The Marriage Ring (7 page)

Grace’s fingers ached to grab him by the ear and give it a savage twist. That would wipe the smug smile off his face. “What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“The matter? Nothing.” He capped his ink, leaned over and put the bottle and his pen away in their proper little carrying case, and retrieved his satchel.

“You were much friendlier last night,” Grace continued. “In fact, I almost enjoyed your company.”

He pulled out a paper from his satchel and opened it, putting up a very effective barrier between them.

“I find you very rude, Mr. Lynsted,” she declared. “What? Do you believe I have not been so ill treated before? I have. Back when I was first being presented. My family background was such that I should have been invited to all the events. Because of my father being convicted of a crime,
a crime he didn’t commit
”—she had to be certain he remembered that—“the only invitations I received were for parties hosted by my relatives, who begrudged everything they did for me.”

He stayed behind his paper.

The disdain hurt. It always did.

Over the years she’d reacted to it by running, or proving herself to be exactly what supposedly respectable people thought of her. Defiance was also a good reaction.

But if she was ever going to reclaim her life, to be the person she’d once believed herself to be, she could not let him cow her.

She tapped her foot on the floorboard, beating out the passage of time. They traveled in silence with only the sound of the horses, the rattling of the traces, and the squeaking of hinges.

He pretended not to be aware of her. She knew he was. Last night, this man had come across as honest. Today, he was a pretender.

“Usually people turn the pages,” she observed, “when they read the paper.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he flipped the page over.

“What is it?” she wondered. “Have your father and uncle warned you away from me? Have they made you afraid of the ‘Jezebel’?” She sneered at herself, all too aware of what those paragons of virtue and vice might have told him. “I liked you better when you thought for yourself.”

The paper came down. His eyes were angry and she noted they weren’t brown as she’d first thought, but a green. A dark, mossy green. “I do think for myself.”

“And that is why you’ve had a change of attitude toward me between last night and today?” she challenged.

“It’s not because I was warned off of you, Miss MacEachin,” he assured her. “Quite the contrary, my uncle urged me to give you a
poke
.”

The word offended her. She leaned back into her corner. “How godly of him.”

He noticed her move away. “Don’t worry. Your
virtue
is safe with me. And what my uncle is really saying is that you aren’t the sort of woman a man asks to wear his marriage ring.” He raised his paper again.

Grace knew that. It had been made painfully clear several times in her life. She’d lived beyond the pale of respectability. At times rebelliously so.

What caught her off guard was that Mr. Lynsted’s saying it rankled.

He was her enemy. She should celebrate that he found her not to his exacting standards of a wife. After all, what did she care?

“I
wouldn’t consider marrying
you
,” she informed him as if they’d been discussing the matter.

He concentrated on his paper.

“Not only is your family guilty of destroying mine,” she continued, “but I wouldn’t want someone with your
priggish
manner.”

She glanced over to him. Was it her imagination, or did his fingers tighten on the paper?

Grace waited a good long moment before repeating herself. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked the newspaper. She laced her fingers together, happily preparing to annoy the devil out of him. “I said you were priggish.
Priggish, priggish, priggish.
”

The newspaper came down.

“It is not priggish to have
standards
,” he informed her, the outrage light in his eyes definitely bringing out the green. “In fact, it is a necessity—but then, you wouldn’t understand because you don’t have any.”

“I do have a standard—truth,” she insisted haughtily. “It’s the only one that matters.”

That remark hit home. “I wouldn’t be making this blasted trip if I didn’t seek truth.” He started to bring his paper back up but Grace had enough.

She grabbed the top of the paper with her hand, bringing it down, crumpling it. She’d bored a hole into his arrogance and she wasn’t about to relent.

“So what are your standards for a wife?” Her action had moved her from her corner of the coach, bringing her closer to him.

“What do you care?”

“I don’t. I’m merely making conversation.”

Annoyance flashed in his eyes. She tamped down a smile of triumph.

“She won’t be an actress,” he muttered. “Or a
Highlander
.”

“Am I being insulted?” Grace wondered. “I ask a simple question and you slur me?”

“There is nothing simple about your questions, Miss MacEachin. You are baiting me, plain and simple. You enjoy mocking me. Now here is the truth, the woman who wears my marriage ring will be all a gentlewoman should be. She’ll be reserved, conservative, genteel, well-bred—”

“And
boring
,” Grace assured him.

