His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  A low growl erupted from Michael. Jealousy poured hot and potent through him, and yet he didn’t move, because something stronger was warring with the jealousy.

  Grace looked happy.

  Sir Timmons was making Grace happy.

  Michael was well aware that he had not made Grace happy in a very long time.

  By her own admission, he had broken her heart when she thought he was dead. Had he ever healed it? Or had he made the broken heart worse?

  Sir Timmons leaned forward to speak in Grace’s ear, and as he did so, his gaze locked with Michael’s. They stared at each other for a heartbeat before Timmons straightened.

  Broken from his paralysis, Michael turned around and allowed the crowd to swallow him up and push him in the opposite direction.

  —

  “Did Lord Blackbourne find you?” Sara asked Grace when they met up hours after the festival began.

  “Michael was here?” Grace asked, surprised. She hadn’t really expected him to attend the festival. It was, after all, fraught with obstacles. The noise, the crowds, the people he would need to speak to whose names he probably would not remember.

  “I saw him earlier in the day. He was looking for you,” Sara said.

  “He must have been waylaid. Or maybe he returned home.” More than likely, he was back home, having had enough of the large crowd. She didn’t blame him in the least. By now the festival had taken on a life of its own, as it was wont to do at this time of day. The dancing had begun, and the noise of the raucous crowd was growing rapidly.

  Grace took the moment to slip away. She was beyond exhausted and sticky from the unseasonable heat. She wanted nothing more than to go home, wash, and fall into bed.

  The house was quiet when she entered. The servants were still at the festival. The hip bath would have to wait, but she could wash the stickiness from her arms herself.

  Light shone from beneath Michael’s study door, and she pushed it open and swept in. “I heard you were at the festival.”

  He was standing at the fireplace. When he turned around, she stopped short.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, taking in his bleak expression.

  “I went to the festival, yes.”

  “I didn’t see you there.”

  “But I saw you. With Sir Timmons.”

  Her mind raced through her day. She’d spoken to Sir Timmons earlier in the afternoon, a short but needed conversation. She had been meaning to speak to him for a while, but the opportunity had never arisen. When she saw him at the festival, she recognized the opportunity. She’d apologized once again for the debacle of their engagement. He’d seemed to be in good spirits and had told her that he’d realized if they’d married, neither of them would have been happy. He had wished her well and had moved on.

  “I spoke with Sir Timmons for a few moments,” she said. There was something in Michael’s expression that had her stomach twisting. She was becoming adept at reading his moods, but this one was new to her and put her off balance.

  “You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves.”

  Her back straightened. “What does that mean?”

  “Do you still have feelings for him, Grace?”

  She stared at him for a time, flabbergasted at the question. “Do you really have to ask that?”

  “Apparently, I do.”

  “He is a friend, Michael. At one point we were betrothed, however short the betrothal was. I was concerned for him and asked after him.”

  “And is he well?”

  She tipped her head to study him. “He is.”

  “He has no feelings for you?”

  “What is this about?” she demanded, her anger rising.

  He took a step toward her, his face a mask of fury, his eyes blazing with something she’d never seen before and couldn’t name. “It’s about my wife speaking to another man. A man she was betrothed to while she was still wed to me.”

  “You are being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? I return home from war to find you with another man, and now I see you speaking to that same man.”

  “This isn’t about Sir Timmons. What is this about?”

  “I don’t think we should reside under the same roof anymore, Grace.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Grace had never been punched in the stomach, but she imagined that what she was feeling now felt very close to that. The breath rushed out of her, and it seemed as if her body went numb.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “You heard me,” Michael said.

  “Because I spoke to Sir Timmons, you’re ejecting me from my home?”

  “I think it’s for the best.”

  She searched his eyes, looking for the Michael she knew. But not even the new Michael was there. This man was completely different and very frightening.

  “This has nothing to do with Sir Timmons. Tell me what this is about.”

  He looked away, and she knew that she’d touched on the truth, though she didn’t know what truth. “Tell me, Michael. Talk to me.”

  He shook his head and looked at her with no emotion in his eyes. “If you won’t leave, then I will.”

  Michael tried to move around her, but Grace stepped in his path and put her hand on his chest. “No. Don’t. Talk to me. Please.”

  He looked over her shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze. A muscle in his jaw twitched. They stood like that for long moments. She could feel his heart pounding, but he said nothing.

  Grace’s hand slid down his chest until it fell to her side. He stepped around her and walked out of the study. Moments later, she heard the front door open and then close.

  She stood alone in the middle of the room, staring blankly at the opposite wall, her stomach a knot. Her knees shook. Her hands shook. Her entire body trembled. Fear and anger abandoned her, leaving her an empty shell.

  —

  Michael managed to catch George before he moved the carriage to the carriage house. “Take me to town,” he said as he climbed in.

