There would no more ‘what ifs’. There could be no more ‘what ifs’. The time for them had passed the moment she decided to give Stephen another chance. To give their love another chance. She could plunge headfirst off the cliff or step back from the edge entirely; there would be no middle ground.
She only hoped Stephen would be there to catch her when she fell.
Stephen saw Grace the moment she entered the ballroom. How could he not? She glimmered like the sun, so breathtaking in her beauty that he could not tear his eyes away. When she disappeared inside the supper room he waited impatiently for her to return, pacing the length of the far wall as a panther would within the confines of a cage that was too small.
Women who would normally come up to him in droves were conspicuously absent, but that did not mean they had not seen him. They watched from a safe distance, hiding their murmurs of speculation behind their fans, but Stephen’s hearing was keen, and he could not help but overhear snippets of their conversations.
“…engaged to Lady Deringer, you know…”
“Grace Deringer? Surely you jest…”
“…left her high and dry…”
“He is certainly handsome… Earl….”
“…why he ever asked that little fool to marry him…”
That brought Stephen up short. Turning slowly towards the bevy of heavily made up beauties, he waited until every pair of eyes was pinned to him before he dipped low in a mocking bow, tipped his fingers to his brow, and drawled, “Dear ladies, while it is a pleasure to be the object of your scrutiny, I must admit I do not have the same tolerance when it comes to my fiancée.”
A brunette, braver than the rest and a little tipsy on something stronger than lemonade if her stuttered step was any indication, came forward. “Your fiancée?” Her rouged cheeks puffed out. “Are you still engaged, then?”
Stephen nodded coolly. “I am.”
“To Lady Deringer?” the brunette persisted.
“If she will have me.”
“But… But weren’t you the one to leave her?”
Most of the brunette’s companions tittered their agreement – a short blond with a bulbous nose even went so far as to laugh – but Stephen saw more than one head tilt thoughtfully to the side. It was, he thought, almost too easy.
“Alas,” he said, clasping one hand over his heart. “If it were only so. Now if you would excuse me, my ladies, I must find my estranged fiancée and see if she will ever consider taking me back.”
Stephen walked away with a smile on his lips as the women’s conversation went in a rapidly new direction.
“…why he left so suddenly, you know…”
“She must have broken his heart…”
“…have to tell Lady Teawell at once!”
And then another female voice, vaguely familiar, spoke silkily directly over his left shoulder: “That was a very clever thing you did.”
Stephen stopped in his tracks and slowly turned. “Lady Gates,” he said stiffly.
“Oh, hosh posh. Are we not past all these formalities yet? I have been dreaming of your untimely death for months. The least you can do is call me by my given name.”
Stephen’s jaw clenched. He had never gotten along with the woman standing in front of him, nor had he ever understood how Grace claimed her as one of her closest friends. But she had been there for Grace when he had not, and for that he owed her the world. “Josephine, then.” And because he knew she of all people would appreciate bluntness, he said curtly, “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Josephine sighed. “I want you to jump in front of the nearest carriage and never be seen again. But I suppose that would make Grace unhappy, and we do not want that, do we Lord Melbourne?”
“No,” he agreed warily, “we do not.” What the bloody hell did she want?
She extended her arm. “Walk with me.”
Left with little choice – giving Grace’s best friend the direct cut would most definitely not help his cause – Stephen grasped Josephine’s elbow and they began a slow, leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the crowded ballroom.
They passed in front of a gold framed mirror, and Stephen could not help but glance at their reflection. Next to Josephine’s petite frame he looked like a giant, and the gauntness in his face took him by surprise. How much weight had he lost while abroad? It was, Stephen thought grimly, the wrong question to ask. The right one was simple and much more to the point: how much had he lost period?
As if she could read his thoughts, Josephine tugged on his arm and swiveled them both in a half circle until they were facing their reflections. She pursed her lips and adjusted a pin that had come loose from her coiffure before her gaze skittered across the glass to Stephen. “You look horrible,” she said cheerfully.
“Yes, I do.” There was no denying it. The time spent away from England – away from Grace – had not treated the Earl kindly. His blond hair was now streaked through with gray at the temple. Deeps lines ran across his forehead and marked the corners of his mouth. He felt older as well, not just physically but mentally. The dangerous game he had played had taken its toll on him in more ways than one. Yes, it had saved the life of a woman he cared deeply for… But if it ultimately cost him the love of the one woman he could not live without, was it worth the sacrifice?
Josephine sighed, drawing his attention. Their eyes met in the mirror and held for the briefest of moments before flittering away in opposite directions. Her expression thoughtful, Josephine began to walk once again leaving Stephen with no choice but to follow.
“I never liked you, you know,” the blond said as they skirted around a trio of gentleman. “You and Grace… You never seemed to be a very good fit. Of course, I suppose the same could be said of me and my Traverson.”
“You love him,” Stephen said with some surprise. He could hear it in her voice, see it on her face. She came alive at the merest thought of her husband, and it showed.
“Yes.” Josephine slanted him a sideways glance. “I do. You sound shocked.”
