Inspired by Grace
By Jeanna Ellsworth
Copyright 2015 by Jeanna Ellsworth and Hey Lady Publications
www.heyladypublications.com
Cover photography and design by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Copyright 2015 Jeanna Ellsworth and Hey Lady Publications
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblances to actual events or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental, because this work is a product of the author’s imagination. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author.
Acknowledgements
First of all, I would like to thank the loyal readers who have supported me in my writing—always begging for more. To those along the way who encouraged me to step away from comfortable, familiar, dear Mr. Darcy and try my hand at an original work: you know who you are, and I thank you.
Secondly, I would like to thank my beta readers who saw this story in its raw form: Linda, KaraLynne, Christy, Donna, Kathy, and Patsy. Their questions and opinions led to extensive improvements, forcing me to answer questions I hadn’t asked and showing me the holes I hadn’t seen. Then I nervously sent it to my editor, Katrina Beckstrand, who over a long-distance run with her husband came up with some ideas on how to mend it. Her list of ideas and suggestions inspired five more chapters and about twenty-three thousand additional words. Just that little bit of guidance helped me fill in the missing parts and bridge the broken connections, leaving you with this completed novel that I am proud to present for your entertainment. Her hand may not have written it, but her head saw its potential. Thank you so very much!
Dedication
To Paige, my firstborn daughter, who has more character of heart and spirit than anyone I know. There is so much to love about you—and yes, to laugh at too. You handled everything life has thrown at you with grace, and I know you always will. You truly inspire me.
CHAPTER 1
October 1818
“So sorry, Your Grace,” Gavin’s valet apologized. “I shall be finished in just a moment.”
“No, this is my fault, Winston. I should have been more careful with my tea,” he sighed. “And please stop calling me ‘Your Grace’; you have been my valet far longer than I have been titled.”
Winston gave Gavin a brief, hesitant look and pursed his lips. Gavin could tell he was choosing to ignore the request. Winston was more than a valet; he was the closest thing Gavin had to a brother. Well, at least now he was.
It had been six months since his older brother Spencer died; six months since he had been called back from his navy ship and given the title of Duke of Huntsman. And it still felt just as foreign as the day he took it. All the formalities and soirees and dinner parties were exhausting. Every face and name blurred.
What he wouldn’t give to have his brother back and to be at sea with his crew again! It was strange; he had enjoyed tossing to and fro with the waves as a captain. But now that his life had changed course, he felt unsteady, ill at ease with the surging demands placed upon him.
Winston finished retying the cravat. “There. You are ready, Your—” Winston picked up on Gavin’s subtle glare and wisely caught himself just in time. “You’re . . . welcome,” the valet stammered.
Gavin muttered his thanks and turned on his heel. The click of his boots spoke of his anxiety, and the ache in his head built with each patterned clippity-clop as he nearly danced down the spiral staircase.
Why had his great-grandfather ever build such a tight staircase, one that literally wrapped around itself like a little girl’s ringlet? Couldn’t he have made better use of the foyer’s space? After all, the room was expansive, almost as big as a ballroom. He would change that. Now that it was his house, he would change that.
There. His mother would be proud of him. He had just made his first decision that showed ownership of this blasted title and the wretched inheritance that he should never have received in the first place.
He was a second son. His parents had always been proud that they had an heir and a spare, as well as his younger sister. Well, now there was no spare. He was it. Spencer was dead, and so was his father.
Seeing the look on his mother’s face as he came to the bottom of the stairs, he began imagining inventive excuses for his delay. But ultimately he opted for honesty. “Forgive me, Mother. I was not careful with the tea and stained my cravat. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
His mother, Her Grace Patricia Kingston, Duchess of Huntsman, had no restraint when she felt her opinion needed to be shared, and she felt the need quite frequently. Gavin was in no mood for it and hardly gave her a glance as the butler handed him his top hat and jacket. Gavin opened the door of his London townhouse and motioned for his mother to proceed to the carriage. He ignored her mutterings about how the Tremontons were expecting a call twenty minutes ago.
He focused on ignoring everything around him—his mother, his title, the ton, and the rest of it. He did not wish to go to the Tremontons anymore than he wished for a needle in the eye. Their daughter, Sylvia, was relentless, and if the rumors were true, she had her sights set on gaining a title—his blasted new title in particular. Women were practically throwing themselves at him now that he was no longer the spare.
Six months ago he wouldn’t have minded. Back then, he couldn’t wait to make port. There had been Francis, in Liverpool—a dazzling blonde who enjoyed moonlit walks. And Patricia, off the coast of Scotland, who could outdrink even him. Amberly was a little too frisky for his taste, but it hadn’t stopped him from seeking her out whenever the ship docked in Falmouth. Women in every port knew him as Captain Kingston, a man who laughed and flirted with anyone in a skirt. He wasn’t a rake—he’d never done more than steal a few kisses—but it had been fun. He’d intentionally courted women who didn’t want to settle down any more than he did. And not one of them had known who his father was. How things have changed since those days!
