Grace (8 page)

W
indblown and breathless, quaking inside from the turbulent feelings Trevor had awakened in her, Grace arrived back at the Ackerly stables still trying to bring her raging emotions under control. She skillfully eased Firefly into a canter, then further slowed her to a walk, transferred the reins to one hand and tentatively touching a trembling fingertip to her still-swollen lips. She felt an odd tension begin to build deep in her stomach as she recalled the way Trevor’s lips had moved insistently over hers. Remembering the wanton way she had responded, how she had practically wrapped herself around him and brazenly returned his kiss, Grace groaned and felt her cheeks grow hot with shame. Hastily, she pulled the mare to a stop in front of the paddock and slid down, closing her eyes against the mortifying realization that she had thoroughly enjoyed what they had done.

She leaned forward and rested her forehead for a moment against the warm, comforting chestnut hide of her mount. No question remained in her mind: she simply could not allow such a thing to happen again. The sooner the Earl of Huntwick left Pelthamshire, the better. In the meantime, she thought grimly, she would have to do her level best to remain well away from him.

Hearing a shuffling footstep on the ground behind her, Grace abruptly straightened and shook her wind-tossed hair over her hot face. “I’ll see to Firefly myself, Willie,” she said without looking back at the young groom who had, she knew, automatically reached for the bridle. She wanted to remain alone for as long as possible, shamefully certain that anybody who looked at her would somehow know precisely where she had been—and worse, exactly what she had done. When the young man did not reply, she clicked her tongue and led the mare into the clean, roomy stall, gave her some water, and began rubbing her down with strong, sure motions, deliberately letting the rhythm of her movements push the disturbing encounter with the Earl of Huntwick to the back of her mind.

She became so absorbed in her task, she did not notice the visitor who entered the stables and leaned against the door to Firefly’s stall, watching in silence as she continued to work on stabling her horse. Only when she had finished with the brush and turned to fetch a bucket of oats with which to fill the feed bin did she see Sir Harry leaning there, his blond hair gilded by a shaft of sunlight slanting through the hayloft, a determined smile fixed on his too-handsome face. Provoked by the events of the morning, Grace stopped in her tracks and scowled at him for a second, then pushed open the heavy wooden door so it banged against the wall with a thud. She stalked over to the feed barrel in the corner without a word of greeting to the colorfully garbed, self-important knight.

Harry watched her deft movements as she filled the cedar bucket with the enormous scoop, then turned back to the stall. “Is the gossip I hear true?” He moved back a couple steps to protect his new bottle-green satin jacket when she pushed past him again with the rough bucket over her arm.

“What gossip?” Grace asked irritably, banging the bucket
against the feed bin in her haste to finish and get out of the stable, away from the unwanted proximity to Harry. Firefly, already nervous as she sensed the rapidly shifting moods of her mistress, shied in agitation and tossed her head in eloquent equine protest of the sharp sounds and raised voices.

“The gossip about you and the Earl of Huntwick, of course,” he replied, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. He was not disappointed.

Grace stiffened and set her bucket down with another loud thud, finally giving him her full attention. “And just what is it they are saying?” she demanded, walking over to stand next to him, separated only by the wooden door of Firefly’s stall.

Unable to retain his composure at the thought of Grace preferring anybody to him, Harry felt his perfect features twist a bit, betraying his carefully concealed ire. “What they’re saying,” he said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice, “is that his unexpected appearance at the Assembly Rooms last night was no coincidence.”

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Grace supplied uninformatively. She turned back to her task, hoping he would pick up on the fact that she did not wish to have a conversation with him. She did not turn quickly enough. His hand shot out, and she gave an involuntary yelp as it closed painfully around her wrist. He spun her back around and pushed her up hard against the stall door.

“You’re hurting me!” Grace cried out, struggling to free her arm from his iron grip. Firefly nickered nervously behind her. Grace tried unsuccessfully to stifle the small whimper that escaped her as pain shot up her arm from her wrist.

