Escaping His Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  There was nothing to do but step up, and again say thank you. He released her hand then, quickly, and strode forward to meet the rest of their party. Miranda squeezed her now-empty hand into a fist and followed everyone down the street to the sign that said William’s Paper Company. It made sense it would be their first stop; the invitations were far more of a priority than anything else, with the masquerade only a week away.

  It was shocking, really, to think that in a week so much could change. She found she both wanted and feared it. Change was always a brutal taskmaster, especially when considering how it would involve her future. Miranda straightened her shoulders just a fraction. She wouldn’t be fearful. She’d lived in the shadow of fear for far too long, heaven knew how long. She was moving forward in . . . She paused for a moment, in midstep, and tilted her head, searching for the right word.

  Her party had already entered the store, and she was given a few moments of privacy. Remembering the word from her musings a week before, she decided it was an apt description once again.

  More.

  She was going to move forward and expect more.

  More from life.

  More from herself.

  It was an oddly powerful feeling, to think she had control over her own happiness, her own future, even if only some small measure. It was far more than what she would have had if she had stayed in London.

  She moved forward to the entrance of the store before her sister could notice her missing. With a gentle shove, the door swayed inward and the scent of vanilla-scented papers floated in the air, welcoming her. Liliah was easy to find, already being assisted by a clerk. Miranda studied their little party for a moment. Lord Heightfield and the viscount hung back, allowing Liliah to take the lead as far as choosing the paper and colors for the invitations, but it was clear they were, if not peers of the realm, men of quality. Their clothing was the first indication, with their beautifully tailored waistcoats and shined boots, but it was more the confident air they presented. Both Lord Heightfield and the viscount carried themselves with consequence, with an expectation of deference and power, not in a way that made them seem arrogant, but as if their words held weight.

  And they certainly did.

  Liliah was tapping her chin as she considered two colors of paper. “Miranda? What is your preference?”

  Miranda navigated gracefully past Iris, then felt her cheeks burn as she skirted past the viscount, her skirt brushing his breeches as she did. It was a moment before she could focus on the two colors. One was a light shade of purple, almost blue. The other was a pink that was as light as the last hue before the sun rose in the morning sky. While both were lovely, neither seemed to convey masquerade.

  A masquerade should be dark, mysterious and secretive. Nothing about those colors seemed to speak to that fact. She glanced at her sister, then back to the paper. “While both colors are lovely, they seem more appropriate for an invitation to tea, or a perfectly proper ball, not a masquerade.”

  A chuckle from behind had her turning toward the sound. Lord Heightfield was attempting to restrain another chuckle, while the viscount was covering his mouth with a gloved hand, clearly trying to keep from making a reaction.

  “And what are you finding amusing, gentlemen?” Liliah asked, her tone less than humor-filled.

  The viscount’s gaze slid to Miranda, and she swore she could read his mind, and that he’d been thinking along the same path as she regarding the colors. He gave a small nod, as if affirming her suspicion, and then turned to Liliah. “Miss Miranda has a very valid point.”

  Miranda felt a swell of pride that her assumptions, both of them, were correct.

  Liliah gave a slight huff, then turned to her sister. “I’d ask them for assistance—”

  “But you’d be afraid of our meddling?” her husband cut in.

  Miranda turned to Lord Heightfield, watching as his eyes twinkled with merriment. “After all, masquerade parties are our forte.”

  Miranda shot a curious glance at her sister, fragments of conversations piecing together, though not enough for her to completely understand the picture they presented.

  “That’s very much what I’m afraid of. I don’t wish to create that type of party.” She spoke in a low tone, meant for their ears alone.

  “Nor do I,” Lord Heightfield answered quickly. “But I do believe we may have more insight than you would expect.”

  Liliah twisted her lips, then glanced at the viscount. Then, finally, her gaze landed on her sister.

  “What is your opinion?”

  Miranda turned back to the paper, then to her sister. “What is the worst that can happen?” She hitched a shoulder, the gesture quite blasé.

  Liliah raised a brow.

  “You’ll be in good hands,” Lord Heightfield said before his wife could offer more than a dubious expression. “Why don’t you two ladies see about the clothing, and Heathcliff and I shall see to the . . . details?”

  “They always say the devil is in the details,” Liliah remarked wryly, arching her brow.

  Lord Heightfield grinned wickedly, and Miranda felt the need to take a step back, even though his grin was focused on his wife. “How appropriate.”

  Miranda turned to the viscount, curious about his reaction in the middle of all this. What she wasn’t expecting was to see him watching her, as if gauging her reaction.

  She wasn’t used to people studying her; it was an odd feeling and she wasn’t sure if it made her feel flattered that he was curious about what he saw in her or suspicious. As soon as her eyes met his, whatever was in his expression was shuttered and he turned away. “You’d better move along if you wish to have a dress made. A week isn’t much time.” He directed the comment to Liliah.

  Miranda turned to leave before she could find another chink in her armor. How was it he found each one?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Heathcliff ran his fingers over the engraved invitation. A deep orchid color, it was evocative, sensual, and promising. It was the promising part that speared through him. Promising because he knew each gentleman who would receive one would immediately accept it. It was worded so carefully, with enough information to tease but not to give away anything. Men would attend to satisfy their curiosity, that and because he was the host.

