“What are you thinking so strenuously about?” Samantha asked, her expression kind and curious.
Grace colored. “I was woolgathering.”
“Apparently. About?”
“How each city I’ve visited has had defining features.”
“Oh?” Samantha nodded. “One day I will actually learn to predict where your mind takes you.”
“I hope not,” Grace muttered, feeling heat in her cheeks.
Samantha gave a small laugh. “I probably never will, but it would be fascinating to see what you’ve seen, and be able to compare it to new things. Tell me, what did London compare with? Anything?”
Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid it defies categorization,” she teased. “But I must say that when I think of it, I’ll remember smoke”—and before she could continue, a fat raindrop hit her nose, creating a small splash onto her cheek—“and rain,” she finished.
Samantha nodded and cast a wary glance to the sky. “Let’s return to the coach.” They carefully crossed the street and strode a few yards to where the Kilpatrick coach waited.
Bond Street wasn’t very far from the viscount’s town home, yet even in that short ride the rain had progressed from a few drops to a torrential downpour.
“It sounds like thunder,” Grace commented, glancing up at the top of the carriage.
“It won’t last long,” Samantha replied with the confidence of someone who had lived there her whole life.
“Are you sure?” Grace gave her a dubious look.
“Certain,” Samantha returned.
When they pulled up to the house, John walked out with a wide black umbrella and, as a footman helped Samantha and then Grace alight from the carriage, he carried the umbrella over each of them till they made it safely into the foyer.
“It’s a bit wet out there,” Samantha commented teasingly.
“Indeed, my lady. Is there anything we need to fetch for you from the carriage?”
“No, thank you John,” Samantha said.
He bowed his head respectfully and went to shake out the umbrella.
“Well, just the two ladies I was about to search for.” The viscount was ambling down the hall, his words meant for both women, but his eyes only on his wife.
Grace glanced away, feeling the intruder.
“Oh? Lucky for you, here we are,” Samantha replied teasingly.
“I find I am quite lucky.” He chuckled, his brogue making the words even lighter in inflection.
“I rather think so, after all, you’re married to me,” Samantha returned.
The viscount laughed, deep and rich. It was a comforting sound, one that made Grace relax, and feel safe. Though not old enough to be her father, the viscount certainly gave her the security of one, and it was welcome.
“Tonight, Ramsey,” he paused and Grace looked up to him. “The Marquess of Sterling, that is, will be arriving and I wanted to introduce you.”
“I finally will get to meet the man I’ve heard so much about,” Samantha replied.
“For dinner, I assume?” Grace asked.
“Yes. We have a few business matters to discuss and with Lucas, Lord Heightfield, still in Scotland for the next few weeks, it’s just Ramsey and me to keep everything running smoothly.”
Grace nodded, biting her lip to keep from smiling at the informal way the viscount addressed his friends. It was understood, yet ironic, because as a lady she would be required to address the gentlemen formally, yet she had only heard of them by their Christian names, and when she thought of them, especially Lord Heightfield—with whom she had grown pretty well acquainted in Scotland—it was always by their Christian names as well. It would take a concerted effort not to make a faux pas, but apparently that was just one mountain she’d have to move, and she’d rather get out all her faux pas in front of friends rather than the London ton.
Though she was sure she had enough bad luck to make mistakes abound in any situation.
Such was life.
Or hers, at least.
“Why the frown?” the viscount asked, and she shot her gaze to his.
“Fretting, mostly.”
“Oh? Shocking that. You have nothing to concern yourself with Ramsey . . . blast, that’s going to be a pain in the arse.” He shook his head.
Samantha swatted his arm, probably for the use of the word “arse” in front of Grace.
Grace bit her lip to keep from smiling, and waited for him to continue. He gave an unrepentant grin to his wife, and then spoke. “You must address him as Lord Sterling, which I know you understand. And I’m not helping matters by using his Christian name. I apologize; it will take some work on my part and I’m not entirely sure I’ll succeed. But at least know that I’ll try.”
“I cannot ask for more, and I’m already sure I’ll slip up at least once. As long as he refuses to be scandalized, we shall get along famously I’m sure.”
The viscount gave a low chuckle. “Yes, well . . . of the three of us, R—Lord Sterling is the most aware of propriety.” He frowned slightly, his brows drawing over his eyes. “Honestly he might be a real asset when we begin your debut. I’ll mention it to him.” He nodded, as if approving of his own brilliant idea.
Grace was tempted to groan, but in truth, she should accept all the help she could get.
“If he’s to arrive shortly, we should take a few moments to change.” Samantha stepped forward, kissed her husband on the cheek, and backed away quickly, neatly dodging his outwardly grasping hand.
“You’re getting slow in your old age,” she teased, retreating toward the staircase.
“You’re learning my tricks. I’ll have to come up with some new ones,” he answered, arching a brow while he gave her a wide, almost predatory grin.
Samantha paused at the bottom of the stairs, and Grace passed her as she ascended to the second floor.
She strode purposefully to her room, not turning back because she was quite certain that while she didn’t understand much about love, she knew one thing for certain; it was fun to play hard to get, but it was more fun to get caught.
