Honor laughed and waved her hand dismissively. “None of it matters now. But why did you let him propose if you wanted her yourself?”
“I was a fool,” he said simply.
She shook her head in wonderment. “How marvelous. He’ll still feel terrible, of course. He feels he’s done her and you a great wrong.”
“Honor, I’d already made up my mind to come home and fight for her before I got Rupert’s letter. So you see, I meant to steal his fiancée first. That makes us even, I suppose.”
She laughed lightly. “You’re a beast, Julian. Go to France and get her. I like her tremendously and if we can get past all this stealing-fiancées business, I think we could all be great friends.”
“I think so, too.”
“Won’t that set everyone talking?”
“Let them talk. I no longer care what anyone has to say about me.”
“How wonderful for you.” Then her expression sobered. “But I’m afraid marrying Grace will only confirm what the gossips have been saying. This might put the housing works in danger. You’ll have a hard time getting support in Lords with this attached to you.”
He nodded ruefully. He found it was his only remaining regret. With this sort of salacious gossip swirling around his name, he was not the man to lead this cause, at least, not at present. “I know. I’ve done some thinking about that. Perhaps someone else should fight the battle in my stead.”
“Who do you mean?”
He gave her a significant look.
Honor burst into laughter. “Surely you don’t mean Rupert? Julian, I love him, but he doesn’t have the slightest inclination toward politics. He’d be miserable, spending all his time trying to make alliances.”
“I wasn’t talking about Rupert. I was talking about you.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“Honor, it was your passion which drew me into the cause in the first place. No one knows better the problems these people are facing, and what they need. You don’t have a seat in Lords, but your father does. He was prepared to help me. Make him help you instead. All these years I thought you’d make the perfect political wife, but I think I was wrong. You’d make a perfect politician. You’re so good at bringing people together. I’ll still provide the funds, if you can do the rest.”
“I’ve never...” she murmured slowly, eyes going wide. “Julian, do you honestly think I could do it?”
“Honor, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you in all our years of friendship, it’s that you accomplish anything you set your mind to. Will you set your mind to this? For me? I might not come back to London for some time, and I’ll rest easier knowing you’re carrying on our work.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”
“Then you’re sure to succeed.”
“Oh, stop. You’re making me cry. I should go and put dear Rupert out of his misery. I’m sure he’ll be pounding down your door within an hour.”
“Tell him it will have to wait. I only came back for Grace. I was about to go see her when you called. Now it seems I’m leaving for France. I hope to be gone within the hour.”
Honor clasped her hands to her mouth, suppressing a squeal of delight. “We won’t keep you, then. It can wait until you’ve returned.”
“Thank you, Honor. And congratulations on your marriage. I truly wish you both every happiness.”
“Thank you. And I wish the same for you. No matter what your happiness looks like.”
* * *
It took half an hour of persuasion, the significant wielding of his title, and in the end, a tidy bribe, but eventually Julian convinced the desk agent of the Hôtel Victoire in Menton to provide him with the Dowager Countess of Marlbury’s suite number.
A thousand possible things he might say to Grace ran through his mind as he climbed the wide, plushly carpeted stairs. By the time he found himself at the door to the dowager’s suite, nothing had come to him. Surely his presence would be enough. She’d know why he’d come and what he wanted as soon as she saw him.
His mind was so full of Grace—her calm, intelligent face, her clear gray eyes, her sable hair—he was momentarily shocked when it wasn’t her who answered the door. It was Frederick Musgrave. Shock immediately gave way to rage. He’d had no idea Frederick had followed his grandmother to France once again, but the man’s motivations for doing so could not be good.
Frederick did a double take, his bushy blond eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
“Knighton? What in blazes are you doing here?”
Julian schooled his face into its usual icy reserve. “I’m looking for Miss Godwyn. Is she in?”
“You want Grace? Whatever for?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t refer to her so casually.” Julian’s voice dropped to a low, warning timbre Frederick missed entirely.
“Didn’t realize the two of you were acquainted. Thinking of having a go at her yourself?”
“Musgrave—”
“I’d leave off if I were you. The little arrogant baggage refused my generous offer. She’s a right frigid bitch, that one is, and—”
Frederick was abruptly cut off by Julian’s fist impacting firmly with his face.
“What the bloody hell?” Frederick staggered back, clutching his nose, which was bleeding and likely broken. That was immensely satisfying. Julian had wanted an excuse to pummel Frederick Musgrave since school, and to do so on Grace’s behalf fulfilled a deep, primal need. He smirked as Frederick cursed and spat blood.
“I told you not to speak of her that way, Musgrave. She’s a lady and you’d do well to remember it.”
Straightening and mopping at his nose with his handkerchief, Frederick eyed him sullenly. “What business is she of yours, you blighter?”
“I expect very soon to marry her. So you see, she’ll be Lady Knighton to you, or nothing. Do you understand me?”
In spite of his swelling and bloody nose, Frederick sputtered in laughter. “You can’t be serious. You’re going to marry that—”
“Ah ah.” Julian held up a finger to shut him up. “Be careful what you say next, Musgrave.”
