Grace (6 page)

Grace nodded, smiling warmly at him, always happy to talk about the members of her family. “They’re nearly inseparable. Amity, who has a tendency to be quiet and withdrawn, seems to temper Charity’s impulsive streak, though she has been known to instigate a prank or two herself. Charity, as I believe you’ve discovered, is anything but withdrawn, though she does manage to keep Amity from constantly burying her nose in a book and isolating herself from the outside world.” She looked up fondly at the lone male portrait. “Amity is somewhat like Papa in that respect.”

Trevor looked at her with gentle understanding. “Well,” he said, “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting them both, though separately, and at the time I had no idea that there were two of them. It does explain how Amity was able to change her dress and her attitude so quickly from when Sebastian
and I first arrived.” Briefly, he described the reception they had received from Charity, and his subsequent conversation with Amity in this very room.

Grace laughed. “I can see why you were confused! They’ve always enjoyed pulling the usual twin tricks on our friends and neighbors.” She looked into Trevor’s warm jade gaze and marveled at how comfortable she felt with him, curled up here in one of her father’s favorite chairs, cozily chatting with a perfect stranger just as though they had been friends for years. Deep inside, somewhere near the pit of her stomach, she felt the faint beginnings of a strange tingle as he returned her look. When his smiling eyes finally left hers and began skipping over the portraits once again, she felt free enough to allow her gaze to slowly wander over the amazing perfection of his features.

His face in profile was ruggedly beautiful, a face that might have inspired Michelangelo himself. She felt odd tingles build within her until something in her chest suddenly lurched. She hastily dropped her gaze to the floor. He lounged in the chair, his Hessian-clad feet stretched before him, legs crossed negligently at the ankles, one foot leisurely flexing back and forth. Her eyes slowly traveled up long, muscular legs encased in chocolate breeches that needed no false padding to improve their shape. A long-fingered, aristocratic hand lay across his lap, the nails neatly trimmed and buffed. His hands and face, more deeply tanned than those of the few other men in his class she had seen, indicated he likely spent a great deal of his time outdoors, either hunting or riding. The notion pleased her. She generally thought of society gentlemen as lazy and wasteful, almost prissy in both their attire and methods of entertainment. Certainly Harry Thomas was so. Trevor Caldwell appeared to be an exception.

Her gaze next wandered with admiration to his broad shoulders, his superbly tailored jacket of burgundy superfine
fitting smoothly and perfectly over his crisp white linen shirt. Her composure now restored, she lifted her eyes once again to study his face. Her perusal skidded to an abrupt and immediate halt, her horrified gaze locked on his mouth.

Trevor was smiling rakishly at her, his wide grin revealing even white teeth, startling in contrast to his tanned skin. With dread she forced herself to look into his eyes, a rosy blush spreading hotly across her cheeks despite her frantic attempts to appear cool and unruffled. As she feared, his mocking eyes locked on hers with a look she had never seen, a look that told her he liked the way she inspected him, and that he was now thoroughly enjoying her embarrassment. Stubbornly refusing to allow him to intimidate her, Grace raised her small chin a notch and stared back at him, her embarrassment melting away into defensive antagonism.

Regretfully, knowing the few friendly moments of shared warmth between them were now gone, Trevor wisely decided to retreat to the relative safety of polite conversation. “You found Mercy quite recovered, I hope?” he asked in a deliberately neutral tone intended to defuse Grace’s ire.

Greatly relieved that he appeared content to let her brazen inspection of him pass without comment, Grace managed to quell her anger. She nodded hesitantly. “She certainly seemed quite happy with all the fawning attention she’s receiving.” She lapsed into an awkward silence, then cleared her throat delicately, rather uncomfortable with what she wished to say next. “I wanted to thank you, my lord, not only for your help with Mercy, but also for what you did for me at the dance this evening.” She paused awkwardly, chewing on her lower lip, as she often did when she felt ill at ease about something.“You know . . . with Harry.”

