Grace (19 page)

“Brandy is meant to be sipped slowly,” he advised when her senses had finally cleared enough for her to understand him. Grace opened her mouth with the full intention of giving him a blistering setdown, but stopped when she felt a curious and wonderful warmth begin spreading out from her stomach all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. She wiggled them experimentally, smiling at the strange tingle she felt as they moved. She looked up to find Gareth watching her steadily. She gave him a wobbly smile and leaned over to peer intently into his glass. “And what are you drinking, if I may ask?” she inquired, grimacing in distaste at the smell and wrinkling her nose in a very feminine way after a delicate sniff.

His mouth twitched. “Port,” he replied blandly.

She leaned her head upon a hand and pointed one tingly finger at him. “Can’t handle brandy, huh?” She gave him a sympathetic look.

His mouth twitched again as she picked up her empty glass and waved it in the air. “A man’s drink,” she informed him loftily, looking toward the other men for confirmation.

Sebastian’s face remained, as usual, impassive, but Trevor wore the superior smirk she had always found so infuriating. Strange, but tonight it did not bother Grace in the slightest. She cocked her head to the side and smiled at him, completely unaware that, when she smiled, no costume in the world could dim the glamorous perfection of her features.

“Why do you do that?” Grace asked him.

“Do what,
cousin?
”

“Smirk at people,” she replied, “as though you know something perfectly awful about them.”

Trevor looked amused. “Why do you ask? Do you have some terrible secret you think I may know about you?”

Grace flushed and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She looked at Gareth, who appeared deeply engrossed in the cards he held, then at Sebastian, who looked as bored as ever. Did they know her real identity? she wondered.

She picked up the cards that lay facedown on the table before her and pretended to have an absorbing interest in rearranging them. That done, she looked cautiously over the cards at Trevor. He looked back at her, still smirking. Then, of all things, he winked!

Suddenly she felt closer to him than to anyone else in the world. Because of this man she sat here in his study, playing cards, drinking brandy, and gambling the night away, something she would wager none of the other debutantes in London could ever say. Feeling a strange sense of kinship with the man she usually considered her foe, she winked back, then returned her wavering attention to her cards, gloriously unaware of the small victory Trevor had just won in his war to win her hand.

Grace hiccoughed.

She stood unsteadily in the street with Trevor, her head thrown back, looking in dismay at the impossibly high garden wall around Aunt Cleo’s town house. “This is truly where I live?” she asked, her voice uncertain. “I’m quite positive our garden wall was much lower than this.”

“No, my lady, this is it, I’m afraid.”

Grace did not even have to look toward him to know what his expression held. “Stop smirking,” she said, then hiccoughed again. “And I’m not a ‘my lady,’ ” she muttered irritably.

Trevor’s smirk widened into a grin. He had to stifle a laugh as Grace began running a numb hand over the wall as though trying to find nonexistent toeholds in the smooth marble surface. He stepped forward. “Please allow
me.” He bent and cupped his hands together as if offering her a leg up on her mount.

She placed one booted foot in his cupped palms, then tentatively touched his shoulder. “My lord,” she said softly.

Trevor looked up at her, still bent at the waist with her small foot in his hand.

“I really enjoyed myself tonight. Thank you, Trevor.” She hiccoughed again.

Pleasure washed through him at her use for the first time of his given name. He knew he could no longer trust himself not to reach for her and kiss her senseless. Without warning, he gave her a sudden boost, sending her not to the top of the wall, as he had hoped, but completely
over
it. A second later he heard a muffled thud as she landed on the other side. “Grace,” he called anxiously, ready to climb the wall himself to see if he had hurt her.“Are you all right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” came her muted response. He heard nothing further for a moment, and Trevor thought that she had gone into the house. Then she called softly, “Good night.” He heard her running footsteps recede into the depths of the garden.

“Good night, my lady,” he replied to the garden wall.

