Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  Saying a prayer that Mama would be reasonable, Grace tapped lightly and let herself in to the amazing reptilian creation her parent found delightful.

  “Mama,” Grace whispered urgently, slipping across the room to light a candle beside the bed. “Mama, please wake up. It’s me, Grace.”

  In sleep, her mother’s face was as smooth as a girl’s. Her frilled nightcap and lace-trimmed white nightrail added to an air of innocence that seemed absurd for a woman slumbering in a bed encrusted with many-headed gilt lizards.

  Grace touched a soft shoulder. “Mama! You have to wake up now.”

  “Mm?” Blanche Wren’s eyes opened a fraction. “What are you shouting about, Grace? Do go to sleep, there’s a good girl.”

  Bracing for a tirade, Grace grasped the bedcovers and yanked them down.

  “Oh!”

  Grace pressed a hand over her mother’s mouth and whispered urgently, “Be quiet, Mama. Be quiet and listen to me carefully.”

  Mama mumbled and shoved Grace’s hand away, but she kept her voice down. “It’s the middle of the night, you ungrateful girl. You know how I suffer if I don’t sleep long enough.”

  “You will not be sleeping until noon today,” Grace said.

  “I most certainly shall. Really, what would your dear papa say if he could see how you treat me? Nothing can be so important that it cannot wait until a civilized hour of the day.”

  “Please get up and dress.”

  “I shall do no such thing.” With that Blanche struggled to pull her covers back in place.

  Grace held them where they were. “You are to do as I tell you—please, Mama.”

  “Ooh, this is too much. I thought by now you’d be a marchioness and we’d be settled and confident of our position. Instead you behave like the featherbrained creature you are and cannot even manage to see your husband-to-be.”

  Sleepiness invariably made Mama difficult.

  “I know you are unhappy, Grace,” Mama said. “And I know you think you should be comforted. But my need for comfort is greater. I was left alone to raise a daughter. Something that should not happen to any delicate woman. A son would have been such a joy and a comfort, but—”

  “We are leaving Kirkcaldy.”

  “Do not interrupt me.”

  “I am not marrying the marquess. We are packing immediately and leaving Kirkcaldy at the first sign of morning—which will be very soon.”

  Mama slowly hoisted herself to sit up. Her blue eyes opened wide and she leaned toward Grace. “I think I’ve been having a nightmare. I’m definitely not thinking quite properly. I thought you said we were leaving the castle.”

  “We are.”

  “I thought ... No, we’re not. What can you be thinking of?” She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. “And where exactly were you last evening when you should have been meeting your new relatives?”

  “I have no new relatives.”

  “You most definitely do. They are Sir Mortimer Cuthbert and his wife, Lady Cuthbert. Her given name is Theodora and she is most impressive.”

  “These people are of no interest to me.”

  “Yes, they are,” Blanche said, her voice rising. “They are the marquess’s relatives. Sir Mortimer is his cousin. His only cousin. And then there is a rather flashy creature called Mrs. Melony Pincham. She’s a widow. I don’t suppose she’s really related to the marquess except that her sister is married to his cousin. She wears too many jewels and talks too much. And she expects everyone to listen to her but never to have to listen to anyone else herself. Most annoying.”

  Grace had the fleeting thought that this Mrs. Pincham had things in common with Mama.

  “And there’s Roger Cuthbert, a quiet boy of ten years. Nondescript really. He’s the Cuthberts’ son. And they are all of importance to us. You should have met them. They expected it.”

  Grace folded her wrapper tightly around her chilled body. “Did you send someone for me, Mama?”

  “I ... Well, I did not want to draw undue attention to your lack of social graces.”

  “I do not lack social graces.”

  “It was mentioned that your absence suggested as much.”

  “And what did you say, Mama?” Grace asked quietly.

  “I ... Nothing. I thought you were probably feeling a little indisposed and said as much.”

  “But a moment ago you told me these people were expecting me to appear.”

  “Did I?” Mama fiddled with the lace at her neck. “Well, perhaps they were, or perhaps they weren’t. I really cannot be expected to remember everything under such circumstances.”