Trevor lifted a shoulder in a small shrug eloquent in its negligence. “Please,” he said. “Think nothing of it.”

Sebastian appeared in the doorway. Grace rose quickly to her feet, her relief at being rescued from the awkward situation glaringly evident on her expressive face. Trevor also stood, taking the hand she offered and pressing it briefly to his lips. Unnerved by the sudden rush of sensation she felt when his lips softly brushed the back of her hand, Grace hastily pulled it away, then blurted out the first inane thought that entered her mind. “Did I also apologize to you for my earlier rudeness?” Instantly she felt like kicking herself. Her voice sounded breathless, awed and quite completely foreign, she thought in disgust.

Trevor reached out, lifted her chin with one long, aristocratic finger, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Again,” he said, his low tone reminding her of sun-warmed honey, “think nothing of it.” Her heart began to beat wildly as he slowly leaned in closer, his cheek next to hers. He lowered his voice still more to a whisper. “In fact, my dear, I rather enjoyed your close examination of my person,” he said. His warm breath against her ear sent sudden chills skittering down her spine.

When the full import of his words finally hit her, her mouth dropped open. Trevor grinned, then straightened and strolled across the room toward Sebastian without a backward glance.

“My lord!” Her voice rang out much more loudly than she had intended.

Trevor turned, his dark brows raised expectantly.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she said, her small chin jutting out defensively.

Trevor smiled. “I know,” he said softly, then turned and walked from the room with Sebastian, leaving Grace standing stiffly beside her chair. She fumed at first, and then, after a moment, reluctantly smiled to herself. After all, she
had
been staring.

At Bingham Ackerly’s insistence, they enjoyed a late supper. He invited the duke and the earl to stay at the Ackerly home rather than returning, at such a late hour, to the village inn, where neither the accommodations nor the repast would have been nearly as agreeable. They spent a pleasant hour at the table, especially enjoyed by Trevor, who had never had the experience of dining on good, simple fare with a large, loving family. He sat quietly, content to watch the sisters and their father pass plates of food to one another, laughing now and then at something somebody said, enjoying the good-natured banter that came easily to a family well used to communicating with one another. He found himself comparing this rather simple existence to the opulent manner in which he had grown up, and wondered which family he would describe as the richer.

Now, as he lay in his borrowed bed, staring through the inky darkness in the general direction of the ceiling, his thoughts once again centered on the amazing and self-possessed young lady whose fiery personality, although at such complete odds with her demure name, quite matched her glorious hair. “Grace,” he whispered to himself, and decided he liked the way her name sounded as it rolled off his tongue. His lips curved in a fond smile as his mind’s eye passed again over her vibrant features.

Her portrait did her no justice, he thought, sniffing disdainfully at the artist’s obvious lack of talent. Although the rendering accurately depicted her features, it did not in any way capture her essence. In the space of a single evening, he had seen her large, expressive blue eyes reflect her changing emotions like very windows into her soul. One moment they darkened furiously in speechless anger; the next they sparkled with easy laughter. One moment they were shining brightly with gratitude; the next they clouded to a stormy blue-gray in frustration.

Tonight she had worn her hair pulled back in a sedate
chignon, a style a bit out of character and somewhat confining for someone of Grace’s spirited temperament. It would look much better unbound, he thought sleepily, exactly the way she had worn it in her portrait. Just as it would look spread in a blazing fan across his pillows, he added to himself as sleep finally claimed him. He dreamed pleasantly of burying his face in those flaming tresses.

A few doors down the hall, Grace lay sleepless in her bed. She pondered, with rapidly growing dismay, the various unwelcome reactions she’d had to nearly everything Lord Caldwell had said or done over the course of the evening.

For much of the past nine months, she had eluded the unwanted bonds of marriage to Sir Harry Thomas by the simple measure of avoiding the self-important knight as much as possible. When she could not manage to evade his notice, she kept him, both mentally and physically, at arm’s length. She had no intention of marrying anybody, most especially not Harry Thomas. Having already reached her twentieth birthday, she knew society considered her well past the age at which most girls of her class should have settled down.

