Saving Grace (32 page)

“Ah ...” He was beginning to understand. His mother had always been a stickler about appearance. How he and Elizabeth had loathed her many rules as children. He had felt the sting of a switch a time or two after disregarding those rules. No doubt Mother’s tongue had given Grace a similar lashing.

“Did you perchance wear this ‘old gown’ in the house around my mother?”

“Yes.” Grace sighed again. “I hadn’t time to change before tea. I didn’t realize your mother had guests.” She hurried on. “And once I’d entered, I had to say something, so I told them about the berries, thinking they would understand my appearance if I explained what I had been doing. But ...” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away.

Nicholas touched her chin, turning her face to his. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “But they
didn’t
understand, did they?” he whispered, releasing her though he felt like pulling her close. “Instead they looked down their noses at you and said scornful, hateful things you were forced to endure.”

She shook her head. “They said nothing, but your mother did. She said awful things to me — about me. That if I were to behave like an errant child, I should be punished like one. Then, in front of your guests, she banished me to my room as if I were a ten-year-old girl.”

A new kind of anger burned inside Nicholas. What a mortifying experience for any woman, but especially hard on Grace, who was used to making her own decisions and had governed her own life from such a young age.

And she hadn’t acted out on purpose. It had likely all seemed so innocent to her — picking berries to make a pie ... But disgraceful from his mother’s point of view, to be sure. He had to choose his words — and position — carefully. Grace’s feelings were tender, but there was also Mother to consider. She hadn’t had an easy time of things since Elizabeth’s and then Father’s passing.

“You’re not a child.” Nicholas looked into her clouded eyes and brushed a thumb across her quivering lip, suddenly more aware than he had ever been of the truth of that statement. She was a woman in need of comfort. A woman who was vulnerable and beautiful and —

Mine.

He stepped back abruptly, putting enough space between them that he could not touch her again. He sucked in a lungful of air, furious with the direction of his thoughts. Grace — Miss Thatcher — was
not
his. He didn’t want to be saddled with her forever; Mother wanted it even less than he. Had he not just spent a week in London, exploring the options for escape from this entrapment?

“I apologize for Mother’s behavior. I will speak to her about the situation before we dine tonight.”

“Thank you.” Miss Thatcher’s eyes spoke of confusion — and new hurt he’d likely caused with his immediate withdrawal — but that could not be helped. Any ...
feelings
he developed for her would only complicate an already difficult situation.

“I will remain in my room until then.” She turned away and began walking up the stairs. Nicholas followed her with his eyes, admiring all sorts of things he had no business noticing, much less appreciating. Her back, stiff with determination, earned a little more of his respect. Her hand on the rail begged to be held again. The swing of her curls tempted him to explore their softness as he had that night in the carriage.

He closed his eyes to all of it and turned to go into his study, intent on delving into paperwork once again neglected in his absence.

Kingsley met him at the doorway, a tray in his hands. “A bite to eat while you work?”

“Put it on the desk.” Nicholas crossed to the window, looking out at the newly trimmed rosebushes. Next year they would bloom again, and he’d have no peace at all with the scent so reminiscent of Elizabeth filling the house.

Elizabeth — and Father.
What would they have thought of the mess he found himself in? What would they have done in his place?

He heard the click of the door behind him but remained at the window, contemplating what he must say to his mother and how he was supposed to handle Miss Thatcher.

No doubt Elizabeth would have taken Grace under her wing, and they would have become great friends. But then, Elizabeth always had been his antithesis — friendly to a fault with everyone.

As was Father. Mother and I are cut from a different cloth
. They were more reserved, more serious. It was Mother who had most disapproved of the match between Elizabeth and Preston. It had taken Father months to convince her that Elizabeth’s happiness mattered most.

But had that fleeting happiness been worth the price? If Elizabeth had been denied her love, would she still be here? Would their family now be as it had been?

Nicholas unfastened his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves, eager to get to work and banish the uncomfortable, varied directions of his thoughts. As much as he’d disliked Preston, he couldn’t deny that Elizabeth had been happy with him. Happier, even, than when she’d been growing up in their home. Preston had doted on her, encouraged her adventurous side, had been an eager participant in whatever schemes she concocted.

Elizabeth had been happier, certainly, than Miss Thatcher had ever been.
I have the opportunity to change that. To do something good for her
.
To be
the one to stand up for her.

And to stand against Mother.

Something he could not do. Neither, it seemed, could he be easily rid of Miss Thatcher.

Abandonment
was not a pretty word, but that was what the solicitor had suggested their situation would be called were he to send her packing now — no matter that he’d pay her expenses, no matter that her inheritance might yet be settled so she could choose to go elsewhere.

Just
not here with me.

And were something to happen to Miss Thatcher now — when she’d somewhat recovered her health, and the entire county had been made to know how he and Mother felt about his predicament — it would be very suspect.

I may have to marry her.
The thought was not half as disturbing as it had been a month earlier.
But she cannot stay.

