After six months had passed with Rotheby making regular visits, Aurora took it upon herself to give the earl an open invitation to come stay with them whenever the mood struck him. After all, the abbey was vast. Quin’s grandfather could have an immense amount of freedom staying there, but he could also have company when he so chose. And she and Quin would be there to care for him, should he become ill or frail. Most days it was hard to imagine the curmudgeon as frail. But time was no longer on his side.
Quin hadn’t been overly pleased with the arrangement, but he eventually gave in to Aurora’s request, particularly because it proved to him she was no longer thinking primarily of herself. It seemed he was beginning to heed his mother’s unremitting refrain: Aurora is always right. Except in those instances when she was egregiously wrong, like in her assessment of Lord Norcutt the previous year.
Now that Aurora was rather well along in her pregnancy, Lord Rotheby had taken it upon himself to be her protector. Of course, Quin also thought himself to be just that. And Zeus, being her diligent companion, also thought it to be his job.
Needless to say, Aurora could hardly sneeze without one of them yelling at another to do something about it.
Which was rather nice, actually. But also rather tedious.
Perhaps, once the abbey was once again filled with other guests, they would have someone else to look after at least some of the time. It would be rather unsporting of them to expect her to do it all.
But then again, Rebecca and Nia had both promised to assist with Aurora’s plans for all of the entertainments, and Minerva had requested permission to take over the responsibility for planning three full days’ events. She would not be alone in her efforts.
Indeed, all of the assistance she would be receiving might be just the thing she needed in order to resume her matchmaking enterprises. Aurora looked over to where Nia sat with her mother by the hearth, working on her embroidery.
Perhaps she ought to direct the girl’s attention to another gentleman this summer—someone other than Sir Jonas. Perhaps then the two would realize they were destined for each other and stop fighting against it. The wheels of Aurora’s mind set to turning as she planned how she would go about it, schooling her features into a placidly content look as Quin came over to steal a hurried kiss before returning to his business affairs in the undercroft. No reason to raise anyone’s suspicions. Least of all his.
Aurora made her way over to the escritoire by the window and took a seat. She pulled out some foolscap to set upon the blotter, and then dipped a quill into her inkpot.
It was time to write again. A smile threatened to consume her entire face. This time, she would not write of her own life. Nor would she write of her fantastical, imagined life.
Indeed, she would not write of the lives of anyone she knew, real or otherwise.
This time, she wanted to write a story. A novel, to be precise. It wasn’t quite fashionable for a lady to be a writer, but when had Aurora cared about being fashionable? Scandal was, after all, her middle name, it seemed.
She would ask for Quin’s favor later. After all, it was much easier to beg forgiveness than permission.
Saving Grace
Catherine Gayle
Dedication
To the Lady Scribes and the rest of the Historical Romance Critique Group on Yahoogroups, for believing in me and helping me to hone my craft.
Prologue
March, 1813
“Ungrateful whore!”
Lady Grace Abernathy’s cheek burned where the back of her father’s hand struck her, but she fought to conceal her emotions.
Crying could come later, but not before Father. He fed on weakness and fear. Tears would only add fuel to his fire. She refused to encourage him. “A whore, Father?” Grace focused on her nerves to refrain from stuttering. “What do you mean?”
How on earth had he learned what had happened? Could someone have hidden in the library and watched while the Earl of Barrow ravished her?
“You are a harlot! Barrow told the whole of White’s how you pushed yourself at him during Lord Everton’s ball. How he tried to convince you any sort of dalliance would be an enormously bad idea, but you refused to take no for an answer. Do you want to know who was in White’s that night, Grace? Do you?”
Her father, the Marquess of Chatham, rose to full temper. His bulbous head turned an unnatural shade of purple and appeared as though it might burst at any moment. Grace rather thought she might like to see it burst. His eyelids twitched over his wide eyes, and the thin bits of greyed hair covering his scalp flopped back and forth with each syllable.
“The Duke of Walsingham! Your betrothed, that’s who. A good half the ton was at White’s. As soon as Walsingham learned of the trollop you truly are, he came to my library and called off the betrothal. He ripped our agreement and tossed it in the fire. You are ruined, Grace. No one will condescend to have you now.”
He dropped into the chair behind his aged desk and held his head in his hands.
Grace’s jaw dropped when she learned of the extremity of Lord Barrow’s revenge for Father breaking off their agreement. And of course, her father and his drink-addled mind had fallen right into Barrow’s trap, and Grace took the brunt of it. Why should she have expected anything different?
“But Father, no, that is untrue.” He must understand. “I never dallied with Lord Barrow. He forced himself on me.”
His head rose and he stared upon her with apprehension. A pit of ire rose up in her over his dubious expression. Would the man never believe her, not even over this?
“I tried to stop him, but I was not strong enough.” Her words rushed forth. “He wanted a settling of the score with you, for not honoring the arrangement for our marriage.”