A giggle echoed softly down the hall just as Grace closed her bedroom door, a smile teasing her lips.
It would be nice to be chased, even nicer to be caught, but only by someone you could trust. She had seen such a relationship in her parents, and again with the viscount and Samantha, but she was certain it was uncommon. She’d heard stories, she’d seen small windows into life on the other side of the equation, and that wasn’t what she wished to experience.
She rang for her maid, and once Regina arrived, she changed from her slightly damp walking dress into something more suitable for dinner. Regina freshened up her hair, and Grace dismissed her. She should take leave of her room and go downstairs to the parlor and await their guest, but she was rather inclined to stay in her room a few minutes longer, to absorb the silence and read, even if it was just for a few moments. The temptation was too great and she picked up A Midsummer Night’s Dream and started where she’d left off. She’d just reached the part where Puck puts the magic love drops on the eyes of Demetrius when a knock sounded on her door, causing her to jump slightly. She tucked a length of lace in the book and set it to the side. Eyes bleary, she stood and walked to the door. As she opened it, she belatedly realized it had been a much longer break than she had intended on taking.
Regina was on the other side of the door. “Pardon miss, but my lord wishes you to join him and Lady Kilpatrick in the parlor downstairs.”
“Of course.” Grace nodded, feeling abashed at neglecting to be prompt. Regina gave a quick curtsey and walked away. Grace ran her hands down her skirt, smoothing it and taking a deep breath before she started in the opposite direction towards the stairs. A wayward lock tickled the side of her face and she tucked it behind her ear. This was the perfect opportunity to practice all that she’d been taught at Samantha’s kind hand. . . and as such, she was profoundly nervous.
True, he was a friend of the fami
ly, but Lord Sterling would also be a very good judge of whether she could pass muster for the rest of London society. A test—she had to think of it as a challenge. There, thinking of it that way was helpful. She took the last stair and twisted her lips. She’d much rather rise to the challenge of something she enjoyed, something she was actually good at, and this was not something in which she excelled.
Drat.
There was no way but through it, and she wasn’t a wilting flower. No. She was made of something far more durable; she couldn’t think of anything as an example at the moment, but that didn’t signify. It was still true. She could, she would do this!
Shoulders back, she held her head high and walked down the hall toward the parlor, where she knew they all waited. With one deep breath she pretended a grace she didn’t possess and walked into the parlor.
Which was immediately discovered to be empty.
“Blast it all,” she muttered, her shoulders sagging slightly. She had the urge to stomp her foot for good measure, but she held some sense of decorum and promptly walked over to a chair and took a seat. While she had assumed she was late, she clearly wasn’t the latest. She rather thought it was on purpose. Leave it to Samantha to hedge her bets and make sure she arrived on time. Samantha was far too discerning; it was irritating as much as it was helpful.
Grace tapped her toe on the rug, shifted to find a more comfortable position, then blew out a frustrated breath. She was bored already.
The sharp sound of heels clicking on the floor in the hall just beyond had her sitting up straight in her chair, lest the viscount or Samantha walk in and see her slouched and in an impatient position. But the man who rounded the corner was most certainly not the viscount.
Good Lord, but the man was tall! She imagined that if she were beside him, he could see clean over her head, and then some. His gaze immediately met hers, and a shiver of... something . . . shot through her. It wasn’t unpleasant; it was however, foreign, and she took note to evaluate it later. She stood, not knowing what else to do, and watched the way he paused as he entered, appearing slightly unsure. His eyes were a pale blue, framed by dark lashes and brows. His hair was meticulously combed into a classic fashion, one that defied trend but somehow fit him. He tucked his hands behind his back, not smiling, simply . . . watching.
It was all sorts of disconcerting, and, as often happened when Grace felt uncomfortable, she started talking.
The talking wasn’t the bad part; it was the inability to stop the talking that usually got her into trouble, but it was too late now. Her mouth had opened and the words started to pour forth.
“Good evening, you must be Lord Sterling.” She impressed herself with the pause she gave to at least allow him to nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much from the viscount, though he never mentioned your being so tall. Though, that may be because he is quite tall himself, but I dare say, you’re taller, aren’t you?”
She took a breath, forcing herself to stop, but when he didn’t answer, she felt compelled to continue. “I rather thought Samantha and the viscount would be down here already, but they get distracted quite easily. It’s rather sweet if you ask me. I had my suspicions when the viscount first arrived at Kilmarin House, that it was a match from the start.” Her arms tingled, her fingertips were warm and she tried to force herself to stop talking.
If the damn man would just say something, anything! What ever happened to chivalry?
He blinked, as if slowly digesting everything she was pouring forth in a rush of language. But he made no reply, which of course, forced her to—
“Ah, I see you’ve met my ward!” The viscount strode in, saving Grace from her own folly and inability to harness any semblance of self-control. She could have kissed his feet in gratitude for her rescue.
It was horrifically annoying to need to be rescued from oneself. Inconvenient as well.
Lord Sterling gave a tight sigh at the sight of his friend, as if releasing tension from his body. “Yes, indeed. Though I don’t think the lady ever mentioned her name.” He shot her an expression that appeared almost amused. But she couldn’t be sure. He was so very . . . controlled.
