Never a Gentleman (17 page)

It was obvious that Diccan favored his mother in looks, although the square lines and broad forehead better fit his masculine
frame and darker features. The expression on Lady Evelyn’s face convinced Grace that she had also taught him his more offensive
affectations. Grace was convinced of it when Lady Evelyn caught sight of her. There was a keen intelligence in those ghostly
gray eyes, a well-honed air of superiority. A well-seated sneer of disdain.

“I see,” that lady drawled, slowly raising a quizzing glass with the same ruthless precision as Diccan. “Your father did not
exaggerate, then.”

She offered neither of them a chair. Grace had the feeling it was her method of asserting superiority. It must have worked
a champ on terrified debs. Unfortunately for Diccan’s mother, Grace had survived generals who could give the older woman lessons.
Not only that, Grace towered over her, which made it deuced hard for Lady Evelyn to look down on her.

Diccan proffered his mother a most correct bow. “The Lord Bishop undoubtedly said what a lucky man I am. Mother, may I present
your new daughter, Grace Fairchild Hilliard. Grace, my mother, the Lady Evelyn Hilliard. How lovely that you couldn’t wait
to see us. I assume that is why Winnie and Charlie don’t accompany you. My sisters,” he explained to Grace, who kept her gaze
on his mother.

Lady Evelyn’s reaction was classic Diccan, a measured sigh that spoke volumes, although without the spark of humor that leavened
his best set-downs. “Winifred and Charlotte,” she answered in long-suffering tones, “are at school, as you well know.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, My Lady,” Grace said, dropping a precise curtsy.

Diccan’s mother never acknowledged her. “If this is your idea of rebellion, Diccan,” she drawled in a flat, almost lifeless
tone that was more chilling for its mildness, “I am not amused.”

Grace had meant to let go of Diccan’s arm and sit, permission or not. She could feel the tension in his muscles, though, and
refused to abandon him to this… creature.

“I’m disappointed,” his mother went on, dropping the quizzing glass as if it were too heavy. “You have been raised to better
standards.”

Diccan’s smile was sharp. “Grace and I are delighted to accept your good wishes.”

His mother’s nostrils flared, just a fraction. But then, her faintly feral smile grew, and Grace felt a
frisson
of alarm snaking up her back. “Good wishes?” Lady Evelyn echoed, her soft voice amused. “Yes, I imagine you would. I believe
the more appropriate sentiment would be that you have finally received your just deserts. Does he know who your people are,
dear?”

Grace felt that dread gestate into fear. “He had the privilege of meeting my father, My Lady.”

“And your father of course told him all,” the woman said with another tight-lipped smile.

Grace could only stare, a mouse paralyzed by the eyes of a snake.
Why hadn’t she ever anticipated this?

“What are you getting at, Mother?” Diccan asked. “Are you saying that Grace’s family is unacceptable? I will remind you that
she is related even to the exalted house of Hilliard.”

“Yes,” his mother almost hissed with a dip of her head.
“She is. But you don’t know exactly how, do you, Richard? It is my suspicion that you didn’t compose the notice for the papers.”

Diccan flinched. “The notice…”

Grace felt herself deflate. Lady Kate must have taken care of it. But how had she done it? She had no information about Grace’s
family.

Lady Evelyn chuckled, and the sound crawled over Grace’s skin. “You don’t even know who her mother was, do you, Richard?”

Diccan looked over at Grace. Grace fought against a new, miserable flush. “Should I?”

Again his mother laughed. Nodding to herself, she gathered her reticule and parasol. “Not by looking at your wife, I assure
you. But you will, I think. Please come see me when you find out. I don’t wish to miss a minute of your reaction.”

And without another word to either of them, she swept from the room.

Grace plopped unceremoniously onto a chair. She wanted to curl into a ball and disappear. How had she not anticipated this
new, even more spectacular humiliation? How could she have assumed that no one knew of her mother?

“I need to tell you,” she said to Diccan, and knew she sounded as miserable as she felt.

Diccan sighed, and she could see that his hands were clenched at his side. “Why? Do you number felons among your family?”

“No.”

“Your grandfather was a costermonger.”

