Saving Grace (10 page)

“You look like a woman whom a man would
wish
to share his bed with,” Miranda corrected. Then she continued, speaking over Grace’s shocked gasp. “And that is important if our exaggerations are to be believed. But it is also important for you to feel beautiful tonight, to stand up and be proud, to act like the granddaughter of a duke — a woman whose reputation matters. No one would fret over a washerwoman’s reputation being ruined — it would almost be expected. But the granddaughter of a duke ...”

“I told you before,” Grace said, recalling those first rocky months with Miranda as her maid, “that I am the same person I’ve always been. Living with Grandfather did not change who I was born to be.”

“Do not forget the nobility running through your veins,” Miranda advised. “You inherited it from your mother. Whatever you learned at your grandfather’s was nothing more than you already were inside. Now sit up straight and look at yourself once more.”

Grace obeyed, turning to the mirror. The reflection staring at her was nearly the same as the miniature she kept of her mother.

And what trouble her beauty caused.
Grace’s heart felt heavy whenever she allowed herself to think about her mother’s short life.
Beleaguered by a wastrel husband who wasn’t around to care for her during her last days.

Grace stood abruptly, retrieved her fan from the dressing table, and faced the door. It was better this way, better that no man would ever want her for his wife. She bid goodnight to Miranda and crossed quickly to the door, hesitating only a moment when her hand was upon the knob.

Closing her eyes, she envisioned a quiet country cottage and the three of them — herself and Helen and Christopher — alone in a life of peaceful days and cozy nights, where no debt collectors came calling, and her father could level his rage on them no more.

One night
, she told herself.
Just get through this one night, and you’ll have your freedom. And this time it will be for good
.

With a smile on her face and all the courage she could muster, Grace turned the knob and left the room.

And took exactly six steps before realizing how unwell she still felt.

A coughing fit seized her, robbing her of breath until the walls spun and she was forced to lean on a side table and close her eyes. She waited for her breath to return and the dizziness to stop, for Miranda to march into the hallway and scold her right back into bed.

And I just might obey, too,
Grace thought, taking a peppermint from her reticule and popping it in her mouth. Harrison had brought her a handful of them earlier, and she’d discovered that they had an amazing effect on her coughing, so as to temporarily banish it. She was certain to have minty breath throughout the evening.

That Miranda had not come to haul her to bed seemed odd until Grace heard a similar wracking cough on the other side of the wall.

So she is ill too.
Grace had suspected as much and had encouraged Miranda to rest, but of course, Miranda had not been able to, engaged as she had been spreading rumors.

At least she will get the night off now.
If not, then on the morrow. Grace would act the part many in her position did — being insistent and bossy, using her authority to order Miranda right back to bed.

When she could finally look and see everything in its proper place, Grace left the support of the side table and made her way to the main hall. She felt hot and cold and shaky all over. It was going to be a very long night.

Thankfully, a sturdy rail ran the length of the third floor hall overlooking the ballroom. She took refuge at the polished banister, leaning against it as she looked down on the splendid, terrifying scene below. Gentlemen swirled ladies about the floor, their gowns flowing out in a blur of colors as their laughter floated upward.

Those not dancing stood in clusters around the edges of the room, some with heads bent together in gossip.

About me, quite possibly.
The thought should have made her happy. This whole thing had been her idea — and a good one, too. Only now that her part had arrived, she was blanching at what must be done.

Coward,
she scolded herself — but still did not move. She lifted a hand to her forehead and felt warmth.
Dratted fever.
A chill rippled through her body, and Grace glanced at the door at the end of the corridor, grateful it remained closed. Miranda had not seen her shivering.

I didn’t lie to Mr. Preston. I was not well enough to attend dinner. Nor am I well enough to dance. But I must.
Grace refused to let her current frailty ruin all of Miranda and Harrison’s hard work.

Still she remained where she was, gathering both her nerve and her strength.

On a dais in the corner of the opulent ballroom, a quartet played. For several more minutes, Grace stood at the rail, watching the violinists and listening to the lively melodies. Standing here listening was pleasant; if she only could have remained in the hall all night, she would have been content.

But the time for the fashionable lateness Miranda had suggested would soon be past, so reluctantly, Grace made her way to the second floor and the grand staircase, which led to the ballroom below.

The line of those waiting to be announced at the top of the staircase had grown short. Grace stepped behind the last couple, an elderly man and woman. She hoped very much that they would take a long time to descend the stairs. Every minute that passed before
she
entered was one less she had to endure.

The heavy scent of perfume lingered in the air, and Grace wrinkled her nose with distaste as two women walked by, their falsely high voices grating. In a side room, Grace could just make out a group of men smoking cigars. One of the men laughed, and the unpleasant bark rang through the hall. It was too much — too many people, too much noise, too many scents — and it all combined to make her feel worse than ever.

She looked away, focusing on the room below as the line in front of her shortened. The ballroom was grand, from its gleaming floor to the tasteful paper on the walls and the potted plants tucked into corners. Like the rest of the house, the room seemed full of light, happy.

All of this might have been mine.
She thought of Miranda’s recounting of the conversation between her father and Mr. Preston.

He’d wanted to meet her.
He wasn’t hosting me as a favor to Papa or because of a debt to be collected.

Why
had Mr. Preston wanted to meet her? Grace told herself that it didn’t matter anymore; he would want nothing at all to do with her now.

More the better.

