by Amy Quinton
As Dansbury guided them around the room, Grace was amazed at the scene about her, and yet though she looked the part, she couldn’t help but feel separate—as if she didn’t quite belong. This was Stonebridge and Dansbury’s world, and suddenly she felt more apart from the duke than ever.
Their party reached the Dowager and her court of attendants at last.
“Eugenie,” said Lady Harriett as they approached.
“Harry,” said the Dowager, affectionately yet primly, “How are you?”
“I am well. Eugenie, do you recall Miss Grace Radclyffe of the Beckett Family?”
“Indeed, how could I forget?” said the Dowager as she raised her lorgnette and looked Grace over, somewhat suspiciously. She had been a front row witness to the dining disaster at Beckett House last month.
Lady Harriett, having heard about it and guessing the cause of her concern, laughed and said, “Not to worry, Eugenie, Grace does not have any prawns on her person today. Do you, my dear?”
Grace could do nothing but smile and go along with it. “Certainly not. I only toss prawns on Saturdays, Your Grace.”
Lady Harriett laughed good-naturedly, though the Dowager hardly looked satisfied. Further introductions were made, and after, while Dansbury and Lady Harriett talked of the Dansbury estate in Cornwall, Grace removed herself from the conversation and turned to watch the dancing.
“Grace.”
Her heart skipped a beat at the intimacy of the male voice behind her. She was relieved to turn and acknowledge Dansbury standing there with an affable grin on his face. She had known it wasn’t the duke before she turned, but her nerves were stretched thin, and therefore, everything seemed manufactured to make her heart jump.
“Lord Dansbury.”
“Will you honor me with your hand for this dance?”
“Of course. I would like that very much, thank you.” Grace smiled. She was genuinely happy to dance with him, and without another word, she and Dansbury lined up for the cotillion.
After a while, she realized she was not plagued with her usual clumsiness, and it felt good; no, better than that—it felt great. She realized, then, that she was content, and she let her face shine.
Neither noticed the duke’s jealous scowl as he watched from an alcove nearby.
* * * *
During a break in the dancing, Lady Beatrice glanced about her court of admirers and smiled behind her fan. There were a dozen young dandies vying for her attention, all of them worse gossips than any woman she knew.
One particularly young buck leaned near. “The lady dancing the cotillion with Dansbury earlier, I understand she is your cousin?”
Beatryce smiled to herself. This was going to be all too easy. She assumed a somber look before replying, “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
The young fop, noticing her subdued countenance, responded all too predictably, “Is that a bad thing?”
Beatryce sighed dramatically. “No, for we love her dearly and have opened our hearts to her despite her b…” Beatryce blushed convincingly. “Well, I shouldn’t say.”
“Oh please, Lady Beatryce, do tell, we shan’t tell a soul nor hold it against you. Your generosity is well known,” said the love-sick, and lying, fool. They hung on her every word in the hopes of acquiring new gossip.
“Please see that you do then, as many would frown upon what I’m about to tell you…But, well, you see, her family was in trade.” A collective gasp sounded from her circle of admirers. “And I’m afraid she has had little instruction in the art of being a lady. Now, I see you are surprised by this, yet despite how most of the ton feels about people in trade, we have opened our home to her, inviting her in when she was orphaned last year.”
The dandies panted—trade? Oh, the scandal. The horror. They tried to mask their fervor for gossip by nodding solemnly at the Beckett family’s obvious benevolence; however, eager eyes gave them away. Beatryce smiled and continued, “And though we’ve tried to give her some rudimentary instruction in proper decorum, I’m afraid she doesn’t seem to understand that there are certain…things…a lady must never, ever do in order to safeguard her reputation.”
The men around her salivated and leaned forward on their toes as Beatryce lowered her voice scandalously. They couldn’t afford to miss a word. Their faces well-nigh shouted at her to be more specific.
