Grace (22 page)

She accepted a dance from a stammering young man, and managed to work her way through it without either of them incurring an injury, hoping she had uttered the appropriate responses to his clumsy attempts at light conversation. Next she danced with an older gentleman her aunt had waited to introduce to her. Midway through that dance, her small headache suddenly intensified. Blaming
the heat and the noise, she mumbled an excuse to her partner, then made a hasty exit onto the terrace through the doors that opened from the ballroom, hoping the relatively cool night air would do her some good. She sat down upon one of the stone benches placed at intervals near the balustrade and closed her eyes with a sigh, grateful for the slight breeze that gently lifted the tendrils of hair that framed her face.

Her thoughts returned to the kiss she had shared with Trevor just before the ball. For the first time she found she could not deny her feelings for him, even to herself. Did she look the same after he kissed her? she wondered. Her lips tingled in remembered sensation and she reached up to run a trembling fingertip across them, then jumped in surprise as she heard booted footsteps ring on the marble terrace. They stopped for a moment, then began walking slowly in her direction.

Knowing she had no hope of remaining unseen, Grace reluctantly opened her eyes and looked in the direction of the approaching footsteps. She found herself caught in the strange golden gaze of the Duke of Blackthorne. For a moment he said nothing, just looked at her in disquieting silence, giving Grace the alarming feeling that he might pounce and devour her like a large, predatory cat. He finally spoke. “Good evening, Miss Ackerly.” His voice was deep and resonant with an underlying note of command—a combination not unlike Trevor’s. For some reason, though, Sebastian Tremaine’s words left her feeling chilled, while the mere sound of Trevor’s voice sent shivers of delight coursing through her body.

In deference to his rank, Grace stood and curtsied. Her nagging headache erupted at once into a fearsome pounding. A wave of sudden nausea swept her, but she managed to utter, “Good evening, Your Grace,” before sitting back
down heavily on the bench. A thin sheen of perspiration broke out on her upper lip and forehead.

Sebastian’s hooded look turned speculative. “Have you been drinking, Miss Ackerly?” he asked. A look of disapproving accusation crossed his normally impassive face.

Had she felt better, Grace would have taken immediate offense to his high-handed attitude, but right now she did not have the energy. She simply shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied, giving him a wobbly smile as if to prove it. When she saw his eyes narrow on her pale complexion, she hastened to change the subject. “You know, Mercy plans on becoming your wife, Your Grace,” she told him.

Sebastian looked puzzled for a moment before he remembered Mercy’s identity. A look of fleeting distaste crossed his face before the expressionless mask returned. “A bit young, isn’t she, to already have aspirations of becoming a duchess?”

Grace smiled fondly, despite her increasing discomfort. “Mercy has no such aspirations, Your Grace,” she assured him. “I think she’d want to become your wife even if you swept chimneys.” A sudden wayward image of the staid Duke of Blackthorne covered from head to toe in soot entered her mind. Grace found herself repressing a smile as she continued: “I should warn you, my little sister is more than a trifle stubborn once she gets her mind set upon something.”

A familiar voice came from the shadows. “A trait that apparently runs in the family.”

A banner of warmth unfurled in Grace’s stomach at the sound of Trevor’s warm, rich voice. He stood just outside the doors that led from the ballroom, a shoulder propped negligently against the stone wall. As he straightened and walked toward them, Grace caught her breath in awe. Truly, a more handsome man she had never seen. His eyes
glowed a deep emerald in the semidarkness, shining with a tender warmth that made her feel as though she and Trevor were the only two people in the world. As she watched him approach, Grace realized he could have nearly any woman in London at his beck and call, that almost any of them would trade places with her in a second. And yet, he wanted
her
. The wonderment of that reflection washed through her as she stood again, deliberately forgetting her earlier dizziness, resolutely ignoring the now steady throbbing of her head.

