Saving Grace (12 page)

“Foolish woman,” Lord Sutherland muttered under his breath. Then, in an urgent whisper when they drew close again, he added, “It is the only hope I see of saving your reputation. You must claim illness and retire to your room at once. Tomorrow, first thing, return home.”

“How will that change a thing?” Grace suspected that he wanted her to leave for other reasons as well, but aside from his reputation, she couldn’t fathom what they might be.

“When you’re gone, I’ll do my best to refute the rumors. I’ll let it be known what really happened that night.”

“And you believe that will change matters?” Grace could scarce believe his naiveté.

He nodded. They parted to rotate round the set again. Grace moved stiffly through the other partners, steeling herself against both curious and cold looks directed her way. When she returned to be Lord Sutherland’s match, it was almost with relief.

“I’ll let it be known,” he said, “that while a guest in my house, and as a very ill young woman, you wandered out of your bed and tripped. You fell and tore your nightdress. And I, in the presence of servants, carried you back to bed.” His hand caught her waist, and they turned around.

“But that isn’t what happened,” she whispered.

“
Nor
did what is being spoken about now,” he said. “Which half-truth would you rather claim? Goodness, woman, it’s almost as if you want to be ruined.”

If you only knew,
she thought and felt grateful that he did not. She could well imagine his fury were her plot to be discovered. At the least he’d think her mad.

“It would have been better if you’d stayed at my side to concur and then to take your leave without dancing,” he said. “But as you’ve danced with Preston, and since he’s watching your every move with intent, we’ve no choice but to have you leave now.”

We’ve?
When had they formed an alliance? And Mr. Preston was watching her —
with intent?
Grace glanced his direction and caught his eye. Something akin to hope flickered inside her. She looked away, tamping the happy feeling down. After tonight she would never see Mr. Preston again. There was no reason to hope for anything regarding him other than that no harm came to him because she’d been his guest.

“The dance will end,” Lord Sutherland said. “We’ll make our way to Preston, and you’ll make your excuses.”

She bristled against his commanding tone and turned her head away before he could finish. He caught her a little too quickly when they came forward next.

“Preston will summon a servant to take you to your room,” he continued. “After you’ve left, I’ll suggest that a physician be called and let it be known how ill you’ve been. At least you’ve had the presence of mind to stay in your room the last two days. That should help.”

She didn’t believe for a minute that it would. Lord or not, the man was obviously unaware of the delicacies involving a lady’s reputation. Even
he
could not have that much sway around here.

Could he?

Grace dismissed the twinge of uncertainty.
Lord Sutherland will not disturb my plan. He’ll not threaten my peace.
As she wove through the set, the walls spun for a moment, and she felt beads of sweat upon her brow. The room was crowded and warm. She was doing too much; she
was
unwell. Retreating to the safety and rest of her room did sound lovely.

I cannot.

“— a worse scandal if you dance with anyone else,” Lord Sutherland was saying as she joined him again. She grasped onto his words, determined to dance with as many different partners as she could tonight.
To seal my disgrace most thoroughly.

But first she needed a drink and another peppermint, a moment or two with her fan. The dance was overheating her terribly; it was becoming difficult to breathe. Any second now, she would find herself coughing again.

Grace considered asking Lord Sutherland to accompany her out on the balcony. It would give the gossips plenty to talk about, and the cool air might restore her enough that she could continue on. Just now, feeling as ill as she did, she wasn’t at all certain she could.

The quartet struck a final note, and it was all Grace could do not to sag against Lord Sutherland with relief.

“Good. You look ill,” he said, staring down at her, revulsion upon his face.

Grace felt the sting of insult. For all the pains she’d taken with her appearance, he’d found nothing in her the least desirable or worthy of praise.

Nor do I wish him to
, she silently scolded herself.
But to be told I look poorly
…

He steered her toward Mr. Preston, and she hadn’t the strength to do more than protest his grip on her arm. “You are hurting me,” she said loud enough that several heads nearby turned.

“You’re unwell again,” Lord Sutherland proclaimed, his voice equally loud. “We must get you to bed —” His mouth snapped shut, and he had the audacity to look abashed as the closest women shot looks of horror in their direction.

