Praise for Kristin Vayden and her novels!
“Vayden never lets me down; always and forever a one-click author . . . every work a work of magic!”
—S. E. Hall, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author
“I’ve come across a genius with a gift in reading Kristin. I can’t wait to read more of her books!”
—Kathy Coopmans, USA Today bestselling author
Praise for FALLING FROM HIS GRACE!
“This Regency romp is a well-balanced mix of heat and sweetness . . . Vayden’s considerable promise will keep readers eager for sequels.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for HEART OF A COWBOY
“A touching tale of family, friendship, fated love, and everything in between. A sweet romance that will make you swoon!”
—Audrey Carlan, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“A wonderfully woven story that will have you laughing, swooning, and choking back tears.”
—Molly McAdams, New York Times bestselling author
“Start to finish, The Heart of a Cowboy sucked me in and didn’t let go. Vayden put my heart through every emotion, especially love. Incredible story I already want to re-read. With lots of tissues.”
—Jennifer Ann Van Wyk, bestselling author
“A breath of fresh air. . . . Cyler and Laken’s story warmed my heart and made my toes tingle with feelings. Beautiful. 5 Stars.”
—Erin Noelle, USA Today bestselling author
Books by Kristin Vayden
From Lyrical Press
The Gentlemen of Temptation series:
FALLING FROM HIS GRACE
ESCAPING HIS GRACE
THE TEMPTATION OF GRACE
From Lyrical Press e-books
Elk Heights Ranch series:
HEART OF A COWBOY
THE COURAGE OF A COWBOY
THE COWGIRL MEETS HER MATCH
The Temptation Of Grace
KRISTIN VAYDEN
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
LYRICAL BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Kristin Vayden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Lyrical and the Lyrical logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-5161-0572-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0573-1 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0573-7 (ebook)
For everyone who knows what it’s like to experience failure, brokenness, and hopelessness and shame. May you find the truth that Ramsey discovered: You are enough. You always were.
May you rise another day, and like an eagle soar. Because who you were doesn’t have to define who you are today.
Prologue
To say that Ramsey Scott never had a childhood would be an understatement. His mother, God rest her soul, passed away shortly after delivering him into the world—a world that gained a sudden chill at the departure of her sweet soul. His ever-scowling father, the Marquess of Sterling, took the small swaddled babe from the midwife and strode into the hall from the birthing room, without a backward glance. There had been little affection between the two parents, and as such, Ramsey’s mother had been a means to an end . . . the end being an heir.
His father, now assured that his line would continue, had a single purpose in mind.
Honor.
But not in the way the virtue deserved attention. No, honor in its most depraved form, honor that came from perfection, from abstaining from scandal, honor that came at a dear price.
Because the only other option if not honor, was shame. And it was indeed something with which the marquess was quite familiar. Shame had followed him his whole life, at the hands of his own father . . . and as stories go, as history goes, it was bound to find repetition within the sterile halls of Glenwood Manor. So, even before Ramsey Scott was an hour old, so started the path of his life.
A path that had but one end.
Ruin.
Because who can achieve perfection?
None.
Yet who can attain shame?
All.
Every last one of us.
Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland—for now
Miss Iris Grace Morgan had always hated her name, and with the current schedule of arriving in London in a mere week, she made a decision.
She would come to London not as Iris, the woman who couldn’t waltz to save her soul, nor as the lady who was utterly a failure at all things ladylike. No, she would arrive as Grace: the woman who personified all things that, well, she was not. It couldn’t hurt her to have a name that implied what she was not, but she certainly hoped it would indeed help. After all, her governess, now her guardian’s wife, had taken great pains to pull the lady from within her charge and give her some much needed polish, along with a much-needed friendship.
But as much as she had tried, Iris—Grace, that is—wasn’t entirely sure that she had taken on said polish. Lord Kilpatrick had assured her that she would make a splash, which was very kind of her guardian. But she wasn’t concerned about making a splash. She was certain she would.
She just wasn’t sure it would be a good splash. It would probably be of the clumsy variety where she’d trip on her own two feet, smash into some cranky dowager, and spray lemonade across the ballroom. It could certainly happen.
