Grace

Grace stood quietly in his embrace, her surging heartbeat slowly returning to normal. She felt drained of all sense. As sanity began to return, she realized with humiliated chagrin that she had acted like a common strumpet, pressing herself against him and returning his ardor with virtually no resistance. She closed her eyes and laid her flushed cheek against his soft linen shirt, the sound of his heart racing as wildly as hers comforting her for a moment, then, with a sudden rush of clarity, making her face a horrifying truth.

God help her, she wanted more!

DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

August 2011

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 2007 by Deneane Clark

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1615-1
E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-1620-5

The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

F
or my
10
th grade English teacher, who made me keep a journal,
A
nd who taught me
much
more than correct grammar.

M
rs.
M
anetta, have
I
told you lately
. . . ?

Late August 1800

I
n the neglected, long-forgotten hunting lodge, an important event was about to take place. Most residents of the dwelling in the woods, creatures of the creepy six-legged variety well used to the layers of dirt and the musty smell of rotting wood, kept a silent, respectful distance from the ceremonial proceedings. The reason for their discretion likely lay in their fear of ending up popped into an empty preserves jar for use in some brilliantly obscure scientific experiment—a justifiable fear.

Unfortunately for the hidden insects, one of the ceremony participants was having a great deal of difficulty achieving proper appreciation for the solemn nature of the situation. Her bubbly, infectious laugh rang merrily through the trees that surrounded and shaded the little weathered cottage as she tried, with little success, to capture a frightened cricket that kept hopping just out of reach of her chubby little hands. The creature managed to gain the open door and quickly jumped outside, scrambling under a large, conveniently fallen maple leaf just as Grace emerged from the cottage on her grubby hands and knees.

Inside the dilapidated building, an increasingly annoyed-looking blond boy of about ten glowered sternly at the little girl with the unruly cap of disheveled red curls. Cheerfully she gave up looking for the cricket and returned to sit facing him. Her short crossed legs were clad in a faded pair of his cast-off breeches, topped with a once-white shirt smudged and torn from a glorious summer morning spent climbing trees and chasing butterflies.

Catching Henry Belden’s baleful look, Grace did her dutiful best to look appropriately grave. Despite her valiant attempt, she failed in her efforts to repress the uncontrollable urge to giggle. She clapped both hands over her mouth to contain her mirth, but still her bright blue eyes sparkled at him with engaging glee.

Henry shook his head and sighed in exasperation. “Grace,” he admonished in his severest tone, “you simply mustn’t laugh. This is really quite important.” He reached across the small space that separated them and roughly grasped both of her hands, pulling them firmly away from her face. With gallant effort, Grace finally schooled her features into some semblance of solemnity, though an irrepressible dimple still managed to peep through.

“Now,” Henry instructed in his most serious voice, “you must say precisely what I say.”

She nodded, eager as always to impress the boy she considered her own private hero, for he did the most impressive things. She remembered the time he had spent an entire morning showing her how he could mount his horse at a full canter, a trick she was certain she could master if she could only get her pony to do so much as
trot
when she was not already mounted. “I swear,” he began, tugging her back from her momentary daydream.

“I swear,” Grace echoed in her high, childish voice.

“That I will marry only you.”

“That I will marry only you,” she repeated obediently, then spoiled the effect by dissolving into giggles again.

Henry looked down in lofty disdain at the seven-year-old girl who now rolled on the dusty floor in unrestrained hilarity before he, too, succumbed to the inevitable and began to laugh. Gales of high-pitched children’s laughter echoed through the empty room and drifted out into the bright sunshine. Birds chattered in alarmed reaction. An owl perched in a maple tree lazily opened one round eye, then closed it again when the silly birds abruptly noted his regard, stopped chirping, and wisely took cover.

“What do you find so funny about this?” Henry asked, when he finally managed to stop laughing and catch his breath.

Grace sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes, leaving wide streaks of dirt on her cheeks. “You,” she said, in a voice breathless from the exertion of laughter, pointing a small, pudgy finger in his direction. “You looked
exactly
like Reverend Teesbury just then. You know, the way he looks when he stops bellowing in the middle of a sermon and looks one directly in the eye, simply to make one squirm?” She made a face in a quite good, if irreverent, imitation of the tall, dour clergyman, then erupted into yet another round of giggles. She was so carried away with her own wit, she failed to notice that Henry had stopped smiling.

He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped closer, giving Grace an odd squirmy feeling in her tummy. “W-what are you doing, Henry?” she stammered.

“Now you have to kiss me,” he said. His voice sounded thick and strange, and his eyes on hers were hard.

Grace wrenched her shoulders free and took a step back. “Yuck, Henry Belden. I’m not kissing you or any other boy!” She backed another couple steps away toward the
door, keeping a wary eye on him. Her tummy settled when he did not advance again. “A boy’d have to catch me first to kiss me, and they’ll never ever catch me!” She turned and ran from the cottage, giggles trailing in her wake.

“Oh, yes they will, Grace,” said Henry. “Someday.”

March 1813

I
n the boisterous atmosphere and oppressive heat of the village inn’s crowded dining room, two gentlemen enjoyed a leisurely after-dinner brandy. Dressed in immaculate, well-tailored clothes, they appeared out of place, though not ill at ease. The men exuded a sense of self-confidence and smooth urbanity that came only with either impeccable breeding or great wealth, giving them the ability to fit in no matter their locale. They had strikingly similar appearances, from their well-above-average heights, taut, athletic builds, and dark coloring, to their auras of deliberately leashed power and authority, attributes that marked them both as noblemen. When one considered their eyes, however, the comparison abruptly ground to a halt.

Sebastian Tremaine, the new and very reluctant Duke of Blackthorne, possessed a pair of startling golden-amber eyes that should have struck one as warmly compelling. Instead, they were cool, aloof, and forbidding, somehow reminding one of a large, predatory cat. Rumors whispered among the young daughters of the ton held that his eyes hid a dark past, a past never discussed but often wondered about. Most young ladies shivered deliciously when they
encountered him at social functions or while out driving in the park, their young hearts beating with both hope and dread that the duke would single them out for conversation. Only the previous week, someone reported that one extremely timid young miss had taken to her bed in stark fear. She had seen her father conversing at a ball with the mysterious new duke, and had become certain they discussed a possible betrothal contract between herself and the frightening, powerful man with the golden gaze.

By contrast, one would never describe the Earl of Huntwick’s eyes as cool. Trevor Christian Caldwell had a flashing dark green gaze that held a subtle hint of seductive promise, a great deal of smoldering warmth, and more than a trace of rich humor. When the earl looked upon a young lady, she always had the flattering impression that the entire world had fallen away, and that, for a moment, nobody else mattered to him. Few women could resist the potent combination, especially when added to the legendary charm that had reportedly brought the ladies to his side—and his bed—in record numbers. The lure of unimaginable wealth and the promise of the title “Countess of Huntwick” that came with the earl’s hand served only to make him more irresistible. The fact that he did not profess an inclination toward settling down and getting about the business of siring an heir inspired great disappointment each year. Yet, as another Season inevitably came to a close with the earl still unattached, mamas with marriageable daughters breathed a collective sigh of relief, certain that, next Season, the earl would finally notice her child.