“Grace.” He spoke her name softly, tenderly, with all the love that still lived in heart for this charming woman with her sky blue eyes, crooked smile, and giving nature. God, how many times had he dreamed of her while he was away? How many times had her sweet voice echoed in his head? How many times had he fallen asleep with her name on his lips? How many times had he chased a woman across the entire city of Boston, thinking it was her? The answer was countless, for he could not recall a day that had passed in the last three months where he had not thought of her at least a hundred times.
Lured to consciousness by his somber voice Grace slowly stirred, and he repeated her name twice more before her eyes opened and she lifted her head. He could tell the moment she saw it was him for her entire body went rigid and she sat up with a gasp.
“You,” she cried, hugging her knees tight to her chest with one arm while the other pointed straight at him. “What are you doing here?”
It was such a childish gesture, such a Grace gesture, that Stephen had to fight to keep a smile from laying claim to his lips. “I did not mean to startle you,” he said, careful to keep his tone steady and even, not wanting to reveal the desperation that simmered just beneath the surface of his outwardly calm façade. “But I had to see you. To talk to you.”
She watched him as he imagined a mouse would a hawk, eyes wide and wary, hands dropping to brace against the armrests of the chair, poised and ready for flight. “What do you want, Stephen? Why have you come back?”
Of course she would ask the two questions he could not answer. He cleared his throat, the thick layer of arrogant composure he wore as comfortably as a second skin stripped clear away to the bone. He had never been able to fool Grace. She had never been impressed by his charm or drawn in by his wit. It was but one of the many reasons she had been the first – the only – woman to lay claim to his heart. “I… I am sorry.” The apology sounded flat, even to his ears. Stephen inwardly cringed, trying to remember the speech he had so painstakingly rehearsed on the long walk from the wharves to the Markham’s townhouse and failing miserably. Running a hand through his hair, he tried again. “I know I have hurt you, and I—”
“Hurt me?” Grace said incredulously, rising halfway out of the chair. “You did not hurt me, Stephen. You broke me. You broke me into a hundred, nay, a THOUSAND pieces and no apology you could ever hope to muster will put me back together! Now be gone. I… I cannot stand to look upon you.” She twisted her head to the side, looking away from him while Stephen’s mouth opened and closed in stunned speechlessness.
Never could he recall his sweet, gentle Grace raising her voice before in anger. She was always so level headed. So filled with joy and happiness that any dark emotion seemed far beyond her reach. She was an angel, his darling angel, except now she was an angel spitting fire.
Leaning forward, he reached hesitantly towards the exposed skin of her wrist, having always been able to soothe her with a reassuring stroke or soft, soothing murmur. This time, however, before he could even get close to taking her hand she snatched it away and jumped to her feet with surprising agility given her innate – and in his eyes, adorable – clumsiness.
Whirling towards him with eyes that flashed a bright, brilliant blue, she spat, “If you will not leave, than I shall.” Shoulders snapping back, she marched across the room with all the bearing of a young queen, reached out to throw the door open… and ended up rattling the brass knob in frustrated confusion. “What have you done?” she cried at last, giving up with a muttered expletive that had his eyebrows rising.
Temper and the mouth of a sailor? It was becoming appallingly obvious that Grace had been spending too much time with her dear friend Josephine in his absence. “I locked the door,” he said calmly.
She tossed back her head and glared. Stephen had heard the saying ‘if looks could kill’ but he had never truly given it credence until this very moment. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“So we could have a conversation.”
“I do not want to talk to you!”
“Ah,” he said, standing in one fluid motion and crossing the room to stand between her and the door, “but I do want to talk to you, darling.”
Her lower lip jutted out, revealing her act of bravado had been nothing more than a valiant attempt to cover up the fact that she was perilously close to tears. “Do not c-call me that.”
“Call you what?” he asked softly. His arms ached to wrap around her, to comfort her, but he was careful to keep them at his sides even though the act of not touching her set his teeth on edge.
“You know,” she whispered, looking away.
“My darling.”
Her chin wobbled.
“My beloved.”
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“My heart.”
She began to cry then; silent tears that slipped down her cheeks and sparkled in the candlelight like diamonds. “I h-hate you,” she said.
“It is no less than I deserve,” Stephen answered in a voice raw with emotion and barely restrained tears of his own.
Seeing such naked pain flash across Grace’s face made him want to rip his own heart from his chest and stomp it into the ground. At his sides his hands curled into fists, and it took every ounce of control he possessed not to throw back his head and howl in anguish. Leaving had been a mistake, but coming back had been an even greater one.
Abandoning Grace had been the most selfless thing he could have done given the circumstances with which he found himself in. Returning had been the most selfish. With an oath of his own he turned from her. “I had no right to come here. To come to you,” he said hollowly. “The door is locked. The latch is just below the knob. Leave, and you shall never have to look upon me again. This I swear to you.”