It had almost happened last night after dinner, only it wasn’t lemonade, it was white wine, and it wasn’t her own two feet she’d tripped over. It had been the bloody chair.
Samantha, her guardian’s wife and her once governess, had given her a kind smile, and helped her clean the mess before Mrs. Keyes, the housekeeper, clucked over them and shooed t
hem away from it all.
Grace smiled at the memory. She loved it at Kilmarin. All the servants were kind, and they didn’t expect her to be anything that she was not. Sothers, the butler, was ever so patient with her, and opened the door extra wide, just in case she misjudged the step, and Mrs. Keyes never complained once when she’d accidentally spill or trip over something or another.
Even Samantha. Grace frowned over how many times she had stepped on her toes when trying to learn how to waltz. It was her utter Achilles heel, that dance. She hoped fervently that she would simply just melt into the woodwork of the London ballroom whenever the first strains of a waltz began.
Because while many young ladies wanted to be in the limelight, and find a suitable match, Grace was utterly content simply not to make a scene. But have a season she would, and it wouldn’t be long in coming. No. They were planning on leaving Kilmarin in just a few days’ time to travel to the viscount’s London home, where she could ease herself into society
Dear Lord, this was going to be a disaster.
If they could only just talk to potential suitors, not dance. She could do verbal arabesques with her words! She could speak intelligently on almost any subject, and her parents, God rest their souls, had given her an education that Eton couldn’t claim, but they had neglected to teach her the one thing she needed most at the moment.
How to be a lady.
So it was with utter trepidation, more than a few prayers, and several late-night dancing sessions that she allowed Maye to pack her belongings for the trip to London.
It couldn’t be that bad . . . could it?
She knew the answer to her own question.
Yes. Yes it could.
First off, London was not as she expected. Having traveled much of the known world with her parents, she could boast about seeing the Sphinx in Egypt, or the marketplaces of India, but London—that was one place she had never had the opportunity to visit. Her father had always called it “dreary ol’ London” and her mother hadn’t ever corrected him.
To say that Grace’s expectations were low would be an accurate statement, but she did anticipate some sort of wonderment surrounding the hub of their beloved England. All throughout the carriage ride to their destination, she had found beauty in various natural aspects of the woods, moors, and a river or two. But as they closed the distance to Town, where all her successes or failures hinged, her chest seized up, much like the thick air perfumed with humanity and smoke. A dreary drizzle smeared the carriage windows, hindering her view as they entered the cobbled streets of London. The air seemed thicker, and she glanced over to Samantha, scrunching up her nose.
“You’ll grow accustomed to it.” Samantha smiled kindly, if not a little amused.
The viscount glanced to his wife and squeezed her hand. “It’s much worse if you go further into Town. ’Tis a pity.” He opened his mouth to say something else, then shook his head and glanced to the window.
Grace tipped her chin, curious as to what he was about to say. “Was there something else?” she asked.
He turned to her, his expression conflicted. “You’ve probably seen something like the slums when you traveled in India. It’s a problem here, and the sanitation is horrid, if even existent. It’s another reason I prefer the Scottish countryside.” He shook his head. “It’s a legislative problem that parliament has done little to remedy, and a bit of sore subject with me.”
“I see.” Grace nodded.
Samantha tipped her head to gaze at her husband, but she did not offer any comment on the subject.
Grace turned back to the window. “Where is your home?”
“Mayfair, of course. It’s quite close to Hyde Park, which I have no doubt you’ll retreat to often.”
“Lovely,” Grace breathed, thankful for some aspect of London to find appealing.
“But you’ll have to remember to take care. You’re in London now and all proprieties must be observed,” Samantha added, arching a brow.
Grace suppressed a groan. “Understood.”
“Understood doesn’t mean you have plans to follow those proprieties,” Samantha replied knowingly. Her hazel eyes were wide and observant; her expression also implied that she was awaiting a verbal promise that Grace would abide by the social parameters.
Grace let out a long sigh. As soon as she released the breath, she held up a hand. “I know, no sighing. Drat, this is going to be a disaster. I even breathe wrong.”