From across the street, the hidden figure watched the by-play between Grace and Trevor with clenched teeth and fisted hands. He did not enjoy entrée into the circles in which they moved, and had not yet found an opportunity to speak with Grace. He knew, however, that it was only a matter of time. When Grace saw his devotion, he knew she would never look at the damned earl again.

G
race.” The voice came to her as though from very far away as she slowly swam up from the depths of unconsciousness. “Grace, wake up.”

She frowned in her sleep. The voice prodded at her, annoyingly persistent. Worse, the person to whom it belonged had now begun to give her repeated jabs in the ribs with a very pointy and insistent finger. Reluctantly, she rolled onto her side and forced open one heavy eyelid.

Big mistake.

The instant before her eyelid slammed closed again, she caught a glimpse of a blurred but very grim-looking Faith standing over her, arms crossed on her chest in a way that could only mean trouble. Unfortunately, she did not have a chance to try to discover who had incurred her sister’s wrath; the very next instant a horrid little man, who had somehow managed to climb into her head, began hammering away at her skull.

Grace groaned in pain and reached automatically for the satin coverlet, intending to pull it over her head to try to shut out both Faith and the little man. When her groping fingers encountered nothing, she settled for smothering herself with a pillow.

“You’re lying
atop
the coverlet, Grace,” came Faith’s voice,
now fortunately muffled. All voices should be muffled, she decided.

“Fully dressed.”

Dressed?
Grace wondered.

“With your boots on,” her sister added in a dry tone.

“Go away, Faith,” she said. She moaned when the effort to speak sent another wave of pain cresting through her head. She heard nothing else for a moment, then felt the bed dip as Faith sat down next to her. Her sister briskly plucked the pillow from Grace’s face, letting in the agonizing brightness of the morning sun. “Sit up.”

Reluctantly Grace obeyed the command, delivered in her sister’s best no-nonsense tone. She gratefully accepted the glass of cool water thrust into her hand. Her mouth had never felt so parched; nor had it ever tasted so horrid. She managed to bring the glass to her lips and take a small sip without opening her eyes.

“You smell just like Papa after a night at the inn.”

Grace finally opened her eyes a mere sliver and squinted at Faith. Her fastidious sister was staring at her with her usually perfectly straight nose wrinkled in sublime distaste. “I like the way Papa smells,” Grace croaked. She had always loved the smell of tobacco and leather and fine brandy that clung to her father’s clothing, had loved it ever since the not-so-long-ago days of her girlhood, when she had curled up in his lap for her nightly bedtime story. The scent comforted her, in much the same way Trevor’s scent did. The realization surprised her. She winced as the little man gave her head an extra hard tap.

“Lord Caldwell came to call about an hour ago,” Faith said, as though reading Grace’s thoughts.

Trevor. She closed her eyes again and pinched the bridge of her nose in an unsuccessful effort to alleviate some of the pain. “What time is it?”

“Well past noon.” Faith paused a moment. “I heard you come in last night.”

“Sorry,” Grace mumbled. “Did I wake you?”

“You were singing.”

Two more sharp taps with the hammer. An unexpected wave of nausea washed over her, and she took a quick sip of the water. “Did I wake Aunt Cleo?”

“She didn’t say,” answered Faith, watching with concern as Grace began drinking the rest of the water in large gulps. “She did tell Becky not to bother you this morning.”

Grace tipped the glass up and swallowed the last of the water.

“Perhaps you ought not drink that so quickly,” she advised.

Grace’s already peaked face paled further. She stood un-steadily, holding tightly to the bedpost as the room began to tilt alarmingly.

“It might make you sick,” she finished lamely as Grace lunged suddenly for the chamber pot.

An hour and a half later, a more sedate though still wan Grace appeared in the dining room, garbed now in a very becoming peach gown. “Good afternoon, Aunt,” she said in as cheerful a voice as she could manage, walking across the room to give her relation a quick peck on the cheek.

