Fascination -and- Charmed (26 page)

“You will marry the marquess, Grace. If you do not, and if that man finds us—which he most certainly will—we shall end our days in a debtors’ prison.”

Their “understandable fatigue” had saved Grace the difficult task of facing the Cuthbert party that morning—and at luncheon. Now dinner was about to be served—in fact, it should have been served some time since—and her reprieve was over.

“Mortie! Really, you can be such a naughty boy.” Lady Cuthbert delivered her husband a sound thwack to the shoulder with her closed fan. “What
can
you think of us, Miss Wren? Not concerned about punctuality? Hah!”

Sir Mortimer must once have been very dashing. He was still dashing—in a rather
dissolute
way, Grace thought. At this moment he was smiling lazily at his overwhelmingly cheerful wife.

“Look at him,” Lady Cuthbert said to Grace whilst smoothing the skirts of her purple gros de Naples gown over skinny hips. An impressive diamond collar sparkled at her throat. “One wouldn’t think a naughty thought ever formed behind that innocent-boy face, would one?” Lady Cuthbert’s bosom was enormous, and a great deal of it showed above the scalloped neckline of her gown.

The corners of Grace’s mouth twitched.

“Of course one wouldn’t,” Lady Cuthbert warbled. “But they do, Miss Wren, take it from me, they do. Mortie, you are to tell Miss Wren at once that punctuality in all things, particularly the serving of meals, is of the essence in the Cuthbert household. Our dinners are
never
late.”

“Come, come,” Sir Mortimer said. He winked at Grace with the eye his wife could not see. “We cannot pretend that our little abode is as complicated to run as Kirkcaldy, can we, Theodora? And, after all, the castle staff wasn’t expectin’ to put on somethin’ grand tonight.”

“You’re much too generous, Sir Mortimer,” Mama said. Dressed in bronze jaconet muslin, with a bronze ostrich feather draped from crown to ear through a cascade of fussy ringlets, she had been twinkling and giggling, blushing and hanging on Sir Mortimer’s every word, from the moment she had finally persuaded Grace to leave the seclusion of her room and come down for dinner.

“Isn’t he, Grace?” Mama poked Grace’s ribs. “Too generous? Haven’t we been saying the servants need a good shaking? Haven’t we been saying it from the instant we arrived? At least this salon appears to have been cleaned. An improvement, I can tell you, Lady Cuthbert. Let us hope the dining room has fared as well.
If
dinner is ever served. Not at all a certainty. Tell them so, Grace.”

Grace inclined her head and met the marvelous violet eyes of Mrs. Melony Pincham, who instantly offered a sweetly sympathetic smile. “You must be a little overwhelmed, Miss Wren,” she said. Her voice was unexpectedly high. “Do not allow anyone to intimidate you. Not ever. Remember, he who takes the biggest chair may find himself on—”

“I think you mean, he who sits at the head of the table may find himself at the foot, or some such thing,” Lady Cuthbert interrupted her sister. “Although what that has to do with anything, I fail to see. Roger, please come and be introduced to Miss Wren. It’s time for you to go to the nursery.”

The boy, tall for ten, fair-skinned, blond, and gray eyed like his father, came forward and executed a creditably grown-up bow. “How do you do,” he said. Then he smiled, lighting those intelligent eyes, and Grace decided he was not at all the nondescript child Mama had described.

“How do you do, Roger. Are you not to eat with us?”

“I have already eaten, thank you,” he said politely.

“He came to meet you. And now it’s time for bed,” his mama said.

The Cuthberts and Mrs. Pincham wished the boy good night while Grace wandered about the red and gold salon. She’d never seen the beautiful room. According to Mama, “that wonderful Mr. McWallop” had instructed that this evening was to be festive and selected this room and an adjoining dining room for the occasion.

Grace did not feel festive.

She studied a portrait above a lavishly carved marble chimney piece. A beautiful, dark-haired young woman had been painted wearing a red ball gown.

“Marvelous-looking gel, wasn’t she?”

A masculine voice rumbling close to her ear made Grace jump. She glanced up into Sir Mortimer’s face. “I was just thinking as much,” she told him, uncertain she liked his standing quite so close. “Do you suppose this room was decorated to complement her dress?”

