by Amy Corwin
“I meant that all the dogs we’ve managed to collect over the last few days should be perfectly comfortable at my estate, Westwood. Lady Lenora has expressed a desire to return home. We will not be renewing our lease at Laurelwood.”
A long, shaky breath returned some order to her wandering wits. “But… You are leaving?”
“In a week or so. When our lease expires.”
“But…” What could she say? She could hardly beg him to stay or admit, now, that she loved him. She’d only realized it herself. The emotion was too new, too fragile to throw into their conversation and risk seeing pity spring into his eyes.
“So, we will take the three dogs with us.” He sounded so reasonable, so calm and sensible, though his eyes blazed blue.
“But… But there are only two dogs—the mother and the runt,” she reminded him, striving to sound equally unconcerned and rational.
His brows rose. “What of Flossie?”
“What of her? She is my dog—there is no reason for you to take responsibility for her, as well.” She tried to step back, but he would not release her.
“Will you not want to take her with you?” His head tilted to the side, his gaze languidly roving over her face to rest on her mouth. “Lady Branscombe has her own puppy, does she not? You will want Flossie to remain with you.”
“Oh. You mean you intend to take two dogs with you, and I shall take one with me.” He must expect Grace to return to London, then. She stared dismally at the top button of his gold silk waistcoat. He’d merely been amusing himself with her before he returned with his sister to their estate in the north.
Lady Lenora must have decided that the grisly death of her latest beau was far worse than being jilted as her previous one had done. Grace couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her and her predicament. Having to face the gossip and pitying looks she would undoubtedly encounter when they returned home was not a happy thought, but staying in Kendle would no doubt be worse.
Grace knew what it meant to be overthrown. With bitter relief, she decided she was glad that no one had seen Lord Glanville kiss her. No one would know that her heart was breaking when he wished her a pleasant life and waved a jaunty goodbye.
At least she wasn’t being jilted. No one knew how she felt.
“You are being remarkably obtuse this morning, Miss Stainton,” Lord Glanville commented.
“Grace,” she suggested absently. Her right index finger ran around the edge of the top button of his waistcoat.
“If you consider, Grace, you will understand precisely what I mean when I say that all three dogs will find a comfortable home at Westwood.”
Tears burned her eyes. All of a sudden, she wanted to run inside and climb into her wardrobe. She wanted—no, needed—the security of the wood cradling her shoulders and the scents of lavender and wood surrounding and comforting her. She’d wanted children so much, so she could throw her arms around them and give them precisely the same sense of security she’d always craved. But she couldn’t go through the pain of falling in love again, only to see her feelings ignored.
She raised her chin and studied him in silence.
When she caught his gaze, a frown wrinkled his brow. His right hand moved to cradle her head, and his thumb brushed over the side of her chin. “I thought you knew…” He grinned and kissed her forehead. “My dearest Grace, I was under the impression—obviously mistaken impression—that you understood that I wish to marry you.”
“Marry me?” She tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let her.
His only response was a deepening of his grin.
A flush of anger burned her face. “How could I possibly know you wished to marry me?”
“Well, I did kiss you,” he reminded her, his blue eyes twinkling.
“You just assumed—”
A flicker of uncertainty broke through his amusement. “Then you don’t?”
This time, she was the one who laughed. “Well, of course I do, my dear idiot. Assuming you are not already married.”
“I assure you, I am not.”
Her finger continued to rub the edge of his waistcoat’s top button. “You know, I would like—at least once in my life—to hear someone ask me something before just assuming I will go along with it.”
Suddenly, she was free.
“Very well.” He got down on one knee and grasped both of her hands. Then he released her left one, dug around in a pocket, and extracted a lovely sapphire and diamond ring. “Miss Stainton—”
“Grace. Please.”
His lips twitched. “Very well. Grace. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” As he asked, he attempted to slip the ring onto the third finger of her left hand.
Biting the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing, she stared down at him, curling her hand into a fist to make it impossible for him to push the ring onto her finger.
“Well, I don’t know,” she said meditatively. She tilted her head to the side and watched as the concern in his eyes deepened. “To be honest, I haven’t actually thought much about it.”
“Not thought much about it?” He sounded shocked.
“I have been rather distracted. Other matters, you know,” she reminded him.
“Yes—but…” He glanced down, cleared his throat, and raised his eyes to her face. “I love you, Grace. I should have told you sooner.” He shifted his weight as if preparing to stand. “You have my sincere apologies.”
Smiling, she plucked the ring out of his grasp and slipped it onto her finger. Then she threaded her fingers through his thick blond hair and pressed down lightly with her palm to prevent him from standing.
“No apologies are necessary—well, perhaps they are, considering your reluctance to state your feelings—but I forgive you. And I accept your proposal.”
Despite her hand, he surged to his feet and pulled her into his arms. “Aren’t you the one forgetting to state your feelings, now?”
“Am I?” She laughed. “Very well, Lord Glanville. I love you, despite the fact that you apparently intended to abscond with my dog and return home in a week—”
“By which time we will be married—”
“How can we be married? There isn’t enough time!” she protested, turning her betrothal ring around and around on her finger.
