Sweet Surrender (28 page)

"I swear."

She whirled away, raced in the rear entrance, and crept up to her room.  She didn’t have many clothes, and swiftly, she threw her meager belongings into her satchel.  Frantically, she stumbled around, wanting to hurry, but not wanting to forget anything, either.  She was terrified that—should he get to the barn before her—he might chicken out and change his mind.

He was nervous now, but in the end, he’d be pleased.  She refused to consider any other conclusion.

She hastened to the door, but at the last second, she paused. 

Once Grace realized Eleanor was missing, she’d worry, and Eleanor would hate to have her fretting.  Nor could she have Grace chasing after them.  Eleanor was eighteen and madly in love.  Grace couldn’t be allowed to interfere or prevent Eleanor from engaging in an act that would bring her an incredible amount of joy.

She went to the writing desk in the corner and penned a note.  She meticulously scanned her words, anxious to be precise as to her conduct but vague as to her whereabouts.  By the time Grace read it, Eleanor would be too far down the road and intervention impossible.

Satisfied, she slipped the note under her pillow and left it there for the maids to discover the next day.  Then she tiptoed away without glancing back.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"What is it you want from us, Miss Bennett?"

Grace stared at Beatrice Scott.

She was imposing.  Older.  Dour.  Obese.  Her clothes were made of the finest material, her jewelry understated and expensive.

She looked haughty and disdainful, like a queen forced to fraternize with her lowly subjects.  If Grace had been a less confident person, she’d have been terrified.

They were in the main receiving parlor, with Grace finally being
received
by Beatrice.  Jackson was in attendance but Susan Scott was not.

Beatrice was seated on a small sofa, and Jackson stood behind her.  Grace was standing, too.  Jackson had suggested she sit, but she’d stayed on her feet.

She was suffering from the strongest impression that—if she antagonized Beatrice—she might have to run for her life.  She had a straight shot to the door.

  Though Jackson had furtively winked at her when she’d entered the room, she couldn’t help but remember Duncan Dane’s warning that Jackson would ultimately side with his mother.  Duncan insisted the Scott family—Jackson included—would do what was in
their
best interest, with Michael’s interests lost in the shuffle.

Whose side was Jackson on?  Was there a side? 

"I’d simply like some financial support for Michael," Grace said.

Beatrice smirked.  "But nothing for yourself?  How magnanimous of you."

"I didn’t come for myself.  We were struggling, and I’d heard Michael had kin at Milton Abbey.  I thought we could obtain assistance."

"You’re not demanding that title vest in this boy?  You’re not about to dash to London and spread your lies to the newspapers?"

Grace scowled.  "Why would I do that?"

"How about to stir a scandal?" Beatrice mused.  "How about to muddy our good name so you can extort money from us?"

"I have no intention of extorting money."

"Don’t you?"

"My motive remains the same as it was when I first arrived:  Your grandson requires fiscal support, and I’m asking you to give it."

Beatrice jerked as if she’d been poked with a pin.  "You presume too much, Miss Bennett, and you forget yourself.  I have no grandson save Percival Scott, and I won’t have you spewing falsehoods to my face."

"You can deny any relationship, but it won’t change the facts."

"We know the facts, Miss Bennett, and we know your type,
as well."

"My type?"  Grace threw up her hands in exasperation.  She glared at Jackson.  "This is pointless."

"I agree," Jackson surprised her by saying.  "My mother and I will discuss the situation privately, and I will apprise you of our decision."

Grace studied him, wondering what he actually meant.

He was aloof and unapproachable, as if they were strangers. 

Hours earlier, they’d been rolling around in her bed.  How could he be so detached?  How could he act as if he didn’t know her, as if they’d never been intimate?

Grace comprehended that men viewed carnal conduct very differently from women.  She was still reeling, her mood shifting from total elation to miserable despondency.  How could he so neatly divide his life into various parts?

"You have copies of the marriage and birth certificates," she reminded him, feeling as if it might be her last chance to make a case for Michael, her last chance to ever speak with Jackson.

"Yes, I do."

"And your clerk is in Cornwall, checking the details."

"He’s already sent a report."

Jackson’s expression gave nothing away, and Grace frowned.  What had the clerk learned?  What information had been conveyed?  Why hadn’t Jackson mentioned it?

She was out of her element and at a loss.  When he’d invited her down to the parlor, Grace had assumed they’d have a courteous, rational conversation as to how they should proceed.

Instead, he was loitering like a halfwit while his mother postured and threatened and insulted.  Grace’s character had been besmirched, her motives questioned, and her honesty maligned.  That didn’t begin to describe the slurs Beatrice had leveled against Michael.

Grace could have defended herself and Michael, but Beatrice’s dislike was palpable, so it would be a waste of breath.  

"Michael is waiting up in his room," she told Beatrice.  "Will you meet him?"

"No, I will not.  Good day, Miss Bennett."

"You’re being silly.  He looks and acts just like Edward.  If you would see him, you would be—"

Beatrice bristled with offense.  "Good day, Miss Bennett!" 

"Fine," Grace muttered, "be that way."

She whipped away and stormed out.  She headed for the stairs and climbed to her bedchamber, all the while trying to figure out why Jackson had arranged the futile appointment.

Had he been warning Grace about Lady Beatrice?  Had he wanted to present a united familial front?  Was he telling her—in a vague, cold manner—that he didn’t believe her about Michael?

What was his message?  Perhaps he wasn’t bold enough to call her a liar to her face.  Should she pack again and leave?  The prior night, he hadn’t seemed in any hurry to have her go.  Had he changed his mind? 