He breathed in noisily through his nose. “That’s dashed clever of you. Course it was. Can’t think why I never thought of it before meself. She was Arran’s mother. Damn handsome woman, too.”

Arran.

“
Stonehaven ... not an intimacy of the
spirit.
”
Grace swallowed and felt, as she’d felt so many times since her mother’s shocking revelation last night, a turning about her heart that brought her near to tears. How could Mama have placed them in such an impossible pickle? Gambling, no less!

“They say Arran’s like her,” Sir Mortimer remarked. “Can’t see it meself. What d’you say, Miss Wren?”

“Call me Grace,” she said absently. She knew what she had to do.
Do it.
“There is certainly something similar about the eyes. And the hair.” She must give no hint that all was not perfect between the Marquess of Stonehaven and his blushing bride-to-be.

Sir Mortimer guffawed. “The hair! Long and pretty, hey? Dash me if you don’t have a subtle wit, Grace. Can’t imagine why a fella doesn’t keep up with the times meself. Pigtails went out with tricorns, don’t you know. Someone ought to inform the marquess.”

“I like ...” She stopped. She did like Arran’s hair. She liked it very much—too much—just as she liked everything else about him too much—except his cruel temper, his suspicion, his unreasonable pigheadedness, and his ability to make her think of nothing but him even as she wished she need never set eyes on him again. “The marquess is rather singular,” she said faintly.

“Hah!” Sir Mortimer threw up his chin and laughed hugely. “Will you listen to the gel, Theodora? She’s a gem. A jewel. What a perfect turn of phrase. Arran is
singular,
she says. Not dashed peculiar. Not a blackhearted recluse. Not—”

“Mortie,” Lady Cuthbert said severely, and dropped open her fan.

“Oh, you know I think the world of that cousin of mine.” Sir Mortimer gave Grace another wink. “No fun if a fella can’t joke about his oldest and dearest friend and relative, eh, Grace?”

“No,” she murmured, secretly thinking that he had barely begun to list Stonehaven’s faults.

“Don’t mind Mortimer,” Mrs. Pincham said, slipping her arm through Grace’s. “He’s a
terrible
tease. We should be doing what we came to do, and I intend to make certain we start at once.”

“And what was that?” Mama asked rudely.

“I think Mortimer should be the one to explain,” Mrs. Pincham said. Her white gauze dress was striped with violet the exact shade of her eyes. Little bunches of violets confined white satin bows in the full auburn curls at each ear. Grace admired the charming picture the woman made.

“Where’s Father Struan?” Mama asked suddenly. “Mr. McWallop said he’d be dining with us.”

Lady Cuthbert cast up her eyes. “Who can possibly rely on such an impossible man? He’s been throwing the family into fits since he was a difficult little boy.”

“You didn’t know Struan when he was a little boy, lovie,” Sir Mortimer said.

Mrs. Pincham made an odd sound and said, “I expect Theodora means that he’s seemed unconventional for as long as she’s known him.”

“Don’t you presume to explain what I mean, Melly!” Lady Cuthbert’s narrow face turned an unpleasant shade of red.

“Now, now, lovie.” With yet another wink in Grace’s direction, Sir Mortimer slid an arm around his wife’s waist and hauled her against him. “Tired, aren’t we? Overwrought, aren’t we?”

“Addlepated, aren’t we?” Mrs. Pincham murmured for Grace’s ears only.

Grace tried not to grin. She failed.

“May I call you Grace? I should very much like you to call me Melony.”

“Please,” Grace said, warming to the other woman, who did not appear much older than herself.

“I thought Mr. Innes was to dine with us,” Mama said. Pouting, she sat alone at one end of a red damask couch. “And Mr. MacFie, so I was told.”

“Calum Innes won’t be here,” Sir Mortimer said shortly. “He keeps out of my way. Just as well.”

“Don’t mind Mortimer,” Melony said. “Calum rubs him the wrong way and—”

“Calum Innes is an upstart. They should have left him—”

“
Mortimer,
”
Lady Cuthbert said. “You do not care for Calum. We need not bore Grace with the details of old family quarrels.”

“He’s
not
a member of this family, although he’d—”

“
Yes,
”
Lady Cuthbert said, glaring. “We know. For goodness’ sake,
where
is dinner?”

“Should have thought MacFie would have put in an appearance by now,” Sir Mortimer said. “Useful chap, that. Best estate commissioner in the land, so they say.”

