Saving Grace (21 page)

“Goodness, miss you gave me a start.” Jenny placed one hand over her heart and the other across her brow as she stepped back from the door Grace had just entered. “Thank the heavens you’re back.”

Grace headed toward the chair closest to the fireplace in her room, seeking both rest and warmth as quickly as possible. The walk back through the garden had seemed far longer than her walk to it. She felt close to exhaustion and chilled to the bone.

“Oh no, miss. Don’t sit. Please.” Jenny stepped in front of Grace, blocking her way. “His Lordship requested you join him for dinner. We’ve just minutes until you’re expected.” She wrung her hands. “Whatever will we do?”

“I shall go to dinner, that’s what.” Grace stepped around the maid and sank into the chair, reasoning that a minute or two of rest was better than none.

“But your hair, miss — and your dress.”

Grace glanced at her skirt. It was damp from the rain and might have been a little dirty from her walk, but in the firelight, she couldn’t tell. Her slippers were all but ruined with mud, but at least those could be changed before dinner. “My dress and hair shall have to do. I was not expecting a
summons
.”
She spoke the word bitterly. “So soon.”

The clock in the hall began chiming the hour; Grace leaned her head back and groaned. Behind her, Jenny continued to fret.

“If you’d like, I can go down to tell his lordship you are ill.”

It was a tempting offer, but Grace remembered his insistence on complete honesty — a principle she believed in keeping anyway.
And look what deviating from it has cost me.
She had herself, at least in part, to blame for her predicament, and dishonesty would only make the situation worse.

“Thank you, Jenny. But I will go down.” She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the sides of the chair and forcing herself to abandon its comfort. “I’ll explain that I hadn’t time to dress for dinner. I am certain Lord Sutherland will understand.” She wasn’t certain at all, but her young maid looked near to hysterics, and Grace thought one of them, at least, ought to be relieved.

She left the room and made her way down the hall to the curved staircase. Peering over the railing, she contemplated which of the doors below might lead to the dining room. As if in answer to her question, Kingsley, holding a large, covered platter, exited one door, walked across the foyer, and entered another. Grace felt her stomach grumble and her step lighten as she followed him. If nothing else, she was ready to eat something more substantial than broth and bread.

Upon entering the chamber, which she had correctly guessed to be the dining room, Grace found Lord Sutherland already seated at the end of the long table. A second place was set beside him to the right, and Grace walked directly there, careful to keep her step even and her manner subdued.

Kingsley’s eyes widened with alarm as he held out her chair, and for a moment Grace thought that perhaps her maid had been mistaken and she wasn’t to be here at all.

“You are late,” Lord Sutherland said, turning to look at her.

Grace settled into her chair and met his gaze, which was as disconcerting as Kingsley’s.

“What have you done to yourself?” Lord Sutherland demanded, looking her up and down, much as he’d done earlier in his office.

“I have been walking in your gardens and only just returned.” Grace followed his gaze to a before-unnoticed smudge on her sleeve. “I did not expect you to summon me for dinner with no time for me to change.”

He looked up at the ceiling as if supplicating aid from on high. “You were out in this weather?”

“It was not raining then — much,” she added meekly. Only during the last several minutes of her walk back had the drops begun to fall.

“Do you not realize that you have been close to
death
?”

“Do you not realize you are shouting?” she returned with her own, raised voice.

“In this instance, I think shouting is warranted.” He placed both fists upon the table. “So help me, Miss Thatcher. If I’ve brought you back from the brink of death only for you to become ill again, this time through your own stupidity —”

“You do not blame me for my last illness?” she asked, astounded at such a possibility.

“Of course not.” Lord Sutherland lowered his voice and slowly unclenched his fists. “I blame your father for being so careless as to send his daughter to meet a pack of wolves with naught but an ancient carriage and two servants not intelligent enough to hold their tongues.”

“Oh.” Grace looked down at her plate, thoroughly taken aback. That he found her father’s choice of suitors comparable to a pack of wolves, and that he did not blame her for this awful predicament in its entirety, brought a little hope.

“You may serve dinner now, Kingsley,” Lord Sutherland said.

Grace sat with her hands in her lap as Kingsley served them both. She graciously accepted each offering, thanking him every time, though he did not acknowledge her beyond the barest nod. Grace sighed inwardly, guessing it would take much work to win him over now.

In the meantime, she vowed a new start with his master. Samuel’s admonitions rang in her mind, and Grace promised herself that from this moment, the meal would be pleasant. Though she would have preferred to dine alone in her room, she could not deny the appeal of the aromas wafting from her plate, and she could not entirely ignore the man beside her, watching her carefully.

“You may eat now,” he said as Kingsley exited, leaving them alone.

“Thank you,” Grace said. “It smells delicious. You must have a very good cook.” She hoped discussing food was deemed appropriate at Sutherland Hall. During her time at her grandfather’s home, she had learned that not all rules of etiquette applied equally at all levels of society. What one person might deem proper dinner conversation, another might find overly rude.

“I am very fortunate in my cook,” Nicholas said. “She has been with our family since I was quite young.”

Relieved at his agreeable answer, Grace forged ahead. “Will you tell me about your childhood here?” she asked, as desirous to have a conversation that did not revolve around their predicament as to learn about his sister.