“They’re saying,” Harry said menacingly, his angry face, only inches from hers, turning a mottled shade of purple, “that you’ve known each other for years, that you’re possibly
betrothed and probably lovers. Is that true?” he bit out between clenched teeth.

In a flash, blind anger overrode Grace’s momentary fear. She tossed her head defiantly and glared straight into his furious hazel eyes, ignoring the increasing ache in her wrist. She opened her mouth to tell him that she belonged to no man, that she never intended to marry, and most especially not him. Before she had a chance to utter a word, Trevor stepped from the shadowy doorway near the tack room and spoke.

“Now, if that
were
true,” he warned in a calm, silky voice, “how do you suppose I might react to somebody handling my fiancée thus, and speaking to her in such an insulting and abusive manner?” He took a threatening step closer to Harry and looked pointedly at the hand still locked around Grace’s wrist.

Recognizing the steely glint in Trevor’s eyes as possessive fury, Harry let go and turned defensively toward the earl, anger bristling in his narrowed eyes. Grace backed quickly toward Firefly, safely out of reach of either man. She stood, silently rubbing her wrist, as she watched the unbelievable tableau playing out before her.

The two men stood facing each other warily, a study in opposites, although quite similar in height and build. The dark earl, attired in a subdued black coat and trousers over a spotless white linen shirt, exuded an air of leashed power and cool control. The blond knight, dressed in the colorful, foppish finery of a town dandy, appeared weak and somehow silly, despite his alleged exploits in the war. Grace felt a shadow of alarm thread through her. A strange sense of unreality descended upon the entire scene while she stood holding Firefly’s bridle. She stroked the nervous horse’s neck reassuringly and murmured soothing words in a twitching ear, as much to calm herself as to settle the animal.

As his anger began to dissolve into justifiable fear, Harry assessed the threat to his physical well-being, as well as to the new clothing he proudly sported. Wisely, he held up a placating hand. “Please understand that I’m merely concerned for Grace’s reputation, my lord, as is the entire village,” he said in an almost pleasant tone. “As she has no brother to keep her safe and defend her honor, naturally I feel as though I should assume the responsibilities of one.”

Grace gave an unladylike snort of disbelief.

Trevor glanced at her briefly, then looked back at the now serenely smiling face of the knight. His hackles rose at the sight of the tasteless man’s self-satisfied smirk. “Your brotherly services will no longer be required,” he said shortly. He stepped aside so he did not block the door, making it blatantly obvious that he expected Harry to leave.

Anger once again flared in Harry’s eyes. He gave Grace a long look of derision. She returned the look with belligerent scorn, lifting her chin and glaring down her nose in an obstinate gesture already becoming familiar to Trevor.

“So it’s true, then,” Harry drawled recklessly, looking her insolently up and down, his eyes purposely lingering on her long, shapely, breeches-clad legs. “I guess the only question that remains unanswered is whether his lordship is your fiancé . . . or your lover.”

Firefly flinched at the sudden sharp crack that rang through the stable as Trevor’s fist connected with Sir Harry’s jaw. The knight grunted in pain as he careened heavily into the far wall and then slid slowly down to the straw-covered floor of the stable. With a small cry of shock, Grace released Firefly’s bridle and ran to the door of the stall, looking over it to see Harry slowly raising himself up on an elbow, one hand ruefully rubbing his chin. She looked up at Trevor and physically recoiled from the blazing anger in his eyes. He crossed the floor in two long strides to stand over Harry.

“I should call you out for that, you bastard!” he said to the man on the floor in a lethal tone.

Harry shook his head with a wince of pain. “The slur to my parentage aside, I suppose that answered my question,” he said, getting awkwardly to his feet and straightening his now hopelessly smudged and wrinkled jacket. “My apologies, Miss Grace, for my poor manners.” He bowed stiffly in her direction, nodded shortly to Trevor, and strode from the stables.

Trevor watched him go, his lip curled in disgust at the man’s distasteful attire. He turned back to Grace, who stood silent just inside the stall. She glared at him in anger, her hands balled into two small fists planted firmly on her hips. Trevor looked at those trim hips and immediately remembered the feel of their firm curves beneath his hands. His body tightened in instinctive response. A slow smile worked its way across his face.