“Then allow me to make the formal introductions. “Lord Sterling.” He gave a sidelong glance to Grace, as if saying, “See, I remembered.” “This is my ward, Miss Iris Grace Morgan, but she goes by the name Grace.” He finished with a sweep of his hand.
“A pleasure, Miss Grace.” He bowed smartly, the movement oddly graceful for his height.
“A pleasure, Lord Sterling.” Grace gave her best curtsey, lowering her body and inclining her head just enough. Her only regret was that Samantha wasn’t there to behold it.
“My apologies.” Samantha’s voice gently floated through the air and Grace looked up to see her arrival. After an approving smile to Grace, Samantha stood beside her husband and faced their guest. “Ah, Lord Sterling.” She offered her hand.
He took it, kissing it quickly, and turned to the viscount.
“And this lovely and fascinating creature is my wife.” The viscount grinned proudly as he gazed lovingly down on Samantha.
“A pleasure to meet you. We’ve long awaited the lady that could tame this beast of a man.” He gave a grin that transformed his face.
All the stoic lines of expression melted into an amusement that took years off his face, and the effect was stunning. He was beautiful, handsome but not in the classic way. His eyes smiled as much as his lips, which, now that they had drawn her attention, she could see were full and wide. For the first time, he acted like an old friend versus some barrister coming to discuss someone’s estate.
Grace pulled her gaze away, not wanting to be caught staring.
“It wasn’t difficult to tame him, though I don’t think that is the correct sentiment.”
“You can’t tame a Scot,” the viscount added with a sturdy nod.
“Scot with a very English title,” Lord Sterling replied with an arched brow.
“If the English wish to give me land and money, who am I to stop them?” He shrugged.
Lord Sterling gave a slight shake of his head, as if he were used to the viscount’s antics but not willing to prolong them.
“Shall we all sit? I’m sure dinner will be announced shortly, but I wish to hear any news that you’re willing to share.” Samantha gave a meaningful glance to the viscount, and Grace felt a shiver of foreboding tickle her spine.
In short work they had all taken seats, and Grace was making a concentrated effort to sit straight, and follow the conversation without being distracted.
“Have you heard anything concerning the Duke of Chatterwood?” the viscount asked, diving right into the news that mattered most.
Lord Ramsey nodded, then leaned forward. “Some. It would seem he’s keeping rather tight lipped about the whole situation, which is a boon. With his daughters properly married, I cannot imagine he would do more than to let his disapproval be known. To do anything further would risk his own reputation. The scandal follows you and Lord Heightfield, and if he wishes to remain clean of his new son-in-law’s rather questionable reputations, he will wisely keep distance.”
“Questionable reputation, hmm?” The viscount stroked his chin, an amused expression in his eyes. “I suppose that’s more accurate than not.”
“Indeed.” Lord Sterling arched a brow, but his lips formed a small smirk. “A reputation that you’re taking strides to improve?” he asked, his gaze darting to Grace.
Her eyes widened slightly and she cast her gaze to the viscount.
“If it’s possible.” He shrugged a shoulder. “But as it is, all of London’s parties will be open to us if for no other reason than to gain the true story on how I came to marry the duke’s youngest daughter. London and their love of gossip, you know.”
“That and the husbands will all be vying for your favor.”
“If they aren’t already members.” The viscount flicked a speck of lint from his coat sleeve and turned t
o Grace.
“You have nothing to worry about, Miss Grace. Don’t let Lord Sterling intimidate you regarding your prospects.”
Grace nodded, flickering her gaze to Samantha.
Samantha gave a supportive smile.
The sound of someone entering the room captured everyone’s attention, and Mrs. Marilla curtseyed. “Dinner is served, my lord.”
Again Grace was stricken with the beauty of the housekeeper, and she glanced to Samantha. Was she concerned about her husband having such a lovely lady on staff? Why had he hired her? All these questions filtered through her mind as she rose from her seat and turned her attention to the door.
The viscount escorted his wife, which left Grace with Lord Sterling. She took a hesitant step forward, waiting for him to offer his arm. He rounded the sofa, then paused, turning back to her. Grace moved to catch up, nearly tripping on the woven rug. His gaze was on her, studying her. It reminded her of the time she was in Egypt and watched a clockmaker. The man’s bald head was bent over his desk, his expression focused, sharp, and intuitive as he studied the gears before slowly making adjustments, learning what worked, what didn’t.
Lord Sterling was watching her as if trying to figure out how she worked, and why. She kept her expression neutral as she placed her hand on his offered arm, and waited for him to lead the way to the dining room. They fell into step easily enough, yet Grace couldn’t help but notice that her head only reached the level of his jawline. In fact, as she hazarded a glance in his direction, she figured that even if she were to step on a footstool, she wouldn’t be the same height as he. Of course, it would depend on the height of the footstool—
“Do you often stare at new acquaintances?” he asked, meeting her gaze.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her body grew feverish in embarrassment. She’d rather forgotten that her glance had turned into study, and that study had probably appeared like a rude stare. Well, nothing to do but walk through it.
The Temptation of Grace Page 3