“I saw him earlier,” Lady Cuthbert said. “He sent his apologies. Problems at the dairy or some such thing. Said he wouldn’t be able to be present.”

“Shouldn’t have thought he could do much about dairy problems at this time of night ...”

How could she be standing here in this sumptuous room, making polite conversation with strangers, listening to their empty prattle, when her entire life was in ruins?

Grace had a wild notion to shout,
I don
’
t care about any of you,
and rush away.

But she couldn’t do that. She would probably never be able to do anything but stay in this castle she hated ... with a man she hated ... or wished she hated more.

Praise be that Stonehaven had made no attempt to see her today. She’d made no attempt to see him—despite Mama’s pleadings. And there was no danger of having to deal with him tonight. According to every source, the man never left his private quarters, so he wouldn’t be at dinner.

“Speakin’ for meself,” Sir Mortimer said, approaching Grace on the balls of his feet, “I’m remarkably glad to have this time alone with you ... and your charming mama.”

Mama gave a fluttery giggle, which Grace determinedly ignored.

“Indeed,” Lady Cuthbert said. “This is a very special time, my dear.”

“A
family
time,” added Sir Mortimer. “We’re here to offer you our support. We want you ... and your dear mama ... to think of us as your nearest and dearest. I understand you have no relatives ...?” He let the question hang.

“Only distant ones with whom we have no connections,” Grace said.

Sir Mortimer bent from the waist. “Quite. But now you
do
have relatives.”

Melony squeezed Grace’s arm and dropped a soft kiss on her cheek. “I am so happy, dear Grace. We always had one another, of course, but Theodora and I were still very much alone as children. We
know
how it is to be lonely and to long for a confidante. We are warmed to our hearts to know that we now count you a dear friend—and that you share our feelings.”

Sir Mortimer extended a hand to Grace. “Come, my dear, I want to have a few private words with you—if your mama agrees.”

“By all means,” Mama said from the couch.

Grace allowed Cuthbert to fold her fingers into his palm and draw her a short way distant from the others.

“Permit me to say a few words that are to be between the two of us alone,” he said in low, intimate tones. “Arran is an excessively uncomfortable ... He’s not
warm;
I’m sure you agree?”

Be careful.
“He is private,” Grace said. “I’m sure we can agree on that?”

“Indeed.” He led her to a window alcove where, to her slight alarm, Grace found the two of them to be shielded from the rest of the company. “It pleases me deeply to discover that you are already so loyal to my cousin. However, I don’t think it would be less than loyal for us to agree that he is not a happy man?”

She lowered her lashes.

“Yes, well, I’ll take that as an affirmative. Arran is a quiet, withdrawn man. I sincerely hope that, with you to help him, he will learn to embrace the world of the living again.”

The living.
Grace dug her fan sticks into her hand. Would this man tell her about the dead marchioness?

“I do not know exactly how you came to meet Arran.”

Grace said nothing.

“Not that it is my concern—or that it matters. However, I cannot help wondering if you know him well enough to embark on this marriage.”

She looked up into his gray eyes. Yes, he was still a good-looking man, if a little the worse for too much good food and drink.

“Grace ... oh, my dear, you are such a gentle soul. I feel that.”

To her amazement, he caught her chin between finger and thumb and placed a slow kiss on her brow.

Before she could pull away, he released her and held her arms. “That was a mark of affection, dear little girl. And a mark of my concern for you. Please, if there is anything I can do to help you in the days ahead,
come
to me. Promise me you will.”

She couldn’t think of an answer.

“How overwhelming this must be for you. All this. Tell me you will count me your nearest and dearest friend in times of great stress ... possibly great
danger.
”

Grace felt her face pale. Danger here. Danger in London. There was nowhere to turn, yet she could not leave this place, where there was at least a chance for financial security.

Dimly she heard the rustle of fine fabrics in the room—and noticed the women had stopped talking. They must be straining to hear what she and Sir Mortimer were saying.

“We should return to the others,” she said. Her voice sounded shaky.

Sir Mortimer rubbed her bare arms. “And we will. Listen, Grace. Listen well. This is a desperate step, but I implore you not to enter this marriage in haste. Give yourself more time to be certain it’s what you want. Put off the wedding, dear one.”