One particularly bold peacock said, “For instance…” his voice trailing off for Beatryce to fill in the blank.
Beatryce wanted to thank him and kiss his feet for the lead-in. “Well, I’m sure it’s because she is so kind and loving, but we cannot seem to make her realize that she cannot go off unescorted with certain…people…Men. Who are not relations, you see.”
The men’s eyes widened at the news, and Beatryce could practically read their wicked thoughts as they wondered who Grace was running off with unescorted, and more to the point, who they should relate the news to first.
Beatryce sighed with feigned exasperation as she looked pointedly across the room.
Right on cue, Middlebury.
“And there she goes again,” she said with a nod toward the potted palms across the way. “Excuse me, while I attempt to save my cousin from herself.” And before Beatryce could take another breath, the young swains scattered like cockroaches at dawn, gossip ready to slide off their wagging tongues.
Beatryce headed to the ladies’ retiring room rather than make her way across the dance floor. As if she had any intention of saving her cousin. Ha!
* * * *
After her dance with Dansbury, Grace was happy to take a break and simply walk about the public rooms with him. She had yet to see any sign of Stonebridge, and by now, she was no longer looking for him through every break in the crowd. She began to relax. This ball demonstrated a side of life she had not been a part of growing up, and she was glad to be able to experience it before her return home.
They walked into a side room where a large buffet table held every sort of delicacy imaginable, including fresh fruit imported especially for the ball. Judging from the few guests inside, it appeared that much of the food would remain untouched and probably thrown away at the end of the night. She thought of the orphans and the poor back home, and it made her somewhat ashamed to enjoy the lavishness even for a moment.
They toured the gallery before returning to the ballroom.
The extravagances on display that evening were extreme—and it was both fascinating and nauseating to witness. It disgusted her, but neither could she look away. One particular woman wore diamond rings on every finger, in her hair, around her neck, and dangling from her ears. She even had diamonds on her fan and sewn into her dress. Grace thought she likely had them sewn into her drawers as well and chuckled to herself as she thought about how uncomfortable it must be for the woman to sit.
She had barely finished that thought when two women walked by with elaborate head pieces. One appeared to have peacock feathers in her hair, enough to rival a full-grown male, while the other appeared to have an entire garden of rare orchids draping her head. She hoped the lady was not allergic to bees.
Despite her earlier eagerness to attend this ball, Grace suspected this life wasn’t for her. She didn’t belong. She didn’t suit this life.
An hour later, she was alone watching dance after dance from a little alcove created by judiciously placed potted plants. She was content to simply watch from afar rather than participate. She had met numerous people through Lady Harriett before she managed to sneak away to her little private haven amidst the masses. Growing up in Oxford, she had never had trouble talking with customers in her father’s shop or at artist guilds and teas, but here she found it difficult to think of what to say. Her brain seemed to freeze. Probably because she had little in common with these people. It might be her own insecurities, but she just couldn’t relax and converse easily, which left her feeling awkward and lonely.
It wasn’t a surprise she didn’t ‘take’, and she was fine with that. She didn’t wan
t it, and besides, the ball was so much more enjoyable while observing it from her own private niche. She watched people cut each other and smile out both sides of their mouths. Without being in the midst, she could laugh at the irony and cruelty of it all without her own feelings engaged. Yet with her prospective business in designing custom clothes for women, she couldn’t afford to mar her reputation either, so she did her best to steer clear of the gossip, even if she did look on with envy at the numerous couples performing the waltz, which she had not gained permission to dance.
Her musings were interrupted by a familiar voice:
“Grace, my love, what a pleasant surprise.”
Lord Middlebury. Ugh. Grace cringed as she recalled their last conversation at Beckett House. How could such an innocuous statement make her feel so dirty? Unfortunately, she couldn’t go so far as to publically embarrass Lady Harriett by being rude to him, so she turned with a forced smile to greet his lordship.
“Lord Middlebury, how nice to see you again.” What a lie.
