Grace

by Deneane Clark

  Struck speechless by Grace’s rapid veer from scathing contempt to unaffected friendliness, then to a demonstration of one of the quickest tempers he had ever witnessed, Trevor stared after her, then looked around the room at the now blatantly distrustful faces of the villagers. He shook his head and shrugged at them in rueful apology, then turned to do as Grace had told him and have the Ackerly carriage brought around. He smiled inwardly. He wondered what the ton would make of the powerful Earl of Huntwick meekly following the orders of a small, angry girl from the country.

  Chapter Four

  The Ackerly carriage careened into the drive and pulled up in front of the house, spewing gravel in its wake. It halted with an abrupt jerk just as Trevor stepped out of Sebastian’s coach and started up the steps to the door. Trevor stopped, watching with interest as Grace hurtled out of the vehicle and ran past him up the stone steps without sparing so much as a glance in his direction. She burst through the front door and slammed it closed behind her with a loud bang, showing little concern for the fragile panes of expensive glass in the windows to either side. Trevor shrugged, shook his head with an inward smile, and looked back at the carriage. He watched as an older gentleman, whose face he remembered from the portrait room, stepped down from the carriage and extended a hand to assist the two ladies inside. Fully expecting to see two more Mercy look-alikes emerge from the dim confines of the small carriage, Trevor noted with surprise the tall, willowy blondes who stepped, one at a time, out onto the cobbled drive. Their faces set in grim worry, the trio hurried inside, followed at a more leisurely pace by Trevor, who already knew that they would most likely find Mercy sitting up in bed, cheerfully recounting the accident that had brought the two strangers into their home.

  When he stepped inside, Trevor noticed Bingham Ackerly standing at the foot of the stairs, deep in conversation with Sebastian. Not wanting to interrupt, Trevor politely gave the two men a wide berth and instead went back into the portrait room in search of some refreshment. Finding the room empty, he helped himself to a glass of brandy. He smiled with wicked intent at the portrait of Grace on the wall above the piano as he poured. The young lady had proven far more interesting than he had even begun to imagine when he had first seen her portrait. He recalled her spirited fury at the Assembly Rooms when he had told her what had happened to Mercy. Giving her likeness a last, lingering look, he sauntered back to the open doorway and leaned a shoulder against the frame to wait for Sebastian to conclude his conversation.

  Grace appeared at the top of the curving staircase. She still wore the dress she had worn to the dance, a simply cut high-necked gown of shimmering emerald silk. A wide ribbon collar of forest green velvet encircled her slender throat, then ran vertically down the front of the gown to border the hem in broad, sweeping scallops. Cut to loosely skim the contours of her body, the dress really had no waistline at all, only small darts to lightly cinch it in, giving one a subtle impression of the slender curves that lay hidden beneath. She wore no jewelry at all, and styled her bright hair in a simple loose knot at the crown. Several wayward strands had escaped to curl around her face and shoulders, dramatically softening what would have been a rather severe hairstyle on such a small girl into one that both flattered and allured. The tips of dark green velvet slippers peeped from beneath the hem as she gracefully held up her skirts to keep from tripping as she made her poised descent. Recalling the unladylike way she had rushed from the carriage into the house, Trevor grinned at the complete transformation she had undergone in the past fifteen minutes.

  She stopped at the foot of the stairs for a moment, curtsied to Sebastian, then spoke quietly with her father, informing him of Mercy’s condition and prognosis. She felt Trevor watching her as he lounged in the doorway across the room, and glanced toward him. She fought the sudden inexplicable urge to lift her skirts, turn her back on the smirking earl, and sprint back up the stairs to the safety of her bedchamber. But remembering the way she had shrewishly raged at him at the Assembly Rooms, Grace felt, at the very least, she owed him an apology. After all, the accident truly had not been his fault, and he had merely tried to help.