Why not?

He was starting to feel that he wanted her to do just that.

But Miss Thatcher was distracting him from his purpose, upsetting his mother, and wreaking havoc in his life.

He moved to his desk and sat down, glancing at the packets that had arrived in his absence — only a few, as he’d been gone but a week. Beyond the letters stood a tray holding a plate with a generous slice of berry pie, which Kingsley had delivered.

With a furtive glance at the closed door, Nicholas leaned forward and picked up the fork. He cut himself a good-sized bite and brought it to his mouth, unprepared for the burst of flavor that followed.

Grace made this.
Perhaps he should hire her as an assistant cook. The thought made him laugh, as did the realization that she must have gone downstairs to make pies
after
his mother had banished her to her room.

Backbone.
Grace had one in spades. It was a quality he admired more than he cared to admit. He took another bite.

Unpredictability.
In the past, he’d loathed the unexpected, but he couldn’t deny that since Grace’s arrival, life had been more interesting, at least. He took another bite, his eyes closed in bliss as he leaned back in his chair.

Delicious.
A good description of Grace’s cooking.
And everything else about her.
He found her far more than tolerable, and that fact had the potential to lead to the biggest disaster of all.

Miss Thatcher was causing his purpose to shift.
Back where it belongs. Here. At home.
She was a match for his mother in determination — as whomever he eventually married would have to be. But mostly she was wreaking havoc.

On my soul.

With the last bite, he admitted his folly. He had come to care for her. Miss Thatcher would have to go, though he didn’t want her to.

“That will be all, Jenny. Thank you,” Grace said, turning from the mirror to dismiss her maid.

“You look lovely tonight,” Jenny said. “Lady Sutherland won’t be able to take fault with you at all.”

“Let us hope you are correct,” Grace said, though she’d no doubt the dowager would find something in her dress or character to complain about.

Jenny curtsied, then left, closing the door behind her. Grace looked around the room she’d refused to stay in the past two days and felt a sudden longing to do just that. And not just to avoid confrontation with the dowager.

It was her son who had her worried.

Her son, whom I have dressed for tonight when I should be avoiding him.

She’d rushed to greet him earlier, telling herself it was because she had hoped for news from her solicitor, not because she had been lonely or had particularly missed Lord Sutherland or had ceased thinking of the day they had spent together.

He had rewarded her greeting with unexpected warmth — at first
.
Grace touched her hand where he’d held it, remembering the glorious feelings his simple gesture had caused.

But then he’d returned to himself — guarded, stern — and pulled away.

This way is best. It is what I want. There is no point in furthering this entanglement
.

Grace turned to the long mirror once more, studying her reflection critically.
So why have I dressed with such care?

The green brocade was perhaps a bit fancy for a dinner at home; it was certainly finer than anything she’d worn here yet. And her hairstyle was likely overdone as well, piled high with loose curls left to tumble about her face. Weeks ago, Lord Sutherland had instructed her to wear her hair up, but he’d said nothing about wearing it plain, and tonight she wished at least some of it free.

She’d taken pains with her jewelry and face powders as well, and the cumulative effect of the ensemble took her by surprise. She hadn’t felt this pretty since Samuel’s ball.

Yet that night, Lord Sutherland’s only comment was that I looked ill.

Grace smiled at the memory, recalling how he had vexed her at the time, though likely she had looked ill, considering that she’d been about to faint. Her smile turned thoughtful as she wondered what had transpired during those moments she had not been herself. What had Lord Sutherland said to Samuel?

What had Lord Sutherland been thinking,
to bring me here again? Why had he done it?

What am I to do about it now?

That single action had started a chain of events that thwarted her very purpose. She might have to marry.

If I marry, I will not be able to look after Helen. But for the moment, she is safe
.

While I am very much in danger.

It was one thing to be forced into a betrothal, quite another to actually speak the vows — an eventuality Grace had all but convinced herself would never come to pass. But it was yet another problem entirely —

That I am starting to wish for that very occasion
.

Grace studied the reflection in the mirror, so like her mother’s.
I mustn’t be like her. I must protect my heart against love, especially from a man like Lord Sutherland, who has so little regard for others — for me.

She nodded resolutely; her reflection nodded back. But to Grace it seemed they only commiserated in their agreement that it was already too late.

“What did you learn in town, Nicholas?” the dowager asked as soon as their meal had been served by Kingsley and a newly hired servant and they had taken their proper places away from the table, against the far wall.

Lord Sutherland turned his head toward his mother, directing a look at her that Grace guessed she wasn’t supposed to notice.

“I should prefer to discuss it later.” His words were terse.

“Why?” Lady Sutherland asked. “All concerned are present, are they not?”

Grace sipped her drink and pretended disinterest. As Lord Sutherland seemed to be disinterested in her appearance. He’d hardly spared a glance for her when they’d walked into dinner together. Yet she was pleased that he’d escorted her as well as his mother to their seats. She’d at least earned that much respect.