  He never hosted parties in Scotland.

  Yet they all knew he did in London.

  But those parties weren’t of the proper variety. They had worded the invitation carefully, to make sure it was clear this party was indeed of the proper variety, but one could never be completely sure. He’d have to watch Miranda, make sure no one got the wrong idea. Of course, that was the perfect excuse to keep her close during the party, and he was willing to hold on to any excuse available.

  He studied the gold lettering on the invitation; then his gaze lingered on the color once more. Why was it that purple reminded him of her? What was it that made such a connection between the two in his mind? Perhaps she had worn a dress of that color, or maybe he just instinctively knew it would be a lovely color against her creamy skin; regardless, the connection between the color and the woman was permanent in his mind, for better or worse.

  He set down the thick paper and strode to the window. It was night, darkness covering everything like a warm blanket of privacy. But he felt restless, like a caged tiger.

  And he knew why.

  With each day that had passed since their excursion to Princes Street, he’d kept his distance from Miss Miranda. It was too bloody difficult to be around her and keep his hands to himself, and he had nothing to offer her, at least nothing enduring, and she needed more than just a momentary escape.

  She needed a permanent rescue.

  And he was anything but a knight in shining armor. He was more the villain who kidnapped the fair maiden in the first place.

  And wasn’t even repentant about it.

  She deserved a rescue, a lasting one, which meant marriage. It was the only way her father would give up on
finding and lording over her. In his mind, Heathcliff understood the logic of it all. But somewhere between his heart and his mind, the translation had become muddled, and he couldn’t make head nor tail of it. So he’d stayed away, though the distance hadn’t helped.

  It had only compounded everything.

  Lucas hadn’t been any help either, always suggesting he ask Miss Miranda her opinion about some aspect of the party, or inquiring about her, as if he bloody well knew the answer.

  Which he didn’t.

  That only reminded him that there were layers and layers of her likes, dislikes, preferences, and ideas to uncover, like a present that never fully stopped bringing forth delights.

  But those delights weren’t for him.

  They were for someone else, someone better, worthy, someone capable of being her savior.

  And the whole miserable cycle would start over again, leaving him in the hell that was his life.

  And to think, he had eagerly anticipated returning to Scotland. It was laughable. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to return to London, not when she was here.

  His life was a damn Greek tragedy.

  He paced the floor of his rooms, the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth as he padded from one end of the room to the other. His pace was a lazy amble, but his mind still churned furiously. He glanced up and saw his reflection in a mirror, the low light of the fire shadowing his face. Gone was the devil-may-care grin and the charm that had smoothed his way through life, replaced with tension, uncertainty, and something else he couldn’t quite name. What had changed? Or maybe nothing had changed, just had been brought to the surface, and he didn’t like what he saw.

  No one liked realizing that maybe what you thought you’d overcome only had been swept beneath the carpet, waiting to rear its ugly head.

  It was easier to pretend, to be charming and engaging, than to deal with the demons within, yet that was exactly what he found himself doing, night after night.

  All because of her.

  All because he knew he wanted her and couldn’t have her.

  Because some misbegotten shred of decency remained, and he couldn’t cross that line. As much as he wanted to.

  Because what if that line was all that was left of the good within him? What if, when he, if he, crossed that line, it would be the end of the man he once was?

  It was easier to be the man he wanted others to think he was. Though he was lying as much to himself as to others. Either way, he was damned. He didn’t know why he cared so much.

  She would marry.

  It wouldn’t be him.

  She’d move on.

  So would he.

  A few stolen kisses didn’t equal love, even if his heart was capable of such a miracle, which it wasn’t.

  He sighed, bone weary, and sat down on his bed, hands on his knees as he closed his eyes and tried to clear his head.

  It didn’t work.

  With a reluctant sigh, he rose from his bed and walked to a tall wooden cabinet. He pulled the brass knob, then narrowed his gaze on the contents.

  Brandy.

  But what he really wanted was whisky. Real Scottish whisky, the kind that would burn all the way down his throat, burn away the thoughts that plagued him.

  But his whisky was in his office. He’d already taken off his waistcoat and shirt, leaving on only his breeches. He cast a weary glance at the clothing on the settee. “Hell with it.” He strode to the door and walked out into the hall. The cool air felt comforting against his bare chest, and he relaxed slightly. He would often run about Kilmarin in nothing but his breeches when he was in residence alone, but with ladies about, he had taken to being more of a proper gentleman. Much against his will.

  A certain freedom enveloped him as he took the stairs. Damn, he hated clothing.

  The cravat most of all, bloody confining thing.

  He nostalgically considered wearing his kilt, a beautiful plaid of blue woven with green and red. Best of all, you didn’t have to wear anything beneath it.

  He crossed the marble floor of the foyer and headed down the hallway toward his study, pausing at the door when he heard soft footsteps.

  Probably a maid, but he didn’t wish to be seen half naked in the hall at midnight.

