Sally MacKenzie Bundle (149 page)

Grace paused. She was breathing so quickly she was making herself dizzy.

“But I can’t. I just cannot do it.”

“Nonsense. You are merely experiencing maidenly nerves. Once the wedding and the bedding are behind you, you will be fine.”

Her stomach lurched, threatening to disgorge its limited contents onto the breakfast table. She pressed her hand firmly to her mouth and breathed steadily through her nose. She moved her fingers far enough away from her lips to allow a response.

“No.”

“No what?” Papa had gone back to his paper as if the subject were closed.

“No, I will not be fine.” There. Her stomach had subsided to a slow churn. She lowered her hand and focused on her father. “I have thought about this all night, Papa. I hardly got a wink of sleep. And I have come to the firm conclusion I cannot marry John. It would not be fair to him.”

Papa waved a hand in her direction and turned to a new page in the newspaper. “Don’t worry about that. I’m sure Parker-Roth doesn’t care.”

“I cannot imagine John doesn’t care that I’m in love with another man.”

“You’ll get over that.”

Could she be hearing Papa correctly? A man who had harbored a grudge against an entire family for over thirty years because the woman he’d loved had rejected him, the man who had told her as recently as a few days ago that he still loved that woman—this man was telling her she would get over being parted from her own love?

“You never got over it, Papa.”

“What?” He pulled his nose out of the paper long enough to frown at her. “What do you mean?”

“You never got over Lady Harriet.”

He scowled at her and returned to the newspaper. “I married your mother, didn’t I? I…adjusted. You will, too.”

“But you had no choice. Lady Harriet was beyond your reach. She was dead. Lord Dawson—”

He glared at her. “Do not mention that name in my house.”

Grace threw down her napkin and stood. “Why do you insist on clinging to this animosity? I’ll wager you’d never even met Lord Dawson until he walked into Viscount Motton’s entryway.”

“What has that to say to the matter?”

“What? Everything! How can you hate someone you’ve never met?”

“Easily.”

She grabbed onto her temper with both hands. She knew it would do no good to shout at Papa. Instead she leaned on the table and looked him in the eye.

“Right. You’re right. It is even easier to hate someone you’ve never met. You don’t know all the good things about him.”

“There are no good things about a Wilton.” Papa’s mouth was set in a white line. He snapped his paper and turned away from her to read it. “You’re allowing yourself to become hysterical.”

“I am not.” She was shouting. She swallowed and tried to rein in her anger. “You are not allowing yourself to hear the truth in what I am saying.” She straightened, clasping her hands together to keep from wrapping them around Papa’s neck. She must try to remain calm. Rational. “Lord Dawson was the same way. He’d decided he hated his grandmother until I was able to persuade him to talk to her. If you would only meet—”

“No!” Papa slapped his newspaper down on the table and surged to his feet. “I will not meet with Dawson. I have no need to meet with him. I will not see the man again.”

“You will, unless you wish never to see me again.” She raised her chin and hoped David had not changed his mind about matrimony. “I intend to marry the baron.”

“Oh, really?” The veins in Papa’s forehead were pulsing—never a good sign. “And how are you going to manage that? You have no way of traveling to Motton’s estate—if Dawson is even there still—as my carriages are
not
at your disposal. But, more to the point, you will not be free to wed the baron as you are marrying Parker-Roth tomorrow.”

“No!” She grabbed the back of her chair. In less than twenty-four hours…“I thought the wedding was not for days yet. You said—”

“I prevaricated.”

Married in less than twenty-four hours…dear God! “I never actually agreed. John never actually proposed.” He certainly had never kissed her. The man couldn’t want to wed her. She would be doing them both a favor to decline.

“That doesn’t matter. You will actually marry.”

“No. I will go now and tell him that I must cry off. It will be awkward. It will be embarrassing, but in the long run, it will be better. He cannot want an unwilling bride.”

Papa crossed his arms, his face stony. “None of that matters. He has agreed to marry you. It is a good match. You will be close to home, among people you know. You
will
marry him. There is no more to be said.”

