by Anne Gracie
It was legal and binding. According to Sir John, Melly had no choice in the matter. He and the old Lord D’Acre had cooked up the agreement years before. Documents had been signed and a large sum of money had changed hands—money that Sir John had spent long ago and had no hope of ever repaying.
No wonder Sir John had been so miserly about spending money on Melly’s coming-out. The Pettifer money problems were well known. Why go to the expense of launching Melly on the marriage mart when it was already a done deal, signed, sealed, and the bride ready to be delivered?
Sir John’s main worry had been that it looked as though the new Lord Wolfe would never come to England. Or that he’d married abroad. But he’d arrived in England still a bachelor and so the wedding was on.
The news had shocked Melly badly, but slowly she had come to terms with it. It wasn’t as if she had any other suitors. You didn’t when you were poor, plain, plump, and intensely shy. And at least the new Lord D’Acre was young.
What a strange homecoming it must have been, Grace pondered, to return to claim your inheritance and discover you’d also inherited a bride. He’d been only sixteen when the contracts were signed.
That was the problem. Dominic Wolfe didn’t want a bride. Melly wasn’t sure what had gone on: her father and the family lawyer had journeyed up to Bristol, where he was staying. He had interests in shipping.
Sir John was determined Melly would not be done out of her rights. The contract was legal and would stand. And the only way Lord D’Acre could inherit the property of Wolfestone was by marrying Melly. It was in his father’s will—he would inherit only after he had married Melly, or should she be dead or otherwise unable to marry, he could inherit the property only if he married a bride who met with Sir John’s approval.
Lord D’Acre’s legal advisers had examined the will for loopholes, but it was watertight, apparently. At that, he’d agreed to marry her, but in a letter two days ago he’d coldly informed Sir John that it would be a white marriage—a marriage in name only. He and his bride would part at the church door. He owned a fleet of ships and had no plans to live in England.
Melly was distraught. “It means I’ll have a house in London and lots of money but I’ll never have babies, Grace. And you know how I’ve always wanted babies. I l-l-love babies.” And her soft, plump face had crumpled with despair, and tears had poured down her cheeks.
“Your papa loves you—he won’t force you to marry a man like that,” Grace had told her. “Just refuse to go through with it.”
“He can, he can! He’s utterly adamant! I’ve never seen him like this before.” Melly had scrubbed at her red eyes with a mangled handkerchief. “Help me, Grace, I beg you.”
And because she’d been protecting Melly from bullies ever since they’d met at school—and because insanity ran in her family!—Grace had found herself promising she would do what she could.
That was how she now found herself on this frightful journey dressed in drab gray clothes, wearing horrid sensible leather half boots, and disguised as Melly’s hired companion, of all things. She could have been packing for a thrilling trip to Egypt with Mrs. Cheever, a wealthy widow and cousin to Mr. Henry Salt, the British consul general in Egypt and expert on Egyptian antiquities. With such wonderful connections, Grace had expected to have a splendid time. Egypt had been her passion since she was a little girl.
But there would be other opportunities for Grace to travel to Egypt, if not to stay in the house of the consul general.
Once Melly was married, it would be forever.
The coach jolted and swayed. There was a sudden thud and a burst of terrified squawks and cackles. Feathers drifted through the open window. The wretched man had driven through a flock of chickens; he hadn’t slowed the carriage in the least and from the sound of that thud at least one of the poor birds had been killed.
It was the last straw! Grace thrust her head out of the door and shrieked furiously at the postilion to slow down. He pointed at the sky and yelled something back at her. Grace couldn’t hear what it was, but the ominous bank of swollen, dark gray clouds ahead of them told their own story.
He was trying to beat a storm, racing to get to Wolfestone Castle before it hit. The road was bad enough when it was thick with dust. Once the rain came it would become a muddy quagmire. Coaches got bogged all the time. Reluctantly she pulled her head in.