“She’s worthless, Knighton. You can’t mean it.”
Rage swelled up in Julian, overtaking every bit of good breeding and years of carefully cultivated self-control. He lunged forward, grasping a fistful of Frederick’s shirt and necktie, lifting until Frederick’s toes barely touched the ground. Frederick coughed, his face mottling red. “Grace Godwyn is worth twenty of you, you worthless piece of shit. You’re not fit to kiss her hand. Don’t you ever come near her again or I’ll finish doing to you what I’m imagining right now. Are we clear?”
Frederick hesitated, but narrowed his eyes and nodded. Julian released him, shoving him back so that he stumbled and fell. He stood over him, hands fisted, glowering down at him, full of rage and wildness.
“Now just tell me where she is.”
“I have no idea.”
“Leave off your lies, Musgrave. She’s a guest of your grandmother. Where are they?”
Frederick was still rubbing at his neck, tugging at his collar. “She left. Nearly a month ago.”
Julian’s heart stumbled. “Left? By herself? Where did she go?”
“No idea. She said she had a job and sailed out of here like a queen instead of a servant, which—” Frederick abruptly cut himself off, wisely choosing not to give voice to that thought.
“She’s got a job,” Julian echoed in disbelief.
“That’s what she said.”
“Think hard, Musgrave. You must have some idea where she’s gone.”
“She had her trunk sent after her,” Frederick said after a minute. “So the hotel must have her direction.”
Julian raked a hand through his hair. It
was something. Hopefully someone remembered where Grace’s trunk had been delivered. He cast a disgusted glance at Frederick, sitting up on the floor. He could easily guess what had driven Grace from the safety of the dowager’s protection.
“If anything’s happened to her, Musgrave,” he growled. “I’m coming back here, and I will tear you limb from limb, and I will relish every moment of it.”
Frederick blanched and held up his hands in defense. Julian didn’t waste another moment on the louse. Grace was somewhere out in the world alone and he had to find her.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was shaping up to be an excellent day. This morning, shortly after Grace had opened the gallery, a young Scottish couple on their honeymoon had strolled in and left half an hour later with a landscape by Signac. Now an elderly baron with whom she’d been discussing the Cézanne seemed very close to purchasing the work. Two sales in one day, especially in the summer, which Madame Duvernay said was dreadful for business, would be quite remarkable.
“I do rather like the composition,” the baron mused, running his fingers over his moustache.
“We’re fortunate to have this piece. Cézanne is one of the finest painters currently working in France,” Grace said, not pushing, only stating. It was the technique she’d found worked best. She dealt with the customers not as if she was an employee of the gallery, but as if she was just another art lover, discussing a great work. They often made up their mind to buy without her even suggesting it. “His color palette so perfectly captures the countryside in the South of France, don’t you think?”
“It would be a nice souvenir to bring Lady Fitz-Herbert.”
“I’m sure she’d love it.”
“Very well, then. I’ll take it.”
She quietly, discreetly exhaled, lips curled to restrain her grin of delight. “Very good, Lord Fitz-Herbert. If you’ll step right over here, I can arrange for delivery.”
Flushed with pride, her pulse was singing in her veins as she slipped behind the counter. Madame Duvernay, sitting quietly in the corner, winked at her through her cigarette smoke.
“If you’ll just write down your hotel information, Lord Fitz-Herbert, I can have the piece delivered this afternoon.”
“Lady Fitz-Herbert will fuss at me for bringing home another painting,” the baron said, scribbling down his details. “But I think she secretly loves it.”
“I’m sure she does.” Grace looked up to smile at him, but it died on her lips. The blood drained away from her face and she froze in place.
Julian was standing just inside the door of the gallery.
In the back of her mind, she’d been half expecting him. When he finally returned home and heard about Honor and Rupert, his sense of honor would likely compel him to seek her out and make the offer he thought he should. He was too righteous to do otherwise. But thinking he might one day come was not the same thing as seeing him here, standing in her gallery.
There was something different about him. He was as handsome as ever, but his black hair was a bit too long and windblown. The hollows under his cheekbones were a little more pronounced, and those eyes, always so intent and vital, nearly jumped out of his face now.
It was afternoon, and the sun was blinding white outside. Standing in the doorway, he blinked and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darker interior. Then his gaze locked on hers and her heart nearly stopped.
“There,” the baron said, sliding the card back across the counter, unaware of the crackling tension suddenly filling the air. “I believe everything is in order.”
Grace’s hand shook as she took it. She stared at the words on the card and tried to make sense of them, but it was impossible with Julian’s gaze still on her, burning her everywhere it touched.
“Y-yes, I believe that’s everything we need.”
“Well, then,” the baron said, and then he trailed off when Grace said nothing else.
Madame Duvernay leapt into the conversation. “Merci, Lord Fitz—Herbert,” she said in her thick accent, making a hash of the baron’s surname. “We hope you enjoy the painting very much. Bonjour!”
“Thank you and good afternoon,” he said, turning to go. As he passed Julian, he smiled and nodded to him, but Julian made no response. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Grace since he’d come into the shop.
As the customer left, she finally found her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I came for you,” he said, simply and without elaboration, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be standing in her gallery in Menton.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t easy.” His right hand flexed at his side, drawing her eyes to it. His knuckles were red and swollen. He was hurt.
“What happened to you?”
“There was a little incident involving my fist and Frederick Musgrave’s face.”
Julian had punched Frederick? Oh, how she wished she’d been there to see that. She fought to suppress a grin. “I’m sure he deserved it.”
“He most certainly did.” Julian looked to be fighting his own smile. Then he let out a harsh exhale and dragged his good hand through his hair. A few long strides brought him across the shop, to within a few feet of her. “My God,” he breathed. “It’s good to see you, Grace—”
From the moment he’d walked in, they’d been the only two people in the room. But now Julian stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting to Madame Duvernay. She was smoking her cigarette and watching them in rapt fascination. “Do go on,” she said, grinning and waving her cigarette.
Grace cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should find a quiet place to talk.”
Madame Duvernay looked disappointed, but she waved her hand. “Fine, go on. You sold two paintings today. You can take the rest of the day off.” Her lascivious gaze ran down Julian, from his head to his toes, and she smirked. “Use it wisely, ma chérie.”
Grace rolled her eyes and slid from behind the counter. Julian’s eyes fixed on her as she moved closer to him. His whole body seemed wound tight, like he might spring at her at any moment. As she passed him and he turned to follow her, he reached out to brush his fingers against the side of her hand, just a ghost of a caress. It was enough to send a shock through her entire body. She jumped, and he scowled. “Grace—”
“Come with me,” she said, moving past him before he could say anything else, or—God forbid—touch her again.
She led him out of the gallery and down the narrow street to another building a few hundred yards away. Turning through the archway, they passed into the cool, shadowed passage leading to the tiny courtyard behind the building. All the muscles in her back and neck had gone tight, knowing he was right behind her. She could feel his gaze on her, hotter than the midday sun overhead.
Glancing back at him, she motioned to a doorway in the back of the building opening onto a dark hallway.
“My flat is this way.”
Julian jerked to a stop. “Your flat?”
“Yes, Madame Duvernay helped me find it. Her friend, Madame Bayard, owns the building.”
“And you live here alone?” He looked up at the building in shock. Just as she had a month ago when Madame Duvernay had brought her here. But since she’d moved in, all that had changed.
“Of course alone. Who else would be with me? We can talk privately here.”
Julian glanced around, even though they were alone in the courtyard. “Won’t that... I mean, to have a gentleman in your rooms...”
Grace waved her hand dismissively. “This is the South of France. No one cares about that sort of thing.” No one cared about anything here, and it was wonderful. She had shucked off the mantle of respectability and starched English propriety like a wool winter coat which had become inappropriate for the summer heat. It was delightfully freeing. The onl
y reason her landlady would care about a gentleman caller in her rooms was if Grace failed to pass on all the salacious details. Madame Bayard might be eighty, but she was a terrible gossip.
Julian still looked uneasy, but when she went inside, he followed. A long hall ran the length of the building, ending in a narrow flight of stairs. There was no lamp in the stairwell; the only light came from a small window on the ground level. By the time Grace reached the tiny landing outside her door, it was almost entirely dark. As she did every day, she had to fumble in her reticule for the key, searching for it by feel. In the close, dark stairwell, she could hear every breath Julian took as if he were shouting. Her own breaths grew heavy. Her fingers were clumsy with nerves, which made finding the key next to impossible.
Just as her fingers closed around the cool brass, his hand landed on her waist. The weight of it felt like a brand, searing her skin through her clothes. She sucked in a breath and turned to face him. He was only a step below her, making their faces level. And he was close, so very close. Even in the near darkness, she could see the spark of desire in his eyes. She could feel it, radiating off his skin and warming her body all over. He took another step up until he was looming over her in the dark. His free hand came up to cradle her face.
“Grace...” he whispered against her lips, and then he was kissing her.
It never occurred to her not to kiss him back. Her fragile defenses, all her rational plans, burnt up and blew away. The key and reticule fell forgotten to the floor as she twined her arms around his neck, and pushed up to her toes to get closer to him.
It was the kiss of a starving man collapsing at a table overflowing with a feast. His lips urged hers open, and when she complied, his tongue swept in, tasting her, stroking hers. Grace moaned, a soft sound that never got farther than her throat before he took it in and made it his own. Oh, it felt good to kiss him again. Like taking in great lungfuls of air when one had been underwater for too long. His kiss was life, flooding back into her body.
“Grace,” he murmured, breaking away from her mouth. His fingers caressed the back of her neck as his arm slipped around her waist, holding her tight to his body. He kissed the edge of her jaw just in front of her ear and whispered, “The first time I kissed you, it was in the dark, in Menton, just like this. I was wrong to let you run away from me.”
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 23