Never a Gentleman (45 page)

She had to last until Olivia and Jack had been seen safely into the Gracechurch carriage for their trip, everyone laughing
and throwing flowers, the children running after the carriage like puppies. Then Diccan sauntered over to where she stood
with Kate on the top step.

“Well, don’t they look smug and silly,” he greeted them, his attention still on the departing couple.

“I believe it is a prescribed state of weddings,” Kate said easily. “Terrified and nauseous, smug and silly, exhausted and
cranky.”

“I’m glad you made it,” Grace told him.

He gave her one trenchant look before looking away. “We need to talk.”

Grace nodded. “Kate suggested I save you some lobster and champagne.”

He couldn’t even seem to come up with a witty comeback. He just shook his head and smiled. She stepped forward, wanting to
help him. To touch him, hold him to her so he could know he didn’t face this alone. She pulled up short, though, suddenly
uncertain. Everything had changed. Diccan was no longer obliged to tolerate her concern.

Kate had no such reservation. Grace saw her step up to Diccan’s other side and take his arm. He looked down at the beautiful
duchess, his smile softening. No words were
exchanged. Grace knew they didn’t need them, and it hurt all the more.

“Come along then, my girls,” he said, lifting both elbows for their hands. “There are matters of import we must discuss.”

Grace’s courage faltered. It was one thing to lay her wounds bare to Diccan. It was quite another to include Kate.

It seemed Diccan could read her like a book. “Come, my Boadicea. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were
done quickly.’ ”

Grace’s heart stumbled. Still she gave him a comical grimace. “That, my dear, was not Boadicea. It was Lady Macbeth.”

Kate grinned. “And if anybody is going to be called Lady Macbeth here, I think it should be I.”

Kate was not nearly as amused ten minutes later when Diccan filled her in on the situation.

“What in blazes do you mean, you’re not married?” the little duchess demanded, actually on her feet with outrage. “I bought
you a present!”

They had retired to Jack’s study, closing out the noise of the departing guests. Grace sat on the couch, her hands clasped
in her lap to give them something to do, her heart withering in her chest. Diccan leaned against the oak desk, his arms crossed.
Kate stood between them, glaring.

“We received a messenger from Cousin Charles today,” Diccan said, his attention now swinging to Grace, his expression rueful.
“He didn’t think it would be prudent for us to wait to find out about our marital status until he arrived later this week.
He sends his regrets and all that. The name on the license is indeed Robert. You are now a widow, my dear.”

Grace wanted to shrink farther into the couch. She wanted to run and run and run. It was only by force of will that she kept
her place.

“That’s not funny, Diccan,” Kate snapped. “We have to get Charles to rectify his mistake the minute he gets here.”

Diccan nodded. “He has already said that he will.”

“Good.” Kate started pacing. “I know it isn’t the thing to mix weddings and funerals, but I don’t see you have a choice. I
imagine Olivia and Jack wouldn’t mind if we had another wedding here. I assume the archbishop is bringing a special license.”

Finally, Grace could wait no longer. Her hands still clasped, she came to her feet. “No,” she said simply, and was relieved
that her voice didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

Diccan and Kate turned surprised expressions her way, as if they’d just heard the couch speak. “No, what?” Diccan asked.

“Bugger
no
,” Kate said baldly. “You have no choice.”

Oh, how it hurt to have to play this scene again. Before Grace had only suspected how she would feel if Diccan broke her heart.
Now she knew. “No,” she repeated softly. “Your father is right, Diccan. He has given you a second chance. He has given both
of us a second chance to choose instead of being forced.” She gathered every ounce of courage she had and stood before the
man she’d thought was her husband, and she met the denial in his eyes with certainty. “No.”

“But you’ll be ruined,” he said, so gently she wanted to weep.

So she smiled. “It still doesn’t matter to me, Diccan. All I ever really wanted was to nest on my little piece of land and
raise horses. I don’t need a society pedigree to do that. And you don’t need the marriage to save your political career. I
think it will be quite easy to spread the story that our marriage was a clever ploy to help you unearth traitors.”

She saw a world of understanding in Diccan’s hypnotic gray eyes. She saw pain and regret and loss. But she knew he agreed.
Her poor battered heart bled a little more at his quick acceptance.