“Lies. Lies! You are a whore. You are no daughter of mine.” He spat the words at her. “After all I have done for you to secure an eligible match. You were to be a duchess. I would be aligned through your marriage to the Duke of Walsingham. But now what? All is lost.”
Of course, everything inevitably rested on status. Father had never concerned himself with her welfare, but only cared about the connections he had within society and the coin lining his coffers. How could he do better than marrying his daughter off to a duke? Grace wouldn’t doubt if there were some sort of monetary agreement involved as well—something which would be more favorable than whatever Lord Barrow had offered, since Father had blatantly ignored the agreement with the Barrow—therefore garnering the earl’s wrath—and leaving Grace to deal with the consequences.
Why could Father not, just once, love her? He slumped forward in his chair and wept. She waited, still as could be, to see what he would do next.
After several long moments, her father looked up again, unseeingly, at her. “There is still a possibility to resume the broken understanding with Barrow. I will work on that prospect again, or on making some other advantageous match if I cannot settle things to my liking.” He rose and paced his library. “Barrow absconded—er, I mean left—for the continent, and I know not when he will return. But that is of little consequence.”
“Father, you can’t really wish align yourself with a man who would ravish your daughter, can you? And why does the earl leave England so often?” The man’s frequent trips abroad, with no explanation, left her unsettled—even more now that she would be forced to marry him. Something seemed out of place, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“I neither know nor care. His concerns are his own.”
Grace ought to have known her father would not enquire into such matters. He preferred to know the title, connections, and property of any of her possible suitors. Anything else held little concern. For that matter, their ages and temperaments caused him no concern at all. Grace would marry as her father ordered her to marry, and that was the end of that. Her preferences, and frankly her needs, carried little moment with him.
A throb built in her temples as she waited to learn what else he had to sa
y. Her jaw twitched with a desperate need to scream at the man, but somehow she held her tongue.
“You claim he ravished you, but what reasonable chit would not make such a claim under the circumstances? Barrow says you offered yourself to him.” Several moments passed as Grace’s father considered these ideas, mulling them over much as he savored his liquor. “I have no reason to doubt the earl’s word. But in all honesty, it matters not who tells the truth and who lies. Your ruin is taking place before my eyes, Grace, and your ruin means my ruin!”
He stopped pacing and faced her. His eyes were cold, unfeeling. “By God, I will do everything in my power to see my reputation and status maintained. Go to your chamber. You will stay there unless I call for you.”
“For how long, Father?” She glared at him through a haze of red. Of course he would banish her to her chamber again. He always locked her away.
“Until I decide you should come out, that is how long!” He sat behind his desk again and poured whiskey into a glass.
Grace fled through the doors of his library, blinded by her rage. Was she truly so unlovable her own father would take the side of a jilted suitor over her?
Chapter One
April, 1813
Grace trembled as she knocked on the door to her father’s study. Rationality had never been his strong suit, and the few servants remaining in his employ considered him anything but kind. Delaying this discussion, however, would only mean putting off the inevitable, so she braced herself for the task at hand as well as possible.
A muddled grunt from behind the door seemed to be her invitation to enter. In the absence of a footman, she pushed the dusty-covered, heavy doors open and proceeded into the library.
Her father stared the books of his estates with a sinister grimace on his face as he passed over the same figures time and again. He pushed the papers about, placing them just so against each other, in an apparent attempt to make the numbers line up properly. The stench of whiskey and an overused chamber pot permeated her senses.
“What is it, girl? Can you not see I am busy?” He barely spared her a passing glance.
The impending confrontation would not be a pleasant one.
“Father, there is something I must discuss with you.”
He rearranged his papers once more before spilling his glass of whiskey on the mismanaged ledgers and notes.
Grace stood her ground, bent on avoiding assisting in the cleanup process. Father had created the problem, and he could very well fix it himself. She was far more concerned with how he might choose to handle her own situation. He mopped at the spilled whiskey with his shirtsleeve while she waited for him to acknowledge her.
“Yes, yes. Well. We are still waiting on Barrow to return so your betrothal can be announced. I am quite certain he will not wish to wait for the banns to be called. The earl can obtain a special license. Your marriage will take place in due time, Grace. Never fear.”
Ha. Never fear.
Father took a swig from the bottle and then eyed her from across his battered desk. “Why have you left your bedchamber? I told you to stay put. If you are even thinking of asking to leave Chatham House for any reason, the answer is no. I dare not add to the gossip.”
Father did not seem to realize, through his ever-present veil of drunkenness, that hiding until the gossip blew over would only add fuel to the gossipmongers’ fire, not quench the flames. She wished there were someone she could talk to, but he had kept her in veritable isolation her entire life. She never knew exactly why. Grace could only assume he did not want her to see how the rest of society lived. How could she think something wrong when she knew nothing different?
His wobbly hand reached again for the whisky decanter. “Barrow will surely put things to rights upon his return from the continent.”
Grace knew without a doubt that while the Earl of Barrow may put things to rights in the eyes of her father, her life would become anything but right. A life spent with the man who had so foully abused her was the last thing she wanted, but under the current circumstances, marrying the scoundrel might be the only option to salvage her reputation.
Not that it would be Grace’s choice, even if she had myriad options at her disposal. Doubtless, Father would simply make his decision and force her to comply. She had once thought she would do anything to be away from Father. But a marriage to Barrow? She fought to conceal the shudder that coursed through her veins, chilling her to the core.
What about running away? Now there was a thought. Grace would have to hold on to the idea. She might need to make use of it after telling her news.
Which brought her back to her current purpose in speaking to him. “Father, there is something you should know.”
He waved her off impatiently.
“Please. A—allow me to speak.” Her shaking increased to the point of visibility, perhaps in anticipation of his reaction to her news, or also possibly due to fear of his retaliation. There was no way around telling him—he would discover the truth for himself in time, and his wrath might be deadly if it came to that, or at the very least violent.
How revolting, that she had been lowered to begging him for anything. But she must tell him, whatever the cost to her pride.
“Go on then. I do not have all day.” Her father downed another large swig of his whiskey, somewhat missing his mouth in the effort. A stream of the liquor trailed down his chin and onto his already stained shirt.
His large hands grasped the glass. The image served as a reminder of the mark on her cheek. Better to just get it over with. “Father, I am with child,” she blurted out.
The glass fell to the desk and Grace jumped. Her eyes followed it as it spilled its contents and dropped to the floor, shattering into a vista of miniscule shards that glinted in the dim candlelight.
Father stared out at nothing, his face growing redder by degrees. The twitching in his eye increased to the point she thought a vein might burst at any point. Good. He deserved to be angry. The man could not even be bothered to love his only child. But what would he force upon her now? She wished she were bolder and could dare to speak her mind with him.
His breath quickened to short rasps. He staggered to the window, never deigning to look at Grace. “Barrow is still away. Lord knows when he will return. Walsingham will not have you. After Barrow’s announcement of your indiscretions at White’s, no other man of title and means will have you either.”
His frosty words fell heavy in the room and hurt Grace more than a slap to the face ever could. Those words proved what she already knew—her father’s prestige and position were more important to him than she.
He paced through his library, stumbling at times, never glancing in her direction. “You will return to your chamber where you will remain until Barrow returns, and then you shall be his problem, not mine. If he does not return before the bastard is born, it will be given to some family that needs another set of hands. And you will wait for him to marry you.” He stared out the grimy window, his head nodding at varied moments. “If he refuses to marry you, you will leave Chatham House and never return. Seek employment as a paid companion or a governess if you wish. Or as a whore, since you seem already inclined to that profession.”
Grace’s chin rose in vehement defiance.
“But you will never step foot across my door again, unless you come as the Countess of Barrow. You are a disgrace.” Father stumbled back to his desk and picked up the decanter of whiskey. He rang for a servant to clean the mess he had caused, cursing when none arrived. For years, he had employed no more than his personal valet, a cook, and the occasional butler, yet he rarely remembered such pertinent details when drunk as a wheelbarrow, as in this particular moment.
Why, if he kept servants, he would have to pay them! Father preferred to spend his money on gambling or whores to keep him warm, or any number of other things on which a wastrel might spend his blunt.
Grace’s nervous trembling subsided, replaced by anger. If he believed he could h
ide her away only to take her child from her, he was sorely mistaken. She could not allow such a vile circumstance to come to pass.
But if he managed to marry her off to Lord Barrow, her lot would become far worse than it already was. The earl had already shown her the sort of villainous treatment she could expect from him.
She left the library and returned to her room. Her father could not win this battle. She refused to let him take her child away from her, and she would be damned if she would marry an abominable lecher such as Barrow.
Grace had only one option.
~ * ~
Lord Alexander Hardwicke borrowed a curricle from his eldest brother Peter, the Duke of Somerton, for his jaunt across town. His good friend Derek Redgrave, the Earl of Sinclaire (a bloody handsome chap, even if Alex must risk his virility to make such an assessment) passed by in a phaeton as he left Mayfair on Piccadilly Circus.
“And just where are you off to in such a hurry on this fine spring day?”
Alex glanced about to be sure no one was within earshot. “To see Priscilla and Harry. Come with me. I’ll explain. I need to speak with you, anyway.”
Derek’s eyes darkened with curiosity, then he changed the direction of his vehicle and followed behind.
After a good ride, including several unnecessary, and only slightly erratic, twists and turns to throw off anyone curious about Alex’s destination, they pulled into a drive before the functional home where he housed the woman and her small son.
Their companion, Vivian, opened the door to his insistent knock. “My lords, how delightful to see you today. Come in.” She stepped aside to allow their rather bulky bodies through the small doorframe.
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