“She
won’t
be boring.”

“She will,” Grace pronounced with the voice of experience. “Because you can’t make a list and order a wife to fit your personal specifications before you meet her. Wives don’t come that way. They are people and people are always complex and challenging. Or is that something your uncle and father didn’t warn you about?”

The lines of his mouth flattened. “You go too far.”

For a moment, she feared she had. This was no blustering male or one who could easily be controlled. There was steel in this man. Courage. Resolve.

Qualities she admired.

And he was ignoring her for his own reasons…reasons she sensed he did not want her to know.

“Marriage is a partnership of lovers,” she said, holding his gaze. “And if there is one thing I’ve learned in my”—she paused, searching for the right word—“
adventurous
life, a mysterious element known as romance can never be valued too highly.”

“I’m romantic enough, Miss MacEachin,” he replied tightly.

And she had to let him know he was wrong.

“Truly?” she asked softly. “How romantic is it to order a woman as you would a steak pie? I want her genteel, I want her conservative, I want her plump but not too plump. Maybe plump here and slender there. And her hair must be yellow unless I’m in the mood for something red, or purple, or green—”

“Women don’t have green hair, or purple hair. And I didn’t talk about personal features but qualities of character. There is a difference.”

“So you would marry a woman with green hair if she was boring?” She had to say it. She couldn’t help herself and was delighted when his jaw muscle tightened.

“Boring was not on my list,” he informed her. “
You
added it.”

“Very well,” Grace said. “I will amend my statement. It’s not a concern if your wife has ten fingers and ten toes provided she goes to church every Sunday and prays at six on Tuesdays and never expresses an opinion other than the one you decide for her since intelligence wasn’t on your list—”

“Why are you doing this?” He threw his paper to the floor. “Why are you spouting such nonsense?”

“Nonsense? I’m not the one ordering up a wife, Mr. Lynsted,” she said.

“No, there is something else at work here. You are attacking me, but it isn’t just me, is it, Miss MacEachin? This is something that has been on that female mind of yours a long time. You don’t like men very much, do you? You think we are fools.”

She did, but had never had a man astute enough to notice or bold enough to call her on it.

Edging back to her side of the coach, she said, “I don’t like being categorized, Mr. Lynsted. I’m calling you on a hypocrisy. You aren’t alone in your lists. Every man has them. The image of what his dream wife will be. They all want virgins while they chase me relentlessly. And once they do marry, they take on mistresses whom they treat better than those perfect wives.”

“And you hate that, don’t you?” he said, leaning toward her, intimidating her with Truth. “You don’t like being left out, knowing you will never be the wife?”

“I prefer my own company.”

“Liar,” he accused softly.

In that moment, the coach rolled over a rock or deep rut in the road. The wheels bounced, throwing his weight toward her but he went farther than that. Abruptly, he threw himself on top of her, his arm reaching across as if to hold her down.

She’d not expected the move.

Her first response was panic, just as it had been years ago, only this time she was wiser. She reached under the seat, felt the knife sheath and whipped out her dirk. She pressed the razor-sharp edge against his throat.

Surprise crossed his face. He went still.

Her heart pounded in her throat.

His gaze held hers.

Neither moved, their bodies swaying together with the motion of the coach.

She swallowed. His weight was heavy on her body. “I’m not a plaything. I know men expect it, but I’m my own person now. I’m not that woman any longer. No matter what your uncle or anyone says. No one touches me.”

Understanding crossed his face, and something else—compassion?

It embarrassed her.

He pushed his arm forward. She braced herself. She’d cut him if he tried to hurt her. He had to know she would—

A blast of damp, frigid air enveloped them before he pulled his arm back and there followed the click of a door being shut into place.

“The door came open,” he said, the muscles of his throat moving against her knife. “I don’t know why. It’s a new coach. However, I didn’t want you to fall out.” Raising his hand to show he meant no tricks, he sat back up.

Grace didn’t move immediately. It took several moments for her heartbeat to return to normal, and she was all too conscious of the fact that she’d tipped her hand. She’d overreacted and exposed to him, her enemy, her innermost fear.