“It will help that Marcus is in London to bring warrants against more of the Lions,” he said. “We at least have that. My father
was arrogant enough to have left evidence in his luggage.”

“Your name is cleared?” Grace asked.

“It will be. Marcus promised to talk to General Dawes.”

That was another question Grace wasn’t sure she wanted answered. What role had her uncle really played in all this?

“What about your role as Apprentice Lion?”

Diccan shrugged. “Minette has disappeared, as has Smythe. I imagine I’ll just have to wait and see if someone else approaches
me.”

“Be careful,” Grace said, her hand instinctively on his arm. “Please.”

His smile was pale. “I will.”

“Excuse me,” Kate interrupted. “As intrigued as I am by all of this, I demand we return to the matter at hand. Your marriage.
You are not just going to walk away from it. I won’t allow it.”

It was Diccan who calmed Kate. “Grace is right, old girl. She’s been given a second chance. Why should she settle for a layabout
like me? If I were she, I’d run back to that sweet estate of hers posthaste.”

Grace hadn’t thought she could feel worse. She did then, because she realized she would never walk through Longbridge again
without seeing Diccan there, reminding her what her life might have been if his father had never spoken.

Diccan took Grace gently into his arms. “You’ve been trumps, my dear. A perfect lady. I only wish you had been served better
in all of this.”

Briefly Grace closed her eyes and succumbed to the comfort of Diccan’s embrace. “Don’t be silly,” she said, her voice wavering
only a bit. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But I think it is just about time for me to retreat.”

“Will you stay here for the funeral?”

“If you want me to.”

He did. So she stayed at Oak Grove, just long enough to see Diccan’s father buried and his mother settled temporarily in the
dower house at the castle. She withstood his mother’s rancor and supported his sisters and held Diccan’s hand when he needed
it. And she did it without the help of Kate or Bea, who kept Kate’s promise not to attend the funeral. By the time Grace climbed
into the coach for the Moorhaven chapel, her friends were already on their way to London.

So it was that she had no friends with her when her life with Diccan officially ended. The mourners were just returning to
Moorhaven from the bishop’s interment, Diccan in their lead. The archbishop passed by Grace without a word. Diccan’s mother
hadn’t even shown her face. Grace stood on the gravel drive, just about where Diccan’s father had fallen, watching as Diccan
approached.

He looked so strained, so stretched. But no one else seemed to see it.

“Well, Grace,” he greeted her with a sad smile.

She smiled back, knowing it was good-bye. “Well, Diccan.”

The mourners passed around them, like a river around rocks, but Grace didn’t notice. She was busy memorizing Diccan’s features,
his scent, his smile. She was saying good-bye without a word. He answered with a nod.

Marcus Drake stood off to the side, as if officiating. “I wonder who that is,” he was saying.

Diccan looked up and froze. Grace followed his gaze to see a traveling coach pull to a stop at the end of the lane. She shot
Diccan a startled glance. The coach wasn’t marked, but all the same, she knew it. She saw that Diccan did, too. She meant
to say something. Then the door opened, and out stepped not only Harps, but Breege and Bhanwar, his white robes catching the
morning sunlight and his sword gleaming. Pain swelled in Grace’s chest; tears threatened.

“Well, it’s about time,” Diccan groused. Grace looked up to see him smiling. “I’m sorry it took so long for them to get here,
Grace. I should have brought them sooner so they could have protected you.”

She couldn’t think of anything to do but throw her arms around him. People stared. The Duchess of Livingston made a harrumphing
noise. Grace didn’t care. Diccan had done this last thing for her, and she couldn’t even tell him what it meant to her.

“Be happy, my Grace,” he whispered in her ear, holding her tightly.

A sob caught in her throat. “You, too, Diccan. You deserve it.”

Before she could weaken and beg him to let her stay, she gave him one final kiss and ran down the lane and into Breege’s arms.
And then, without looking back, she climbed into the carriage and made her lonely way home.