  During the day, he would have given a quick smile and ducked into his study. But night held its secrets. Night tempted, was always far more dangerous than day, so he carefully inched back into a dark corner and waited for the person to pass or go away.

  Only a few candles flickered, illuminating very little in the dark hall while Heathcliff waited. The footsteps sounded nearer, then they halted altogether. He was about to step out when they resumed once more. A footman, one of their newer staff, walked by, checking behind himself for several moments before passing down the hall, then taking a servants’ door that led outside.

  Heathcliff listened, and when there was a telltale squeak of the door leading outside, he left the shadows. He started toward his study, then paused. Something felt off; he couldn’t name it, but it went against his instincts, so he abandoned his pursuit of whisky and pursued the errant footman instead. He quickened his steps to make sure he didn’t lag too far behind, and once he made it to the same door he’d heard used before, he opened it only enough to fit his body through, avoiding the squeak. The night air was chilly against his chest, and he belatedly wished he had donned at least his shirt, but it was too late now. He leaned against the stone of the wall and watched the moon-illuminated horizon of Kilmarin. Movement caught his eye by the stables, and he ducked down, while heading in that direction. He kept his steps soft, quiet, stealthy. The tall grass tickled his chest as he grew closer to the stables, and just before he reached the door, he stepped around the corner, out of sight. He had expected the footman to materialize on a horse, but when Heathcliff looked around the corner of the stable, a dark shadow walked up a path that led to an intersecting road.

  This was curious.

  It would be foolish to follow close behind. It was entirely possible the footman was meeting a lover, but Heathcliff had long ago learned to trust his instincts, and now he was resolute in his pursuit.

  Something, he knew, wasn’t right.

  Perhaps even worse. Wasn’t it his duty to find out what it was?

  He waited till the footman had a good head start, but not enough that he could easily disappear in the night, and Heathcliff followed. The cricket’s song was loud in the night, covering the soft sound of his footsteps. The half-moon’s glow was just enough light to allow him to keep his target in sight. Just as the path met the road ahead, Heathcliff saw a shadowy figure. Then he heard a horse’s impatient nicker.

  Interesting.

  He increased his pace, wanting to be near enough to overhear any possible exchange of words. He bent lower in the tall grass, keeping his movements swift and silent as he approached where the footman had stopped.

  Heathcliff slowed, taking the most silent of steps, his ears alert for the softest whisper of a voice as he drew nearer, and nearer. Kneeling down in the grass, he waited, not daring to draw closer with such a lack of cover. The night was dark, but not dark enough for him to risk moving closer. The horse and rider did nothing that would indicate any clue to their identity or purpose, but Heathcliff closed his eyes and listened.

  He filtered out the noise of the crickets.

  He ignored the sound of the wind rustling the dry grass.

  He centered his attention on the soft voices the wind carried.

  “Are you sure?”

  It was a man’s voice, that much was certain, and he assumed it was the rider, not the footman. Yet he wondered if he’d recognize the footman’s voice. Probably not.

  “Certain,” the other person answered—the footman, Heathcliff assumed. The voice sounded younger, green and unsure.

  “And you have proof?”

  Heathcliff was expecting such a question; it usually followed when one wanted to confirm information. Hell, he’d asked for pro
of countless times himself. There was no honor amongst thieves, or gamblers, for that matter.

  “You said if Lady Heightfield took residence somewhere other than London to follow. She visits Kilmarin every day, and always with the governess—”

  “Governess?”

  Heathcliff felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

  He had been expecting . . . well, he wasn’t sure, but not this. Maybe a disgruntled lord who had lost his fortune at Temptations seeking revenge, but not this.

  Not someone chasing her.

  He didn’t need to hear anymore; he needed to take action. Creeping forward, his hands tingled with the need to fight, to feel the shattering of bone beneath his knuckles. It had been too long since he’d had a good brawl; this would be . . .fun.

  Restless no longer, he planned his attack. He’d have the element of surprise for only a few moments; it was best to first spook the horse to eliminate the rider from escaping. The footman would be the least of the threats, so he’d turn his attention to the would-be rider. He counted silently in his head, creeping around the back of the horse, pausing when the beast’s ears perked up.

  Leave it to animals; they always knew. The night had gone still, as if the heavens were holding their breath for whatever came next. The horse stamped his foot impatiently, causing the bridle to jingle. The sound carried across the windswept moor, and Heathcliff paused, listening to see if either man had been alerted by the horse’s uneasy reaction. One breath, then two; the men continued to speak in soft, angry tones.

  Heathcliff raised his hand and gave a swift smack to the horse’s hindquarters. It gave a startled whinny and sidestepped, knocking into Heathcliff and sending him sprawling into the dirt, then took off. The force of the horse’s hindquarters was impressive, and he begrudgingly felt respect for the startled animal as he lifted his head to watch what happened next. The horse was now several yards away, increasing his pace while one of the men gave chase, yelling epithets into the night. Heathcliff kept his body low as he scanned the night for the second man. Sure enough, only a yard away stood what he assumed to be the wayward footman, his back to Heathcliff as he watched the horse bolt.