"Blasted man," she grumbled.

She’d now spend the rest of the afternoon, struggling to discern his actual purpose.  But what person could delve into the devious, convoluted reasoning of Jackson Scott?

Michael was anticipating a summons from his grandmother.  Before Grace jumped into the difficult chat, she needed a few minutes to regroup.  He’d quickly assimilated at the estate as if he’d never lived anywhere else. 

People adored him.  People accepted him as Edward’s son, and he had such high hopes for a relationship with the Scott family.

Yet they both had to recognize that it was very possible no bond would ever be allowed.  Depending on how Jackson dealt with his mother, they might not even be given coach fare when they were ordered to depart the premises.

"Oh well," she mused, "we didn’t have anything when we arrived." 

If they left with nothing, they were in the exact same condition as they’d been at the beginning.  The only alteration would be that she’d trudge off with a broken heart.  Having dallied with Jackson when she shouldn’t have, she was precariously emotional. 

How did a female leap into a sexual inferno, then move on as if it had never occurred?  She worried that she might be in love with him and wasn’t that the most inane, ridiculous situation ever?

  "Stupid, stupid, stupid…" she chided herself as she entered her room and closed the door.  As she turned, she was startled by the realization that Susan Scott was seated in a chair over by the window. 

Appearing elegant and refined and lazily dangerous, she was dressed to impress.  Her gown was made from a ravishing blue color that shimmered with silver highlights.  The shade matched her stunning jewelry, her ears, neck, and fingers laden with fat diamonds. 

She was rich and beautiful and sophisticated—all that Grace was not—and she certainly intended that Grace notice the differences. 

Grace noticed.  

The maids had been in to serve her.  There was a small table next to her chair, and they’d delivered a tray of food and a decanter of wine.  Apparently, she’d been sitting there for some time.  She’d poured herself some wine and was sipping it. 

She was comfortable and at ease, as if the room was hers and she had every right to be in it—which she did.

"Hello, Grace," she said.  "May I call you Grace?"

"We’re not acquainted, so I’d rather you stick with Miss Bennett."

"Yes, I’m sure you would, but
I
am countess here and I get to set the rules."

Grace thought Susan was being extremely presumptuous.  When Edward had married her, he’d already been married.  He’d never obtained a divorce, so he hadn’t been free to wed Susan.  She was simply the illegal second wife of a bigamist and never a countess, at all. 

But this probably wasn’t the moment to mention it.

"Call me whatever you like," Grace blithely stated.  "It doesn’t matter to me."

Susan downed the remainder of her wine, making Grace wait while she finished it.  Then she placed her goblet on the table and pushed herself to her feet.  She walked over to Grace, seeming so polished that she practically floated across the floor. 

She was taller than Grace, lithe and willowy and poised in a way that Grace couldn’t have managed in a thousand years of trying.  Her disdain clear, she studied Grace, then wrinkled her nose as if Grace smelled.

"What game are you playing?"  Susan hissed the threat in a tone that chilled Grace to the bone.

"I’m not playing a game," Grace replied.

"Liar," she fumed.  "You want my son’s birthright, and you want all our money and all our property."

"No, I don’t.  Really, I don’t."

"Do you realize how stupid you were to come here?"

"Yes.  We weren’t aware that Edward had another family and I—"

"Grace!" she hissed again, and she raised a hand so quickly that Grace stumbled back, frantically thinking the deranged woman was about to strike her.

Gulping with dismay, Grace straightened herself.  "What?"

"You shouldn’t speak my husband’s name.  I should never hear it issue from your very frivolous, very common lips."

Grace sighed with irritation.  First Beatrice Scott.  Now Susan Scott.

Honestly!  How many insults was she required to endure in one day?

"I believe you entered the wrong room by mistake," Grace said.  "Let me show you out."

She stepped around Susan, and Susan clasped Grace’s forearm, her nails digging deep.

"Are you mad?" Grace snapped as she jerked away.

"Our discussion is over when I say it is over."

"No, our discussion is over when you start acting like a lunatic."

Grace stomped to the door and yanked it open.  She gestured to the hall, indicating that Susan should leave.  Susan hesitated just long enough for Grace to know she didn’t consider herself to have been thrown out.

She sauntered by Grace, murmuring, "You will never accomplish what you’re trying to do to us."

"I’m not trying to
do
anything."

"I will never permit my son to relinquish what is his.  I don’t care how many birth certificates you produce, your preposterous lies will never gain credence in this house."

"They’re not lies."

Susan leaned in, hoping to intimidate Grace with her size and position, but Grace stood her ground.

"Jackson let you stay," Susan raged, "and with him in residence, I can’t make you pay as you ought to pay."

"You don’t need to worry about my being here.  The minute matters are resolved for my ward, I’ll go away."

"Yes, you will.  I’ll see to it."

Susan pushed past Grace and marched out.  At the last second, she whipped around.

"And Grace?"

"What?"

"The servants tell me that Jackson is quite
fond
of you."

Rattled by the sly comment, Grace held herself very still.  The servants knew about her indiscretion?  They’d told this viper?  How many people had been apprised of their affair?  What stories were spreading?

"Mr. Scott and I are friends," Grace cautiously said, "and he’s been kind to me."

Susan smirked.  "You understand, don’t you, that I am the love of Jackson’s life?"

"Well, I guess you were," Grace impertinently retorted, "until you tossed him over to marry his brother."

"You have a smart mouth Grace Bennett.  I wonder where it will take you in the end?"