He pulled another paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Special license, obtained just this morning—” His eyes widened.
Grace’s gaze went from his face to the document. She pulled it out from between his fingers and looked at it. Dear Lord Glanville, she read. Horrified, she glanced up at Glanville.
Chuckling, he shook his head. “No wonder Gribble looked so confused when I gave him that paper. I handed him the special license instead of the vicar’s letter.” His lips twisted wryly.
Grace giggled. “You will have to get it back, then, and live with the embarrassment.”
“I hope this isn’t going to be your attitude once we are married.” His lips curved down in a gently mocking smile.
“Oh, no,” she replied sweetly. “I suspect it will be much worse.”
“Then heaven preserve me.” He gathered her in his arms and gazed down at her with his lopsided grin before he kissed her again, ruthlessly ending her incorrigible laughter.
Epilogue
“Glanville!” Grace exclaimed, dropping her sewing and rising from her chair as her husband entered the room.
The creases running on either side of his mouth were dark with dust, and deep shadows encircled his eyes. Was the news bad, after all? Was Mr. Dutton to hang? Glanville looked travel worn and tired. She studied his face anxiously, but his stony expression gave nothing away.
Her clasped hands tightened into a knot at her waist. “What was the verdict? What happened?”
He smiled, his entire face lightening. Despite the fact that they’d been married for several months, his grin retained the power to send clouds of butterflies fluttering through her stomach. Her lips twitched in a hesitant smile i
n response.
“There you are, Grace.”
“Yes, here I am. Please don’t tease me—what happened?”
Glanville waited until he was close enough to catch her hands in his. His fingers were warm and strong around hers. “It was unaccountable.”
“Unaccountable? What do you mean? What was the verdict?”
“For some inexplicable reason, the jury decided Dutton’s actions should be construed as self-defense. He was acquitted.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Her limbs shook, suddenly weak with relief, and she clutched at Glanville’s strong arms.
He caught her with a chuckle and kissed the top of her head as his arms tightened around her.
Laughing, she pushed him away far enough to look into his craggy face. Amusement danced in his eyes.
“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that inexplicable decision, did you?” she asked, tilting her chin at a saucy angle.
In a dramatic display of shock, Glanville shook his head. “No, my dear. I would never dream of trying to influence the course of justice.”
“Perhaps not. But you were more than happy to ensure that Mr. Dutton was provided with the best legal counsel possible, weren’t you?”
“Of course.” He shifted his hands to more firmly grip her waist. “You did say that it was the very least I could do.” His gaze drifted to her mouth.
“Oh! Have you told Agnes? She’ll be frantic to know the outcome!” Grace twisted, trying to escape from his embrace. Pale and hollow eyed, Mr. Dutton’s sister had been walking the floors at night, sick with worry. She had to be told her brother wouldn’t hang. “Let me go!” Grace pushed at his chest with no discernable effect. “I must let her know!”
“I imagine Dutton has already told her.”
“Dutton!” She stared up at him.
“He returned with me and went directly to the kitchen.”
Sighing, Grace settled back into her husband’s embrace, resting her cheek against his wide chest. “I am so relieved, my love. And so grateful.” She peered up at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “However, you are not the only one with news.”
Warmth glimmered in his eyes. “News? No—don’t tell me, Mr. Wolstenholme has found a new curate.”
“Don’t be silly.” She tapped his arm with her fist. The only result was a slight bruising of her knuckles against his rocklike muscle. “I don’t believe he wants a new curate, or ever will again.”
“Then what secrets have you discovered?” One brow quirked. “Surely, you haven’t found another body, have you?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous.” Her smile deepened. “I hope—no, I know—that in about seven months, you will need to hire a nanny.”
“A nanny?” Glanville’s gaze roved over her face, his body rigid. “Grace! Are you sure?”
“Yes. Fairly sure.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when he crushed her against him. His heart thundered under her cheek. She listened for a second before such a strong surge of elation leapt through her that she broke into laughter. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she gulped, trying to control her emotions. When she glanced up, she was not surprised to see her husband grinning like a fool.
“Are you pleased?” she asked, her voice shaking with joy.
“Pleased? Pleased? My dearest heart, that does not begin to describe my feelings at this moment. I love you.” He lowered his head and kissed her. “Both of you. And I always will.”
Sneak Peek at Lady Victoria’s Mistake
Amy Corwin
Lady Victoria’s Mistake
Amy Corwin
Chapter 1
He’d seen her before. Each time, the easy smile in her large gray eyes, fringed with thick lashes, and the sense of calm confidence surrounding her caught at him, stirring something deep inside. As he watched, the cool spring breeze plucked one of her soft brown curls loose and twitched it across her lovely face. She laughed, tucking it back under the brim of her bonnet as she walked. Everyone around her faded into unimportance.