His shoulders tensed when he heard the lock open with a sharp click. The door groaned as it opened, and squeaked when it shut. Stephen waited for what felt like an eternity before he pivoted… and saw that Grace was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
“I am going to pay him a visit and tell him exactly where he can go.” Standing in the middle of the Deringer’s depressingly empty sitting room, Josephine pinned her hands to her slender hips and cocked one eyebrow. “Who is with me?”
“Oh, do sit down.” Gesturing to the last remaining settee in the entire household, Catherine frowned over the rim of her tea cup. “You are upsetting Grace.”
Josephine pursed her lips, but did as she was asked and sat next to Margaret who picked up her yellow skirts and scooted to the side to make room. They exchanged a quick, knowing glance before looking to where Grace stood with her back to them, staring silently out the window at the falling snow.
Two days had passed since the ill fated Markham ball, and it was the first time all four women had managed to come together since Josephine and Catherine had hatched their scheme to find Grace a suitable husband. Unfortunately they had soon discovered the perfect man Josephine had in mind was just recently engaged, and as of yet no one else had come close to meeting the high standards they had set for their beloved friend.
Once news broke of Stephen’s return, however, the search for a husband had been put on hold and all three women had rushed to Grace’s side as soon as they were able. They all felt guilty for not attending the ball, and even though Grace had assured them over and over again there was nothing they could have done, Josephine, Margaret, and Catherine were determined to put everything to right. To Josephine’s mind that meant Stephen’s immediate execution and she was determined to settle for nothing less.
“There are people you can hire for this sort of thing you know,” she said, rubbing her chin as she sought the most delicate way to ask if Grace would support having her former fiancée murdered. “It would all be very discreet.”
“And very expensive,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes.
“That is why Marcus would help us,” Josephine said brightly, referring to Catherine’s husband, the Duke of Kensing
ton, who just so happened to be one of the wealthiest men in all of England.
Catherine set her tea cup down with a clatter and scowled, as the idea of her husband paying for someone to kill another man did not exactly sit well with her. “Marcus does not like you.”
“But he positively adores Grace,” Josephine said, not put off at the slightest by Catherine’s brutal honesty. She and Duke had never seen eye to eye, although they had managed to be quite civil to each other for a record four months and counting. “He told me so himself.”
Catherine’s brow furrowed. “Yes, well, even so—”
“Stop it, all of you!” Grace exploded. Whirling from the window, she threw her arms wide and cried, “No one is going to kill Stephen, do you hear me? And plotting his demise is not helping me!”
“But it is quite fun,” Josephine said.
Margaret shot her a quelling glare.
“What?” she protested. “You must admit you have thought of it yourself.”
“I have not,” the redhead said primly.
“Oh, that is only because you are pregnant and pregnant women are all sunshine and rainbows.” Crossing her arms, Josephine barely managed to keep the smug look off her face when Catherine shrieked in delight and Grace covered her mouth with a gasp.
“You are expecting?” they said in unison, all thoughts of ex-fiancées and broken hearts temporarily forgotten.
Margaret blushed and nodded her head. “I believe so. That is to say… Yes, yes I am. I thought I was before when we were together, but I did not want to say anything—”
“Except to me,” Josephine interrupted, making no effort to disguise her smugness this time.
“Only because you found me retching in the upstairs chamber pot.”
“Which is but one of the many reasons I will never have children,” Josephine said with a shudder.
“As I was saying,” Margaret said after casting Josephine a withering glare, “I did not want to tell anyone before I was absolutely certain.”
“This is wonderful news.” Grace forced her mouth into a smile. “What does Henry think?”
“He is excited, of course.” Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. “And quite determined to keep me in a glass case for the next seven months.”
All three women tittered at that, for the very idea of trying to keep Margaret contained for any length of time was so ridiculous as to be absolutely hilarious. Henry might as well try to stop the wind from blowing or the sun from shining, for both tasks would be easy compared to slowing his wife down.
“Well congratulations, dear,” Catherine said. “I am ever so happy for you.”
“Yes, congratulations,” Grace echoed.
Silence hummed between them, and for a moment each woman was solely occupied by their own thoughts.
Margaret thought of possible names for her baby.
Catherine thought fondly of her own children waiting for her at home.
Josephine thought of Traverson’s expression when he saw her new lingerie.
And Grace thought of Stephen.
Now that she knew he had returned to London, she wondered where he was staying. She could only assume he had once again taken up residence in his family’s townhouse, an impressive stone manor home on the illustrious corner of Brown and Thames Street, bequeathed to him following his father’s untimely passing.
The last words he had spoken to her played on an endless loop in her mind… Repeating and repeating and repeating until she feared she would go quite crazed from it.
Leave, and you shall never have to look upon me again. This I swear to you.
At the time she had taken him at his word and left. But now that she had time to think it over she could not help but wonder if Stephen had wanted her to stay. He had always struggled with saying what he meant; often leaving it up to her to decipher what he truly wanted versus what he was actually saying.
Leave, and you shall never have to look upon me again. This I swear to you.