Samantha reached across the carriage and patted her hand. “You do far more things right than you do wrong. Focus on the ways you succeed, not your failures. We all fall short in one area or another, but when those areas become our focus, we lose ourselves.” She spoke with the sage wisdom of someone twice her age as she gently retracted her hand.
Grace twisted her lips. “Must you always be right?”
The viscount chuckled.
Samantha cast him an amused gaze. “I’m not always right. He can most certainly attest to that!”
To his credit, the viscount didn’t reply or offer any proof of her statement, and again Grace found herself the focus of the conversation. “I’m still awaiting your promise,” Samantha encouraged.
And that was the truth of it. Samantha had the patience of Job and the appearance of an angel. She always encouraged, rather than discouraged. It was impossible to be cross with her, or to be offended by her insistence that Grace abide by any of the rules they had set about. It was irritating at times, and at others as comforting as hot tea on a chilly day.
Today it was of the irritating variety, but that spoke more of Grace’s disposition than Samantha’s. Regardless, Grace nodded. “I promise. I’ll do my best to observe all the proprieties required of a lady of quality.”
“Thank you. And I will always be in the wings coaching you through it all; you are not alone.” Samantha nodded.
The carriage jostled them a bit as it hit a rut in the road, then turned left down a different street. Grace glanced back out the window, the condensation dripping down and making small rivulets in the glass, distorting the view further. She longed to wipe the moisture away with her glove, but she was afraid to get her gloves dirty—just another confinement of society.
India and Egypt were looking more and more welcoming, even with their suffocating heat. At least there she didn’t have to wear gloves.
“We’ll arrive shortly,” the viscount announced, glancing to the window and dismissing the view as overly familiar.
Sure enough, within a few minutes the carriage paused, rolled forward a few more feet, then came to a stop. The carriage wobbled slightly as the coachman stepped from his perch. A footman opened the carriage door, causing light, mist, and the scent of smoke to swirl into the cab. Grace’s eyes strained to absorb all the details of the view. She waited impatiently as Samantha alighted from the carriage, and then eagerly offered her hand to the footman so that she might disembark as well.
The first thing she noticed was the trees. They towered over the walkway, creating a canopy over the houses that lined the street. As her gaze lingered down the road, she noted the boxwoods that lined the front of each residence. It was orderly, it was manicured.
It wasn’t natural.
But then again, what had she been expecting? This was a cultured city, and she could take a lesson from the perfectly curated vegetation. She was a wild rose, but she was being planted in London and as such, needed to adapt to her environment. She could do it; she would do it. There wasn’t any challenge she had backed down from, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now.
“Come.” The viscount gestured to the front entrance of his London home, and as they approached the door swung open, revealing a butler younger than any butler she had ever before seen.
He stood stiffly straight, his eyes forward as if soldiering the front door and preparing to meet his commanding officer. Grace studied him. He couldn’t be much older than she, but much taller. His shoulders appeared too wide for his lean frame, an
d she averted her eyes as they approached the door.
“Thank you, John.” The viscount nodded, earning a bow that was snapped in place like a salute. “Allow me to introduce my wife and ward.” The viscount gestured to Samantha and Grace.
Grace kept her eyes from going wide. Even she knew that it wasn’t common to make introductions to the help.
John—she’d never heard a butler with such a normal name—turned his gaze first to Samantha and gave a sharp bow, then turned to Grace, executing the same greeting without a word. His eyes were the color of rich earth, and utterly unreadable.
Grace nodded in greeting, and then followed her guardians into the well-appointed house. The three steps to the door led into a glistening marble foyer. The tall ceilings gave an open feeling that was oddly in contrast to the misty and gloomy outdoors. A person started toward them from the long hallway, and as she grew closer Grace noted the beauty of the woman in housekeeper’s clothing. She couldn’t have been more than forty and five, but she carried herself with a dignity that was more quality than help. Grace noticed her warm smile, and felt a shiver of curiosity. Never before had she seen such a lovely housekeeper. Granted, she hadn’t been around any London residences, but she rather thought of the grander stations of butler and housekeeper as elderly staff members, dignified by the age of the person holding the position.
“Ach, Mrs. Marilla!” The viscount gave a warm greeting to the housekeeper, and Grace stood back to watch the interaction with interest.
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