“I’m going to marry that woman,” John Archer stated matter-of-factly as he let his gaze linger on the slim figure of the elegant young woman strolling through Hyde Park. The statement held a deep sense of rightness.
Several of the duke’s other sons were already married, after all. They were busy setting up their homes and forming their own families, so why shouldn’t he do the same?
He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh April air laced with the green scent of new growth, along with the earthier fragrance of horses. Pausing in his own perambulations, John waved at an acquaintance driving by in a green-paneled curricle drawn by a beautiful, high-stepping pair of bay horses.
“What woman?” Toby Wickson asked, holding an utterly unnecessary monocle up to his left eye to focus on the pedestrians walking on a path that threatened to converge upon their own walkway within a mere fifty yards. His perfect vision disrupted by the device, he sighed, lowered it, and blinked rapidly as he swung the monocle by its black ribbon off one pudgy finger. “Surely not that horse-faced creature in the puce pelisse?”
“An unfortunate choice of color, yes, but a vicious and untrue description of the lady wearing it.” John took a deep breath, smiled, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Nonetheless, yes. She is the one.” He kept his gaze fixed on the woman walking arm-in-arm with an older lady, no doubt her mother, as there was a marked similarity in their delicately narrow, thoroughly aristocratic faces.
Not horse-faced—never that—just finely-honed features framed by the loveliest pale brown curls that made him long to thread his fingers through them. A hint of delicate rose tinted her cheeks from the brisk breeze tugging at her skirt, revealing tantalizing glimpses of beautifully well-turned ankles and small feet. Something about her drew him and resonated deep within him, like the mellow knell of a church bell. He could not take his eyes off her. Yes, indeed. She was most definitely the one for him.
The feeling only grew stronger each time he saw her, and his first, immediate sense of a situation was usually correct. He’d certainly relied upon his instincts more than once to his betterment, and to his credit—or occasional downfall—he never dithered or later regretted any quick decision.
Others might complain that he was a loose screw and a reckless gambler, but if nothing else, at least he was decisive. One could not fault him for woolliness.
Wickson laughed and snorted into a large blue handkerchief adorned with large yellow polka dots. “Do you know who that is?”
“No, but that can be easily remedied.” John eyed the round face of his merry companion briefly. “By you, if I am not mistaken.”
“The chit is Lady Victoria, the daughter of the Marquess of Longmoor.” He blew his red-tipped nose into his handkerchief, folded it to wipe his brow, and then tucked it back into his bulging pocket. With an adept movement that spoke of long practice, he withdrew a sweet from the same pocket and popped it into his mouth. Shifting the confection to the side of his mouth, he said, “Bit above your touch, my lad, ain’t she?”
“Not at all. The son of a duke may certainly look as high—or higher.”
“Perhaps the son of a duke might. But you ain’t, being born on the wrong side of the blanket, as it happens.” Wickson crunched the sweet between his teeth and backed up a step, his eyes fixed on John’s hand as it tightened around his walking stick. A sword was concealed within the lacquered wood, and Wickson showed no desire to introduce himself to the point of it. He took a hasty breath and rushed on to distract his longtime friend. “I’ll wager a hundred pounds you won’t even manage an introduction, much less an engagement.”
“Which shall it be, then?”
Wickson stared at him, his protuberant blue eyes giving him the startled appearance of a fish yanked out of the water by an experienced fisherman. “Which what?”
“Introduction or engagement?”
“There’s many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip.” Wickson smiled an
d rocked back on his heels, his teeth crushing the last of the sweet. “Marriage, I should say. No mistaking that—not once the papers are signed.”
“Done!” John grabbed his friend’s plump hand and pumped it. “Marriage it shall be then!”
“What? What?” Goggle-eyed, Wickson stared at him. He cleared his throat. “Not serious, Archer.” He frowned, his hand fumbling around in his bulging pocket again. “Bad taste.” Another sweet disappeared between his lips.
“Nonsense.” John’s gaze followed the two ladies. “Nothing could be more romantic—she’ll be entranced. Love at first sight. Romeo and Juliet. All in the very best English tradition.”
Wickson snorted, but went along willingly enough when John grabbed his arm and set a brisk pace designed to intercept the two ladies when their path merged with their own. As they neared the women, John elbowed his friend and jerked his chin at the pair.
Clearing his throat, Wickson stepped forward to block the way. “Lady Longmoor, good afternoon!” He bowed with a flourish only slightly ruined by the rattle of the hard sweet against his teeth. “And Lady Victoria—what a pleasant surprise.”
From Lady Longmoor’s raised brows and widened eyes, it was clear that she was indeed surprised though not, perhaps, pleasantly. “Mr. Wickson,” she said. Her tone was civil, but heavily weighted toward the chilly side.
Lady Victoria caught John’s stare and blushed before gazing down at the brown toes of her delicate walking boots. He smiled when she finally glanced up again to look at him shyly through her thick lashes.
“May I introduce Mr. Archer, Lady Longmoor?” Wickson continued, bowing again and gesturing to John. “Good friend, you know. Same schools—grew up together, one could say. Childhood friends.”