Sir John shook his head at her. “Greystoke, Greystoke, Greystoke! It is not your place to interfere!” he told her wearily. “Lady Augusta expects us to teach you to behave in an appropriate manner, and I’ll tell you now, no lady would ever thrust her head out a carriage window!” He gave her a minatory look. “Nor would she shriek like a banshee!”
“Yes, Sir John. Sorry, Sir John,” Grace forced herself to say meekly. He gave her a stern look, then nodded as if satisfied she’d taken his words to heart and closed his eyes again.
It was very hard to remember she was Greystoke now, playing the role of one of her Aunt Gussie’s orphan girls in training to become a hired companion. Calling herself Greystoke in case Melly forgot and called her Grace.
Sir John would never have let Miss Grace Merridew, of the Norfolk Merridews, and darling of the ton, come on this shabby, shameful journey but when Melly’s maid had left—having found herself a situation that paid wages regularly—the girls saw their opportunity. Melly needed a female to accompany her on this trip and since Grace was supposedly an orphan-in-training whose services came free, Sir John had leapt at the opportunity.
Grace looked at Sir John. He was leaning against the cracked leather squabs of the hired coach, his eyes closed, his skin sallow and clammy-looking. He looked nearly as ill as his daughter. Good, she thought angrily. He should feel sick, too, for what he was doing to Melly.
Grace didn’t understand it. From all she’d heard, all Melly had told her at school, he’d always seemed a loving, indulgent father. As an orphan, Grace had eagerly listened to tales of other people’s parents. She and Melly had always believed it was lack of money that had prevented Melly’s coming-out. But now she had to wonder.
What sort of father would do this to his only daughter?
Poor Melly, who had never had a suitor, was—unless Grace could help her—doomed to a loveless, childless marriage to a man who didn’t want her.
Grace pondered the unfairness of life as she clung to her strap and stared out at the countryside rushing past the window. It couldn’t be said that she’d never had a suitor. Plenty of offers had been made for her hand. Mostly they’d wanted her for her face and fortune. A few men might have wanted her for herself, she supposed.
The trouble was she hadn’t wanted any of them.
She’d tried to fall in love—some of the men who had offered for her were very nice—but there was always something missing, something stopping her. And it wasn’t just a lack of . . . magic.
A big part of the problem was having faith.
Grace just couldn’t manage to achieve the unshakable belief in love that her older sisters had. Prudence, Charity, Hope, and Faith all had memories of the great love their parents had shared. Even though they’d just been children, they’d felt it, felt its warmth, its power. They never questioned it. Grace’s sisters knew love was real and tangible and all-powerful. They all believed in Mama’s dying promise; that each of her daughters would find love and laughter and sunshine and happiness. Grace didn’t.
Grace had no memories of her parents. She’d grown up in a cold, gloomy Norfolk mansion, not a sunny Italian villa. And unlike her older sisters, Grace had no guarantee, no promise of love from her dead mama to protect her.
Grace had watched each of her sisters fall in love. Their happiness was real and enduring. And her sisters assured her repeatedly that it would happen for her, too, one day.
One day a man will kiss you and you’ll know . . .
Mama’s promise, they’d remind her. Mama’s promise.
Grace had tried, so hard, to believe, tried, so h
ard, to fall in love, but she just . . . couldn’t.
So she flirted and parried men’s advances, lightheartedly and with humor, ensuring that nobody would get hurt. And that nobody would suspect.
The old man’s words would come back to haunt her whenever she was feeling sad and blue-deviled, whenever she’d failed—again—to feel more than a spark of attraction to some nice man. She couldn’t marry a man, even a nice one, whose kisses left her cold.
It didn’t matter, she told herself for the thousandth time. Plenty of people managed to live without love. She could still make a perfectly good life for herself. More than good—she was determined it would be splendid!
She was her own woman now—almost! She was almost one-and-twenty and about to take control of her own personal fortune. Once she had her fortune she could live how she liked, where she liked. She could have the splendid adventures her soul had craved all her life: travel to Egypt and Venice and Constantinople, see the wonders of the world, ride on a camel, cross the Alps in a basket as her parents had done—and she wouldn’t have to ask permission of anyone.