•  •  •

Thirty miles away in Guildford, Frank Shaw pulled the Murther traveling coach around the corner of the Angel Inn. He was late.
It wasn’t his fault; the ostlers had had trouble poling up the fresh horses. Not that it would matter in the end. It was his
job to be on time. But you’d think that as often as the duchess stopped here, they’d figure out how to move faster for her.

Deftly guiding the four-in-hand through the crowded courtyard, he looked around, gauging the activity. To his right a stagecoach
was discharging its passengers. Two middle-aged women in gray struggled with overlarge bandboxes. A couple ushered along three
little terrors who shrieked with glee as they raced across the cobbles. A schoolboy, not much older than the terrors, kept
pace with a round, red-faced vicar. All hurried toward the half-timbered inn for the meal they’d been promised.

Beyond the coach, a flashy young blade was turning his phaeton into the exit. The lad must have known his business, because
he swung through the arch into High Street without a scrape, leaving Frank’s way completely clear. He nodded in satisfaction.
His horses were fresh and they were prime. Once he was through that same arch, he should be able to get a good run out of
them.

Now, if only the duchess wasn’t dragging her little feet over tea.

Ah, there she was, just stepping out into the courtyard, a tiny slip of a thing with lots of plumes in her bonnet and big,
pretty eyes. She was talking to a grim-faced old biddy who had a good foot on her, patting the old gal’s cheeks with a handkerchief.
Not so perfect.

Oh, well, Frank thought. You worked with what you got. Skirting the stage, he brought his own restive team to a halt right
in front of the women.

“Ho, there!” he yelled to one of the postboys. “Help the lady!”

The boy, a gawky carrottop, scurried up to grab the door. Frank tightened up his hold on the reins. The boy turned to the
passengers. Frank eased off the brake. He saw the plumes nod on the duchess’s bonnet as she climbed the steps and surreptitiously
lifted his whip. The postboy turned back for the old woman.

Now!
Frank thought. With a shout, he cracked the whip over the near leader. The horses whinnied and jerked into motion. Frank
heard the carriage door slam as the postboy lost his balance. He hoped the boy was all right, because he couldn’t stop for
him or the old lady who still stood there with her hand out and her mouth gaping. Pulling with all his might, he turned his
horses out of the courtyard onto High Street. He was scraping through the arch when he heard the shouts behind him. They were
too late though. He had the duchess, and they weren’t going to stop him. He had a delivery to make.

I
t had been a long day. It had been a long few weeks, ever since Kate’s disappearance. Hearing of the abduction, Grace had
immediately traveled to London to help any way she could. When there was nothing left for her to do, she’d returned home.

Now winter was approaching, and there was much to do to prepare Longbridge. There was even more that Grace chose to do to
make the estate resemble the home she’d held in her mind for twenty years. Today it meant overseeing her cadre of ex-soldiers
as they laid a foundation for the stable extension.

Once again tanned and healthy, her soldiers worked hard out under the autumn sun, one old sailor singing a hauling shanty
as they laid in the heavy stones. Harper supervised, but this was Grace’s future. She helped Bhanwar cook meals for the workers.
She stood with Harper as he directed the work, and she bent with the men to set the stones. She had blisters and a sunburn
and felt the pleasant exhaustion of accomplishment.

She wanted the stables finished before the snow flew. She had already seen the hay cut and the harvest in. She had helped
Breege and Radhika put up the fruit from the orchard. Tomorrow she would stop by the home farm in the morning and spend the
afternoon making sure enough wood was cut to keep the estate cozy throughout the coldest days.

It would be her first winter in her home. She needed it to be everything she had ever wanted.

“Dear, have you seen that terrible simian?” a voice called from the pantry as Grace and Breege passed through the bustling
kitchen.

Grace smiled. “Mr. Pitt is up watching over Ruchi and Lizzy’s baby, Aunt Dawes.”

Underneath her old Guards jacket, Grace was wearing black. Two weeks earlier, she had suffered yet another loss. Her Uncle
Dawes, hunting right at the front of the Belvoir pack, had taken his best charger over a stone fence and come down on his
neck. He had never recovered from the fact that he had unwittingly conspired with traitors. It was only after his death that
the government had acknowledged that the greathearted old warrior had acted out of good faith, never knowing that villains
had taken advantage of him.