He clasped both of her hands and bowed to her, disregarding the presence of his friend the Duke of Blackthorne. “May I still have the waltz you assured me of earlier, Miss Ackerly?” he asked, his voice low and full of the same promise she could see in his eyes.

“Of course.” Grace smiled up at him, although she knew that she had pledged him no such thing. “I was just waiting for you to ask, my lord,” she said, her eyes glowing in the pale moonlight.

The Duke of Blackthorne lit a cheroot as he watched his best friend lead Grace back into the ballroom.
Poor sod,
he thought to himself.
Practically leg-shackled. Positively hurtling down the road to matrimony.
He exhaled slowly, allowing the slight breeze to carry the gray smoke out across the dark garden.

Quite a little schemer, he decided, the Ackerly chit. He remembered what she had said about her little sister, that simple, unaffected little urchin he had met only two weeks ago. Apparently, little Mercy had already received some coaching from her older sister on how to snare a noble title. He shook his head. A pity time would change that unspoiled, straightforward child into a woman. He had rather liked her, remembering fondly her outlandish breeches and wide-eyed innocence. His affectionate smile turned
abruptly sardonic. How unfortunate, he thought, that little girls had to grow up.

Trevor stood next to his coach, watching as Grace walked up the steep front steps to the front door of her aunt’s town house. She turned and gave him a last wave and a gay smile before letting herself into the darkened foyer. She closed the door, leaned heavily against the cool wood, and raised a shaking hand to her aching forehead.

The throbbing had now sharpened into a screaming pain. She had managed to hide the agony from Trevor, as she did not want anything to spoil this first night of understanding between them, certain he would not have believed her anyway. Not after all the excuses she had used since they had met in order to avoid spending time in his company.

Grace wearily pulled herself upright, sighed, and began the long trek upstairs. Her legs felt heavier with each step, and she grasped the banister so tightly her knuckles were white. Somehow she managed to make it to her chamber. She slipped inside gratefully, wanting nothing more than to climb between the cool sheets and lose herself in the comforting embrace of sleep. With the intention of having a quick drink of water, she crossed the room to the table that held the pitcher and a small glass, but her hand shook so badly she found she could not pour it. Before she could set the pitcher back down, the room began spinning. Her vision blurred and her ears filled with a strange ringing. She took one step toward the door before she lost consciousness and crumpled to the floor.

T
he sun was high, shining with cheerful brightness in the midday sky when Trevor pulled up in front of the Egerton town house and jumped down from the seat of his phaeton. He was anxious to show Grace his recent acquisition, looking forward to watching her learn to drive from the seat perched precariously high above the cobbled street. He bounded up the steps of the town house, whistling with a lighthearted air, and knocked on the front door, well pleased with the progress he had made in his courtship. He remembered the charming and candid way in which she had confessed her wrongs to him the previous evening, and the sweetness with which she had melted into his arms just moments later. In only eight more days he would ask her to become his wife. He could just imagine her happy response.

The fond smile that played around his mouth faded slowly when he realized he had been waiting for some moments and had not received a response to his knock. Regarding the still-closed door with a trace of annoyance, he rapped on the knocker once again, certain Greaves stood just on the other side, ignoring the summons. He would have to do something about that man, Trevor thought, his animosity increasing when the door still did not open. He
made a fist and brought it thundering down once on the oaken panel, only to have the door suddenly jerked open by an out-of-breath and very flustered-looking O’Reilly.

Happy that Greaves was not standing in the doorway scowling at him, and determined that the recalcitrant servant would not spoil the beginning of the day he had planned for Grace, Trevor swallowed his ire and smiled cheerfully at the short, round footman. “Good morning, O’Reilly,” he said in a jovial tone. He stepped inside and plopped his hat at a rakish angle on the balding man’s head, his former good humor magically restored. “Have you been made underbutler, or has Greaves finally been most deservedly relieved of his duties?” Without waiting for an answer, Trevor strolled away, saying over his shoulder, “Would you please inform Miss Grace that I’ve arrived? I’ll wait for her in the yellow salon, as usual.”