If she married, her body would belong to her husband and so would her fortune. The carriage jolted and swung. No man’s kisses could possibly be worth that . . .
“Tidy yourself, gel. You are all blown about!”
“Yes, Sir John.” Grace’s hands rose to tidy her hair and again she got a shock as she felt the harshly dyed locks. Nobody would recognize her as Grace Merridew now.
Under Grace’s instructions, Aunt Gussie’s maid, Consuela, had cut Grace’s hair shorter and dyed it dark brown. And in a stroke of genius, she’d used henna to paint indelible freckles all over Grace’s face and hands and around her neckline. The henna paste stained the skin and even washing failed to remove the false freckles.
They would fade, Consuela had assured the horrified Aunt Gussie. Grace would need to redo them every so often, but in the meantime, the shortsighted Sir John would never suspect that brown-haired, heavily freckled Greystoke was in fact Miss Grace Merridew whose red-gold hair and pure, peaches-and-cream complexion was famous. He had only met Grace a few times since the girls had left boarding school. As herself, and in the right context, he would probably recognize Grace, but not, she’d gambled, like this. She was right.
She felt a pang for the loss of her long, red-gold hair. Melly’s babies, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time.
Grace didn’t share Melly’s passion for babies. She liked children, but only after they’d started walking and talking and had become small people. But Melly adored babies, even the doughiest, dribbliest, smelliest ones.
Melly’s dreams were simple. She didn’t want a lord or a fine London house or lots of money. She just wanted a nice man who would love her and marry her and give her lots of babies. It was what every girl dreamed of, Grace believed.
Every girl except Grace.
Which is why she was so determined Melly’s dreams would not be sacrificed. Cutting off her hair was nothing. Hair grew back. People’s dreams didn’t. Dreams shattered, and sometimes, so did the people.
Lord D’Acre, Dominic Wolfe of Wolfestone Castle, could take his moneybags and his cold-blooded travesty of a marriage elsewhere.
Grace would rescue her friend. She was Grace Merridew, knight-errant! She pondered the term. Knightesserrant, perhap?
DOMINIC WOLFE RODE THE LAST FEW MILES SLOWLY, HIS HEAD bowed against the wind that had just sprung up. Gray clouds boiled slowly, darkening the sky. Summer storms were all sound and fury: lightning and thunder.
He’d reach Wolfestone before it hit, he thought.
As always, the thought of Wolfestone made his jaw tighten. He’d wanted never to set eyes on the place. Blast the Pettifers and their sudden decision to come here! He should have made it clearer to Sir John exactly what their bargain entailed.
Probably the daughter imagined she was inspecting her future home. His mouth hardened.
There was a jagged flash of lightning, and thunder rumbled in the distance. He glanced down at the dog trotting at his side. Her ears were flattened unhappily. Sheba was terrified of thunder. Dominic bent and scooped her up, settling her in front of him on the saddle. Both horse and dog were well used to Sheba riding so.
It had been a long journey. If he’d had more notice he would have used a carriage. He’d tried to stop the Pettifers leaving London but his messenger had returned with the information that they’d already left. By that time Dominic’s only option, if he was to arrive before them, was to ride from Bristol.
Not far now.
He caught a glimpse of a turret through the trees. Wolfestone. He felt a strange frisson at the sight. Dread? Anger? Anticipation? Perhaps even a shred of the yearning he’d done as a child, in those far-off naive days when he’d longed to see Wolfestone. A tiny piece that seemed to have survived his coming of age, his knowing.
He dragged his gaze away. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Wolfestone. The place for which his mother had been sold.
And now himself.
Ten minutes further on he found himself in front of a huge pair of iron gates, one hanging at a slightly drunken angle. They were supported by two imposing stone gateposts on each of which was mounted a statue of a snarling wolf. On the left was a stone and half-timbered gatehouse. It looked deserted. The gates were open. Welcoming him? He doubted it.
Thunder rumbled again, closer, and his dog quivered. Dominic urged his horse, Hex, up the drive. Shelter from the storm, that’s all Wolfestone was to him now.
