“—that I never misled you about anything other than the situation with your father and the motivation for our marriage.”
“Do not start this again, Jack.”
“And have you imagining that every other word I utter is an untruth? That you can’t even believe me when I give you a simple compliment? What has become of our truce?”
“Our truce remains intact. However, that’s all it is—a truce, not a surrender. You ask too much of me if you think otherwise.”
“And you ask too little of yourself if you assume any praise I might offer you to be false. What reason would I have to lie about such a thing? What could I possibly hope to gain when, by your measure, I already have everything I want?”
His words sank in as she considered them, realizing that he did have everything he wanted. He even had her in his bed, as often as he liked, so why would he need to compliment her out of hand?
In the next moment, she acknowledged the underlying problem. She realized that learning of his bargain with her father had destroyed more than her trust in him; it had undermined her faith in herself as well. For a time, when she’d been happy during their engagement, she’d let her old insecurities go. But they’d come back more strongly than ever once she’d discovered the truth. Yet maybe he was right and she was being unkind to herself. Maybe it was time to lay those particular demons to rest once and for all.
“Very well,” she conceded. “In future, I shall attempt not to ascribe ulterior motives to any compliment you may choose to give me. If you say I look pretty in a particular colour, then I look pretty.”
“Beautiful,” he murmured gently. “You look beautiful.”
Her skin warmed, finding herself pleased in spite of her best efforts not to be.
“Now, was that so dreadful?” he asked, stepping forward to take her in his arms.
“Only somewhat dreadful,” she replied.
A laugh rumbled from his chest. Still laughing, he bent his head and kissed her.
Sighing with a delight she couldn’t deny, she closed her eyes and let him take her deeper. Before she knew it, he was waltzing her backward toward the bed. They came down on the mattress swathed in a mass of winter wool.
Still plundering her mouth in a way that made her pulse race, he began unfastening the buttons of the pelisse he’d only recently fastened with such dedication.
“Didn’t you say the coach is waiting?” she asked with a breathless catch in her voice.
“Let it wait.”
“What about the horses? Won’t they be awfully restive?”
“Not as restive as I will be if I don’t have you.” The garment now open, he went to work on her skirts, pushing her heavy traveling gown and petticoats to her waist. “Now, you were saying?” he asked, as he stroked a hand up her inner thigh.
Reaching down to help him unbutton his falls, she smiled. “Nothing. I wasn’t saying a thing.”
London was the same, and yet to Grace the city felt completely different, strangely askew and just a bit foreign. During her first month’s residency at the town house on Upper Brook Street, she attributed the sensation to the fact that everything was new.
New house.
New neighbourhood.
New servants.
Not to mention a new husband with whom she was trying to find a tolerable balance.
But as she gradually began to adjust, she realized that her discomfort stemmed from more than ordinary change and the tenuous nature of her relationship with Jack. Instead, it came from the fact that her entire life was different now. Her old existence, for good or ill, was gone forever. She was alone in a new world, and striving each day to make it her own.
Huffing out a breath, she gazed at the small cluster of cards Jack’s butler—her butler—had carried into the drawing room for her perusal. The cards had started arriving by messenger a few days ago—invitations that she had no real idea how to answer.
Jack was little help, telling her to accept the ones she liked and toss the rest into the fire. But therein lay her dilemma. She didn’t know one from the other, since the invitations were all from strangers. Strangers, at least, to her.
She’d just finished opening the newest arrivals and was preparing to add them to the growing stack of unanswered invitations she kept in a box on her writing desk when she heard someone enter the room.
“I told Appleton not to bother announcing us,” declared Mallory Byron’s lilting voice. “It would be silly, I thought, considering we’re family. Poor man seemed so vastly disappointed, though, that I almost let him do it. But in the end, I just couldn’t bear the formality.”
Grace spun around, a smile spreading instantly over her lips. “Mallory! Your Grace!…I mean Mama! And Esme!” she added, noticing the willowy young girl standing just behind her mother. “What are you doing here? I had no idea you were even in the city.”
“We weren’t, not until last night.” The dowager duchess walked forward, as elegant and lovely as always in an afternoon gown of puce silk. “We’d had enough of the country and decided to come to Town. I hope we’re not intruding on you newlyweds too soon. We don’t want to be a bother.”
Grace shook her head. “Of course you’re not a bother. Any of you.”
“Then come and give me a hug.”
Hurrying forward, Grace let herself be wrapped in the dowager’s maternal arms, gladder to see her than she would have imagined possible. She and Mallory shared an embrace next, then Esme, all of them smiling at each other once they were done.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” Grace said. “Let me ring for tea.”
“That would be lovely, dear,” the dowager said, as she crossed to take a seat on the sofa. Mallory followed to do the same, while Esme ran in a flash of skirts to the far side of the room, where she perched on the window seat in a patch of sun. Grace smiled as she saw her withdraw a piece of paper and a pencil from her pocket and begin to sketch.
“So, is Jack home?” Ava said, drawing Grace’s attention back to her and Mallory.
“Um, no,” Grace replied. “I’m afraid he’s out.”