She gripped the chair back harder. She wanted to pound her hands on her father’s chest. “No. I will
not
marry him. I can’t.”

“You
can
. You were willing enough before you went up to London. Damn it all, you were willing enough when you left Motton’s estate.”

“I was not willing—I was resigned.”

“Bloody hell.” Papa threw his hands up in the air, and then leaned toward her, his right index finger stabbing at her. “You listen to me, miss. You will marry Parker-Roth. I am your father, and I order you to do so.”

She stabbed her finger back at him. “You can’t order me. I am of age. I will not marry the man, do you understand?” She tried to get her voice under control. “I am sorry, Papa, but what you ask is impossible.”

Papa was shouting now. “You are not going to do to Parker-Roth what Harriet did to me. You are not jilting the man, do you hear me?”

“The entire house hears you, Papa.”

“Good. Go to your room, you ungrateful girl. I will see you again in church.”

“When the vicar asks if I take John as my husband, I will say no, Papa.”

His face was the color of a furnace. His veins looked like they would burst. Surely he would not suffer an apoplexy?

“Go!” He roared the word.

Grace went.

So he’d taken the road to Devon. So he was an idiot.

David looked at the inn’s bed and sighed. It was too short for someone his height, but at least it looked like the sheets were relatively clean.

He should have taken the road to London. He’d certainly decided to do so when he’d left Miss Smyth in Motton’s entryway. But when he’d come to the crossroads…well, somehow his horse had headed toward Devon.

If he’d taken the road to London, he’d have been home days ago, sleeping in his own roomy bed. He’d have gone to a number of balls and routs already and started his marital search over.

Damn.

He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for sorting through the giggling debutantes, the coy young misses, the slightly desperate maidens beginning to wilt on the vine.

He wanted Grace. He
really
wanted Grace. If there were any chance in hell he could still have her…well, it behooved him to leave no stone unturned.

So here he was, pausing at The Blue Heron before going to Standen tomorrow morning to turn over the last stone. He’d arrived at the inn just before dinner. Had a nice chat with a Mr. and Mrs. Weyford, a young couple, rather newly married…well, all right, it wasn’t so nice a chat. Oh, the couple were perfectly pleasant. The problem was he kept thinking of Grace, imagining it was they, not the Weyfords, exchanging fleeting glances full of promise of what they would do once they got upstairs to bed.

He’d preferred his conversation with Reverend Barnsley, the other guest at the inn. The reverend was on his own, on his way to take up a living in Cornwall, and an enthusiastic angler. A well-placed question here and there kept the man discoursing on fish and bait and tackle all evening.

And now he was in his room with this lonely, short, uncomfortable-looking bed. Tomorrow he’d reach Standen. He’d know for certain whether there was still a chance to make Lady Grace his baroness. Maybe he’d discover she’d already wed her boring neighbor.

God, that thought was beyond depressing.

He climbed into bed and tried to find a comfortable position. It was impossible. The mattress was stuffed with rocks.

It was going to be a very long night.

Dear Papa,

I am sorry I must disappoint you now, but I cannot disappoint myself—and John—for years. Please tell John that I love him, but as a brother, not a husband, and extend my sincere apologies and regrets to him and his family.

I love you, even though I cannot do your will in this regard.

Grace

There. Grace sanded the letter and stood it up against her pillow where the maid would find it when she came in to wake her. It had been another long, sleepless night, but finally she felt at peace. She’d made her decision. She was leaving. Now, before the sun was up. If she left when it was still dark, no one would see her.

All she had to do was get to The Blue Heron. She had enough pin money left to buy a seat on the stagecoach to London. It wouldn’t be a comfortable trip, but she would manage. She would go to Aunt Kate…if Aunt Kate were in London.

Surely she would be. Though the Weasel must still be at Oxbury House…

But Lord Motton’s house party was over; everyone must have returned to Town. And if Aunt Kate wasn’t in London, Lady Wordham would be. Grace would find
someone
to help her.