“The pleasure is all mine. What a waste. Hiding amongst the plants? You simply must join me for a turn about the dance floor. I’ve been holding this waltz open in hopes that you will favor me with your company.”
Do people actually fall for that drivel?
“Excuse me?”
Zounds! Did I say that out loud?
“I said, absolutely…without…er…quibble…It means I'd be delighted, I’m sure; however, as you must know, I’ve not been granted permission to dance the waltz by the Almack’s patronesses; therefore, I must respectfully decline.” God, now she was relieved to be denied that pleasure.
Middlebury grabbed her hand and hooked it through his arm. He would not be deterred.
“Well, then, Miss Radclyffe, I am in desperate need of a breath of fresh air; it’s ridiculously stuffy in here with the crush. Allow me to escort you outside as I’m sure you could do with a bit of fresh air as well. For sure, you cannot visit Russell House without viewing their extraordinary gardens.”
Before she could even contemplate the wisdom of going outside with this man, he swept her out the balcony doors and onto the darkened terrace.
“Lord Middlebury, I don’t think we should.”
“Oh, stuff,” he interrupted. “It’s perfectly respectable out here. Do you see the lights scattered along the paths? Lord and Lady Russell wouldn’t have bothered if they didn’t want their guests to take the opportunity to explore their beautiful gardens.”
He moved swiftly as he spoke, gripping her hand. She became alarmed. Despite the presence of numerous torches dotted along the garden paths, no one else appeared to be outside taking the air. She couldn’t pull away without causing a scene, but what else was she supposed to do? She was unprepared for this situation. No one had told her what to do.
Lord Middlebury turned a corner and pulled her down to sit beside him on a low garden bench. He clearly knew what he was about in this garden.
“Grace, my dear, it has been my fondest desire to find a moment alone with you so we could speak privately. I can’t help but remember our connection at Beckett House, and I find myself thinking of you constantly.”
What in the world was he talking about? His statement seemed suggestive, as if their previous encounters had been more than what they were. She grew alarmed; she needed to put a stop to this. Now.
“Lord Middlebury.”
“Oh, darling, I knew you felt the same, oh let me show you…”
His ridiculous speech was cut short as he pawed at her and kissed her. Dear Lord, this man was known as a disreputable rake, yet to her, he seemed to be acting out the scene from a bad play. Were women in London actually flattered by this nonsense? Did they actually like his advances? Ugh.
She fought him in earnest now, creating a scene be damned. And despite her alarm, she was aware enough to realize that perhaps there was a reason he seemed to be acting for an audience. She could not afford this sort of scandal.
She fought harder, with no more success. The man had eight arms and ten legs. But then suddenly, he was gone. There was nothing but air where previously there had been an over-amorous Lord Middlebury.
She blinked as she made sense of the scene before her.
Lord Middlebury was sprawled across the ground, moaning. His hand squeezed his bleeding nose. And over him stood one thoroughly enraged duke.
“I will, this once, assume you were too overcome by the lady’s beauty to realize your attentions were unwelcome. I am letting you go only because I wish to keep her name from being attached to any scandal should I call you out. However, if you ever attempt any such attack on her person again, I will not hesitate to kill you where you stand.”
And without waiting for a response, Stonebridge turned on his heel, lifted Grace by her elbow, and pulled her off along another path with a gruff, “Come on.”
He was furious, though she didn’t think it was directed at her, so she followed along, confident he wouldn’t actually harm her. She was relieved and knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He walked swiftly and silently, and she kept pace without attempting to converse.
They approached the rear terrace at a different direction from which she left previously. He stopped and turned to look at her.
“Grace—I…” He paused and regarded her intently. For a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her, and she would willingly accept his kiss. But instead, he shook his head and didn’t kiss her.
