Grace didn’t like fretting about Lord Ramsbury. It brought her severe anxiety. “I would rather not. Let us fret about nothing at all, and enjoy a peaceful spring morning without any talk of men.” She picked up her book, the romantic story less interesting than it had once been.
When she began to accidentally envision Lord Ramsbury as the dashing hero, she snapped the book closed, deciding that a book of mathematics would better suit her mood and aid her attempt to rid her mind of the odious man. Mathematics would provide her with a different sort of problem to be solved, none involving romance.
Crossing the lawn, Grace made her way to the back door of the house, walking through the hall until she found the library. Her mother had ordered all the books she called ‘romantic and unintelligent’ to the top shelves of the bookcases, hoping to better keep them out of Grace’s hands. She had instructed the servants to use the wooden ladder as kindling for the hearths, leaving Grace with no method of reaching the books she usually sought. But a few months before when Uncle Cornelius had come calling, he had been kind enough to bring a few of her favorites down to a more obtainable reach.
When Grace opened the door, she found her mother and father, both sitting at the table, leaned over an assortment of records.
“Grace!” her mother said, greeting her with a flustered smile. Her father grunted in acknowledgement of her arrival before returning his focus to the parchment he held.
“I heard from Cornelius that Lord Ramsbury was in attendance yesterday at dinner,” her mother said, her brown eyes hopeful. “Have your feelings toward him changed? Cornelius seemed to believe that Lord Ramsbury’s attachment to you was still very secure.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Grace had been doing well to clear her thoughts of Lord Ramsbury in the three minutes she had spent walking to the library. So much for that.
“Your father was quite impressed with him. If his offer still stands, you might consider giving him a different answer. Perhaps?”
Grace shook her head. “No, Mama. I do not intend to marry him.”
“Why ever not?” Her mother’s gaze slid to the book, A Match of Great Consequence, that Grace still held in her hand. A look of deep disapproval entered her mother’s eyes. “It is the stories, isn’t it? You are too preoccupied with these men of fiction to find merit in a man of flesh.”
“That is not true.”
Her mother fanned her face with one of the sheets of parchment on the table, anxiety marking a crease between her eyebrows.
Grace felt a lecture coming.
“You have become so immersed in these false worlds that you forget your place in your own world. You are a girl without a dowry of any kind, able to bring little to a marriage, who has rejected the rare opportunity to be a countess, to secure a comfortable living for herself. Do you realize the consequence of this choice you have made?”
“I am not blinded by these false worlds, Mama,” Grace said with a sigh. “I learn from them. I learn of different cultures and different people. By reading these stories I am taught by some of the greatest intellectual beings of the past and present. I am finding qualities in the male characters that I would seek in my own companion, and qualities in the heroines that I would seek to develop in myself. It is more educational than you would suspect.”
Her mother rubbed her forehead. “Grace. I admire your resolve, but think of what you could accomplish if you applied the time you spend reading to other pursuits. You are a very beautiful girl, and I wish we had the funds to send you to London. I daresay you would be admired by many. But at the moment we have no way to fund a Season, and so Lord Ramsbury is your best option.”
Grace refrained from vocally disagreeing with her mother. “If perchance he does extend his proposal again, I will consider it,” she said, if only to appease her.
“And you will do nothing to divert it?”
Grace’s mother knew her schemes too well. “Nothing at all.”
“Good. We have been invited to a spring ball at Pengrave, the residence of the new Marquess of Seaford next week. Lord Ramsbury and his family will likely be in attendance, so I expect you to make an effort there, my dear. Show him that you regret your refusal of him.”
“I do not regret it.”
Her mother huffed in frustration, turning to her husband for support. He lifted his eyes from the table, a heaviness there that Grace didn’t recognize. “You would do well to listen to your mother, Grace. I’m afraid I will be unable to support you and Harriett for much longer. Our debts are increasing, and soon we may have to remove to a smaller home outside of Brighton.”
“You cannot be serious” Grace’s heart fell, plummeting to her stomach. She had noticed a decrease in their pin money, but hadn’t thought much of it.
“I’m afraid I am.”
Her mother gave her a heartfelt look. “So you see our urgency. It is not to burden you with a marriage that you will not be happy with, but to ensure that you are well taken care of.”
Grace gave a solemn nod. How could she ever leave Brighton? She had spent her childhood here by the ocean.
“Do not allow yourself to be burdened by this, Grace. All we desire for you is happiness,” her mother said. She eyed the book in Grace’s hand again, disgust sparking in her eyes. “But I would ask that you give that book to me.”
What her mother would never understand was that it was books, more than almost anything in the world, that brought her happiness. Knowing her mother would not relent, she set it down on the table. Grace felt as if she were parting from a dear friend, one she had not yet had the privilege to come to know, or to understand. Her mother would never let her see that book again. Perhaps she could sneak to the circulating library in town to see if they shelved a copy.
With a sigh, Grace moved to the nearest bookcase. She found the row of books her governess had once instructed her with. Architecture, French, and mathematics books lined the shelf at her eye level. She selected one and returned silently to the back door of the house.