“Oh,” she cried, pressing her fingertips to her temple and spinning back towards the window. “I do not know what you want of me!”
“Grace,” Catherine said tentatively. “Are you all right?”
“No,” she said, her shoulders hunching. “No, I am not. What should I do?” Turning around, she sniffed loudly and dabbed at the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes after taking a white embroidered handkerchief that Catherine silently held out. “I never thought he would return, not really. I hoped he would,” she admitted. “I would stay awake all night, dreaming of the day that he would return. I loved him.”
“Of course you did.” Margaret stood and crossed the room. Taking Grace’s hand, she squeezed it tight. “Of course,” she repeated earnestly. “No one ever doubted your love, darling. It is his love that never seemed… That never seemed…”
“Honest,” Josephine supplied when Margaret hesitated. “He has no doubt returned to win you back now that he has realized what a boon you were to him. Well, he does not deserve you, and he simply shall not have you, no matter what he says or does. Right?” Something she saw in Grace’s face caused her eyes to narrow. Standing as well, she crossed her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the side. “You want nothing to do with him, right Grace?”
Helpless to give a reply when she did not truthfully know the answer to the question, Grace shrugged her shoulders and looked down at toes of her boots, just visible beneath the skirt of her plain brown dress. “Yes. No. Maybe. Oh, I do not know!” she cried.
On a sigh, Catherine came to her and took her other hand. “Look at me,” she ordered sternly, and Grace slowly lifted her chin. “Stephen had no reason to go to the Markham’s ball other than the fact that he somehow knew you would be there. He has come to win you back, Grace. Heaven knows why he left, or what pitiful excuse he will give you, but there is no denying the fact that he has returned.” The blond sighed again. “You know what occurred between Marcus and I.”
Grace nodded. Of all four women, Catherine had been married the longest. Arrogance and miscommunication had forced a long estrangement between her and the Duke, but now that they were back together Grace had never seen two people more in love.
“Then you know that love does not always work the first time around.”
“Or at all,” Josephine said flatly.
“Or at all,” Catherine acknowledged, the tightening of her mouth the only indication she was annoyed by the untimely interruption. “What I am trying to say is—”
“What are you trying to say?” Josephine asked. “Because it almost sounds as though you are about to suggest Grace give that scoundrel another chance!”
“All right, I will say it if no one else will,” Margaret said abruptly. “And Grace can be mad at me instead of the both of you, spineless cowards that you are.” Releasing Grace’s hand, the redheaded Duchess began to pace the length of the room, always more content to move about when she had something of importance to say than stand still. “Grace, we know your family is on the brink of financial ruin.”
“She has done it this time,” Josephine murmured before she took a tidy step back, distancing herself from Margaret as far as she could.
For the second time in her life Grace felt as though someone had dealt her a physical blow. Ripping free of Catherine, she pressed both hands to her chest and staggered back as embarrassment and humiliation turned her cheeks a bright, fiery red. “Why would you say that?” Looking from Margaret to Catherine to Josephine and back again, Grace blinked away the tears that always seemed ready to fall and swallowed the heavy lump in her throat. “We… We have merely fallen on hard times. But there… there is an inheritance coming from a distant relation that will—”
“There is no inheritance.”
All four women turned in unison to see Grace’s mother flounce through the door. Dressed to the nines in a sapphire blue ball gown, every piece of jewelry imaginable, a mink stole, and elbow length velvet gloves, she made quite an
entrance. “What?” she said airily as she took in their stunned expressions. “I might as well wear it before the creditors take everything we have left.”
“Mother,” Grace gasped.
“Oh, do not Mother me, darling. Your friends know the truth of it, and they are only trying to help, as well they should since they are all married to wealthy men who take care of their every need.”
And Grace thought she was embarrassed before. Covering her face (which she was quite certain now rivaled a tomato in its coloring) she sank down into the nearest chair. “Mother,” she moaned through her fingers, “you are only making it worse. Please leave us.”
“Absolutely not.” Skirts rustling, Lady Deringer swished dramatically into the room and, in typical Henrietta fashion, took center stage. “Your friends are not blind, darling. They can see nearly everything has been taken from us. In a few weeks – days, really – everyone else will know as well. Would you wish that type of humiliation on your dear mother? On your poor father?” Henrietta clucked her tongue. “You know how his heart is.”
Grace lifted her head. “No, of course not, I would never—”
“Then something must be done! As the eldest daughter it is your responsibility to marry well.”
At this Catherine frowned and stepped forward, but Josephine motioned her back. “Just wait,” she hissed, and even though the Duchess’ eyes flashed dangerously, she listened.
“I tried to marry well!” Grace cried. “And it is horrid of you to throw it back in my face.”
“Perhaps,” Henrietta said. “But truth be told I would rather be horrid than poor. Your fiancée left you, darling. He left you,” she repeated firmly when Grace visibly winced, “and that was his right, but what did you do to get him back?”
A Gentle Grace (Wedded Women Quartet) Page 4