She had no choice. She couldn’t marry John. He deserved a woman who would love him with her whole heart, but Papa seemed incapable of understanding that. She wouldn’t put it past him to tie her up and throw her in the carriage to get her to the church. Then her only recourse would be to refuse to say her vows, and she couldn’t do that to John and his family. No, she had to go now.

She put all the money she had as well as her few small pieces of jewelry—to be pawned in only the most desperate circumstances—into her reticule and stuffed it into the pocket of her cloak. Then she blew out the candles and opened the window. There was enough moonlight to see the branch of the big oak tree that grew by her room—and the long way down to the ground.

She hadn’t climbed a tree in years. The worst part was getting out her window, leaving the safe, solid building to swing over to a shaky, swaying branch. Then it was a matter of inching her way carefully backward, feeling for solid footing, untangling her skirts from branches, pushing her hair out of her eyes as the tree plucked her pins out. Thankfully there was no one to observe her awkward escape.

She leaned against the tree trunk for a moment when her feet finally touched the ground and blew out a long breath of relief—as well as a short prayer of thanksgiving. She’d made it safely to earth without killing herself, though she was rather a mess. She picked a few twigs out of her hair and then twisted it into a knot at the back of her neck, marshalling her remaining pins to restrain it as best she could. Next time she had to escape down a tree, she would be sure to add extra hair pins to the contents of her reticule.

A cloud drifted over the moon, plunging her into darkness. Thank God that hadn’t happened a few moments earlier.

She waited for her eyes to adjust, and then started carefully across the lawn. With luck no one would look for her until long after she was gone.

She stumbled in a rabbit hole and almost fell. Damn it! She couldn’t risk turning an ankle.

She slowed her pace. Once she reached the road, the ground would level out and she’d be able to move faster, but for now it paid to be cautious. She would not worry—even at this rate she should reach The Blue Heron in an hour or two, well before the stagecoach pulled in. And then she would leave Standen—her home—for good.

She sniffed. Blast. She couldn’t cry. Papa truly had left her no choice.

She concentrated on picking her way across the lawn.

The sun wasn’t up yet, but he was.

David sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. Enough tossing and turning. He’d go out for a ride, clear the cobwebs from his brain and the cricks from his back. Maybe he’d head toward Standen just to get the lay of the land.

He met Reverend Barnsley in the corridor. They walked together down the stairs.

“Up early, Lord Dawson?”

“Couldn’t sleep. And you? Did you also find your bed a touch lumpy?”

“No, slept like a rock. I’m out to commune with God’s creation—and see if the fish are biting. I left my gear outside—just ran back to get my prayer book.” He grinned. “Forgot it at first.”

“Ah. Good fishing hereabouts?”

“Indeed. I had the great fortune to strike up a conversation with the innkeeper after you went upstairs last night. He said there’s a smashing fishing hole within walking distance. Care to join me?”

David needed to move, not sit. “No, thanks. I’m off for a short ride.”

They stepped outside. There was Barnsley’s pole, leaning against the wall. The reverend nodded and picked up his gear. “Enjoy your ride,” he said and strolled off toward a line of trees.

David headed for the stables. It was cool and damp, with a touch of mist lingering on the ground. He drew in a deep breath. He felt better already.

“Morning, milord.” The stable boy jumped up from the pile of hay he’d been lounging on. “I’ll be getting yer horse—”

“No, thanks. I’ll saddle him myself.”

“As ye wish, milord.”

Zeus nickered a welcome. He seemed eager to get out and stretch his legs. As soon as they reached the road, David gave him his head. They thundered over the ground, the damp wind blowing some of the dark cloud from his soul. He wasn’t hopeful, but he felt less blue-deviled.

He saw a figure trudging toward him—a figure in skirts. The woman looked up—she must have heard Zeus’s hoof beats—and then dashed off into the trees.

Odd. Did she need to answer a sudden call of nature? He would give her her privacy. He rode past at a gallop…and slowed.