She decided not to say more, hoping they wouldn’t ask where he was, since she hadn’t the faintest idea. Jack shared little information about his activities outside the house, and she made a point not to ask.
“Ah, well, I’m sure we shall see him soon,” the dowager continued. “Besides, his absence will give us ladies more time to talk. Are those invitations, I see?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’d think they could give you and Jack a little more time alone before importuning you both, especially considering the fact that the Season doesn’t begin for some weeks yet. Still, I’m sure every Society matron worth her salt is dying to make your acquaintance.”
Grace felt tiny lines gather on her forehead. “You mean Jack’s acquaintance.”
Her mother-in-law smiled. “No, I mean yours, dear. Everyone already knows Jack.”
Oh, mercy.
Grace gulped, her nerves tightening into a knot in her stomach.
Just then, a housemaid arrived with the tea, momentarily diverting everyone’s attention. The dowager poured, while Grace handed around plates of biscuits. She took a moment to add an extra gingersnap to Esme’s portion, since she knew the girl had a fondness for the spicy treat. Esme’s eyes twinkled, her smile wide as she took the plate.
The four of them ate and sipped for a few minutes, talking of mostly inconsequential subjects.
At length, the dowager set her cup aside, while her youngest daughter drifted back across the room. “So which ones have you answered?”
“Which ones—? Oh, of the invitations.”
Ava cast an idle glance toward the little stack of cards on the side table, her gaze pausing for a long moment on a cream-coloured vellum card with several lines of the spidery black handwriting scratched across its surface. “Hmm.”
Grace noted the sound. “Your pardon, is there something wrong with that one?�
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The dowager gave a little shake of her head. “No, of course not, child. These matters are up to you to decide as Jack’s wife. I don’t wish to interfere.”
For a moment, Grace worried a fingernail between her teeth, then plunged ahead. “Actually, I’d really rather that you did interfere,” she said, sending a hopeful look toward the dowager and Mallory. “These have been arriving for days now, and I haven’t the faintest clue how to respond.”
Ava looked momentarily surprised, then her face relaxed. “I would be delighted to aid you, but only if you’re sure.”
“I’m very sure,” Grace sighed, relief sweeping through her. “Here, let me get the rest.”
The dowager and Mallory laughed when they saw the stack she retrieved. “Good heavens, all those? You poor dear, no wonder you’re overwhelmed. Here, lay them all down and we’ll be through them in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
And so the sorting began, Ava dividing the cards into “yes’s,” “no’s” and “probably no’s.”
The dowager was down to the last of two invitations when she stiffened, her fingers tightening briefly against a card written in an elegant, flowing and obviously feminine hand. “Of all the nerve,” she muttered under her breath. Firmly and without hesitation, she transferred the card into the “no” pile.
Curious now, Grace couldn’t help but glance at the name, reading it upside down.
Philipa, Lady Stockton
“Why does Lady Stockton go in the ‘no’ pile?” she asked.
Her mother-in-law met her gaze for a long moment before looking away. “Because that is where she belongs. Now, don’t concern yourself over her further. Although should you happen to encounter her over the course of the Season, I suggest you avoid her—politely, of course.”
“I see.” But Grace didn’t see, not at all. “Is she so very dreadful then?”
The dowager paused. “No, not in the way you mean. She is good Ton. A very beautiful widow, who’s received in all the best houses. It’s just that…well, I’ve said more than enough.”
But she hasn’t said enough at all.
“Perhaps it would help if I knew why I should avoid her,” Grace suggested.
Ava paused again and said nothing.
Mallory met Grace’s gaze, knowledge alive in her eyes. With a quick glance toward her little sister, who was occupied sketching across the room, she leaned forward. “It’s because she and Jack used to be involved,” she whispered.
“Mallory!” her mother scolded.
“Well, you’ve gotten her all curious now,” Mallory replied, turning toward the dowager. “Besides, someone is bound to tell her. Better she hear it from us rather than letting some mean-spirited tattle monger take delight.”
Her mother scowled. “You, young lady, aren’t even supposed to know about such matters.”
“There are a great many things I am not supposed to know. Even so, I have ears and a brain, do I not?”
“Obviously too many of both,” remarked her aggrieved mother.
“So when you say involved,” Grace interrupted, “you mean she is his—”
“Mistress, yes,” Mallory whispered. “Oh, but she’s not anymore. Jack ended it with her before he began courting you. So you mustn’t be angry with him.”
Mustn’t? She thought.
Still, she had so many things to be angry with Jack over these days, what was one more? Actually, the fact that he’d had a beautiful widow for his mistress didn’t surprise her. Grace was well aware that she was far from the first woman to be his lover. Why, knowing Jack, the city was probably littered with his former bed mates.
Her stomach rolled suddenly, making her wish she hadn’t eaten that last biscuit with her tea. The reaction had nothing to do with what she’d just discovered, though, she assured herself. It’s not that she minded his having former mistresses, it’s just that she didn’t particularly want to know about them. Certainly not by name!
Mallory and Ava sent her suddenly concerned looks.
She forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I shan’t be angry. With either of you or Jack.”
Both women visibly relaxed.