  “If you thought I was indisposed, why didn’t you come to see for yourself?”

  Mama straightened her back and looked haughtily upward at nothing in particular. “I found the Cuthberts most entertaining. Sir Mortimer is exceedingly charming and was at great pains to ensure that I knew he found me charming also.”

  “In other words, you were too busy and having too good a time to come to me.” She held up a hand to halt Mama’s denials. “Please, I understand. It is of no importance now. Come, I’ll help you pack.”

  “We will not pack.”

  “We will pack.”

  “Grace Charlotte Wren! Kindly stop this nonsense.”

  “I have met the marquess.”

  “I promised the Cuthberts that they would meet you ... Grace! You met him?”

  How long would it take her to forget the occasion? “I did. Get dressed.”

  “Tell me about him. What did he say? When will the wedding take place? Did he give you anything? A token to seal the betrothal? Jewels? He should have spoken with me, really, but I will forgive him. Oh, Grace, do—”

  “Be quiet! He is a man approximately in his thirties. Some ... Most would consider him exceedingly well favored. The man is wickedly handsome, in fact. He said I was to do as he wished in all things, and at all times. He said the wedding would take place on a day he appointed. He gave me a ruby and diamond girdle that would circle my waist and hang to the hem of my gowns. There, is that what you wished to know?”

  Blanche clapped like a child. “Oh, I knew everything would be perfect. The day, Grace. Tell me the day. And where are the jewels, child?”

  “I declined the offer of marriage and gave back the jewels.”

  “You ...” Mama’s mouth hung slackly. “How can you tease me so when I have suffered so much?”

  She could not bring herself to explain what had brought her to this debacle. At least if she left without a word to anyone, she could assume the marquess would not ruin her by revealing what had passed between them.

  “Grace—”

  “I do not care for him, Mama.”

  “What does that matter? A girl doesn’t make up her own mind whom she shall marry and why. I told Mr. Innes we accepted the marquess’s offer. The decision has been made.”

  “You cannot force me to the altar. Believe me when I say you must accept my decision.”

  “Never!”

  She took her mother’s cold hands in hers. “Mama, you aren’t listening to me. I have told his lordship that I will not marry him.”

  “Oh,” Mama moaned. “Oh, Ichabod, how have I failed in raising your daughter? Grace, you did keep the jewels, though?”

  “No. I gave them back, just as I’ve told you.” Admitting to throwing them wouldn’t be the thing, but Grace had relished that brief moment of triumph.

  Mama pulled her hands away. “She gave them back,” she said, closing her eyes and squeezing two tears down her cheeks. “Never mind that we absolutely have to have money and we have to have it now!” Her eyes flew open, and the blazing light there shocked Grace.

  “We can return to London and—”

  “We can never return to London, you little sap-skull.”

  While Grace looked on, Mama got to her feet and began to pace. “You know nothing. Nothing. All those afternoons I spent with the ladies, and you never, ever knew.”

  “I
knew you went to sew with your friends. And play cards.”

  “Did I? I did no such thing. I met with a certain group of ladies, but we did not play cards, and if you had ever noticed, I can scarcely sew a stitch! I hate sewing. It bores me and it always did.”

  “But—”

  “We have to have money. A great deal of money. It is only the promise of your brilliant match that has kept disaster from our doors in the past few weeks.”

  “Mama!”

  “The man is wickedly handsome, you say. He wants you to marry on his demand, you say. He gave you a gift worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, you say. And you declined. And now you will go to him and beg him to allow you to accept.”

  “I cannot.” Grace’s heart seemed determined to jump from her chest. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Has the marquess accepted your refusal?”

  “Yes ... No. I mean, he is too arrogant to believe that I will not have him.”

  “Praise God!” Mama clasped her hands together and raised her eyes heavenward. “You will do as I say. First thing in the morning, greet the Cuthberts as I have promised them you will. Smile and do or say nothing to suggest there is anything amiss between you and the marquess.”

  “I cannot,” Grace moaned.