“I went this way in case there were others along the path. I suspect…Well, never mind. You might want to make your way to the ladies’ retiring room. If you make your way through these doors, you’ll see a set of stairs. At the next floor, you should come out in the hall near where you want to be without having to pass through the ballroom. I’ll head back up to the balcony and reenter that way. Grace…I…It will be all right.”
He touched her cheek briefly before turning to head up the balcony stairs. She thanked him, but she knew he hadn’t heard. Silently, she turned and made her way to the retiring room without mishap as he suggested.
* * * *
Stonebridge took a moment to straighten himself and cool his ire before reentering the ballroom. The sight of Grace in Middlebury’s arms had pushed his temper to the breaking point. He was furious and needed to regain his composure. He couldn’t believe he had threatened Middlebury with his life. After a few minutes, he went inside and found his friend.
“Cliff.”
“Ambrose, where have you been? I’ve just been regaled with the most ridiculous rumors about Grace and Middlebury. It was laughable really, and I set what gossip mongers straight that I could, but well, we know how fast these things spread and we both know who is at the source of these rumors. Don’t we?”
“Beatryce,” he grumbled.
“Frankly, I am appalled she would do as such to her own cousin. And you’re going to marry this girl? Ambrose, you and I both know these rumors aren’t the least bit true. What are you going to do about it? Lady Beatryce is your fiancée.”
Suddenly, he was angry. At everyone. At everything. At life. And he spoke with anger, words he really didn’t believe, but he said them anyway.
“Don’t I? I could easily think otherwise based on what I just witnessed in the garden, and Beatryce is not my fiancée, yet.”
“If you weren’t my best friend, I'd call you out right now. How can you even suggest such a thing? I really thought…never mind.”
“Are you thinking? You escorted her here; therefore, it is your responsibility to keep an eye out for her welfare. She’s lucky I spotted her leaving the ballroom with Middlebury.”
Cliff shook his head. “Ambrose, are you doing the right thing and do you even know what that is anymore?”
He chuckled sarcastically. There were so many shades of right in this world. “What I truly believe is irrelevant. Grace is common, and I highly doubt she’s the innocent she pretends. Thus, I would never marry her. I'd take her as my mis
tress before I'd grace her with my name. It’s the way of our life and you had better get used to it. You’re titled as well, or have you forgotten?”
Cliff turned at the gasp both men couldn’t help but hear. Stonebridge didn’t look. He couldn’t. He was ashamed. As he should be. He knew Grace had heard what he said, and it galled him to realize how pathetic and cruel he had sounded. Deep down, he knew she was innocent.
And he had done it after all, shamed the Stonebridge name. And through his own actions no less. Wouldn’t a true gentlemen always defend a lady? Regardless of whether or not she deserved it? His father would say yes. His father would be disappointed, but damn, these were the decisions a man had to make in his life. He couldn’t marry Grace and that was that. It was a fact of life, whether it was right or not. Whether he agreed with it or not. Whether he liked it or not.
Of course, that didn’t mean he had to be a jackass about it. Hell. Any man would be lucky to have her for a wife, and he knew it. But he was not any man, and the deed was done. He had said the words, and there was nothing he could do about it. He just couldn’t do right by her, and it was all his own stupidity that kept fucking it up. Bloody hell.
Cliff looked at him as if he saw a stranger. “You’re despicable, and right now, I’m ashamed to call you my friend.” And with a look of contempt, he turned on his heel and stormed off after Grace, leaving Stonebridge with only his guilt for company.
* * * *
The Earl of Swindon entered his study long after the end of the Russell Ball, seething in frustration. His daughter was a complete failure, and he was disgusted with her. Her inability to bring Stonebridge up to scratch infuriated him. That bitch! Shite. He was going to have to force the issue.
Now that the duke was obviously suspicious, he had no qualms about using less savory tactics to push the betrothal through. The next ball would do.
He glanced down at his desk and realized with alarm that a note was attached to the desktop with a knife through the middle—driven right through his papers and into the inlaid leather top. It read: