by Jo Beverley
“You never got over it, Papa.”
“What?” He pulled his nose out of the paper long enough to frown at her. “What do you mean?”
“You never got over Lady Harriet.”
He scowled at her and returned to the newspaper. “I married your mother, didn’t I? I…adjusted. You will, too.”
“But you had no choice. Lady Harriet was beyond your reach. She was dead. Lord Dawson—”
He glared at her. “Do not mention that name in my house.”
Grace threw down her napkin and stood. “Why do you insist on clinging to this animosity? I’ll wager you’d never even met Lord Dawson until he walked into Viscount Motton’s entryway.”
“What has that to say to the matter?”
“What? Everything! How can you hate someone you’ve never met?”
“Easily.”
She grabbed onto her temper with both hands. She knew it would do no good to shout at Papa. Instead she leaned on the table and looked him in the eye.
“Right. You’re right. It is even easier to hate someone you’ve never met. You don’t know all the good things about him.”
“There are no good things about a Wilton.” Papa’s mouth was set in a white line. He snapped his paper and turned away from her to read it. “You’re allowing yourself to become hysterical.”
“I am not.” She was shouting. She swallowed and tried to rein in her anger. “You are not allowing yourself to hear the truth in what I am saying.” She straightened, clasping her hands together to keep from wrapping them around Papa’s neck. She must try to remain calm. Rational. “Lord Dawson was the same way. He’d decided he hated his grandmother until I was able to persuade him to talk to her. If you would only meet—”
“No!” Papa slapped his newspaper down on the table and surged to his feet. “I will not meet with Dawson. I have no need to meet with him. I will not see the man again.”
“You will, unless you wish never to see me again.” She raised her chin and hoped David had not changed his mind about matrimony. “I intend to marry the baron.”
“Oh, really?” The veins in Papa’s forehead were pulsing—never a good sign. “And how are you going to manage that? You have no way of traveling to Motton’s estate—if Dawson is even there still—as my carriages are not at your disposal. But, more to the point, you will not be free to wed the baron as you are marrying Parker-Roth tomorrow.”
“No!” She grabbed the back of her chair. In less than twenty-four hours…“I thought the wedding was not for days yet. You said—”
“I prevaricated.”
Married in less than twenty-four hours…dear God! “I never actually agreed. John never actually proposed.” He certainly had never kissed her. The man couldn’t want to wed her. She would be doing them both a favor to decline.
“That doesn’t matter. You will actually marry.”
“No. I will go now and tell him that I must cry off. It will be awkward. It will be embarrassing, but in the long run, it will be better. He cannot want an unwilling bride.”
Papa crossed his arms, his face stony. “None of that matters. He has agreed to marry you. It is a good match. You will be close to home, among people you know. You will marry him. There is no more to be said.”
She gripped the chair back harder. She wanted to pound her hands on her father’s chest. “No. I will not marry him. I can’t.”
“You can. You were willing enough before you went up to London. Damn it all, you were willing enough when you left Motton’s estate.”
“I was not willing—I was resigned.”
“Bloody hell.” Papa threw his hands up in the air, and then leaned toward her, his right index finger stabbing at her. “You listen to me, miss. You will marry Parker-Roth. I am your father, and I order you to do so.”
She stabbed her finger back at him. “You can’t order me. I am of age. I will not marry the man, do you understand?” She tried to get her voice under control. “I am sorry, Papa, but what you ask is impossible.”
Papa was shouting now. “You are not going to do to Parker-Roth what Harriet did to me. You are not jilting the man, do you hear me?”
“The entire house hears you, Papa.”
“Good. Go to your room, you ungrateful girl. I will see you again in church.”
“When the vicar asks if I take John as my husband, I will say no, Papa.”
His face was the color of a furnace. His veins looked like they would burst. Surely he would not suffer an apoplexy?
“Go!” He roared the word.
Grace went.
So he’d taken the road to Devon. So he was an idiot.
David looked at the inn’s bed and sighed. It was too short for someone his height, but at least it looked like the sheets were relatively clean.
He should have taken the road to London. He’d certainly decided to do so when he’d left Miss Smyth in Motton’s entryway. But when he’d come to the crossroads…well, somehow his horse had headed toward Devon.
If he’d taken the road to London, he’d have been home days ago, sleeping in his own roomy bed. He’d have gone to a number of balls and routs already and started his marital search over.
Damn.
He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for sorting through the giggling debutantes, the coy young misses, the slightly desperate maidens beginning to wilt on the vine.
He wanted Grace. He really wanted Grace. If there were any chance in hell he could still have her…well, it behooved him to leave no stone unturned.
So here he was, pausing at The Blue Heron before going to Standen tomorrow morning to turn over the last stone. He’d arrived at the inn just before dinner. Had a nice chat with a Mr. and Mrs. Weyford, a young couple, rather newly married…well, all right, it wasn’t so nice a chat. Oh, the couple were perfectly pleasant. The problem was he kept thinking of Grace, imagining it was they, not the Weyfords, exchanging fleeting glances full of promise of what they would do once they got upstairs to bed.
He’d preferred his conversation with Reverend Barnsley, the other guest at the inn. The reverend was on his own, on his way to take up a living in Cornwall, and an enthusiastic angler. A well-placed question here and there kept the man discoursing on fish and bait and tackle all evening.
And now he was in his room with this lonely, short, uncomfortable-looking bed. Tomorrow he’d reach Standen. He’d know for certain whether there was still a chance to make Lady Grace his baroness. Maybe he’d discover she’d already wed her boring neighbor.
God, that thought was beyond depressing.
He climbed into bed and tried to find a comfortable position. It was impossible. The mattress was stuffed with rocks.
It was going to be a very long night.
Dear Papa,
I am sorry I must disappoint you now, but I cannot disappoint myself—and John—for years. Please tell John that I love him, but as a brother, not a husband, and extend my sincere apologies and regrets to him and his family.
I love you, even though I cannot do your will in this regard.
Grace
There. Grace sanded the letter and stood it up against her pillow where the maid would find it when she came in to wake her. It had been another long, sleepless night, but finally she felt at peace. She’d made her decision. She was leaving. Now, before the sun was up. If she left when it was still dark, no one would see her.
All she had to do was get to The Blue Heron. She had enough pin money left to buy a seat on the stagecoach to London. It wouldn’t be a comfortable trip, but she would manage. She would go to Aunt Kate…if Aunt Kate were in London.
Surely she would be. Though the Weasel must still be at Oxbury House…
But Lord Motton’s house party was over; everyone must have returned to Town. And if Aunt Kate wasn’t in London, Lady Wordham would be. Grace would find someone to help her.
She had no choice. She couldn’t marry John. He deserved a woman who would love him with her whole heart, but Papa seeme
d incapable of understanding that. She wouldn’t put it past him to tie her up and throw her in the carriage to get her to the church. Then her only recourse would be to refuse to say her vows, and she couldn’t do that to John and his family. No, she had to go now.
She put all the money she had as well as her few small pieces of jewelry—to be pawned in only the most desperate circumstances—into her reticule and stuffed it into the pocket of her cloak. Then she blew out the candles and opened the window. There was enough moonlight to see the branch of the big oak tree that grew by her room—and the long way down to the ground.
She hadn’t climbed a tree in years. The worst part was getting out her window, leaving the safe, solid building to swing over to a shaky, swaying branch. Then it was a matter of inching her way carefully backward, feeling for solid footing, untangling her skirts from branches, pushing her hair out of her eyes as the tree plucked her pins out. Thankfully there was no one to observe her awkward escape.
She leaned against the tree trunk for a moment when her feet finally touched the ground and blew out a long breath of relief—as well as a short prayer of thanksgiving. She’d made it safely to earth without killing herself, though she was rather a mess. She picked a few twigs out of her hair and then twisted it into a knot at the back of her neck, marshalling her remaining pins to restrain it as best she could. Next time she had to escape down a tree, she would be sure to add extra hair pins to the contents of her reticule.
A cloud drifted over the moon, plunging her into darkness. Thank God that hadn’t happened a few moments earlier.
She waited for her eyes to adjust, and then started carefully across the lawn. With luck no one would look for her until long after she was gone.
She stumbled in a rabbit hole and almost fell. Damn it! She couldn’t risk turning an ankle.
She slowed her pace. Once she reached the road, the ground would level out and she’d be able to move faster, but for now it paid to be cautious. She would not worry—even at this rate she should reach The Blue Heron in an hour or two, well before the stagecoach pulled in. And then she would leave Standen—her home—for good.
She sniffed. Blast. She couldn’t cry. Papa truly had left her no choice.
She concentrated on picking her way across the lawn.
The sun wasn’t up yet, but he was.
David sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. Enough tossing and turning. He’d go out for a ride, clear the cobwebs from his brain and the cricks from his back. Maybe he’d head toward Standen just to get the lay of the land.
He met Reverend Barnsley in the corridor. They walked together down the stairs.
“Up early, Lord Dawson?”
“Couldn’t sleep. And you? Did you also find your bed a touch lumpy?”
“No, slept like a rock. I’m out to commune with God’s creation—and see if the fish are biting. I left my gear outside—just ran back to get my prayer book.” He grinned. “Forgot it at first.”
“Ah. Good fishing hereabouts?”
“Indeed. I had the great fortune to strike up a conversation with the innkeeper after you went upstairs last night. He said there’s a smashing fishing hole within walking distance. Care to join me?”
David needed to move, not sit. “No, thanks. I’m off for a short ride.”
They stepped outside. There was Barnsley’s pole, leaning against the wall. The reverend nodded and picked up his gear. “Enjoy your ride,” he said and strolled off toward a line of trees.
David headed for the stables. It was cool and damp, with a touch of mist lingering on the ground. He drew in a deep breath. He felt better already.
“Morning, milord.” The stable boy jumped up from the pile of hay he’d been lounging on. “I’ll be getting yer horse—”
“No, thanks. I’ll saddle him myself.”