  One brow raised in amusement, Trevor watched her surreptitiously glance in his direction and hesitate, biting her lower lip as if in indecision. He could easily read the direction of her thoughts, for the changing expressions on her candid face revealed nearly everything. She knew she owed him an apology for the way she had spoken to him, yet she remained angry with him for not letting her know right away the reason he had come to the dance, so she therefore felt that he also owed her an apology. Apparently she managed to sort it all out in her mind. She excused herself to her father and Sebastian, squared her shoulders as if to bolster herself for an unpleasant encounter, and began to walk toward Trevor, the former cloudy look on her face replaced with a gracious, apologetic smile.

  When she reached Trevor, she curtsied prettily, then extended him her hand, her face tilted up to his, her blue eyes sincere. “Please, my lord, can you forgive my earlier behavior? Mercy and I are very close, you see . . .” She left the sentence incomplete, her eyes turning grave at the thought of what might have happened to her young sister. He watched her swallow hard. “I just wanted to thank you for getting her home so quickly,” she finished with a small catch in her voice.

  The unshed tears that brimmed without shame in Grace Ackerly’s enormous eyes turned them from glittering sapphire to a startling, luminous turquoise. Usually a woman’s tears made Trevor feel one of two ways: annoyed when they were used as a manipulative tool by one of his mistresses, or very uncomfortable. Oddly, Grace’s tears inspired a far different reaction. He had the urge to gather her into his arms to try to soothe them away for her.

  “It was really Sebastian’s doing,” he said, checking the impulse. Instead, he smiled down at her tenderly. In his mind he bent his head over hers and took her troubled, upturned face between his hands, gently kissing her slightly parted lips until she trembled in his arms and forgot her worries. Grace looked suddenly uncomfortable, and the vision vanished. Trevor ruefully realized that, while he had fantasized about kissing her, he had kept her small hand warmly imprisoned within both of his. Reluctantly he released it, watching her reaction closely, as though observing some sort of wild, exotic bird he had just released, one that might flit fearfully away at any moment. Without removing his eyes from hers, he gestured toward the two large chairs near the fireplace in the room behind him. “Would you care to sit and talk with me for a moment?”

  Grace hesitated. She looked down at his burgundy-clad arm, then nodded slowly and placed her hand gingerly in the crook of his elbow.

  Such a distrustful little creature, Trevor thought as he escorted her to one of the comfortable chairs. He made certain she was properly settled before seating himself in the chair opposite. As he sat, he noticed, for the first time, the portrait that hung on the wall directly opposite the picture of Grace. He had not seen this one before because he had been so engrossed in Grace’s picture while Amity had described the rest to him. What he saw in that portrait made him grin widely, a sudden lazy smile that swept across his lips, making the rugged planes of his face almost boyishly charming.

  Grace saw him smile. Puzzled, she looked over her shoulder in the direction of his gaze, then back at Trevor quizzically. He gestured at the portrait of two identical girls with the now familiar curly red hair and laughing blue eyes. “That portrait answers quite a few questions,” he said, shaking his head with a low chuckle.

  “The portrait of Amity and Charity?” She raised a dubious eyebrow. “Whatever have they done now?” Amused tolerance softened her guarded features.

  He gave a short, sharp bark of laughter when she said their names. “I’ve been introduced to Amity, and found her quite delightful, but I find it rather hard to believe that somebody actually named that little spitfire Charity.” He shook his head, still laughing softly. “I gather she’s a bit more excitable than her twin?”

  Grace no
dded, smiling warmly at him, always happy to talk about the members of her family. “They’re nearly inseparable. Amity, who has a tendency to be quiet and withdrawn, seems to temper Charity’s impulsive streak, though she has been known to instigate a prank or two herself. Charity, as I believe you’ve discovered, is anything but withdrawn, though she does manage to keep Amity from constantly burying her nose in a book and isolating herself from the outside world.” She looked up fondly at the lone male portrait. “Amity is somewhat like Papa in that respect.”

  Trevor looked at her with gentle understanding. “Well,” he said, “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting them both, though separately, and at the time I had no idea that there were two of them. It does explain how Amity was able to change her dress and her attitude so quickly from when Sebastian and I first arrived.” Briefly, he described the reception they had received from Charity, and his subsequent conversation with Amity in this very room.