“I see your injury hasn’t slowed you down, my dear.”

Grace looked at her aunt blankly for a moment before she remembered her feigned ankle injury of the evening before. “Oh, yes, Aunt,” she stammered. “I think an evening of rest was just what it required.” She felt a telltale blush heat her cheeks. She moved quickly to the sideboard and began to fill a plate with food, in her flustered state hardly noticing what she selected.

When she felt a bit more composed, she returned to the table and seated herself across from her aunt. She stared
down at the unappetizing food, perfectly certain her still-churning stomach would not accept a morsel. She gingerly tried a bite of ham, then cringed as her stomach lurched in protest.

Aunt Cleo watched in amused silence as Grace struggled valiantly to finish her unwanted luncheon. She readily recognized the telltale aftereffects of an evening’s drinking, and wondered again what sort of scrape her niece had gotten herself into. That it had something to do with the Earl of Huntwick she had no doubt. He and Grace had conspired, thick as thieves, at the ball the previous evening, and he wore his feelings for her plainly enough for anyone to see. For some reason, though, Grace resisted him. Cleo could not fathom why. Huntwick would make the perfect husband for her, if she would but open her eyes.

Aunt Cleo cleared her throat, causing Grace to look up from the creamed potatoes with which she was toying. “Huntwick called upon you this morning.”

“Yes, Aunt. Faith told me.” Grace looked back down at her plate, certain her aunt’s sharp eyes could see right through her.

“He seemed a bit concerned that you hadn’t come down.”

“That was kind of him,” said Grace noncommittally.

Aunt Cleo slowly buttered a roll, watching Grace’s reaction to her next words carefully. “He probably felt a bit responsible for your condition.”

Grace dropped her spoon to the table with a loud clatter. She looked up at her aunt in alarm.

“After all, it was quite awkward of him to tread upon your foot like that,” said Aunt Cleo with a sly look.

Grace slowly let out her breath. “Actually, it was I who quite clumsily tripped over
his
foot, Aunt,” she corrected in relief.

Cleo shrugged her shoulders and waved a beringed hand
negligently in the air. “ ‘Always the man’s fault’ is my motto,” she sang airily. She pointed her fork at both of her nieces. “Never accept responsibility for anything if you can blame it on a man.”

Grace quite forgot her pounding head and laughed in startled surprise. “Why, Aunt Cleo! What do you have against men? You and Uncle always seemed especially to care about each other. He practically doted upon you, as I remember.”

“Bah!” said the older lady with a shake of her head that set the feather on her turban bobbing. “I just had him well trained, you see. Your uncle Charles was a rake in his younger days. It took quite a while for me to bring him to heel.” She looked sideways at Grace. “Huntwick rather puts me in mind of your uncle, when he was young.” Her eyes turned at once tender and laughter-filled. “Properly trained, he’d make someone a good husband.” She gave Grace a direct look.

Grace deliberately ignored her aunt’s eyes as well as her words, though a blush stole across her face. “How did you do it, Aunt? Uncle Charles never acted as though he’d been ‘brought to heel.’ ”

Cleo leaned across the table, her alert blue eyes twinkling. “I chased him until he caught me,” she confided, “and then I allowed him to
think
he was in control.” She stood up. “Men need that, you know,” she advised. “Try it on your young man.”

“Trevor’s not my young man,” Grace protested, quite unaware that she had inadvertently let her use of his given name slip.

Aunt Cleo looked over her shoulder on her way out of the room. “Were we still talking about Huntwick?” With that she swept out the door, leaving Grace to her headache, queasy stomach, and unsettled thoughts.

Ablaze with lights, the theater glittered, crowded with splendidly garbed men and beautifully gowned women, all of whom had simply come to put themselves on display and gossip about their neighbors. Most of them likely had no idea what would appear on the stage for their entertainment; nor would they watch once it started. Instead, they would watch the more enlightening tableaux presented in the extravagant boxes held by the members of London’s elite.