The castle, when he saw it, took his breath away. Built of the local gray stone, it squatted malevolently, overlooking the valley up which he’d ridden, cold, ancient and forbidding, a house well used to combat and war. And hatred.
His ancestral home. Awe inspiring and ugly. Not worth sacrificing anyone’s happiness for.
His mother had almost never spoken of it. The very mention of the place brought that tragic look to her eyes, the look he’d spent his childhood trying to banish, the look that haunted him still. “You’ll know if you ever go there, why I cannot speak of it,” she’d told him once. He looked at it now and knew.
He would destroy it.
The gravel drive that led to the front door was dotted with weeds. In the front was a stretch of long ragged grass. It should have been a lawn. Dominic frowned.
Movement under a group of oaks caught his eye: three silvery mares, pale and ethereal in the pre-storm light. Beautiful creatures, with gracefully arched necks, sloping shoulders, and large, dark eyes.
Arabians. Valuable creatures. What were they doing running loose in the open? The front gate had been left open. The horses could wander out. Or perhaps they’d wandered in.
One of the mares stood a little apart from the others. She was moving restlessly in a way he recognized. Her belly was stretched almost to the bursting point.
Dominic’s frown deepened. No horse should be wandering loose like that, let alone a heavily pregnant mare. Especially when a storm was imminent.
He looked around, but there was not another living soul in sight. It was bizarre. The place should be thronging with servants.
He glanced at the roiling gray clouds and the ominous gloom and urged his horse forward, seeking the stables. Some fool had let those mares out and needed to be told. That pregnant one needed to be under cover, not out in a storm.
He rode up to the front door and yanked on the brass doorbell. It jangled noisily in the depths of the building, but not a soul stirred within. According to the books, wages were being paid, so where were the servants?
He didn’t have time to speculate now; he would get to the bottom of it later.
He found enormous stone stables behind the house, but they were deserted, too. His horse’s hooves echoed eerily on the dusty cobblestones. From the look of things, neither man nor beast had been inside these stables in months.
Thankfully the stalls were fairly clean and at the front of the stables were some gray-looking bale
s of hay that, when broken open, proved to be sweet and golden within.
He quickly unsaddled his own horse, Hex, gave him a quick rubdown, gave horse and dog a drink, then prepared several stalls, including a stall for the mare to give birth in, far from the others. Finally he locked his dog in. She whined and scratched on the door but he ignored her.
Cursing his recent run of poor luck, he ventured out to try to catch the pregnant mare at least before the storm hit.
GRACE CLUNG TO HER LEATHER STRAP FOR DEAR LIFE. HER FEET were braced against Melly’s seat opposite, Melly’s feet were braced against hers. They jolted and bounced and rocked wildly from side to side. The pace was insane.
They must be close to Wolfestone now. Surely.
Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled all around them. Abruptly the carriage lurched, slowing marginally, and swung hard left, nearly tipping over. It was saved by a tall something against which it scraped and banged, then righted itself. Grace caught a glimpse of high stone gateposts with some creature atop them. A dog? No, a wolf.
Wolfestone. At last. Thank God. They might even arrive alive, she thought wryly.
Grace peered out of the window as they hurtled up the gravel drive, trying to catch a glimpse of Wolfestone. And when she did, she just stared. Set against a backdrop of hills and looming clouds, it looked bleak and gray and fascinating. Sprawling, ancient, half house and half castle, it had been extended and added to by various members of the family over generations.
An ugly mishmash of styles, Sir John had called it when delivering a lecture to the girls at the beginning of the journey. But Grace found it fascinating: full of odd angles and strange extensions, turrets, battlements and pointed roofs, arrow slits, and a series of wonderful Gothic arched windows. She hoped there were gargoyles. On such a building there ought to be gargoyles.
On a sunny day the front rooms of the house must be full of light, for dozens of mullioned windows faced south. As she watched, the dark clouds parted and a single ray of afternoon sun caught the diamond panes. They briefly glowed with golden fire.