  He put his head back and breathed deep, willing his heart to return to normal and his body to stop shaking so much. He felt as if he’d been in battle. But while he’d walked away from the skirmish, he wasn’t certain he was the winner, and he was damn certain he wasn’t unscathed.

  It’s for the best. That was what he kept telling himself, and he tried to believe it. He’d seen the expressions on Grace’s and Timmons’ faces when they were talking. Timmons hadn’t been panicked by the growing crowd. Timmons hadn’t been confused because there were too many conversations going on around him. Timmons didn’t have to walk with a cane because his bloody knee kept giving out on him.

  How could he saddle Grace with that for the rest of her life?

  The carriage slowed as it neared town. It was impossible to drive down the street. The children were home in bed, no doubt, but the festive atmosphere had risen. There was dancing on the makeshift dance floor, and a band playing music, and someone was attempting to climb the maypole while people stood around and cheered him on.

  Michael pounded on the ceiling with his cane and the carriage came to a stop. His destination was close, and he could skirt the crowd to get there.

  As he had hoped, the local tavern was nearly empty. On this fine evening, almost everyone had chosen to be outside and partake of their spirits there. Michael found a quiet corner and ordered a bottle of Scottish whiskey. He sat with his back to the wall and within full view of the room, something his military training had taught him.

  He nursed his drink, numbing his overtaxed brain until the room took on a soft quality and the people appeared to be moving in slow motion.

  He wasn’t surprised, hours later, to see Tarik enter. Grace must have sent him. No. Knowing Tarik, the man probably took it upon himself to follow Michael. He looked directly at Michael and made his way over. People stared and moved out of Tarik’s way, but the big man didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  Michael waved to
the serving woman to bring another bottle. But when it arrived, Tarik pushed away his empty glass before Michael could pour. Good thing, because Michael wasn’t at all certain he could fill a glass without spilling all over the place. Raising his arm took a monumental effort.

  “This is what it’s come to?” Tarik asked.

  Michael deliberately took a long swallow of whiskey while eyeing Tarik. “This is none of your business.” He pointed a shaking finger at Tarik. “You seem to forget, my friend, that you are a servant. Servants mind their own business.”

  “You seem to forget, my friend, that I saved your life and therefore have reason to interfere.”

  Michael looked away. There was no getting around that. He continuously told Tarik that he owed him his life. But did he? “You should have left me there.” He wasn’t sure if he voiced the words or if they were in his head.

  “If you continue to look back, you aren’t able to look forward.”

  “What is there to look forward to? Tell me, for I find myself oddly curious why you believe my future is so bright.”

  “You’re alive, for one. Many families can’t say that about the loved ones they sent off to war.”

  “They died an honorable death, and my death would have been as well. There is nothing honorable about my life now.”

  Tarik tilted his chair back, folded his hands over his stomach, and stared at Michael for so long that Michael wanted to snap at him to stop.

  “What about Lady Grace?” Tarik finally asked.

  “What about her?” Michael stared at the scratches and dents in the ill-used table. When the silence grew to uncomfortable proportions, his anger stirred. “She’s better off without me.”

  “Pray tell, how?”

  Michael finally looked at his friend. The man he alternately admired and despised. “That is none of your business.”

  Tarik sighed. “Are we to go through this again? Because I will, if you insist.”

  “You go too far, Tarik.”

  Tarik leaned forward. “Don’t tell me who is going too far, because it is not I. I am not the selfish one here.”

  Michael reared back. “You think I’m acting selfish? I love Grace with my whole being. The thought of living without her tears me apart.”

  “Then don’t live without her.”

  “I have no choice. She is much better without me.”

  “Have you asked her if she would be better without you?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. So you make this decision on your own, without her input?”

  Michael’s back teeth came together. “It’s for the best.”

  “Whose best? Yours? Or hers?”

  “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” But the thought of actually standing and attempting to walk out the door seemed beyond him.

  “No one is keeping you here. Go back to your wife.”

  “I’ll say it again. You go too far. If you don’t like my decisions, you are free to leave.”

  Tarik stared at him for a long moment. Michael despised when Tarik did that, because the man was adept at hiding his thoughts. Slowly, he stood and pushed his chair in, then bowed, turned on his heel, and walked out.

  Michael watched his one and only friend leave, knowing he was losing the last decent part of himself.

  He was truly alone now.

  —

  Grace ran into Tarik as the man was leaving the tavern.

  After Michael had left, she’d allowed herself a few moments to wallow in her misery; then she shook it off and let her anger take over. Michael was not going to eject her from their home, and she was not going to allow him to leave, either.

  She learned from a footman that Michael had told George to take him to town. She’d asked a stable boy to harness the buggy, and she’d driven herself to town. From there, she’d deduced that Michael was in the tavern. He wouldn’t willingly get involved in the crowd in the middle of the street, and before the war, he occasionally enjoyed an ale at the tavern.

  “Is he in there?” she asked Tarik.

  Tarik’s expression was stony, and she got the impression that the usually implacable man was holding on to his anger by a thread.

  “Now is probably not the best time, my lady.”

  “Nonsense. This is going to end, Tarik. One way or another.”

  She tried to push past him, but Tarik grabbed her arm to stop her. “Let him be for now.”

  She looked down at the large brown hand on her arm. “Unhand me, Tarik. I am going to find my husband.”

  With a sigh, Tarik released her arm and stepped back. Grace pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside. The place was half empty. She recognized most of the people, and they were all either looking at her with pity or avoiding her gaze.

  She saw Michael in the corner. His hair was mussed, his shirt untucked, his cravat gone. And there was a woman on his lap.

  He looked up and their gazes locked. He stared at her boldly, his arm around the woman’s waist as she leaned in to him. When he didn’t push the woman away, Grace’s heart sank.

  She looked at the others in the room. Every one of them was aware of what was happening. Humiliation burned in her cheeks, but instead of crumbling like she wanted to, she lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and turned to walk with her last shred of dignity out the door. She had to push past Tarik, who was standing at the door. He, of course, had witnessed the whole mortifying scene.

  Silently, he walked with her to the buggy. She stood before the conveyance and stared at it, her mind a blank as to what she should do.

  Tarik helped her in and took the reins himself. The cool wind, which had been refreshing before, now bit through her clothes and made her shiver.

  When they arrived at the manor house, she went straight to her rooms and called for Jenny.

  “Pack my bags,” she instructed.

  Jenny’s eyes widened. “My lady?”

  “Pack them.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Take only what is necessary.”

  Jenny moved quickly, and before long, she had two trunks packed. Grace would leave the rest. There was no need for ball gowns.

  Grace’s previous mortification had given way to raw fury. She couldn’t get the image of her husband with another woman out of her mind.

  The dower house was dark and cold when they arrived. Grace started a fire herself, having forgotten that the fireplace in the drawing room didn’t draw well. The room began to fill with smoke, but eventually, it cleared out. She really did need to get that looked at.

  She pulled an ottoman as close as possible to the fire in the hope that the heat would stop her shaking. It warmed her skin but not her insides, where she was the coldest.

  The flames danced and hissed and popped. Grace rubbed her arms to generate more heat. Tears dripped down her cheeks, and her stomach roiled to the point where she feared she would be sick.

  The image of the woman sitting on Michael’s lap played in her mind until she doubled over and gave in to the sob building inside of her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Michael stumbled out of the tavern, Tarik was waiting for him.

  “Tarik. You’re a good friend.” He wasn’t sure if that was exactly how the words came out, but the intent was there. Tarik silently helped him into the carriage and climbed up top.

  Michael wanted to ask where George was, but the thought slipped out of his mind just as quickly as it had slipped in. The swaying of the carriage caused his stomach no little discomfort, and he fought to stay conscious and not spew all over himself. But his mind was numb, and that was what he had intended when he ventured into the tavern.

  He opened his eyes to find Tarik yanking him out of the carriage. He was not gentle and Michael groaned. He remembered little of walking up the stairs to his set of rooms, but he did remember swaying in front of Grace’s door. The numbness he’d worked hard to achieve cleared a bit when he was faced with her closed door. He leaned forward to
put his hand to it, but he must have been standing farther away than he thought, because he fell into the door with a loud crash. Tarik yanked him away and shoved him toward his own room.

  “Musn’t wake her ladyship,” Michael murmured.

  Tarik said something, but Michael did not hear him. He staggered toward his bed and collapsed on it and that was the last thing he remembered until the sun pierced his closed eyelids and caused his head to hammer mercilessly.

  He rolled onto his stomach and covered his head with his hands.

  “Tarik.” He meant to yell for his manservant, but it came out as a weak croak that had his head screaming in agony and his dry, scratchy throat protesting.

  He would have to get up and find his very nonsubmissive servant. And he would. In a moment. When his stomach settled and his eyes were used to the light. Who forgot to close his drapes? When he found out, he would…

  Who was he kidding? He would do nothing, because as soon as he got out of bed, he would forget that the drapes had remained open.

  Memories of the night before crashed around him, and he buried his head in the pillow. Squeezing his eyes shut only made his head pound harder. He wanted to forget the devastation on Grace’s face when she saw him with the serving girl on his lap. He wanted to forget the dignity she possessed as she looked around the room and discovered that a large portion of the town was witnessing her humiliation.

  He’d wanted her out of his life, but he hadn’t meant to do it in such a public way. In truth, the whole fiasco had been a mistake. The serving girl had not meant to fall into his lap, and he had intended to push her off, but when he looked up, Grace was standing there and he had frozen.

  He pressed his head into the pillow and groaned.

  He’d accomplished what he set out to do. Grace would never have him back now.

  It’s for the best.

  He had to keep reminding himself of that.

  The door to his room opened and slammed shut, making him wince and groan. He lifted his head—no small feat—to find Tarik glaring down at him.

  “ ’Bout damn time. I need a bath drawn.”