The clouds were thick this afternoon, and rain was just starting to fall. His mother glared at him as she headed toward the carriage. He took a deep breath and geared up for the lecture he was sure to receive once the carriage door closed. Placing the top hat low on his head, and keeping with his habit, he clippity-clopped down the townhouse’s front steps while swinging his coat around in one motion and sliding his arms around so that the tight-fitting garment was snugly in place.
In less time than it took to blink, he had descended the stairs, pulled on his jacket, and somehow ran into a woman at the base. The woman screamed out in surprise, and he instinctively reached out, but the weight of her fall unbalanced him, and he tripped. Having achieved such efficient, forward propulsion from racing down the stairs, he had no choice but to somersault over her right into the street, landing under the belly of the horse.
In the presence of a woman—and, of course, his mother—he quickly held back a few choice words that came to his mind, but he needn’t have bothered.
“Dragon’s alive!” the woman cursed.
He chuckled slightly at her choice of blasphemy. He could think of several more colorful ones. He was a sailor after all. He rolled over and scooted out from under the horse, now doubly curious to see whom he had run into.
The first thing he noticed were the angry flames shooting out of her eyes. Well, lucky for me this rain will save me from getting singed. He couldn’t stop chuckling. The woman’s simple, dark gray dress was filthy. If his attire looked anything like her dress, he might be spared from going to the Tremontons’ after all. He would certainly need to change first.
“And what, pray tell, is so funny about running down a lady?” The fire wasn’t only in her eyes; every word was punctuated with emphasis.
He stood up and sobered himself quickly, reminding himself that he was at fault for running her down. “Forgive me,” he apologized. “I was in a hurry and failed to take notice of where I was going. Let me help you up.” He offered his hand and looked at the woman a little closer. Beautiful strawberry-blonde hair was just noticeable under her bonnet. And her eyes were the bluest he had seen in a long while, despite their angry flames.
She did not reach to take his hand. Instead, she looked away.
“Truly, I am sorry, miss. I did not mean to be so clumsy. My mind was preoccupied. Please, allow me to help you.”
She whipped her head back to him, and something in her look made him laugh again. She was so beautiful when she frowned! Her pert lips deepened in their expression,.
“Being stubborn will not help you. Here, take my hand. I offer it as any gentleman would.”
“And do gentlemen often run down ladies? If so, I shall stay clear of them.”
Her temper, which had seemed so humorous a minute ago, was now starting to grate on his nerves. He had offered several times to help her up, and yet she had not moved. His reply came out with a bit of sarcasm: “Only when we are preoccupied. If you see any other absentminded gentlemen, take care, or they might sweep you off your feet. But is that not what every young girl wishes?”
“I am no young girl.”
“You cannot be more than eighteen.”
“And what kind of gentleman asks a lady her age? Do tell me, sir, are you a real gentleman, or do you just dress the part?”
He dipped his chin and bit his tongue, forcing himself to hold in the rebuttal. By now his mother had been handed out of the carriage and a footman was holding an umbrella over her. He noticed a book and another umbrella on the ground next to the woman.
He retrieved the items and passed the book to his mother, who took it wordlessly—thank God. He held the umbrella over the woman’s head and offered his hand one more time. If she didn’t take it now, he was determined to leave her there, rain or not. Obviously the woman had been preoccupied with her book; he had not been the only one at fault. “Look, miss, you can accept my hand, or you can wallow in the street. It is entirely your choice.” He knew his tone was harsher than necessary.
The woman sucked in a ragged breath and then suddenly coughed, as if she were embarrassed by the original sound and attempting to hide it. It reminded him of times when he had caught his mother on the brink of tears and she had fought to regain control with sheer grit. The woman cleared her throat, and with control he knew she did not feel, she announced, “I truly cannot get up.”
The duchess walked over to her and inquired, “Are you hurt?”
Blast it! Why hadn’t I asked? He looked, and sure enough, she was cradling her left ankle with one hand.
“I believe I have rolled my ankle. I do not think I can stand.”
Gavin’s mother sent him daggers and then tipped her head toward the townhouse in one quick, subtle motion. He took a deep breath and handed the umbrella over to the footman.
“Hold on tight, miss.” Without so much of a hint of a warning, he scooped her up and walked the six steps up to the townhouse. She tried to protest, but he just rolled his eyes. Her arms now clung to him as if she did not trust him to carry her. The driver had raced ahead of him and opened the front door. She was light as a feather and smelled of fresh linen and something else. Cinnamon? What a strange mixture! It was so pleasant that he took a few more deep breaths before placing her on the parlor chaise.