Had rejecting Lord Ramsbury been a mistake? No. She could never call it a mistake. She knew her heart, and she knew that it had always dreamed of being loved, truly loved, by her husband. She was nothing more than a necessary obstacle to Lord Ramsbury, a device to help him reach his goal. She would never settle for a marriage built on something like that.
Stepping into the warm air, she breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of roses from the nearby gardens, trying to calm her racing mind. The smell never failed to remind her of her childhood, when she and Harriett would pluck roses from the bushes to keep in vases in the room they shared. The servants that cared for the grounds had not been fond of their practice, but she and Harriett had usually managed to evade them.
Grace sneaked to the bush to pluck a rose for Harriett. Careful of thorns, she snapped the stem of a white rose, the petals still wrapped tightly around themselves, as if they were unsure of the endurance of the warmth in the air. She smiled, tucking the rose behind her back as she stepped out from the gardens. She held her new book open in her hand as she walked back to the tree, studying the abundance of numbers on the page with disgust, doubting the wisdom that had sent her back to the library to exchange her book. She detested mathematics.
When she glanced up, her feet stopped of their own accord, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
It was Lord Ramsbury, not Harriett, that now lounged upon the quilt by the tree, spinning the stem of a leaf between his fingers, grinning up at her.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she asked. She covered her mouth with her book, shocked by her own language.
Lord Ramsbury’s eyes blinked in surprise and amusement, a rankling smile on his handsome face. Only Lord Ramsbury would find her choice of language amusing and not appalling.
“You might at least pretend you are happy to see me,” he said.
She lowered the book, cringing in embarrassment. “I thought we agreed to put a stop
to our pretending.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Did we?”
“Yes.”
“So you would prefer that I not pretend I didn’t just hear such… improper language escape your mouth?”
Grace released a loud burst of laughter.
He leaned back on one elbow, watching her with a curiosity in his gaze that she didn’t recognize. “How extraordinary.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Your laugh. It sounds quite different from the laugh you had before—when we played whist and went to the pavilion.”
Her giggles subsided. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. I much prefer this one. The other one was…quite terrifying.”
She stepped closer, throwing her book down on the grass. Her hands found the familiar place on her hips. “What was wrong with my false laugh?”
“It was the most dreadful laugh I had ever heard.” He chuckled.
She shook her head. “Just when I begin to find you tolerable you find a way to change that opinion.”
His laughter continued as he picked up her book from the grass, opening it to the first page.
“And you did not answer my question.” She sat down on the grass, far away from him, tucking her feet beneath her skirts. She lowered her voice. She did not care what he thought of her. She did not care to be a proper lady at the moment. “What the devil are you doing here? And what have you done with my sister?”
He did not appear shocked in the slightest. He gave a pompous smile. “I missed you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, yes. I should have suspected.”
“Why do you not believe me?” he asked with a chuckle.
Grace couldn’t name the exact reason, simply that she still did not trust him. “You do not possess the most trustworthy face.”
“And what makes one’s face trustworthy?”
“The absence of a smirk, to begin.”
He laughed, a deep and hearty sound. Grace found herself smiling as she watched him, laughing like a child at her accurate description of his face.
“Is that rose for me?” he nodded toward the white bud she had placed beside her on the grass. She had almost forgotten about it.
“It was for my sister. As children we loved white roses.”
“Do you still?”
She touched a petal that had already begun to wilt. “Yes. They are my favorite flower.” She looked up to find that he had turned his attention back to the book, flipping through the pages.
“I thought you were reading A Match of Great Consequence,” he said. “And I thought you despised mathematics. Although you told me that during a time when every word that that escaped you was a lie.”
“No, that was true. I do despise mathematics.” Grace watched as he intently studied the page. “And you said you enjoyed mathematics. Is that true?”
He glanced up, giving a nonchalant shrug. There was a certain discomfort in his posture and expression, as if he didn’t care to admit that he enjoyed it. Grace never would have guessed that Lord Ramsbury enjoyed mathematics, but there were many things she was discovering about him that she didn’t know before.
“You may tell me. I will not think less of you for it,” she said. “But only if you will not think less of me for my love of books and fictional stories.”
He grinned, closing the book in his lap. “Yes, but I have not always loved mathematics. As a child, I despised it. I was terrible at it, and my tutor could not convince me to try.” His smile began to fade, pushed into the background by memories and nostalgia. “My uncle, who also lived in Brighton, was very skilled at it. He spent hours helping me learn, until I enjoyed it too. But it was his company I enjoyed more than anything. He taught me to shoot and ride as well. I wanted to be exactly like him when I was grown, give of my time to those that needed it, and make others feel valued. My father couldn’t spare a moment for me most days, so when my uncle died five years ago, it felt very much like losing a father.”
Grace didn’t recognize the seriousness in Lord Ramsbury’s eyes, or the pain that settled in his gaze. She didn’t like seeing him so serious. She much preferred his teasing over the heaviness in his eyes.