“As ye wish, milord.”
Zeus nickered a welcome. He seemed eager to get out and stretch his legs. As soon as they reached the road, David gave him his head. They thundered over the ground, the damp wind blowing some of the dark cloud from his soul. He wasn’t hopeful, but he felt less blue-deviled.
He saw a figure trudging toward him—a figure in skirts. The woman looked up—she must have heard Zeus’s hoof beats—and then dashed off into the trees.
Odd. Did she need to answer a sudden call of nature? He would give her her privacy. He rode past at a gallop…and slowed.
It was early and somewhat dark. She was a woman alone. It was unlikely she was in any danger, but one never knew what riffraff might be lurking in the woods.
He looked back. She was walking again, moving like someone who needed to be somewhere quickly. Surely he could help her. He turned and started to gallop toward her.
She glanced over her shoulder—and darted back into the trees.
What the hell? He slowed. Was she afraid of him? She couldn’t be—at least, she couldn’t be afraid of him personally. No one but Grace would recognize him in this part of England—and, in any event, he’d never had a woman fear him. Was someone—some man—tracking this poor girl? She must think herself in danger to hide at the first sign of a fellow traveler.
He urged Zeus forward, peering into the trees as he approached the place where she had disappeared.
“Madam,” he called out. “Please don’t be alarmed. I would like to help you, if I may.”
He saw movement a little farther ahead. He kept Zeus to a walk, staying on the road.
“I promise I won’t harm you. I’m Baron Dawson of Riverview. Please tell me how I might assist you.”
Had he heard a gasp?
The girl peered from behind a tree and then stepped out of the foliage. She was tall and…familiar.
“David? David, is that really you?”
“Grace!” He swung off Zeus’s back.
She ran toward him and he opened his arms. He took her lush body against his, holding her tightly while he kissed her.
Her mouth was wet and hot and wonderful. Her breasts were so soft against his chest—she must not be wearing a corset. It would take only a moment to have this cloak off her, and just a moment more for her dress to follow. And then his shirt and breeches…
Was he dreaming? If he was, he never wanted to waken.
He moved from her mouth to her cheek.
“Oh, David, I’m so glad to see you.”
This dream just got better and better. “And I’m very, very glad to see you, Grace.” He lifted her silky, long hair to nuzzle her neck.
“Oh, please…”
He kissed a spot right under her ear and started moving down her neck.
“…please stop.”
What? He raised his head. This couldn’t be his dream. He would never have Grace telling him to stop. This was either a nightmare or it was actually happening.
“You want me to stop?”
“Yes. You must.” She looked up at him, but kept her lovely, soft body exactly where he wanted it—plastered against his. He ran his hands down her back and pulled her wonderful derriere closer. She didn’t resist at all.
“Why?”
“I must get to The Blue Heron. I am running away from home.”
“Oh.” A horrible thought struck him. “You haven’t married the neighbor, have you?”
“No.” She rested her head against his chest. “I couldn’t do it, David. But I’m supposed to marry John this morning. That’s why I’m running away. Papa refused to see reason. He’ll force me down the aisle if I don’t escape. I have to make it to the inn in time to get a seat on the London stagecoach.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t know Papa.”
“Well, he can’t force you to marry this neighbor if you’re already married to me, can he?”
“What?” Grace gaped up at him so deliciously he had to kiss her again—and run his hands over her enticing body as well.
“Marry me. Please, Grace? You truly would make me the happiest of men. I came all this way
in the hopes of persuading you.”
“But—”
“I tried not to come, even though Alex and your aunt and my grandmother—even Miss Smyth—urged me to do so. I was intending to return to London. But they all assured me you loved me—and I finally realized you’d never said you didn’t.”
“Ah.”
It was a small point, perhaps, but it was enough to have given him courage. He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. He wanted her to see the truth of what he was saying.
“I love you, Grace. I know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And I will never get over this love. If you won’t have me, my life will go on; I might even marry someday, but I will never stop loving you. Just as Alex never stopped loving your aunt.”
“And Papa never stopped loving your mother.” She was crying a little and smiling—and still leaning against him. That must be a good sign.
“I have a special license. I got it before we left for Motton’s house party. And there just so happens to be a minister at The Blue Heron who will, I’m sure, be delighted to marry us, and a very nice couple who I’m equally certain would be willing to act as our witnesses. We can be married within the hour—within the half hour.” And in bed moments later, but he wouldn’t say that. No need to push his luck.
“Well…”
“Please, Grace? I love you to distraction.” And he was especially distracted at the moment by her scent and her taste and the heavenly feel of her curves against his chest and his hips and his—
Good God, he was panting. He took a deep breath—which only pushed his body tighter against hers. “I would love to spend my life loving you, Grace. Please say you’ll marry me.”
“Oh, David.” She was crying more than smiling now. “I do love you so much. I was miserable as soon as the carriage pulled away from Viscount Motton’s estate, and I’ve been miserable every day—every hour, every minute—since. I was foolish and wrong when I left you. I love my father, but you are my life, my future. Of course, I will marry you.”