  “You have no choice.” Mama stopped pacing and held Grace’s shoulders. “As soon as he will agree to receive you, go to your fiancé and tell him you were bemused—overcome by his generosity and by the wonderful fortune that has come your way. Tell him he has only to appoint the day of the marriage and you will be forever grateful to prepare for the greatest event of your life.”

  Grace began to shake. “You don’t understand. I hate him.”

  “Foolish, headstrong girl. You are not listening to me. Whether or not you hate him is of no importance. If you do not marry him, we are finished.”

  “That cannot be so.”

  “Listen. That man’s money has to be ours. On the days when I wasn’t sewing fine seams, I was engaged in another occupation, one which I will one day master. I was gambling.”

  “Mama!”

  “Do you know what pugilism is?”

  “Mama!”

  “Fighting. A most exciting sport, so I’m told, although I have never actually seen it. There is a fortune to be made betting on the matches, only, naturally, a lady cannot go where bets are taken. No matter, my friends and I made the acquaintance of a gentleman who was more than happy to place bets in our name—for a fee.”

  Grace felt sick.

  “Unfortunately, I lost rather more bets than I won.”

  “I s-suppose that can happen. I don’t see why it—”

  “I spent almost every penny I had and then placed bets with money I did not have.”

  “How could you do that?”

  “You are such a ninny, Grace. Vowels, my child. Notes against money owed. Gentlemen issue them all the time. Why shouldn’t a lady?”

  “What does all this mean?”

  It means that there is a man in London, a very ruthless man, to whom I owe a vast amount of money. I was already deep in debt, but when I knew you were to make this marriage, I placed one last, outrageous wager and hoped to win enough to be free. I lost yet again. The promise of payment with handsome interest is the only reason everything we have wasn’t taken from us.”

  Grace pulled her hands from her mother’s and sat on a little stool with dragon-footed legs.

  “You will marry the marquess, Grace. If you do not, and if that man finds us—which he most certainly will—we shall end our days in a debtors’ prison.”

  Chapter 15

  Their “understandable fatigue” had saved Grace the difficult task of facing the Cuthbert party that morning—and at luncheon. Now dinner was about to be served—in fact, it should have been served some time since—and her reprieve was over.

  “Mortie! Really, you can be such a naughty boy.” Lady Cuthbert delivered her husband a sound thwack to the shoulder with her closed fan. “What can you think of us, Miss Wren? Not concerned about punctuality? Hah!”

  Sir Mortimer must once have been very dashing. He was still dashing—in a rather dissolute way, Grace thought. At this moment he was smiling lazily at his overwhelmingly cheerful wife.

  “Look at him,” Lady Cuthbert said to Grace whilst smoothing the skirts of her purple gros de Naples gown over skinny hips. An impressive diamond collar sparkled at her throat. “One wouldn’t think a naughty thought ever formed behind that innocent-boy face, would one?” Lady Cuthbert’s bosom was enormous, and a great deal of it showed above the scalloped neckline of her gown.

  The corners of Grace’s mouth twitched.

  “Of course one wouldn’t,” Lady Cuthbert warbled. “But they do, Miss Wren, take it from me, they do. Mortie, you are to tell Miss Wren at once that punctuality in all things, particularly the serving of meals, is of the essence in the Cuthbert household. Our dinners are never late.”

  “Come, come,” Sir Mortimer said. He winked at Grace with the eye his wife could not see. “We cannot pretend that our little abode is as complicated to run as Kirkcaldy, can we, Theodora? And, after all, the castle staff wasn’t expectin’ to put on somethin’ grand tonight.”

  “You’re much too generous, Sir Mortimer,” Mama said. Dressed in bronze jaconet muslin, with a bronze ostrich feather draped from crown to ear through a cascade of fussy ringlets, she had been twinkling and giggling, blushing and hanging on Sir Mortimer’s every word, from the moment she had finally persuaded Grace to leave the seclusion of her room and come down for dinner.

  “Isn’t he, Grace?” Mama poked Grace’s ribs. “Too generous? Haven’t we been saying the servants need a good shaking? Haven’t we been saying it from the instant we arrived? At least this salon appears to have been cleaned. An improvement, I can tell you, Lady Cuthbert. Let us hope the dining room has fared as well. If dinner is ever served. Not at all a certainty. Tell them so, Grace.”

  Grace inclined her head and met the marvelous violet eyes of Mrs. Melony Pincham, who instantly offered a sweetly sympathetic smile. “You must be a little overwhelmed, Miss Wren,” she said. Her voice was unexpectedly high. “Do not allow anyone to intimidate you. Not ever. Remember, he who takes the biggest chair may find himself on—”

  “I think you mean, he who sits at the head of the table may find himself at the foot, or some such thing,” Lady Cuthbert interrupted her sister. “Although what that has to do with anything, I fail to see. Roger, please come and be introduced to Miss Wren. It’s time for you to go to the nursery.”

  The boy, tall for ten, fair-skinned, blond, and gray eyed like his father, came forward and executed a creditably grown-up bow. “How do you do,” he said. Then he smiled, lighting those intelligent eyes, and Grace decided he was not at all the nondescript child Mama had described.

  “How do you do, Roger. Are you not to eat with us?”

  “I have already eaten, thank you,” he said politely.

  “He came to meet you. And now it’s time for bed,” his mama said.

  The Cuthberts and Mrs. Pincham wished the boy good night while Grace wandered about the red and gold salon. She’d never seen the beautiful room. According to Mama, “that wonderful Mr. McWallop” had instructed that this evening was to be festive and selected this room and an adjoining dining room for the occasion.

  Grace did not feel festive.

  She studied a portrait above a lavishly carved marble chimney piece. A beautiful, dark-haired young woman had been painted wearing a red ball gown.

  “Marvelous-looking gel, wasn’t she?”

  A masculine voice rumbling close to her ear made Grace jump. She glanced up into Sir Mortimer’s face. “I was just thinking as much,” she told him, uncertain she liked his standing quite so close. “Do you suppose this room was decorated to complement her dress?”

  He breathed in noisily through his nose. “That’s dashed clever of you. Course it was. Can’t think why I never thought of it before mesel
f. She was Arran’s mother. Damn handsome woman, too.”

  Arran.

  “Stonehaven ... not an intimacy of the spirit.” Grace swallowed and felt, as she’d felt so many times since her mother’s shocking revelation last night, a turning about her heart that brought her near to tears. How could Mama have placed them in such an impossible pickle? Gambling, no less!

  “They say Arran’s like her,” Sir Mortimer remarked. “Can’t see it meself. What d’you say, Miss Wren?”

  “Call me Grace,” she said absently. She knew what she had to do. Do it. “There is certainly something similar about the eyes. And the hair.” She must give no hint that all was not perfect between the Marquess of Stonehaven and his blushing bride-to-be.

  Sir Mortimer guffawed. “The hair! Long and pretty, hey? Dash me if you don’t have a subtle wit, Grace. Can’t imagine why a fella doesn’t keep up with the times meself. Pigtails went out with tricorns, don’t you know. Someone ought to inform the marquess.”

  “I like ...” She stopped. She did like Arran’s hair. She liked it very much—too much—just as she liked everything else about him too much—except his cruel temper, his suspicion, his unreasonable pigheadedness, and his ability to make her think of nothing but him even as she wished she need never set eyes on him again. “The marquess is rather singular,” she said faintly.

  “Hah!” Sir Mortimer threw up his chin and laughed hugely. “Will you listen to the gel, Theodora? She’s a gem. A jewel. What a perfect turn of phrase. Arran is singular, she says. Not dashed peculiar. Not a blackhearted recluse. Not—”

  “Mortie,” Lady Cuthbert said severely, and dropped open her fan.

  “Oh, you know I think the world of that cousin of mine.” Sir Mortimer gave Grace another wink. “No fun if a fella can’t joke about his oldest and dearest friend and relative, eh, Grace?”

  “No,” she murmured, secretly thinking that he had barely begun to list Stonehaven’s faults.

  “Don’t mind Mortimer,” Mrs. Pincham said, slipping her arm through Grace’s. “He’s a terrible tease. We should be doing what we came to do, and I intend to make certain we start at once.”