Her own laugh was abrupt. “Worse. An admiral.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“My mother?” Grace swallowed. “Since I was seven.”

Slipping his quizzing glass beneath his waistcoat, he held out a hand. “Then the point is irrelevant.”

Grace looked up at him, knowing that his mother was right. Someone would figure out who her mother was. And they would delight
in telling Diccan at the worst possible moment.

“I’m afraid it’s very relevant. I think you should know.”

“And I don’t.” He flicked his hand at her, urging her to move. “Come. I’m already late.”

Grace knew that she either told him now or never. And his mother would never allow that. Better to at least get it over with
in private. Taking a calming breath, she returned to her feet.

“Before she married my father,” she said, feeling the cold of inevitability seep into her bones, “my mother was Lady Georgianna
Hewitt.”

His reaction was everything she’d dreaded. Of course he knew of her mother. Everyone in the great cities of Europe knew of
her mother. But especially men. Especially
handsome
men.

For the longest moment, Diccan just stared, obviously stripped of all cogent thought. “Glorious Georgianna?” he finally demanded
in tones of absolute shock. “
She’s
your mother?”

Grace knew she should have been used to this reaction. But it had been so long since she’d let anyone know. “Unless fairies
switched me at birth,” she said. “Although it has been suggested.”

Mostly by my mother.

He was flummoxed; she could tell. No more than any
other person who made the inevitable comparison between Glorious Georgianna and the Little Colonel. But of course, the real
humiliation came when Diccan, the smoothest man in the British Empire, plopped down on the chair she had just vacated and
stared at her in aghast silence. It seemed that he had finally found something that appalled him more than his marriage.

D
iccan knew there was a considerate answer he should have given. Something kind or noncommittal. It seemed all he could manage
was to blurt out, “But she’s alive.”

Grace, poor Grace, merely nodded, her expression passive and her hands clenched at her waist as if she were literally holding
on. “Yes,” she said very quietly. “I know.”

“Not only alive,” he insisted, as if she really didn’t understand, “but she was the most popular hostess at the Congress of
Vienna.”

“A perfect place for her.”

He kept shaking his head. Well, if he hadn’t already known that God had a strange sense of humor, this was proof enough. Grace
Fairchild the daughter of one of the most celebrated beauties of the age. Reynolds had painted Georgiana Hewitt no fewer than
half a dozen times, as had Romney and Raeburn, each portrait imbued with that rare otherworldly glow that marks true beauty.

Glorious Georgianna was the definition of English loveliness: blond, blue-eyed, with a delectable peaches-and-
cream complexion. As petite as a porcelain doll but with womanly proportions.

And her smile. Sonnets had been written to that smile, odes to a face at once gamine and sweet and seductive. The last time
Diccan had set eyes on Georgianna, about a year ago, she had been lavishing that smile on the Hapsburg court; she was still,
in her fourth decade, head-turningly lovely.

Now that he thought about it, he remembered that she had once married a handsome soldier. The legend was that disappointed
swains had left a veritable mountain of flowers on her doorstep the day of her wedding. How had no one ever known about Grace?

Looking at her now, standing before him like a suspect in the dock, her excruciatingly plain face carefully composed and her
almost colorless hair scraped back from her high forehead, he simply couldn’t take in the absurdity of it all. Grace was smiling,
but Diccan wasn’t foolish enough to think she was amused. Oh, Lord. How many people had reacted just as he had?

He damn near made it worse by apologizing again. Instead, he stood, as if it could diminish his reaction, and let out a low
whistle. “I have to admit I thought it impossible living up to the world’s most perfect arbiter of morality. I can’t imagine
growing up in the shadow of Helen of Troy.”

Grace still looked bleak. “Legends are never easy, I think.”

“Why did you say your mother was dead?”

“But I didn’t. I said she was gone. And she has been.”

“Since you were seven.”

She actually looked sympathetic. “Some women simply aren’t made to follow the drum. She tried. She really did. But in the
end, it was just too much for her.”

But what about her daughter? Had the Glorious never even thought to take her child with her? It didn’t sound as if she’d even
seen her again.

“You’re an only child?”

She couldn’t quite look at him. “A stillborn sister. I think that was the last straw, actually. She was the most perfect baby
I’ve ever seen, and she never drew breath.”

And the perfect beauty was left with a girl child who could never be called perfect in anything. Kate had told him once that
Grace had been born with her lame leg. Had Georgianna ever favored such a child? Or had she year by year stripped that small
girl of her sense of self-worth? Was that why Grace seemed sympathetic to the woman who’d abandoned her? Didn’t she even have
enough self-respect left for anger?

Not knowing what else to do, he stepped up and took her cold hand in his. “Not everyone is as valiant as you, Mrs. Hilliard,”
he said, hoping like hell it was the right thing to say.

Her smile became more genuine. “Oh, I’m very hardy, Mr. Hilliard. Virtually indestructible. I apologize for having put you
in such an uncomfortable position with your mother. I vow I have no more surprises. You already know my full name. Grace Georgianna.
A bit of wishful thinking on my mother’s part, I believe.”

“She was far more insightful than she knew,” he assured her, kissing her work-roughened hand.

And oddly, he meant it.

“You’re kind,” Grace said, her blush deepening to an unpretty brick color.

“No,” he said, smiling back. “I’m not.”

He knew he was embarrassing her again. Surely he wasn’t the first to ever pay Grace such compliments. Yet
she looked as flustered as a girl at his paltry words, which angered him all over again.

Signaling an end to their tête-à-tête, Grace gently pulled her hands away. “Now then, don’t you think it’s time to get on
with the day? I believe you said you had an appointment.”

He nodded, still feeling upended. “As long as I am assured you have survived your collision with my mother.”

Grace slanted him a sly look. “I don’t suppose it is a Christian sentiment to hope her pugs devour her?”

She surprised a full-throated laugh out of him. “I believe we understand each other better than we thought, wife.” Laughing
again, he turned to open the door. “Sadly, I can’t wish that kind of indigestion even on a pug.”

“May I ask one question?”

He stopped, his hand on the door. “Of course.”

She tilted her head, which made her seem curiously smaller. “What did you ever do to deserve such acrimony?”

He smiled, knowing how grim it looked. “I survived. Now, I truly do have a full day today. But perhaps you would join me for
dinner this evening. We can begin our orientation sessions.”

Grace blushed like a girl being asked to dance. “I would like that very much.”

He’d never suspected he was a coward. He did when he saw that blush. It made him want to take her into his arms and hold her,
just that. Just let her know that she deserved more than her mother’s rejection. But that would signal a new, closer relationship,
and that could put Grace at risk. At least that was his rationalization.

He ended up retreating as quickly as he’d advanced. “Good. I shall see you then, shall I?”

And before he could see her reaction, he left.

•  •  •

Grace prepared for dinner that night with particular care. She was still in gray, of course, one of her ubiquitous gray
moiré
evening gowns, which she’d begun to hate. The dress wasn’t vile. It was forgettable, which had once been her goal. After
all, a woman at an army post in Portugal had very different wardrobe needs than one entering the main dining room of the Pulteney
Hotel in London.

Diccan greeted her with a curious formality before seating her himself and ordering the meal.

“Now, then,” he said as he sipped his clear beef broth. “Where shall we begin?”

His smile was constrained. Grace couldn’t fault him, really. After her revelation that morning, she was sure he was bracing
for other surprises, like a fondness for whisky or unnatural habits in the bath. She didn’t even think he realized how tense
he looked, as if bracing for disaster.

“Well, we can begin with the social basics,” she suggested. “Do you like opera?”

He seemed a bit set back by the innocuous question. “If there truly is a definition of purgatory,” he said, finally, his social
mask firmly in place, “it is opera. Save me, please, from shrieking sopranos. But please don’t share that with anyone. It
would be deadly to my reputation.”

Grace smiled. “Then it must be a sore trial for you, since I imagine a diplomat is forced into the opera house on regular
occasions.”

“Too regular, in my opinion. What about you? Are you an aficionado of the aria?”

Grace smiled. “I’m not yet sure. Opera is not something I’ve had much time for.”