He was such a strong man. A big one. An intimidating one. Now he knew how to frighten her.

Instead of gloating, Mr. Lynsted picked up his crumpled paper. He sat back against the seat, raised the paper, and once again began to read.

She reached down to the floor. She found her sheath and slipped the knife back into it before sitting up. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the pins that had loosened back in place.

They rode in silence for a moment and then Mr. Lynsted murmured, “One other item to my list—the woman I marry
won’t
pull a knife on me.”

“More’s the pity,” she replied, trying to ape his earlier disinterest, and failing.

She’d been exposed. Made vulnerable…and he knew it.

Chapter Seven

T
hey stayed in their separate corners of the coach as best they could after that.

When Mr. Lynsted finished reading his paper, Grace worked up the courage to ask if she could read it. He handed it to her without a word before returning to his ledger sheets.

The weather took a turn for the worst. Gray storm clouds covered the sun, threatening rain at any moment.

They had driven long and hard with only one quick stop along the side of the road for a stretch of the legs. Grace was very relieved when at last the coach turned off the main road.

“We must have reached the inn Dawson knows,” Mr. Lynsted informed her, breaking their hours of silence. “He said it was suitable for the night.”

Grace nodded, still not ready to talk to him. He’d kept his distance but she’d discovered she was too aware of him for her comfort.

After several turns down one road and another, the coach finally came to a halt. Grace stifled a yawn and put on her hat before she pulled on her gloves.

Mr. Lynsted did not wait for the driver to open his door but opened it himself and climbed out. Grace slid across the seat, ready to exit but his body blocked her way. He leaned back in to say to her, “It’s crowded out. The yard is full of horses and vehicles. Wait in the coach while I send Herbert in to see if there are rooms available for us.”

Grace didn’t want to wait. She yearned for fresh air and yet with him blocking the door, what choice did she have?

She pulled back the curtain covering the window on her side of the coach that she’d closed to keep cold air out and was surprised to see exactly how busy the inn yard was. There were horses, sporty phaetons, and coaches everywhere, along with servants and gentlemen.

Leaning across the seat toward Mr. Lynsted, she asked, “What is going on here?”

He didn’t answer her directly but stopped a passing gentleman. Grace couldn’t hear what they were saying and had to wait until Mr. Lynsted informed her, “There was a boxing match about ten miles down the road. The winner is to fight Cribb. I suppose because this inn is near the post road, many thought they’d chance coming here for an early start home on the morrow.” He pulled his head out and she heard him ask a passing gentleman who had won the match.

The name Cribb didn’t mean a thing to her, but she was suddenly very weary and the walls of this coach were closing in around her. She wanted her supper and her bed and found it very easy to target her irritation at Mr. Lynsted.

She slid across the seat to the door. Mr. Lynsted was still blocking it with his body. For a second she debated giving him a goose in the hip to see if he would move, and decided against it. She’d wandered a long way from her mother’s teachings on the manners and decorum of a young lady, but there were still some things she would not do.

So, she did what her mother would have advised her to do, she cleared her throat.
Several
times.

Mr. Lynsted either didn’t hear her or refused to take the hint. He stood right where he was, discussing the fight with strangers and asking for more details. Apparently, a Scot named McGowan had defeated the favorite. The men had much to say about this unexpected win and proceeded to give it the same detailed consideration and discussion that Wellington probably offered over Napoleon.

Grace was going to scream if she didn’t escape this coach in two more seconds. Convention be damned. She opened the door on her side of the coach and climbed out. Mr. Lynsted would be annoyed she’d disobeyed his order to stay where he wanted her, and the thought made her smile.

Since the door had opened on the road, she’d stayed well away from it. She was surprised how loose the catch was for a new vehicle and when she went to close it, she noticed it didn’t close well. Curious, she poked her finger around the catch mechanism and discovered the tiniest bit of wood prying it open. She didn’t know how it managed to lodge there but she flicked it out with her nail, and the door shut tightly.

She shook out her skirts and was reaching up to readjust her velvet cap when a high-perched phaeton almost skimmed too close to her. The ham-handed driver had been ogling her. He paid attention to his driving in the nick of time to move his wheels, overcompensated, and almost ran into an oncoming vehicle right in front of Mr. Lynsted’s coach.

A shouting match between the two drivers resulted.