“I am very sorry you lost your uncle,” she said. “I cannot imagine losing my Uncle Cornelius. He is also like a father to me. My own father rarely ventures out of his study to see his daughters.”
Lord Ramsbury smiled, his eyes softening. “So we have something in common, after all.”
“Just not a love of mathematics,” she said.
“Or cucumber soup.”
Grace laughed. “You don’t like cucumber soup?”
“It is the most dreadful thing I have ever tasted.” His face contorted in disgust.
“I am telling my uncle that you hated his soup last night, and he will never invite you to dine with him again.”
“Good,” he said, shivering in dramatic revulsion. “Then I will avoid the risk of being served cucumber soup again.”
She couldn’t stop her laughter as it bubbled out of her chest, shaking her entire body. Rather than join in her laughter, Lord Ramsbury watched her intently as she struggled through her fit of giggles, shaking with laughter of his own. She met his eyes, unsettled by the admiration burning in them, a sort of quiet awe. It is part of his act, she reminded herself.
She stopped her laughter, looking down at the grass as her cheeks warmed. She still felt his gaze, beating down on her face like hot sunlight. “You must miss your own uncle terribly,” she said, more comfortable with the last topic of conversation.
“I do. He was very kind to me. Before he died he gave me the book of mathematics which he had used to teach me, with a letter tucked inside. And now my real father is on the brink of death, and his final gift to me was to take away what my birth has promised me my entire life.” His expression pinched with bitterness.
Grace traced her finger through the grass. “Unless you marry.”
“Yes. But it is unlikely to happen.” He sighed, the sound too dramatic and pitiful to possibly belong to Lord Ramsbury.
She looked up, scowling. “Are you attempting to make me feel guilty?”
“Perhaps.” His mouth lifted into a slow smile.
“Well, it will not work.”
“I suspected so. That is why I have made other arrangements.” He stretched out his long legs, crossing his feet in front of him. He cocked one eyebrow in her direction, silently begging her to ask for more information.
“Other arrangements?” Grace’s heart fell, and she scolded it for caring. She had turned down his proposal. Of course he would need to find another woman that would not. But why did the idea of Lord Ramsbury with another woman fill her with so much jealousy? The monstrous feeling dug at her stomach with its claws.
He put on a serious expression, as if discussing a matter of business. “Yes, I have selected the eldest Miss Darby to be my wife instead. I’m certain she will have the good sense to marry me.”
“Miss Darby?” Grace couldn’t hide her disdain. She was only briefly acquainted with Miss Darby, who was more closely acquainted with Harriett, though neither sister would call her a friend. She was a rather odd young lady, always trailing around Brighton with one of her many cats, looking for the next piece of gossip to indulge in.
His lips twitched. “Why not Miss Darby? She is amiable and elegant, and would never dare use the word ‘devil’ in the presence of a man. She finds me more than barely tolerable, and doesn’t attempt to insult me once every sixty seconds.” He tipped his head to the side with a smirk, as if daring Grace to challenge him.
She never could resist a challenge.
“But—certainly there are other women you might choose that are not so …”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Irksome.”
He gave an accusatory laugh. “You only find her irksome because I am now pursuing her. You are envious.”
How right you are.
She scoffed, shift
ing so she faced him more fully. “That may be your wish, but I am not.”
“Say what you will, but I can see it in your eyes.”
“What exactly can you see?”
A breeze traveled past them as a cloud passed over the sun, rustling his hair and casting his face in shadow. Just like the cloud passing over the sun, a wicked grin passed over Lord Ramsbury’s lips. “You love me.”
Grace laughed, making her objection clear. “I love you?”
“You just said it.”
“No! I do not love you.”
“But you will.”
“I will not. One cannot leap from hatred to love within a matter of days.”
“Unless one possesses my skill.” He winked.
Grace had never met a more shameless flirt in her life. What sort of charade had he been putting on for Miss Darby? Had he been pretending to fancy her as well? Grace gave him her sharpest glare, shaking her head in clear abhorrence.
The sound of his chuckling continued, and his blue eyes flashed with amusement. “If you knew how much I enjoyed the sight of that scowl you would not do it so often.”
She bit her lip, raising one eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I smile at you more?”
His eyes settled on her face in silence for a long moment. Grace had never seen such warmth in his gaze, mingled with a rare hesitation to speak. “Your smiles are every bit as enchanting as your scowls, Miss Grace. You are beautiful with any expression. Try as you might, but you have no way to escape my affections.”
Why she allowed that blasted man to affect her, she couldn’t understand or control. Her heart hammered in her chest, even as her mind told her to disregard his words and the warmth in his gaze. If Lord Ramsbury lost his inheritance, she decided he should seek employment in the London theater. He was a very skilled actor. An actor was all he was, and she was a spectator, enjoying a performance that would eventually end, foolish enough to believe for the briefest moment that it had been real.
“If Miss Darby knew you said that, I expect she would not be pleased,” Grace said, a hint of bitterness sneaking into her voice.
He gave a soft smile. “I was teasing.”
Romancing Lord Ramsbury: A Regency Romance (Brides of Brighton Book 3) Page 11