That smile pushed Grace over the edge. “How dare you!” she flung at him, stamping her foot. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” She shook her head and stomped her foot again when she saw that he did not even comprehend the extent of the damage. When Harry returned to the village, he would tell everyone his version of what had transpired in the Ackerly stable. Soon the entire village would hear the tale, and would suppose that Grace actually
did
intend to marry the Earl of Huntwick. When the marriage did not come to pass, everyone would automatically assume the worst: that she had really been his lover all along.

Trevor thought she had lost her mind. “What would you have had me do?” he asked in disbelief. “Should I have allowed him to maul you in this stable, right before my eyes?” His growing frustration with her was evident on his face.

“You could have allowed me to take care of myself,” she said hotly. “I’ve handled Harry before,” she added, stepping out of the stall and latching the door firmly behind her. She
started to walk past him, fully intending to escape into her room and not emerge until the earl and his friend finally left, but Trevor smoothly stepped in front of her, effectively blocking her exit. He looked down at her with a tender smile.

“You don’t have to take care of yourself, Grace,” he said, his voice turning deep and husky.

“I would rather do so, if you please, my lord,” she returned in a tone drained of all emotion, unwilling to admit, even to herself, the almost magnetic effect his voice had on her. Tired from the battle of wills she had fought with this man almost from the moment they had met, she now wanted nothing more than to get away from him and from the way he muddled her senses. “Would you kindly move out of my way?” She looked up at him with weary patience.

Trevor gave her a long, assessing look, then stepped aside without a word. She pushed past him and walked out of the stables, her long hair swaying with each fluid step, her pert nose perched firmly in the air. He watched her go, gazing with admiration at the graceful movement of her hips. Grace did not look back as she crossed the yard and disappeared into the house.

Bingham Ackerly stood on the front steps, one arm curved protectively around his youngest daughter, bidding their noble guests a smiling good-bye. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done, Your Grace,” he said with deep gratitude as he shook Sebastian’s hand. Mercy stared unabashedly up at the handsome duke, her huge blue eyes shining at him with obvious adoration under the wide white bandage that encircled her small head.

With a rarely bestowed smile, Sebastian reached out to rumple her silky auburn curls, then chucked her affectionately under the chin, admonishing, “You stay out of trouble,
urchin.” Although he voiced it as an instruction, not a request, his tawny eyes held a rare gentle glint. This odd young girl had touched something in him he had previously not known existed. He bent and kissed her small hand with an air of gallantry, then went down the shallow steps to climb aboard the waiting coach.

Inside the house, clad in a pretty jonquil yellow morning gown, Grace stood at the front drawing room window, peering through a small break in the curtains. She watched as Trevor spoke with her father for a moment, then solemnly shook Mercy’s hand and joined the duke in the shining burgundy vehicle. Through the coach’s open doorway she watched Trevor settle into his seat, say something to the duke, then look directly at her window.

Instinctively, she shrank back. Although certain he could not possibly see her, she was unwilling to let him know she was watching him leave, and even more unwilling to admit that she felt an odd sense of loss at seeing him go. When she thought it safe to look again, the footman had already closed and latched the door. She watched in silence until the coach had pulled off and made its way down the short drive to the road. She turned away from the window, letting the heavy curtain fall back into place with a soft rustle.

“Miss Grace?”

Happy for any distraction from her unwelcome thoughts, Grace smiled at the young girl from the village who had just begun working in the household as a parlor maid. “What is it, Millie?” she asked in a pleasant tone.

“His lordship asked me to give you this after he left, miss.” She handed Grace a folded piece of paper, then curtsied awkwardly and scurried from the room. She was so frightened that Grace did not have the heart to call her back and tell her that the members of this household did not require her to curtsy.

She also did not bother to ask which nobleman had written
the note. A bit cautiously she opened it and scanned the brief contents. What she read made her clench her teeth in sudden, renewed annoyance. The earl had effectively gotten the last word. He’d written in a bold, sweeping hand: