and she blamed herself.

  When she knew she should be blaming him.

  But guilt was never rational.

  She gave her head a slight shake and took a small step back.

  “Is that an answer?” he asked, tipping his head just slightly.

  “To what question?” She responded softly, glancing about to make sure they were alone.

  “Your glancing about is answer enough. You don’t wish to be caught with me. And one has to wonder . . .” He took a step to the side, then snapped a flower from its stem. It was a sprig of lavender, and he lifted the fragrant purple buds to his nose and inhaled, sighing softly. “Why.”

  She watched him offer her the flower, and she took it, thankful to have something to occupy her hands. Or else she would certainly do something foolish, like slap him. But that would only create a bigger problem. No, she needed simply to escape, not get into a fistfight, one she would certainly lose, in more ways than one.

  She twisted the flower in her fingers, the rich scent of lavender a comfort in the middle of the terrible situation. “I’m afraid you’ll have to rephrase your question.”

  He let out a low chuckle and glanced toward the garden entrance. He turned back to her and answered. “The question was quite simple. A week ago, you were quite eager for my attention; tonight you are not. I can only surmise that some sort of catalyst has caused so elemental a change. Unless you are like the other debutantes with shifting fancies. But I rather thought you were different.”

  An urge to defend herself bubbled to her lips, and she spoke without thinking through her words. “I am different. Whether that is a good or bad thing is left to be decided. However, I must say that a week ago I would never have imagined that you’d behave in such an ungentlemanly manner as this,” she scolded, hoping that her remarks would hit some chivalrous mark.

  His chuckle proved otherwise. “Is that so?”

  Well, that didn’t work, she mused. “Do you have some purpose in mind to keep me out here against my will?” she asked plainly, resisting the urge to place her hands on her hips.

  “I do, indeed,” he answered, his brows raised as if surprised by her frank question.

  “So, then you’re saying I’m not free to leave,” she tested, quite certain he would say no, but wanting the confirmation.

  “You’re free to leave, but it will be at a price.”

  “That’s not freedom.”

  He shrugged as if such a detail was of little consequence.

  She took a step toward the path.

  He moved to block her.

  “What is the price?” she asked softly, not wanting to hear the answer, but a lack of knowledge wouldn’t help either.

  “Marry me.”

  She blinked, tipped her head, and then waited for him to add to the small but profound phrase. He stepped closer, and she took an answering step back. “Pardon?”

  “Marry me.” He shrugged. As if he had commented about the traffic on Bond Street, or the amount of boat traffic on the Thames. Not as if he’d asked the single most importa
nt question in her life.

  “No,” she replied, her tone half surprised, half incredulous.

  “Then I’m afraid you cannot leave.” He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his coat. “You see, I have a goal and I will see it through.”

  “And I’m part of this, how?” she asked, growing more frustrated, less cautious, and feeling an edge of fear leak through her mind.

  “That’s a very good question.”

  Grace turned toward the path just out of view, her heart pinching with a desperate hope that, rationally, she knew had to be impossible. Yet she would recognize that voice anywhere.

  “Ah, just in time.” Lord Westhouse turned to greet Lord Sterling, an expectant expression on his face.

  “I rather think I’m quite late, actually,” he remarked, closing the distance with a relaxed air about him, but his gaze was acutely aware, in strict contrast to his stride. “Are you well, Grace?” he asked, not glancing to her, but keeping his gaze trained on Lord Westhouse.

  “Ah, a first name acquaintance, is she? I rather thought it might be that way,” Lord Westhouse replied in a jovial manner.

  “Yes, annoyed but well,” Grace answered, curious as to why Lord Westhouse looked so bloody pleased with the situation.

  Ramsey paused about a half yard from Lord Westhouse, who turned to meet him. Grace watched as the gentlemen faced off, their expressions calculating. Ramsey was much taller than Lord Westhouse, and equally as broad, but there was an edge to Lord Westhouse’s stance that implied that he wasn’t one to back down from a fight. Good Lord, she hoped it wouldn’t come to blows. That would certainly lead to a disaster.

  “I learned something interesting tonight,” Lord Sterling started, easing his posture from the rigid stance he had a moment before and taking a step toward Lord Westhouse, but slightly to the side.

  Lord Westhouse frowned, but listened.

  “I wait with bated breath,” Lord Westhouse remarked, then moved to stand between Lord Sterling and herself, blocking Lord Sterling’s path.

  “I suspect it’s something you’ve known for a while,” Ramsey remarked.

  “I suspect I know a great many things that you do not. Take your pick,” Lord Westhouse said rather testily.

  Ramsey chuckled; the sound wasn’t the warm one she expected. No, it was cold, hard, and had an edge. She couldn’t see his face—Lord Westhouse’s back blocked the view—but she could hear his voice, and it was silk over a sword, smooth and deadly. For the first time, she suspected that Lord Ramsey was a dangerous man to cross.

  When provoked enough.

  And apparently, she was enough.

  The knowledge comforted her.

  But she wasn’t simply going to be a damsel in distress; she could save herself too, thank you very much.

  She noted the way that Lord Westhouse had all but given her his back, and she slowly edged away, her focus on just moving around him enough to make it to the path and run inside. If she were to get inside, she could send out the viscount and Lord Heightfield to assist Ramsey. There was something going on, and as much as it seemed to involve her, she suspected that the root went much deeper.

  Ramsey’s gaze never left Lord Westhouse’s, and she suspected it was on purpose. If he shifted his gaze, Lord Westhouse would follow it, and see her moving slowly along the edge of the path.

  “You know, my father never had a problem disparaging the other gentry around our estate,” Ramsey continued.

  Grace took another step.

  “Why do I not find that surprising?” Lord Westhouse asked in a bored tone, but his posture was rigid as if expecting some verbal blow.