“I am,” he admitted candidly. “The last time I saw you together—”
“At Margaret and Henry’s wedding. Yes, I remember.” She waved her hand in the air. “No need to venture into the past, Lord Melbourne.”
“Except when it pertains to me.”
Her lips curved. “Yes, precisely so. My point is that I have, on very, very few occasions, not been entirely accurate in my assumptions. I was wrong about Traverson. I hope, for Grace’s sake, that I am wrong about you as well.”
“I just want her to be happy.” Stephen winced at the sudden hoarseness in his voice. If he became choked up in front of Josephine, of all people… No. It did not even bear thinking about. Schooling his countenance to reveal nothing save his customary air of perpetual boredom, he cleared his throat and stared straight ahead.
“Implying that she is the one who called off the engagement instead of you is certainly a good place to start,” Josephine said. “It really was quite clever. It will allow Grace to save face, although I do believe your reputation may suffer.”
His response was a careless shrug.
Once he had been quite proud of his reputation as a womanizer and a rake. It had certainly been well deserved, if nothing else. But now? Now he simply wanted Grace back, his reputation be damned.
Josephine stopped so suddenly Stephen was yanked back when she refused to let go of his arm. The woman, he realized as he rubbed his shoulder and scowled, was much stronger than she looked. “Either tell me what you want to tell me, Lady Gates, or do me the great pleasure of disappearing entirely,” he growled. “I have no patience for your games.”
Josephine gave a haughty toss of her head, but when she lowered her chin he saw a smile lurking in the corners of her mouth. “We were all under the impression that Grace would have to win you back, but that is not the case, is it Lord Melbourne?”
“Win me back?” Of their own accord his fingers closed around Josephin
e’s exposed shoulders and he gave her a little shake. “What do you mean by that? Damn you, tell me!”
“And ruin all the fun?” One slender eyebrow arched. “No, I do not think I will. Enjoy the rest of the ball, Lord Melbourne.”
Cursing under his breath, Stephen released her. It would be a waste of time to question Josephine further. She would only tell him exactly what she wanted to, nothing more and frustratingly less. Raising her fingers to her forehead in a mock salute, Josephine spun on her heel and sauntered away, leaving Stephen to sort out the sentence that had struck at his heart like a sledgehammer.
We were all under the impression that Grace would have to win you back, but that is not the case, is it?
Not the case, is it?
Is it?
What the bloody hell did that mean?
There was only one way to find out. Jaw clenched, arms stiff at his sides, stomach twisted in knots, Stephen struck out across the ballroom. He cleared people from his path with one murderous glare after another and no one was so foolish as to dare speak a word in his direction. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was – had always been, really – Grace.
CHAPTER NINE
There was a reason Grace possessed such a fondness for pastries. She allowed her friends and family to think it was because of her perpetual sweet tooth, and while that was certainly true, it was also not the whole reason, nor even the half of it.
No, the real reason she adored pastries was the memory they evoked. One bite of the thinly layered dough to the fruit filling within and she was a young girl again, entertaining her first gentleman caller on the veranda of her parent’s modest country estate while her mother peered anxiously through the window and her father oh-so-casually cleaned one of his rifles in the drawing room.
Of course her first caller it had been Stephen.
It had always been Stephen.
Even now, four years removed from the moment that had changed the course of her life forever, Grace was able to recall every detail with absolute clarity as she nibbled on the edge of a sweet raspberry tart. Quite cognizant of the damage the delicious pastry could do to her ivory gown, she wrapped it in a cloth napkin and wandered to the rear of the supper room where a small collection of mismatched tables and chairs had been set up.
She sat gratefully, her feet and ankles already weary from being pinched in her too tight dancing slippers, and while the ton mingled all around her, oblivious to one solitary female of nondescript appearance, she ate her raspberry tart and remembered her first kiss.
Stephen had come to call exactly one week after the Grandhill’s picnic. He showed up quite unexpectedly at half past one in the afternoon with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands and a smirk on his face.
The butler ushered him in to the drawing room, where he was served weak tea and stale scones – the cook had taken ill two days before, and Lady Deringer’s cooking skills paled in comparison – while Grace changed dresses upstairs and her mother attempted to do something to tame her wild curls.
“No, no, no, not the yellow muslin! The blue, Grace. The blue! It matches your eyes,” Henrietta all but shrieked as she yanked a hairbrush through Grace’s hair hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“But I have grass stains on the blue one.”
Henrietta paused mid yank, her eyes bulging. “Grass stains? How in heavens did you get grass stains on your new dress?”
Unable to meet her mother’s piercing gaze in the mirror, Grace ducked her chin. “I do not remember,” she mumbled.
“You do not remember. Oh, Grace, what am I going to do with you?” Henrietta released a dramatic sigh and shook her head woefully back and forth. “You are such a troublesome child. Sweet as a newborn lamb, but exceedingly troublesome. Why you cannot act more like Rosalind is beyond me.”
Grace wrinkled her nose as she thought of her baby sister who was an angel in public and the very devil when she thought no one was watching. “I do not want to be like Rosalind. I want to be like me.”
