Rescuing Mr. Gracey (7 page)

But he held his tongue. These dangerous urges to speak his mind had become more and more frequent. When he first arrived, restraint and caution were of primary concern; however, when he could not find Mary, unreasonable impatience and anxiety made him risk the brighter, more dense areas. Within the hour, instead of abandoning the notion of staying, as he should have, he impetuously, recklessly began pacing and circling the dance, disregarding his own safety altogether.

Then, he saw her…

Her eyes
—sweet, innocent, and frightened—completely snagged his heart, and in a moment of panic and bliss, he surrendered without knowing he had entered battle.

Her hair
, flowing down her back like shimmering waves of cinnamon, begged to be threaded through his aching fingers.

Her figure,
so hidden by an ugly brown smock, took his breath away. Delicate and curved and very, very feminine, it was complemented by a simple blue dress that shamed the glittery, deeply exposing garments inside ballrooms and parlors.

All the years of practice with other females deserted him. The ever confident Alexander Gracey, reader of women’s hearts, gentle seducer, considerate lover, did not have the slightest notion how to woo this fragile little flower.

Yet he stayed and begged for embarrassing dances. In the entirety of the evening, only one victory could be claimed. Risking yet another moment of identification, Alec had slipped the fiddler a substantial sum of money to play a slow waltz.

Well worth the effort. Differences between religion, politics, and obligations disappeared beneath the shimmering stars as he, for precious few moments, was allowed to inhale a rare and rose-scented flower, and embrace a fragile, authentic treasure without threat or challenge.

However, the rest of the evening was nothing less than disastrous. How many times had he stepped on her slippered foot? Throughout the evening, he oft wondered if the Irish natives inserted their own version of hops, twists, and turns just to catch impostors.

Lord knew, she definitely suspected he was not who he pretended. He groaned, remembering the grimaces on her face.

Surveying the impossibly slow progress toward the drink table, Alec then glanced back at Mary Smyth.

The wiry farmer had found her and now stole his spot on the bench.
A degrading night indeed when forced to compete with an underprivileged back-hills tenant farmer for a woman’s conversation.

He strode forward, then turned back and glared at the couple on the bench. The redheaded man now leaned closer yet.
Look how she smiles at the man. The farmer’s smallest effort yields huge reward!

And then the farmer leaned closer and whispered something in her ear. She laughed.

Fire blazed within Alec’s chest, through his limbs, and into his brain and defeated caution. At that moment, he realized that he would gamble anything—a scandal, his safety, even defiance of the earl himself—to protect his time with Mary Smyth.

Surging forward, Alec ignored the men’s grumbles as he stepped ahead of several and grabbed two drinks. He whipped about, sloshing the drinks over his hands.

But wait. He froze. Miss Smyth was shaking her head. Had she refused the farmer’s pleadings? The farmer stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood.

Delight quenched Alec’s volatile mood.

He could breathe again.
She kept her promise.
Perhaps he was not as unimpressive as he’d imagined. Pride was restored and hope renewed, especially when he saw the farmer wave to someone across the field.

Alec stayed a little back as he watched the foolish farmer strut away, unaware another rejoiced at the departure.

His hands seemed too cold, his blood too warm as he neared her. Heart thumping desperately, Alec tried to remember one time in his life when he had been so anxious.

At his approach, she looked up. Her pale expression indicated her nervousness, but she smiled softly…so different from the energetic smiles given to the farmer.

Gulping a breath of air, he slowed his gait. Nothing—the farmer, the odd place, the strange dances, or even Miss Smyth’s reluctance to be with him—would steal his last opportunity to learn, memorize, and discover why this woman—simple, humble—compelled him to be in this alien place with these unfamiliar people.

He sat down, a little closer than he should, and extended the cracked clay container.

She nodded her thanks, her hand trembling as she grasped the drink.

Fascinated, he found himself staring at the soft rose blush that bloomed upon her oval face.

Beautiful, graceful.

“I hope you’re fascinated by my skill at retrieving drinks from horrendous lines,” he said, attempting a charming smile. “I am well aware that, aside from one short waltz, my only other impression this evening has been tripping across dance floors and standing next to other men.”

She laughed, the lovely sound strumming inside his stomach and weakening his knees.

Not sparing the time to analyze why she was having this effect on him, he swallowed hard and slid a little closer. “I have waited all night for this chance to talk with you, Miss Smyth.” He angled his leg onto the rough pine bench so that he might lean toward her.

She scooted slightly away—of course she would.

Alec smiled to himself.
A nervous doe beneath the expert claw of a lion.

He knew the steps to this dance. Though he assured himself she had run out of scooting room, a tinge of caution surfaced, but he allowed his shoulder to nearly touch hers anyway.

The pink blush brightened—

A beautiful, shy flower revealing itself with the bright sun—and her tiny freckles came out of hiding, scattering all over her nose.

As he watched her, a war of contradiction began within his conscience. Part of him wished to shield her, protect her from his own intent. Yet the greater part ached to seduce a kiss from her, a passionate embrace as reward for the grueling night he had suffered.

“Tell me. What else do you like to do when you are not dancing or bathing in the lake?”

She tucked her luscious lower lip inside her mouth, nibbling it with straight upper teeth. Bravely, she lifted her gaze and met his. Frowning, she said, “There’s time for little else but work.”

Covering surprise, he briefly glanced away. Why didn’t he see her poverty when he was with her? She did not know about rides in the park or pianofortes or chats at afternoon tea.
Fool!
Alec switched to a safer topic. “Are there any other Smyths at home?”

Mary laughed. His chest tightened as the sweet, unexpected sound surged through him like water on a parched beach.