“You know, I rather suspect Philipa Stockton is only curious about you,” Ava stated in a soothing tone, “despite her astonishing audacity in issuing the invitation in the first place.”
“Well, she can stay curious.” Leaning over, Grace picked up the card. With an efficient movement, she ripped the fancy paper neatly in two. “This one is most definitely a ‘no.’ Now, are we back to the ‘probably no’s?’ How shall we decide?”
* * *
CHAPTER 21
“My apologies, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I cannot stay.” Jack set down his half-filled whiskey glass and prepared to rise from the eminently comfortable chair in which he’d been relaxing for the past two hours. Arranged around him in various other chairs inside the male-only environs of Brooks’s Club sat a few of his friends.
A roar of complaint issued from their ranks at his pronouncement.
“Come now, Jack,” Niall Faversham said. “Surely you can spare a bit more time. It’s barely evening.”
“Exactly. It is evening and I need to get home.”
“What he means,” quipped Lord Howland as he slung a leisurely arm over the back of his chair, “is that he’s expected home. Scarcely two months married and already he’s been trained to obey the cat’s paw.”
Scowling, Jack rose to his feet. “Don’t be stupid. I have a hot dinner and a warm fire waiting for me. I plan to enjoy them both in the comfort of my own residence.”
“You can enjoy a hot dinner and a warm fire right here,” drawled Tony Black, Duke of Wyvern. “You don’t need to go home for either of those.”
Adam, Lord Gresham, broke his silence. “Ah, but Brooks’s Club doesn’t offer the companionship of a lovely wife, now, does it? Nor the opportunity to take her upstairs after that hot supper is done. If I had what Byron does, I’d be going home now too.”
Since none of the men could disagree, they gave up their attempts at further persuasion.
Jack accepted the easy escape and said his good-byes.
Leaving the club, he climbed into his coach and told the driver to take him home. As Gresham had pointed out, he did have a lovely wife at home. What he didn’t know is whether she would be joining him for dinner or not.
Since arriving in Town, a new distance had arisen between them. At first he’d made an effort to escort her out for a few amusements. But she’d lived her entire life in London, so the customary diversions seemed largely to fall flat. They still took the occasional meal together, but during the day she was usually busy establishing the domestic routine of the house, while he occupied himself much as he had always done, with one important exception. He’d stopped playing cards for profit.
The money from Grace’s father had given him the kind of financial stability he’d never known before. True, he hadn’t lacked for the necessities, even without his gaming money, but now he no longer had to worry over every gold guinea that came and went from his pocket.
Even better, he was able to invest. If he listened to the sound advice of men like his father-in-law, and applied a measure of prudent management, his income should remain steady—or even increase—in the years to come.
And so ended the necessity of gaming for extra funds. Now when he played cards, it was strictly for fun, and never for anything but modest stakes. If the rumour was spreading that marriage was turning “Bad Jack Byron” dull, well, he could tolerate the remarks.
Of course there would be far more negative rumours and remarks if Grace went through with her plan to leave him at the end of the Season. Determined, however, to honour their agreement, he’d taken action to fulfil the terms of their secret addendum to the settlement not long after reaching Town.
Tucked safely now into a separate account at the Bank of England was Grace’s promised sixty thousand pounds—structured so that only she would have control of t
he funds. And tomorrow he had an appointment to meet with a land agent who would search for a comfortable house in the country that he hoped would meet all of Grace’s requirements.
As for her decision to separate permanently? Well, he would see how she felt a few months from now. He supposed he would see how he felt as well.
Arriving at the town house, he strode up the front steps, then inside.
“Good evening, your lordship,” Appleton greeted, accepting Jack’s coat and hat. “Raw night outside, if I may say.”
“It is indeed,” Jack agreed, thinking not only of the cold, damp night air but of the atmosphere inside the house as well. Depending on what Appleton revealed, he would see exactly how chilly it was bound to be.
“Is her ladyship about?” he asked.
“Milady is above stairs. I believe she called for a tray in her room about an hour since. Shall I send word to her of your arrival?”
Jack restrained a sigh. “No. Have a meal brought to my study, along with a bottle of burgundy. The ’92, I believe.”
“Right away, my lord.”
Jack strode away, releasing the sigh still trapped in his chest the moment the servant was too far away to hear. Entering his study, he took care not to slam the door.
Grace awakened to the sensation of the mattress dipping at her back. Only partially conscious, she knew Jack had joined her, his warmth and the wonderful scent of his skin enveloping her only seconds before his arms did the same.
Lying on her side, too drowsy to speak, she didn’t bother to open her eyes. Used now to the frequency of his possessions, she let him touch her as he pleased, his broad hands sliding beneath her nightgown to caress her with long, sweeping strokes that soon pulled a moan from her lips.
No matter how often he took her, she never got used to the sheer beauty of his touch—each time a new first, every encounter better than the one that had come before.
She tried to turn then, wanting his mouth on hers. Instead he held her in place with an arm draped across her stomach, one of her breasts cradled in his palm. Finessing the tip until it drew up into a tight, aching peak, he moved on to her other breast to play there with tantalizing purpose.
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