He heard his mother directing the household for warm blankets, clean washcloths, and hot tea. The absence of the woman in his arms was strangely painful. Now that they were out of the rain, he could see her more clearly. She had the tiniest dimple in her chin. As she said thank you to the servants, her voice sparked something in him. A memory? Something in her mannerisms was oddly recognizable.
He stepped back as the servants started to hover around her. Why did she look familiar?
The housekeeper started to wash the splatters of dirt off her face and then gasped. “You’re Grace!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” Gavin, the duchess, and the woman answered simultaneously. Confusion swept over all three faces.
The injured woman looked closely at the housekeeper, and suddenly her pouty lips turned into the brightest smile while dimples formed on both sides of her face. “Mrs. Bearl!” she cried. “Oh, look at you!”
“Look at you! All grown up! I can hardly beli—” Mrs. Bearl exclaimed.
“Mrs. Bearl,” Gavin interrupted the reunion, “do you know this woman?” He was all curiosity now.
Mrs. Bearl embraced the woman and brushed the ringlets away from her face. “Of course I do! Grace Ingrid Genevieve Iverson, what has your family been up to?”
Gavin’s jaw dropped, and he said, “Gigi? Is that really you?”
*****
Grace felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She had nearly lost herself to tears out on the street at the way that man had been laughing at her. The situation was even more humiliating now that she recognized him. But she was stronger than that.
“Yes, Your Grace, I am Grace Iverson. Based on your title, I assume you are Spencer.”
A cold look replaced the happy surprise in the man’s face. “No. Just Gavin, I am afraid. You remember my mother, of course. Welcome to Willsing Manor. I will see to getting the doctor.”
She watched him walk purposefully toward the door. As his mother reached out to him, he shook off her hand.
The duchess walked over to her and gently touched her cheek. “Grace, my dear, how good it is to see you! Forgive me for not recognizing you out there in the rain. How long has it been?”
“I moved away when I was barely fourteen, Your Grace, so it has been ten years now.”
“Ten years since your father died? I cannot believe it! Well, Gavin was correct; you certainly do not look older than eighteen. The years have been good to you.”
Grace smiled politely. She could play this game. She had spent nearly a full season in town three years ago when she was one-and-twenty, so she had learned that people do not always mean what they say. She had let too many people into her heart only to be taught this powerful and painful lesson: people say one thing and do another. People may say they love you, but most hearts are not as loyal as hers. When she loved someone, she loved them forever. So, the only thing to do was not love anyone else.
“And how is your family?” the duchess inquired. “Your mother and sisters?”
“I am sorry to say, Your Grace, that my mother passed away three years ago, just as I came of age.”
“Oh dear! I am so sorry. How terrible for you to be left to London society without a sponsor! Is that why your last name is still Iverson? Have you not found a match yet?”
The audacity of this woman! She had always been a little bold, but this was unbelievable. Although the duchess’s guess had been correct. Grace had left the season early when her mother passed and had been living very quietly with her sister and her sister’s husband in East Sussex for the last three years. She fumbled in her attempt to answer the duchess, “Your Grace . . . after my mother’s death, I . . .”
The older woman gently put her hand on hers. “I, too, have lost loved ones, my dear. My husband and Spencer have
gone to the other side.” The pain in the woman’s eyes was fresh, unlike Grace’s own that was years old. The duchess was wearing all black, a detail that had escaped Grace’s notice until then. She chided herself for being so quick to judge. This woman had been like a second mother to her for years. She had known the Kingston family as well as her own back then.
“It is hard to lose those we love,” Grace said. “How long has it been?”
“Oh, let us not talk about that now. I remember one afternoon, years before your family left Suffolk, when your mother and I swore an oath. We said that if anything ever happened to one of us, then the survivor would step in and help the other’s children if they were ever in need. And from the quality of your muslin, dear, you are in need. I insist on sponsoring you this season! How splendid is that?”
Grace looked down uncomfortably and tried to think of an excuse, but she knew that if either of her sisters ever found out that she had refused such an offer from the duchess, she would never be forgiven. They had both found matches in their first season. Reluctantly she said, “I would like that very much. Although the duke may like it a bit less.”
“Oh, nonsense! When can you move in?”
A loud crash was heard outside the door, and a distinct male voice let out an oath that even Grace had never used. But then again, Grace enjoyed thinking up ridiculous words to shock people while maintaining her ladylike behavior. Standard, unimaginative curses weren’t really her style.
*****
Gavin placed a smile on his face, leaned his head into the parlor, and said, “The doctor is on his way. Mother, could I have a word?”
“Whatever happened? That was not my tea set, was it? Good gracious, Gavin! We just replaced it!”
“Mother, please, a word. You can chide me out here just as well as in there.”
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