“Yes, well, I do suppose you managed to attract the attention of… What is Lord Melbourne, precisely? A Duke?” Henrietta asked hopefully.
“No, not a Duke.”
“Oh, very well. I do suppose that was a bit far fetched. A Viscount, then.”
Disguising her laughter with a well timed cough, Grace shook her head. “No, Mother, he is not a Viscount either.”
Henrietta stopped brushing all together to put her hands on her well rounded hips. “Well then, what is he?” she demanded.
“An Earl,” Grace said. “The Earl of Terraview, I believe.”
“The Earl of Terraview,” Henrietta mused. Setting the brush aside, she expertly swept Grace’s hair back into a simple twist at the nape of her neck and secured it with a yellow ribbon that matched her dress. “Well, I suppose that is better than a Baron. Pinch your cheeks, dear. You look a little pale.”
Grace did as she was asked, and listened obediently to her mother as Henrietta continued to issue orders even as they made their way down the stairs towards the drawing room where Stephen had been kept waiting for more than half an hour.
“Do not discuss any personal matters… Do not eat in front of him… Remember to sit up straight… Smile, but not too much… Laugh, but not too loudly… Do not fidget… Make sure to cross your ankles... Sit with your hands—”
“Mother, stop it,” Grace hissed, her cheeks turning pink with embarrassment when they reached the door and she saw it was slightly ajar. Sound carried easily through the thin plaster walls of the old house, and she had no doubt her suitor had heard every single word Henrietta uttered. How completely mortifying.
“I am trying to give you advice, dear.”
“Yes, but Lord Melbourne can hear you.”
“A gentleman never eavesdrops. Do they, Lord Melbourne?” Pushing the door open, Henrietta walked briskly into the room and offered the Earl a beaming smile. He rose from his chair at once and bent at the waist in a lavish bow that caused Henrietta to giggle and Grace to roll her eyes.
“They do not, Lady Deringer,” Stephen said. Straightening, he leveled those leaf green eyes directly at Grace, and she felt her face changing color all over again.
How could one look, so innocent from the outside, turn her insides to jelly? She thought desperately of something to say, an amusing comment, perhaps, or a witty observation, except when she opened her mouth no sound came out, which was quite unusual. Grace was many things, but at a loss for words was not one of them. Thankfully, she had inherited her penchant for aimless chatter from her mother, and Henrietta was most definitely not lacking in mindless conversation or cringe-worthy questions.
“I say, Lord Melbourne, are you staying with acquaintances or relatives in the area?”
“Mother,” Grace groaned, clapping a hand to her forehead.
“What?” Wide-eyed, Henrietta glanced at her daughter and frowned. “It was only a simple question.”
One intended to find out if Lord Melbourne is wealthy enough to have his own estate in the country, Grace thought silently. She had tried to explain ages ago that she wanted to marry for love, not money, but Henrietta would have none of it. Marry for both if you can, her mother had said, or marry for money if you can’t, but never, ever marry just for love.
Fortunately Stephen did not seem put off by the question. If anything, he appeared humored by it. “I own a property not far from here. A two hundred acre estate that is quite prosperous, I can assure you. I also possess two properties in Scotland, one in France, and a large townhouse of the first tier in London. I inherited all of the homes, but my personal wealth – of which there is an embarrassing amount – has been made entirely on my own merit. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Lady Deringer, or shall I continue?”
“I… I do not… That is to say… Well,” Henrietta said finally. “Yes, yes Lord Melbourne. I am quite satisfied. You… You may have afternoon tea on the back veranda with my daughter if you wish.”
&nbs
p; Grace, who had never heard her mother at a loss for words in her entire life, was forced to clap a hand over her mouth to hold back the peal of laughter that threatened to burst out. Oh, but that had been marvelous! She glanced at Stephen with new appreciation and caught him looking at her as well. Their eyes met. His mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile, and Grace – never well coordinated at her best, positively hopeless at her worst – stumbled over the edge of the rug when she tried to turn around.
The floor rushed up towards her at an alarming rate and she cringed, throwing her hands out in front of her face in an attempt to brace for an impact… that never came. Instead two strong arms caught around her middle and she was plucked upright as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“Are you all right?” Stephen murmured against her ear.
How, Grace wondered dazedly, had he moved so fast? And why did it feel so divine to be in his arms when he was no more than a stranger?
“Quite… quite all right,” she squeaked. And then, because she knew her mother was watching them like a hawk, she hastily added, “You can let me go now.”
The Earl stepped away at once, and with a cluck of her tongue Henrietta led them both out onto the veranda. It was quite warm for late August, but the back of the estate boasted numerous trees and shade was plentiful. A light breeze played across Grace’s face as she seated herself at one end of the wrought iron table that occupied the majority of the veranda’s limited space while Stephen took to the other.
“I will send someone out with fresh lemonade and pastries,” Henrietta said, although she made no move to go back inside as promised. Instead she stood looking at both of them expectantly, as if waiting for something to happen.
A Gentle Grace (Wedded Women Quartet) Page 6