  “But he never mentioned your family.”

  It was almost imperceptible, but Grace was watching Lord Westhouse so closely that she noticed how his shoulders froze, and his fists clenched.

  “Never?” he asked, as if surprised and caught off guard.

  “Never,” Ramsey remarked, a slight edge of triumph in his tone. “Which was curious, and helped me confirm some news.”

  “What is that?” Westhouse barked.

  Grace was only a few feet from being able to run to freedom, but it was the most visible part. If Lord Westhouse wasn’t completely distracted, he could easily see her, seize her, and then she’d be back to square one. She breathed out slowly, and waited.

  “That after years of wishing for a younger brother, I discovered I had an older one.”

  Grace nearly gasped, but caught herself, and sprung forward the last steps and then ran.

  To her surprise, she made it to the garden door, and was down the hall before she realized that Lord Westhouse hadn’t even tried to pursue her.

  And all of a sudden, she had the chilling thought that maybe she wasn’t whom he was after.

  Maybe she had just been the bait.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Ramsey watched as Grace fled the scene, and his body relaxed slightly. Now that she was safe, he could focus on dispatching Lord Westhouse, or Julian, which was his first name. He’d always hated that name, or rather he’d hated Westhouse and associated the name with him, so it all went together. But as he studied him, he saw afresh all the details that should have made the truth come to light sooner.

  He was shorter, that much was true, but the height had come from his mother’s side, not his father’s. But Westhouse had their father’s nose, the same shade of walnut hair, and the same severe streak in temperament that made him a total ass.

  No wonder he’d hated Westhouse from the beginning. He’d been a copy of his father.

  Good Lord, the world didn’t need a replica, that was certain.

  “I can’t believe it took you so bloody long to figure that out. Here I was anticipating some great secret, and it seems the only one who didn’t know was you.”

  Westhouse hitched a shoulder as if it didn’t matter, but Ramsey knew it did. It had to matter. Or else why would he have taken always to seeking out Ramsey for ridicule, why would he have targeted him in school? The question was, why?

  And what bloody part did Grace play in all this? She didn’t fit anywhere in the equation.

  “As I said, my father never mentioned you. Or your mother,” Ramsey replied, repeating the earlier statement. It seemed to have met a mark earlier, and he wanted to push it further now that Grace was safely away.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  At this, Ramsey laughed. It wasn’t a joyful sound, rather a cynical, hard noise that was a result of years of dealing with his father’s silence as well.

  “What have I to hide? He’s dead; your family is as well . . . what will lies get us? Nothing.”

  “He may have never mentioned me to you, but he said plenty to me regarding the disappointment that you were to him,” Westhouse remarked with venom.

  At this, Ramsey felt a punch to the gut. He’d always known it, his father had often said it, but hearing it again, it broke open the still-healing wounds from earlier.

  Not who I was . . .

  Ramsey repeated the words in his mind, for once the pain not festering, but instead, it disappeared and the next words didn’t hit the same mark.

  “He always said it was a pity that he couldn’t allow me to inherit.” Westhouse shook his head as if he pitied Ramsey. “But with my father dead, and the world, mostly, believing that I was his heir, I couldn’t rightly be heir to both men.”

  “So your mother was a whore,” Ramsey remarked, watching as Westhouse’s face turned bright red. Perhaps it was a low blow, but since Westhouse wasn’t holding back anything, neither would he. “But my father hated scandal so he would have paid her well to keep silent. That probably paid for your education at Eton.” He took a step closer to Westhouse, murmuring. “I heard that the coffers were somewhat low. Perhaps you were after an heiress?”

  Ramsey angled his words to try and ferret out the truth regarding his interest in Grace. He was growing less concerned about whatever forsaken situation he had in familial ties with Westhous
e, and found it more important to keep Grace free and clear of him.

  “The coffers are quite full, thank you. Though I’m sure you are fully aware and simply trying to bait me. You and your spy, what’s his name, John? Sniffing about my business. Are you not man enough to simply inquire yourself?

  Ramsey didn’t even reply to such a baiting statement. “Miss Grace was easy prey, is that it?”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Grace. Odd how now you use her proper name. I suspect you’ve had rather improper moments with her, however.” He grinned wolfishly, tauntingly, and all the control that Ramsey had been tightly reining in snapped. His fist tingled, his arm flexed, and before he could even understand the temptation, he was shaking his hand from the solid roundhouse he’d delivered to Lord Westhouse’s right eye.

  Westhouse stumbled back, swearing epithets at Ramsey and wiping the blood from a cut near his eye. “Bastard.”

  “Actually, that would be you,” Ramsey remarked heartlessly.

  Westhouse swore, then flexed his fists. “You just can’t stop creating scandal, can you?”

  Ramsey’s blood chilled at the words. It was as if his father were speaking to him from the grave. Those very words had been hurled at him constantly after the holy wreck that was his marriage, and the resulting fallout. His father had spoken them over him like a curse, like a prophecy, and the weight of it settled back on his chest.

  “You can’t deny it,” Westhouse spat, taking a step toward him. “Your disaster of a marriage that made your father a laughingstock in front of his peers, and tarnished your title forever. He told me, you know. I may not have carried his name, but he treated me like the son he never had . . . even though he had you. He never wanted you, but he needed you. You were a tool for him, and one that never performed the basic function he wanted you to accomplish. You failed him in every way,” Westhouse continued, hurling the words like arrows.

  Ramsey replayed a thousand conversations with his father, all sounding the same, all a repetition of every word that Westhouse said. “You think you’re saying something that I never knew?” he remarked after a moment, regaining himself a little.

  “I don’t doubt it, but I just wanted you to remember. And when I walk into the ballroom, everyone will see me, and know.”