“Some other time, perhaps,” he said curtly.

Grace had no response, so she sipped her soup delicately and focused on using the manners instilled in her while living with her grandfather.

After a time, Lord Sutherland cleared his throat. “About our meeting earlier ...”

Grace ceased studying her bowl and looked up at him.

“I —” He frowned suddenly, then leaned closer. “You have leaves in your hair. Come here.”

He might have offered to assist me instead of ordering me about,
Grace thought. Nevertheless, she leaned forward.

He reached toward her, hesitant at first, then focused his gaze above her face he began pulling bits of leaves from her hair.

“Your garden is somewhat overgrown,” Grace said by way of explanation. “But it is lovely, nonetheless — or it was clearly lovely once.”

“My sister thought so as well.” His touch was surprisingly gentle, and Grace closed her eyes, patiently sitting beneath his ministrations.

The room grew silent, and Grace feared he might hear her heartbeat, increasing as it was at his nearness and touch. She told herself she was only frightened, as she had been when at Sir Lidgate’s when he’d been near. But she was not entirely able to convince herself.

Lord Sutherland’s touch did not seem improper, and his intent was not self-serving or gratifying in any way. Unless the removal of leaves from a woman’s hair was somehow pleasurable to him, a possibility she very much doubted.

He gently turned her head. “This side now.” His fingers carefully parted her hair, extracting the offending leaves. She dared open one eye and watched the growing pile on the table.

Embarrassment burned across her cheeks. “I didn’t realize — what a mess I must be.”

“I have seen your hair look better,” he agreed. “Then again, I have also seen it worse.”

Grace turned to look at him, her eyes flashing.

A corner of his mouth quirked into a near smile. “You looked rather wild that night ...”

When you discovered me in your bed
. She felt a sudden urge to laugh. She remembered going to bed without so much as brushing her wet hair and well knew how she must have looked upon waking. A strangled sort of sound burst from her lips before her hand came up to cover her mouth.

“No offense meant,” he said, misinterpreting her look.

“None taken.” She laughed again and this time could not cover it up.

Lord Sutherland leaned away, contemplating her with an expression that suggested she’d gone mad.

“You looked funny too,” Grace said, after another round of giggles, after which she calmed herself enough to speak. “At first I thought a feline had jumped in the bed, but then you spoke and scared me half to death.”

“A
cat
.” Lord Sutherland’s mouth twisted with apparent disgust. “If you must compare me to an animal, at least choose a worthy one.”

The lines around his eyes softened ever so slightly as he looked at her. Grace lifted her glass, took a long drink, then set it back once more and calmed herself.

What must he think of me, leaves in my hair and bursting into laughter at dinner?

“A few more, if I may?” Lord Sutherland said, indicating her hair again. Grace leaned forward, and his fingers resumed their work. The desire to laugh subsided, and she closed her eyes, fearing his touch for entirely different reasons than she had feared Sir Lidgate’s.

“There,” Lord Sutherland said at last.

Grace raised her head again. A long piece of her hair still rested in his hand, and he watched as she sat back and it slid from his fingers.

“Your hair is very soft,” he observed. “And pretty.”

“Thank you.” Grace was held captive beneath his stare.

“See that from now on, it is kept
up
.”

His stern command snapped her from the trance he’d caused. She pushed her chair back and stood, not caring if doing so was rude of her. “Good night, Lord Sutherland. Pray, do not summon me tomorrow. I feel the need to rest.”

She turned and left before he could say or do another thing to disturb her already overwrought nerves.

My Dearest Helen and Christopher,

I have made a grave error, which has landed me in a bit of a predicament …

The news from London was good and should have made Nicholas happy. After the debacle at Preston’s ball, one of the guests, as well as an investor and potential partner in his mercantile, had withdrawn support, leaving Preston short on goods he’d promised would be ready to ship overseas this month. In turn, the captain of the ship he’d chartered was angry, demanding payment in advance equal to the sales of a full cargo, which Preston no longer had.

Nicholas rubbed his eyes and tossed the letter from his solicitor aside, pleased with its contents, yet not as satisfied as he felt he ought to be. This was only the beginning. Preston would be faced with other problems because of this loss, and his reputation would suffer. More suppliers would likely lose confidence and withdraw their business. This was, quite possibly, the beginning of the end to Preston’s ventures as a merchant, one of the outcomes Nicholas had desired for his neighbor for a very long time.

Yet at this moment, the news did nothing but give him a headache.

Nicholas rose from his desk and wandered into the foyer in search of Miss Thatcher. He had not seen her at all today but had heard from her maid that she had not been in her room when the afternoon tea was delivered. The woman needed to eat, but she’d also left dinner early the night before, had not come down for breakfast, and had returned her tray mostly untouched. If starving herself was her latest plan at rebellion, he would not have it.

Neither would he tolerate her running about in the cold. He could not imagine Miss Thatcher actually wandering the gardens again; it was raining.

Given both her physical and emotional states at dinner the previous evening, he wasn’t certain what to expect other than constant upheaval. She was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever known: standing up for Kingsley, declining assistance in salvaging her reputation at Preston’s ball.