Grace

by Deneane Clark

  AGAINST HER WISHES

  Grace stood quietly in his embrace, her surging heartbeat slowly returning to normal. She felt drained of all sense. As sanity began to return, she realized with humiliated chagrin that she had acted like a common strumpet, pressing herself against him and returning his ardor with virtually no resistance. She closed her eyes and laid her flushed cheek against his soft linen shirt, the sound of his heart racing as wildly as hers comforting her for a moment, then, with a sudden rush of clarity, making her face a horrifying truth.

  God help her, she wanted more!

  DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

  August 2011

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2007 by Deneane Clark

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1615-1

  E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-1620-5

  The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  For my 10th grade English teacher, who made me keep a journal, And who taught me much more than correct grammar.

  Mrs. Manetta, have I told you lately . . . ?

  Prologue

  Late August 1800

  In the neglected, long-forgotten hunting lodge, an important event was about to take place. Most residents of the dwelling in the woods, creatures of the creepy six-legged variety well used to the layers of dirt and the musty smell of rotting wood, kept a silent, respectful distance from the ceremonial proceedings. The reason for their discretion likely lay in their fear of ending up popped into an empty preserves jar for use in some brilliantly obscure scientific experiment—a justifiable fear.

  Unfortunately for the hidden insects, one of the ceremony participants was having a great deal of difficulty achieving proper appreciation for the solemn nature of the situation. Her bubbly, infectious laugh rang merrily through the trees that surrounded and shaded the little weathered cottage as she tried, with little success, to capture a frightened cricket that kept hopping just out of reach of her chubby little hands. The creature managed to gain the open door and quickly jumped outside, scrambling under a large, conveniently fallen maple leaf just as Grace emerged from the cottage on her grubby hands and knees.

  Inside the dilapidated building, an increasingly annoyed-looking blond boy of about ten glowered sternly at the little girl with the unruly cap of disheveled red curls. Cheerfully she gave up looking for the cricket and returned to sit facing him. Her short crossed legs were clad in a faded pair of his cast-off breeches, topped with a once-white shirt smudged and torn from a glorious summer morning spent climbing trees and chasing butterflies.

  Catching Henry Belden’s baleful look, Grace did her dutiful best to look appropriately grave. Despite her valiant attempt, she failed in her efforts to repress the uncontrollable urge to giggle. She clapped both hands over her mouth to contain her mirth, but still her bright blue eyes sparkled at him with engaging glee.

  Henry shook his head and sighed in exasperation. “Grace,” he admonished in his severest tone, “you simply mustn’t laugh. This is really quite important.” He reached across the small space that separated them and roughly grasped both of her hands, pulling them firmly away from her face. With gallant effort, Grace finally schooled her features into some semblance of solemnity, though an irrepressible dimple still managed to peep through.

  “Now,” Henry instructed in his most serious voice, “you must say precisely what I say.”

  She nodded, eager as always to impress the boy she considered her own private hero, for he did the most impressive things. She remembered the time he had spent an entire morning showing her how he could mount his horse at a full canter, a trick she was certain she could master if she could only get her pony to do so much as trot when she was not already mounted. “I swear,” he began, tugging her back from her momentary daydream.

  “I swear,” Grace echoed in her high, childish voice.

  “That I will marry only you.”

  “That I will marry only you,” she repeated obediently, then spoiled the effect by dissolving into giggles again.

  Henry looked down in lofty disdain at the seven-year-old girl who now rolled on the dusty floor in unrestrained hilarity before he, too, succumbed to the inevitable and began to laugh. Gales of high-pitched children’s laughter echoed through the empty room and drifted out into the bright sunshine. Birds chattered in alarmed reaction. An owl perched in a maple tree lazily opened one round eye, then closed it again when the silly birds abruptly noted his regard, stopped chirping, and wisely took cover.

  “What do you find so funny about this?” Henry asked, when he finally managed to stop laughing and catch his breath.

  Grace sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes, leaving wide streaks of dirt on her cheeks. “You,” she said, in a voice breathless from the exertion of laughter, pointing a small, pudgy finger in his direction. “You looked exactly like Reverend Teesbury just then. You know, the way he looks when he stops bellowing in the middle of a sermon and looks one directly in the eye, simply to make one squirm?” She made a face in a quite good, if irreverent, imitation of the tall, dour clergyman, then erupted into yet another round of giggles. She was so carried away with her own wit, she failed to notice that Henry had stopped smiling.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped closer, giving Grace an odd squirmy feeling in her tummy. “W-what are you doing, Henry?” she stammered.

  “Now you have to kiss me,” he said. His voice sounded thick and strange, and his eyes on hers were hard.

  Grace wrenched her shoulders free and took a step back. “Yuck, Henry Belden. I’m not kissing you or any other boy!” She backed another couple steps away toward the door, keeping a wary eye on him. Her tummy settled when he did not advance again. “A boy’d have to catch me first to kiss me, and they’ll never ever catch me!” She turned and ran from the cottage, giggles trailing in her wake.

  “Oh, yes they will, Grace,” said Henry. “Someday.”

  Chapter One

  March 1813

  In the boisterous atmosphere and oppressive heat of the village inn’s crowded dining room, two gentlemen enjoyed a leisurely after-dinner brandy. Dressed in immaculate, well-tailored clothes, they appeared out of place, though not ill at ease. The men exuded a sense of self-confidence and smooth urbanity that came only with either impeccable breeding or great wealth, giving them the ability to fit in no matter their locale. They had strikingly similar appearances, from their well-above-average heights, taut, athletic builds, and dark coloring, to their auras of deliberately leashed power and authority, attributes that marked them both as noblemen. When one considered their eyes, however, the comparison abruptly ground to a halt.

  Sebastian Tremaine, the new and very reluctant Duke of Blackthorne, possessed a pair of startling golden-amber eyes that should have struck one as warmly compelling. Instead, they were cool,
aloof, and forbidding, somehow reminding one of a large, predatory cat. Rumors whispered among the young daughters of the ton held that his eyes hid a dark past, a past never discussed but often wondered about. Most young ladies shivered deliciously when they encountered him at social functions or while out driving in the park, their young hearts beating with both hope and dread that the duke would single them out for conversation. Only the previous week, someone reported that one extremely timid young miss had taken to her bed in stark fear. She had seen her father conversing at a ball with the mysterious new duke, and had become certain they discussed a possible betrothal contract between herself and the frightening, powerful man with the golden gaze.

  By contrast, one would never describe the Earl of Huntwick’s eyes as cool. Trevor Christian Caldwell had a flashing dark green gaze that held a subtle hint of seductive promise, a great deal of smoldering warmth, and more than a trace of rich humor. When the earl looked upon a young lady, she always had the flattering impression that the entire world had fallen away, and that, for a moment, nobody else mattered to him. Few women could resist the potent combination, especially when added to the legendary charm that had reportedly brought the ladies to his side—and his bed—in record numbers. The lure of unimaginable wealth and the promise of the title “Countess of Huntwick” that came with the earl’s hand served only to make him more irresistible. The fact that he did not profess an inclination toward settling down and getting about the business of siring an heir inspired great disappointment each year. Yet, as another Season inevitably came to a close with the earl still unattached, mamas with marriageable daughters breathed a collective sigh of relief, certain that, next Season, the earl would finally notice her child.

  Finishing his brandy, the duke glanced across the smoke-filled room toward the door. He gave an almost imperceptible nod to the footman, who stood waiting for just such a signal. The man disappeared, slipping outside to alert the coachman of Sebastian and Trevor’s impending departure so that he could have the ducal coach readied and brought around.

  Tipping his head back, Trevor emptied his glass, then pushed his chair away from the table to stretch his long legs before him. He lit a slim cheroot with a practiced hand and inhaled deeply, regarding his friend through the thin haze of fragrant, gray-blue smoke that curled up and over his head. “Are you certain you wish to continue traveling this evening? The roads will be dark and hazardous soon.”

  Sebastian nodded without hesitation. “I’d like to finish my business at Blackthorne tomorrow and be on my way back to London the following day, if possible.”

  Trevor shook his head at his friend’s bland tone. “Most men would be overjoyed to have inherited a dukedom, especially one for which they had no idea they were in line. Yet you refer to settling your new estate as mere ‘business.’”

  Sebastian looked with disinterest at the glowing end of his cheroot. “A dukedom,” he said dryly, “marred by a series of lecherous, degenerate dukes who have bled the estate dry and left the new duke with staggering debts.”

  Trevor raised his eyebrows in silent amusement as Sebastian stamped out his cheroot and stood. He himself followed suit, and both men walked toward the door, the openly curious eyes of the entire tavern upon them. The duke paused momentarily to pay the innkeeper and thank him for his hospitality, then followed Trevor, who had preceded him into the yard.

  Pulling on his gloves, Sebastian strode toward his waiting chaise. Named heir to the late Duke of Blackthorne only the previous month, he had not yet had the shining burgundy-lacquered door emblazoned with his new seal. He would see to that as soon as he returned to London, he mused, as a footman put down the steps and opened the door for him. Placing one booted foot on the step, he stopped and impatiently scanned the inn yard to see what kept Trevor.

  He located the earl standing near the door to the inn with his hands clasped behind his back, his dark head bent as he listened intently to a lad who looked to be about ten years old. The boy spoke rapidly, gestured in the direction of Sebastian’s coach, and then, strangely, held out his hand, his curly head tipped back to look earnestly up into Hunt’s face. Sebastian watched with bemused interest as Trevor reached, not into his pocket for a handout, as Sebastian had supposed, but for the child’s outstretched hand. He shook it gravely, as though closing a deal with a respected business acquaintance. Quickly the lad disappeared in the direction of the stables, his red hair gleaming in the fading light of the setting sun. Trevor sauntered over to the coach, an amused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Making friends with a local boy, Hunt?” Sebastian asked, settling back into the luxurious smoke-gray velvet squabs of his chaise.

  Trevor sat down across from him, stretched out his legs as far as possible in the close confines of the coach, and quirked an eyebrow at the duke, his grin widening into a genuine smile. “Yes,” he confirmed with an odd look. “Showed quite an interest in your cattle.” He paused, then added, “Your Grace,” in a low, teasing voice.

  Sebastian let the irksome reminder of his new rank pass without comment. “He’s a stable boy, then?”

  “I don’t think so. The child’s speech is as cultured as yours or mine.”

  “The son of a landholder, no doubt,” Sebastian said dismissively, gazing through the window as the darkening landscape began to roll by. The glow of the small village quickly fell behind them. The coachman slowed the horses imperceptibly in an effort to better see the road in the deepening dusk.

  Unnoticed by the duke, Trevor’s smile widened still further. “No doubt,” he agreed, then also looked out the window, falling into a companionable silence with one of the few men he considered a trusted friend. As always when he was left with time to think, his thoughts turned to the latest of his varied business affairs. He recalled a mining investment in the American colonies he had taken under consideration. Despite some inherent risks, it looked like quite a promising venture, and he remembered he had intended to invite Sebastian to join him, certain the duke would find it as interesting as he had. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, however, a sudden shout came from outside the vehicle. A sickening lurch knocked him from his seat, slamming his shoulder heavily into the side of the coach. He scrambled to brace himself as it tilted precariously on two wheels for what felt like an eternity, then suddenly righted itself, skidding to a halt amid shouting footmen and terrified horses.

  From his uncomfortable position on the floor, Trevor looked to see if Sebastian was unharmed. The duke had already recovered his footing and bounded out the door. Trevor followed a bit more slowly, rubbing his shoulder. He blinked in the sudden light of the burning carriage lamps, then looked toward the horses. They also appeared unhurt, so he glanced over his shoulder and noticed a knot of footmen and outriders gathered about forty paces behind the coach, talking excitedly and pointing at something that lay on the ground in their midst. Curious, Trevor watched as Sebastian strode up to the group, which immediately opened to let him through. The duke knelt for a moment, then gathered the object up into his arms. He returned to the coach carrying what looked like a small bundle of rags. As Sebastian drew near, the earl realized the bundle was actually a small figure that looked strangely familiar. With a start, he realized why.

  “It’s the lad from the inn,” Sebastian said grimly.

  Chapter Two

  Trevor and Sebastian sat in tense silence as the swaying carriage sped back toward the inn, somberly watching the unconscious child, who lay motionless on the seat across from them. Clad in faded, almost threadbare breeches and a rather coarse gray shirt that was yards too large, the child looked all of nine or ten years old, and small for his age at that. Ridiculously long, sooty eyelashes lay in curly fans upon pale skin marred only by the ugly, already purpling lump just above his right eyebrow. He lay so still that Sebastian feared he had died until, with more relief than he cared to admit, he saw the subtle rise and fall of the boy’s thin chest.

  In no time at all the coach pull
ed back into the yard of the small inn, where the innkeeper waited for them in the dancing shadows of the torchlit yard with the outrider the duke had sent ahead. Before they had come to a complete stop, Sebastian impatiently flung open the door and motioned for the man to come near. “Do you recognize this child?” His tone was demanding, harsher than he intended. He indicated the small, prone figure on the seat opposite.

  William Jones nervously leaned in the door as a footman held up a lantern behind him to illuminate the interior of the coach. The light fell across the boy’s face as a sudden breeze lifted the auburn curls from his forehead, highlighting the ugly, swollen knot above his eye. Jones peered closely at the child, then sucked in his breath with a sudden hiss, his wide eyes riveted on the unconscious figure. “Mercy!” He exhaled forcefully and looked up at the tense, set face of the duke. “It’s the youngest child of the Ackerly brood, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian nodded, dismissing the man. “Give my coachman directions to the Ackerly place, and send for a doctor to meet us there immediately,” he instructed in a clipped, authoritative voice. “We’ll take the urchin home, then expect rooms for the balance of the night. I’ll want to be quite certain the child recovers before I’m on my way.” He leaned back in his seat, his face set in determined lines.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” said Jones, bowing and hastily backing away as the footman closed the door. After a brief pause while the innkeeper spoke with the driver, the coach began moving again, eliciting a small, low moan from the prone figure opposite.

  Sebastian moved across the interior in an instant, gently lifting the child’s legs, then sitting and settling them gingerly across his lap. Although he had not driven the coach himself, he employed the man who had. Additionally, at Sebastian’s instruction, the coach had been traveling much more quickly than prudence dictated on a rapidly darkening road. Because of this, he felt a keen sense of responsibility for the child’s condition. Softly, Sebastian smoothed back the mop of unruly red curls, his brows drawn together with concern. As he watched, a sudden spasm of pain crossed the ashen face. With another moan, the boy began to flutter his eyelids. Sebastian glanced uncertainly at Trevor, whose face reflected as much worry as his own, then looked back down at the child.