“Aye, plenty,” she said. “I’ve two other sisters, both older.” She skipped a glance at him, her eyes twinkling. “And, I have four brothers, two older and two younger, one born three years ago.”

She paused, the smile remaining while she waited for his reaction. Too fascinated with the dimples that dented her cheeks and the way her expressive mouth formed words, he completely lost track of the substance of her sentence. Clearing his throat, he asked, “So, they all live in Dolly’s Brae?”

She shook her head. “Agnes is a year older than I,” she continued. “She’s here tonight but works in Banbridge, so I only see her once a month when she gets a day off. My oldest sister, Bridget, is married and living in Cork. My older brothers, Michael and Patrick, are in Belfast.” Her brows crinkled as if she were worried, and her attention briefly dropped back to her folded hands before she looked up again. She smiled.

Skipping like a shiny pebble across water, Alec’s surprised heart wondered how any reasonable man could concentrate on conversation when such a beautiful mouth smiled.

He pushed out another mundane question. “If you could go anywhere or do anything, what would you do?”

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. His hungry eyes traced the soft curl of her ear and then lowered to the warm curve of her neck where the fortunate hair snuggled. He absently gulped his drink to quench a deep interior thirst, but then grimaced from terribly watered-down lemonade.

“There’s little point to dreaming, sir. I hope to marry and raise a family on land that will not starve us. When I am working, I plan my day off. Is that what you’re meaning?”

Her words startled his fuzzy thoughts.

No dreams…for a girl her age?

He frowned, intrigued, but then the band announced the last dance set, and his concerns were redirected again. Any moment, the farmer fellow would come after her and end the conversation. He must arrange another meeting or forever abandon seeing her.

“May I press you to take a walk with me tomorrow?”

Her spine straightened, her expression confused, almost distressed. “I am sorry.” Her head shook. “My time ’tis not my own. I’ve fields to prepare with Da, and then I must iron the wash and deliver it to Castlewellan.”

Slugged by shock, revulsion sped through his thoughts and turned his blood cold.
A laundress…a washerwoman.
He found himself shifting away. Aside from a barmaid or a woman of the streets, a laundress was the lowest of social positions.

“I won’t be home until well after dark,” she added in a soft voice devoid of laughter. “Thank you just the same.”

Astonishment at this new piece of information forced him to question her. Surely he had not heard correctly. “You mean to deliver laundry in Castlewellan after dark?”

Her eyes flashed something painful—quick and poignant. A blush, two vivid and hot splotches, covered her cheeks as she shifted forward. “’Tis necessary for the family,” she said sharply.

Clamping his jaw, he folded his arms. The shattering information could not be absorbed. The little sprite worked two jobs and then fearlessly delivered laundry past dark.
How can people work that hard and have nothing?

With each string of information, the chasm between their worlds grew.

He scraped a hand through his hair.
Leave it be, Gracey. ’Tis too wide to cross.
Yet he needed one assurance. “So, have you an escort tomorrow on your deliveries?”

Her chin tilted. “You will recall that my older brothers are gone and my mother must tend my little brothers,” she clipped, aqua eyes flashing. “My father works in the pub at night.”

The more he discovered, the more he wanted to do something violent. Did her father drink away all their money? He gritted his teeth.

Miss Smyth rose, and so did he. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Alexander, I should join the family.”

She is a laundress, for the love of might.
Let her leave and depart for home.

Every muscle tensed, he clenched his hands. “May I escort you on the morrow for your deliveries?”

What are you thinking?

She whirled unexpectedly. The demure country girl had completely transformed into a fiery native, spitting anger. Hands on hips, she jutted her jaw and burned him with hot sparks from her eyes. She made a stunning picture—cheeks flushed, charming freckles along the bridge of her nose, wide, oval eyes scouring him.

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Alexander,” she said, reminding him of a furious cinnamon kitten ready to battle a bulldog. “What game are ya playing?”

Game?
He took a step back. Had she discovered his identity?

“I did ask you for a walk, after all,” he replied cautiously.

“Why are ya here, tonight, dancin’ and flirtin’ and takin’ the time with me, if I may ask? Ya don’t belong, and we both know it.”

Where did that thick accent come from?

Alec clasped his nervous hands behind his back, but, unbelievably, he did not retreat. She looked formidable. She looked adorable. Captivated by the fascinating transformation, he found himself incapable of fabricating a sufficient story.

Someone called from behind, and Alec stepped aside as an older couple approached and hugged her.

Miss Smyth smiled and reluctantly waved a stiff hand to him. “Sir, this is my father, Joseph Smyth, and my mother, Maureen.”

Her parents.
He had hoped to avoid meeting family. Danger had escalated to explosive.

Of course, he absolutely had to lie. “Sir. Madam. A pleasure to meet you. Alexander Jordan at your service.” The chilly breeze that whipped around his face cooled the heat that pricked his conscience. As least the name Jordan was not a total fabrication. His middle name was his mother’s maiden name.

The older man raised a brow as if alerted by something. “Jordan? I believe my father may have had an acquaintance named Jordan.” He pierced Alec with sharp appraisal.

Alec’s stomach cramped. Did his mother’s family know the Smyths? “I’ve been away for many years, sir,” he said. “I doubt there is any history between our families.” The wall of lies grew taller by the minute.

“What brings you to County Down, sir?” her father asked.

The pressure to nervously shift made his legs ache. He cleared his throat. “I heard the linen industry in Castlewellan is doing well.”

Joseph released his intense gaze. “Aye,” he said slowly. Rocking back onto his heels, he folded his wiry arms across his chest. “The economy is healthier here than in most of the nation because we depend more on the flax industry, but good employment is only available to those who are merchants, have a healthy lease on a piece of property, or those who have religious connections.”