Grace ducked around the back of her coach and hurried around to where Mr. Lynsted and Dawson had been listening to the details of the McGowan fight from two other men.

Of course, the shouting match in front of them commanded their attention. Mr. Lynsted and the others became so caught up in the angry drivers they didn’t even notice Grace’s presence until the beleaguered driver who had almost hit her stopped mid-sentence.

He stood in his phaeton and pointed at Grace. “
Her
. There. She’s the reason I almost ran into you. I had to swerve to avoid running her over. Stepped out in front of me.”

All eyes turned to Grace, who became conspicuously aware she was the only woman present in the yard.

“I told you to stay in the coach,” Mr. Lynsted barked without preamble. That angry muscle in his jaw had tightened and he was giving her the “glare,” an expression he appeared to be perfecting around her.

Grace squared her shoulders. “While you discuss boxing? Well, I’m in search of a fighter by the name of Roast Chicken,” she said. “Have you heard of him? I’d like him for my supper.”

Mr. Lynsted’s scowl deepened although his companions, including Dawson, saw humor in her small jest. However, they dared not laugh. They suddenly became interested in scratching their noses and looking to the ground…the cowards!

Fortunately, Herbert approached. He spoke in the ear of Mr. Lynsted, who shook his head.

“Dawson, is there another inn nearby?”

Before Dawson could answer, one of the other gentleman spoke up, “There’s not an inn for an hour in any direction that will be less crowded than this one.”

Mr. Lynsted looked to the inn and then to Grace. He obviously was not satisfied with the arrangements but gave a short nod of his head. Dawson and Herbert moved around her to unpack their luggage from the boot.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mr. Lynsted said to the two standing with him. He offered Grace his arm. “We have little choice but to stay here for the night,” he said and then frowned past her.

Grace turned to see a party of men who had been eyeing her. Mr. Lynsted’s size and proprietarial air warned them away.

“Earlier, when I told you to stay in the coach, it was for your own protection,” he murmured as he led her to the inn’s door. “We have no choice but to stay here for the night, but considering the overwhelmingly
male
presence, you’d be wise to obey my orders.”

“Perhaps you’d best add ‘willful’ to my list of sins then,” she informed him, stung at being talked down to.

“I already have.” He opened the door.

The inn was a lovely Tudor structure with beamed ceilings and a cozy rabbit warren of rooms.

Unfortunately it was crowded with not just men, but
sports
men. They came in all shapes, sizes, and from all walks of life. The taproom was filled to overflowing. Gentlemen crowded the narrow hallway or sat on every available surface in the side rooms. And however much attention she drew outside, she doubled it in here.

Mr. Lynsted was not pleased. That angry muscle in his jaw had appeared and didn’t seem ready to go away.

He needn’t have put himself in a pet. One sight of his big, hulking self behind her and the men quickly shifted their focus back to their drinks and conversations.

He took her elbow and directed her into a sitting room off to the left with a cheery fire in the grate. A comfortable-looking chintz-covered chair set empty beside the fire, the way to it blocked by a group of men talking.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Lynsted said, his voice deeper than usual. They were going to ignore him until, like the others, they noticed his size and Grace standing beside him. They stepped out of the way.

Mr. Lynsted offered her the chair. “I’m going to find the innkeeper. I’ll be right back.” He said this last loud enough for the gentlemen to hear. And then, in a very quiet under voice, he had to add, “This is one of those circumstances when a lady’s maid would have been a great help.”

She bristled at the suggestion. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, you have your knife,” he agreed with a hint of disgust and left.

The truth was, she didn’t have her dirk. She’d left it on the floor of the coach, a blunder that was uncharacteristic of her. The omission was certainly Mr. Lynsted’s fault. If she hadn’t been so frustrated and annoyed with him, she would have remembered something important like her dirk.

She studied the fire, watching the flames dance every time the front door opened and closed. More men entering the inn. She and Mr. Lynsted had obviously arrived just in time.

The air was full of masculine shouts of greetings, talk of the fight…and the mention of her name.

She’d been recognized.

Grace dared not look around her and invite unwelcome attention. She kept her head low, listening.

Then, she heard several men mention Mr. Lynsted’s name. Their voices sounded patronizing as well as mildly surprised at his presence.

She had to look to see who was speaking and was shocked to recognize Lord Stone standing in the doorway surrounded by a group of his cronies.

It took all of Grace’s courage to not jump behind the chair and hide. Stone was the man who’d attempted to bribe the stagehands, porters, and watchmen for access to her, the one others had warned her to stay far away from. She’d been blessed the stagehands and others had protected her. In the way of underlings, they’d managed to talk their way out of doing his bidding.

Stone was the son of a duke and impervious to the law. One of the girls in the opera company had been his mistress until a broken jaw, reputedly by Stone’s hands, had left her unable to perform, and then he’d tossed her out.

There were other stories, whispers of behaviors so degrading and mean-spirited, Grace had not wanted to believe them. She hadn’t wanted to grow closer to him either.

And now, here he was, looking down the hall and mentioning Mr. Lynsted by name.

Grace turned her back to the door, even as she strained to catch a word or two of what Stone was saying without drawing attention to herself—but it was too late.

A stool was plunked down beside her chair. Stone himself sat upon it. He was a tall, gimlet-eyed man with a lacy neck cloth and dark hair he combed forward in the style
á Brutus.
Many women thought him attractive.

Grace thought him reptilian.

“Miss MacEachin, who would have thought I’d meet you in the wilds of Biggleswade.”

Her first instinct was to ignore him…but she knew that would only antagonize the situation.

“Who would have thought I’d meet you here as well, my lord?” She kept her voice cool, her back straight.

His gaze warmed in appreciation. “You are more lovely up close than you are on a stage.”

She didn’t answer. She held herself still.

He smiled as if sensing her apprehension. “Perhaps it is fortuitous that we are here together. I now have the opportunity to know you better. You have proven to be a difficult woman to know. I’ve tried my best to gain your attention.”

“My career has kept me busy.”

“But you are not busy now.” His smile widened, turned wolfish—until Mr. Lynsted’s voice cut in.

“She’s also not alone.”

Grace could have collapsed in relief.

The smile disappeared from Stone’s face. He stood. “Lynsted.”

“Stone.”

Grace was stunned by Mr. Lynsted’s curtness. It was as if he, of all the people of his class, was not intimidated by the rake.

“I have our rooms, Grace,” Mr. Lynsted said, using her given name, and she understood. He was offering her the only protection Lord Stone would respect.

“You’ve won her?
You?
” Stone’s accusation and disbelief rang off the ceiling beams.

Mr. Lynsted didn’t answer him but took Grace’s hand and led her from the room, Stone’s mates stepping back to let them pass.

She could feel their gazes follow her and Mr. Lynsted as he led her down the hall to the staircase, where a girl waited to escort them up to their rooms.

“How do you know Stone?” he asked her in a low voice as they reached the top of the stairs.

“How do you know him?” she countered.

“I went to school with him. He’s the devil incarnate.”

“For once, Mr. Lynsted, we agree. He’s been after me. Wanted to win that wager.”

The girl opened a door on the right side of the hall.

“This is your room,” Mr. Lynsted murmured. “Mine is across the hall. We’re fortunate to have secured them. I’m not certain there are any others left.”

“Yes, sir, we are full,” the girl confirmed.

Grace walked inside. The room was a little larger than a good-sized horse stall but the sheets and the floor appeared clean, and a small fire gave the room warmth. Herbert had seen that her valise was waiting for her on her bed.

“Is the water warm in the pitcher?” Grace asked, nodding to the wash stand.

“Yes, miss,” the girl answered. “And the soap is new, too.”

Grace nodded her appreciation and the girl withdrew.

“I’ll give you a moment to freshen up,” Mr. Lynsted said, “and then I’ll escort you to dinner. Let’s say in fifteen minutes. There is a rather nice dining room overlooking the garden.”

“That sounds like heaven,” she said, her dark thoughts of Lord Stone vanishing.

“Good. Now, don’t open this door until you hear my knock.”

“I won’t,” she agreed.

He paused by the door. “By the way, I took the liberty of ordering supper.”

“What did you order?” she asked.

“Roast chicken.” Something suspiciously like a smile crossed his face as he closed the door.

“If you aren’t careful, you may develop a sense of humor,” Grace warned, but there was no response. She heard the door across the hall open and close.