O’Reilly followed the earl into the salon, wringing his hands in an agitated fashion. “I’m afraid I cannot deliver your message, my lord.”

Trevor’s good mood evaporated. He turned and looked at the fidgeting footman in surprise. Certainly, he thought, after the unspoken truce of the previous night, Grace would not begin playing games with him again. “Why not?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. His narrowed eyes glittered ominously at the nervous footman.

“Miss Grace won’t be receiving any visitors today, my lord,” O’Reilly stammered bravely, then recoiled in fear at the look of blazing anger he received.

Trevor’s jaw clenched.
Quite the clever little actress,
he thought. He pictured Grace as he had seen her the night before, adoration dawning in her eyes, a winsome smile on her lips. She had firmly convinced him of her sincerity last night, when she had apparently been setting him up for yet another pointed rebuff. “Did Miss Grace manage to provide
you with a reason?” he asked, his calm voice belied by the angry glint in his eyes.

“Miss Grace is, er . . .” O’Reilly paused, not quite certain of the story he had been told to give callers, or whether Lady Egerton had intended that they include the Earl of Huntwick in the short list of people who knew the gravity of the situation. A muscle worked in Trevor’s jaw as he waited, with obvious impatience, for the footman to finish his explanation.

O’Reilly brightened as the proper term finally floated into his worried and befuddled brain. “Miss Grace is
indis-posed
,” he finished, with the loftiest air he could muster from his diminutive height.

That particular phrase sparked immediate and instant antagonism in Trevor. O’Reilly instinctively stepped back from the fierce anger that blazed in the earl’s eyes. “Indis-posed?” His tone remained even.

“Y-yes, my lord,” O’Reilly stammered.

“As she was for three days last week when I called to see her?” Trevor continued in the same dangerous, silken voice.

O’Reilly blanched at the memory of Grace’s little deception and the part he had played in it. “N-no, my lord,” he stammered, then flinched when the earl reached out and snatched back his hat, still comically perched on the footman’s bald head. Trevor left the room with long, ground-devouring strides.

“Tell Miss Ackerly . . .” bit out on his way to the front door, then stopped and thought better of it. “Never mind, O’Reilly. I’ll tell her myself.” He spun around and headed toward the curved marble staircase with purposeful intent, his boots ringing out in the high-ceilinged room with each step he took.

O’Reilly trotted after him. “My lord, please wait!” he called in vain.

Trevor ignored him, taking the steps three at a time. When he reached the second floor, he began jerking open doors, startling a young chambermaid who was busy dusting the second room into which he looked. “Where is Miss Ackerly’s chamber?” he demanded, terrifying the poor girl into momentary silence.

“Which Miss Ackerly, my lord?” the frightened maid asked when she finally found her voice, trying to curtsy with a feather duster in one hand and a waxing cloth in the other. The door was rudely slammed closed again before she finished uttering the words.

O’Reilly caught up to Trevor, his face red from the exertion of running up the stairs and down the hall. “My lord,” he panted, “if you would only wait . . .”

“Where is she? I’ll not ask again.” Trevor’s voice was low and ominous.

A door opening near the end of the corridor spared O’Reilly the necessity of answering. Faith stepped into the hallway, her face haggard and pale with worry—a fact that escaped Trevor’s notice as he strode wrathfully toward her. “Is this your sister’s room?” he demanded, pointing at the door she had just closed behind her.

In her exhaustion, Faith did not wonder about his presence in this part of the house. She mistook his mood for one of troubled concern and nodded. Before she could explain about Grace’s illness, Trevor burst through the door, sending it crashing back against the wall with a resounding boom. In three long strides he covered the distance from the door to the bed, where Grace lay perfectly still beneath the pale blue satin coverlet, her aunt and an unknown young gentleman rising in startled shock from their seats on the other side of the bed.