  Grace laughed. “I can see why you were confused! They’ve always enjoyed pulling the usual twin tricks on our friends and neighbors.” She looked into Trevor’s warm jade gaze and marveled at how comfortable she felt with him, curled up here in one of her father’s favorite chairs, cozily chatting with a perfect stranger just as though they had been friends for years. Deep inside, somewhere near the pit of her stomach, she felt the faint beginnings of a strange tingle as he returned her look. When his smiling eyes finally left hers and began skipping over the portraits once again, she felt free enough to allow her gaze to slowly wander over the amazing perfection of his features.

  His face in profile was ruggedly beautiful, a face that might have inspired Michelangelo himself. She felt odd tingles build within her until something in her chest suddenly lurched. She hastily dropped her gaze to the floor. He lounged in the chair, his Hessian-clad feet stretched before him, legs crossed negligently at the ankles, one foot leisurely flexing back and forth. Her eyes slowly traveled up long, muscular legs encased in chocolate breeches that needed no false padding to improve their shape. A long-fingered, aristocratic hand lay across his lap, the nails neatly trimmed and buffed. His hands and face, more deeply tanned than those of the few other men in his class she had seen, indicated he likely spent a great deal of his time outdoors, either hunting or riding. The notion pleased her. She generally thought of society gentlemen as lazy and wasteful, almost prissy in both their attire and methods of entertainment. Certainly Harry Thomas was so. Trevor Caldwell appeared to be an exception.

  Her gaze next wandered with admiration to his broad shoulders, his superbly tailored jacket of burgundy superfine fitting smoothly and perfectly over his crisp white linen shirt. Her composure now restored, she lifted her eyes once again to study his face. Her perusal skidded to an abrupt and immediate halt, her horrified gaze locked on his mouth.

  Trevor was smiling rakishly at her, his wide grin revealing even white teeth, startling in contrast to his tanned skin. With dread she forced herself to look into his eyes, a rosy blush spreading hotly across her cheeks despite her frantic attempts to appear cool and unruffled. As she feared, his mocking eyes locked on hers with a look she had never seen, a look that told her he liked the way she inspected him, and that he was now thoroughly enjoying her embarrassment. Stubbornly refusing to allow him to intimidate her, Grace raised her small chin a notch and stared back at him, her embarrassment melting away into defensive antagonism.

  Regretfully, knowing the few friendly moments of shared warmth between them were now gone, Trevor wisely decided to retreat to the relative safety of polite conversation. “You found Mercy quite recovered, I hope?” he asked in a deliberately neutral tone intended to defuse Grace’s ire.

  Greatly relieved that he appeared content to let her brazen inspection of him pass without comment, Grace managed to quell her anger. She nodded hesitantly. “She certainly seemed quite happy with all the fawning attention she’s receiving.” She lapsed into an awkward silence, then cleared her throat delicately, rather uncomfortable with what she wished to say next. “I wanted to thank you, my lord, not only for your help with Mercy, but also for what you did for me at the dance this evening.” She paused awkwardly, chewing on her lower lip, as she often did when she felt ill at ease about something.“You know . . . with Harry.”

  Trevor lifted a shoulder in a small shrug eloquent in its negligence. “Please,” he said. “Think nothing of it.”

  Sebastian appeared in the doorway. Grace rose quickly to her feet, her relief at being rescued from the awkward situation glaringly evident on her expressive face. Trevor also stood, taking the hand she offered and pressing it briefly to his lips. Unnerved by the sudden rush of sensation she felt when his lips softly brushed the back of her hand, Grace hastily pulled it away, then blurted out the first inane thought that entered her mind. “Did I also apologize to you for my earlier rudeness?” Instantly she felt like kicking herself. Her voice sounded breathless, awed and quite completely foreign, she thought in disgust.