From what Grace had seen of marriage within the limited circle of her small world, the institution held no attraction for her. The world, she had noticed, expected nothing more from women than that they be submissive, demure brood mares, allowed absolutely no rights or even opinions of their own. Grace knew she would almost certainly stagnate under such wretched restrictions. She thought of the long, heart-pounding, full-out galloping rides she regularly took on her favorite mare, and of the pleasant philosophical conversations she often held with her father over a rousing game of chess, chats that lasted until late in the evening, long after everyone else had retired. She could not imagine any of the gentlemen of her acquaintance
actually deigning to spend time engaged in good-natured banter with her over the latest Parliament decisions reported in the slightly outdated London papers they regularly received in Pelthamshire.

Grace clenched her teeth in the darkness. That would
not
happen to her, she vowed. She would, at all costs, avoid marriage to anyone until society considered her safely on the shelf, quite beyond hope, and, most important of all, quite beyond interest. Once she reached official spinster status, she would travel, she decided with a deep yawn, finally ready to succumb to slumber. She rolled over, pulled the covers up over her head, and fell into a troubled sleep haunted by dreams of laughing eyes the many shifting colors of the forest.

B
y force of habit Grace awakened early, opening her eyes when the first golden sunbeams moved lazily across the polished hardwood floor of her bedchamber. Feeling somewhat groggier than usual, she stretched her arms above her head, flexed her leg muscles, and sat up, inexplicably bothered by a sense of foreboding. She kicked off the covers, stood, and stretched again, then padded softly over to the window. She opened it and looked out pensively at what promised to blossom into a beautiful spring day.

Unable to shake the troubling feelings with which she had awakened, Grace turned away from the window and furrowed her brow in thought. She began to dress for the morning ride she and Mercy had lately made a ritual. As she stepped into the breeches she normally wore instead of a cumbersome habit, the events of the previous evening came flooding back, explaining the niggling warning at the back of her mind. She sat down heavily on the end of her bed and slipped an arm into her shirt.

Mercy would not join her today, she remembered, buttoning up the oversize cast-off garment of her father’s. Worse, if she did not manage to get an early start, she ran the distinct risk of running into Lord Caldwell at breakfast. He, she absolutely knew, would undoubtedly decide to accompany
her. Just the thought of the chaotic effect that particular man had on her senses made her hurriedly pull on her old scuffed boots and tie back her burnished hair with a length of wide ivory ribbon snatched from the top of her dressing table.

She left her room and peeked in on Mercy, who slept peacefully, then tiptoed down the dark back stairs to the homey warmth of the kitchen. “Good morning, Mary, dear,” she said cheerfully, giving the plump older lady an affectionate squeeze.

Mary had come to cook for the Ackerly family shortly after the birth of Patience. A crotchety, sour-faced old darling, she constantly scolded, pecked at, and unashamedly ordered about the girls, who all good-naturedly ignored her, quite secure in the knowledge that Mary loved them all with as fierce a devotion as she would have her own children, had she borne any. Straight to the kitchen they had always gone in times of need, happily enduring her muttered admonitions as she taped up skinned knees, dried tears from grubby cheeks, or soothed someone’s wounded pride with hot milk and pudding.

Mary looked sternly at Grace’s attire. She shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly, as she did every morning when Grace and Mercy appeared clad in their tattered but beloved male garments. “Lookin’ a perfect disgrace, you are again, Miss Grace—an’ with quality in the house, sleepin’ above stairs just like we was someone.” She gestured at the ceiling with the wooden spoon that never left her hand. “I been sayin’ for years that nothin’ good would come of you girls runnin’ around in boys’ clothes, and now look at Miss Mercy, all tucked up in her bed with a lump the size of a goose egg over her wee eye. Will she be joinin’ you this mornin’, or is her little head painin’ her too much?”