Nice home aside, no doubt Mr. Preston was as flawed as all the other men her father had tried to force upon her — notorious rakes or men twice her age, insufferable bores, or domineering and abusive windbags. Whichever Mr. Preston was, she could only be grateful he would have no interest in her now.

I want nothing to do with him
—
or any man.
A grand house could be a prison just as surely as their small cottage had been for her mother.
But no man will ever want me. I am safe.

A gentleman’s name was announced, and he descended the stairs far too quickly for Grace’s liking. She stepped forward, her stomach twisting in knots. The couple in front of her, a Lord and Lady Edwards, were announced and began their descent.

Grace paused at the top of the long, sweeping staircase. She gave her name to the servant; his brows arched, then his mouth turned down as he stared at her. Seconds passed before he found her on the list and nodded. Grace’s throat felt suddenly tight, and she worked hard to swallow back the hurt. She absolutely could not cry.

It wasn’t pity she was seeking, but disgrace. She would be proud and haughty; she’d broken the rules. She wasn’t here to make friends; she was here to be shunned.

Grace took a deep breath and waited. As she’d hoped, the elderly Edwards were taking a rather long time to descend.

Searching for something to focus on when it was her turn, Grace looked out to the sea of people below. A few had stopped to acknowledge the approaching couple, but many continued in their conversations. Beyond, on the other side of the room, the dancing went on.

This won’t be so bad. Only a few people will be watching me.

One of those caught her attention, smiling up at her in a knowing sort of way, as if — even from that far away — he knew what she was thinking.

Grace tried to pull her gaze from the gentleman standing near the bottom step but couldn’t seem to. Neither did he turn away. His smile was broad and genuine, and, like the room that had welcomed her yesterday, he seemed to have a light, pleasant air about him. She watched as he ran up the last few steps to assist and greet the Edwards, to welcome them.

To his home.

Mr. Preston! Oh, no
.

The very person she’d dreaded seeing the most was the very one she would encounter first. As she watched him hold his arm out to Lady Edwards, helping her as she shuffled along, Grace felt a pang of regret that she could no longer meet him as her true self — Miss Grace Thatcher, in search of a husband.

Brown hair, without a trace of gray, fell in waves across his forehead. He was tall and lithe, not portly or stooped or twice her age.

He didn’t appear the type to be a rake. Indeed, he seemed to be a proper gentleman, albeit a new one, having an inheritance but no title. Instead of joining his own party, he’d stayed behind to personally greet every guest.

Including me.

Their eyes met again, this time with something of more interest and intensity. Grace doubted she would ever be bored in Samuel Preston’s presence. Everything about him spoke of vibrancy, happiness, and a genuine love for life. He was looking up at her and smiling, as if he’d been waiting for her arrival all night.

And somehow she knew that though he might have heard the rumors, he had not yet taken them to heart. He was still interested. The realization both delighted and terrified her, and she swayed a little as she stood on the top step.

“Miss Grace Thatcher, granddaughter of Eugene Durham, the late Duke of Salisbury,” the servant announced — much louder than she would have liked. At once, nearly all of the activity in the ballroom ceased. Heads turned her way; jaws dropped. Eyes flickered, looking at her with rebuke and expectation. Only the quartet played on, though their tune seemed to flag and the music dropped in volume, as if they, too, did not wish to miss any of the drama.

It took everything Grace had not to turn and flee. As she lifted her skirts and descended the first step, Mr. Preston’s welcoming smile turned to a tight-lipped frown.

She’d been wrong. He hadn’t realized who she was. He’d likely only been flirting or being a congenial host.
He does not want to meet me, after all.
The thought should have relieved her. Her plan was to be free of
all
men. If making them detest her presence was the only way to accomplish that, so be it.

But the strain on his face pierced her heart. She felt guilt for a deed she hadn’t done and wished she could explain her innocence to Mr. Preston, at least.

The thought came again —
All of this might have been mine.
But she felt no sorrow for the loss.
Mr. Preston might have cared for me
, was a much more painful realization.

“Lord Nicholas Sutherland, Earl of Berkely,” the servant’s voice rang loudly from the top of the stairs.

Audible gasps rippled across the room, Grace’s included. Before she could take another step or turn to see if the man whose bed she had mistakenly shared three nights past was really here, she felt his hand on her arm.

“So sorry I’m late. Good of you to wait for me,” he said in a voice loud enough for Mr. Preston and those near the bottom of the stairs to hear. Then softer, for her ears only, “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Just stay by my side.”

Without asking permission, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and guided her down the stairs toward Mr. Preston. Grace tried to look at him but couldn’t. She felt her face flush from embarrassment or fever — or both. She couldn’t be sure, and she couldn’t find her voice. Inside, she felt like crying.

Her great plan had gone terribly wrong. Instead of facing the gossips alone, she suddenly had two men to deal with. And she very much feared that the one at her side wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“Miss Thatcher. It is so good to see you again.” Mr. Preston’s smile and words seemed sincere, and as he bent to kiss Grace’s free hand, she searched her mind for any memory of meeting him.

“I trust you are in better health now than when you arrived.” He straightened, his gaze sliding momentarily to Lord Sutherland.

“Yes, thank you,” Grace said, feeling herself relax the tiniest bit at his warm welcome. “Your home is lovely, and your staff have been most attentive.”

“Preston.” Lord Sutherland’s voice was tense as he inclined his head toward their host with the barest nod.

“I cannot say that I expected to see you tonight.” The smile on Mr. Preston’s lips no longer reached his eyes. Grace sensed sadness behind them, and perhaps a wariness, as well.