  Trevor reached out, lifted her chin with one long, aristocratic finger, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Again,” he said, his low tone reminding her of sun-warmed honey, “think nothing of it.” Her heart began to beat wildly as he slowly leaned in closer, his cheek next to hers. He lowered his voice still more to a whisper. “In fact, my dear, I rather enjoyed your close examination of my person,” he said. His warm breath against her ear sent sudden chills skittering down her spine.

  When the full import of his words finally hit her, her mouth dropped open. Trevor grinned, then straightened and strolled across the room toward Sebastian without a backward glance.

  “My lord!” Her voice rang out much more loudly than she had intended.

  Trevor turned, his dark brows raised expectantly.

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” she said, her small chin jutting out defensively.

  Trevor smiled. “I know,” he said softly, then turned and walked from the room with Sebastian, leaving Grace standing stiffly beside her chair. She fumed at first, and then, after a moment, reluctantly smiled to herself. After all, she had been staring.

  At Bingham Ackerly’s insistence, they enjoyed a late supper. He invited the duke and the earl to stay at the Ackerly home rather than returning, at such a late hour, to the village inn, where neither the accommodations nor the repast would have been nearly as agreeable. They spent a pleasant hour at the table, especially enjoyed by Trevor, who had never had the experience of dining on good, simple fare with a large, loving family. He sat quietly, content to watch the sisters and their father pass plates of food to one another, laughing now and then at something somebody said, enjoying the good-natured banter that came easily to a family well used to communicating with one another. He found himself comparing this rather simple existence to the opulent manner in which he had grown up, and wondered which family he would describe as the richer.

  Now, as he lay in his borrowed bed, staring through the inky darkness in the general direction of the ceiling, his thoughts once again centered on the amazing and self-possessed young lady whose fiery personality, although at such complete odds with her demure name, quite matched her glorious hair. “Grace,” he whispered to himself, and decided he liked the way her name sounded as it rolled off his tongue. His lips curved in a fond smile as his mind’s eye passed again over her vibrant features.

  Her portrait did her no justice, he thought, sniffing disdainfully at the artist’s obvious lack of talent. Although the rendering accurately depicted her features, it did not in any way capture her essence. In the space of a single evening, he had seen her large, expressive blue eyes reflect her changing emotions like very windows into her soul. One moment they darkened furiously in speechless anger; the next they sparkled with easy laughter. One moment they were shining brightly with gratitude; the next they clouded to a stormy blue-gray in frustration.

  Tonight she had worn her hair pulled back in a sedate chignon, a style a bit out of character and somewhat confining for someone of Grace’s spir
ited temperament. It would look much better unbound, he thought sleepily, exactly the way she had worn it in her portrait. Just as it would look spread in a blazing fan across his pillows, he added to himself as sleep finally claimed him. He dreamed pleasantly of burying his face in those flaming tresses.

  A few doors down the hall, Grace lay sleepless in her bed. She pondered, with rapidly growing dismay, the various unwelcome reactions she’d had to nearly everything Lord Caldwell had said or done over the course of the evening.

  For much of the past nine months, she had eluded the unwanted bonds of marriage to Sir Harry Thomas by the simple measure of avoiding the self-important knight as much as possible. When she could not manage to evade his notice, she kept him, both mentally and physically, at arm’s length. She had no intention of marrying anybody, most especially not Harry Thomas. Having already reached her twentieth birthday, she knew society considered her well past the age at which most girls of her class should have settled down.

  From what Grace had seen of marriage within the limited circle of her small world, the institution held no attraction for her. The world, she had noticed, expected nothing more from women than that they be submissive, demure brood mares, allowed absolutely no rights or even opinions of their own. Grace knew she would almost certainly stagnate under such wretched restrictions. She thought of the long, heart-pounding, full-out galloping rides she regularly took on her favorite mare, and of the pleasant philosophical conversations she often held with her father over a rousing game of chess, chats that lasted until late in the evening, long after everyone else had retired. She could not imagine any of the gentlemen of her acquaintance actually deigning to spend time engaged in good-natured banter with her over the latest Parliament decisions reported in the slightly outdated London papers they regularly received in Pelthamshire.