Had she not felt so ill, and had she not been the recipient of horrified stares, Grace might have laughed. Instead she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. “A poor choice of words, milord,” she couldn’t resist saying when they’d moved past the crush of disapproving glares.

“It was. My apology.”

His words took her off guard, as did the wave of black that blurred her vision when she tilted her head to look up at him. Grace’s arm fell limp at her side, and her knees buckled as she heard Mr. Preston’s exclamation.

“What have you done to her?”

Lord Sutherland’s answer and the room were lost as she fell backward and her mind succumbed to the dark.

“What have you done?” Preston repeated, his voice ringing with accusation.

“Nothing. She’s fainted, is all.” Nicholas looked down at Miss Thatcher, wilted in his arms like a neglected garden flower. He’d only just managed to catch her. “Get back,” he barked at the encroaching crowd. “Give her some air.”

It was hot — stifling — suddenly. If he’d had a free hand, he would have been tugging at his cravat. Those nearest when Miss Thatcher had collapsed moved in, crushing the space around them to almost nothing.

Nicholas glanced at the floor — a poor place to lay Miss Thatcher, yet there wasn’t a closer alternative. He looked over the heads of those around him. Chairs were scattered about the ballroom, but nothing more substantial. Obviously, guests were not expected to faint.

But Miss Thatcher was not just any guest. She was here at Preston’s particular invitation, Nicholas remembered as Preston pushed his way forward and tried to take her from him.

“Leave off,” Nicholas ordered. “You think pulling on her will cause her to wake? Someone get smelling salts.”

A few ladies left, but most of the crowd drew closer. By now, word of the crisis had traveled across the room, and the musicians ceased playing. Those who had been dancing were closing in too, eager to see what had caused the stir.

“I only meant to take Miss Thatcher upstairs,” Preston said, leveling a gaze upon Nicholas. “Her maid can attend to her in her room. We can summon a physician as well, if necessary.”

“
Now
you’ll summon a physician?” Nicholas bit out.
Miss Thatcher is more deserving than my sister was?
Were his hands free, he would have punched Preston. With Miss Thatcher in his arms, he had no choice but to control his temper.

“Yes, if that is what you suggest,” Preston said. “Let’s get Miss Thatcher out of the ballroom first. She’s been unwell since her arrival. She should rest.”

Precisely the plan Nicholas had outlined to her not five minutes earlier, but he found himself at odds with the idea — or with the one presenting it, at least.

“Here are the salts! Let me through. I’ve got the salts.” A stout, gray-haired woman, who wore a gown that closely resembled a peacock’s tail, waved a bottle over her head and made her way through to them. Nicholas recognized her as Lady Ellis, a neighbor to the north, and one of the more prolific gossips in the county.

Of course she’d find a way to the center of things.

“Thank you,” Preston said before Nicholas could tell her to go away. Preston opened the bottle and held it beneath Miss Thatcher’s nose. For several seconds, she did nothing. Then at once she stirred, turning her head aside as if the odor pained her. She began to cough and burrowed her face into Nicholas’s chest.

Worse by the minute.
Nicholas fumed inwardly, wishing he’d never set foot in Preston’s house but left Miss Thatcher alone to manage her own troubles. But when he looked upon his charge and she struggled to breathe, an unexpected surge of protectiveness caught him off guard. He tilted her up. “Get some water.”

“Miss Thatcher.” Preston patted her cheek.

Nicholas pulled back, moving her out of reach. “Slapping her won’t help her breathe,” he said, knowing perfectly well his neighbor’s intent.

“She’s burning up,” Preston said. “We’ve got to get her upstairs.”

“No.” At Nicholas’s edict, heads snapped to attention. “No,” he said more quietly, though no less stern. “She’s coming with me.”

Preston stepped forward and placed a hand on Miss Thatcher’s arm. “She is a guest in my home and, therefore, my responsibility.”

Nicholas shook his head, the old hatred flaring to life at words he’d heard before.

In this very house. From Preston.

Elizabeth should not have been Preston’s responsibility
.
Miss Thatcher could not be Preston’s responsibility.

“No,” Nicholas repeated, his voice even softer, more deadly. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. His eyes locked on Preston’s. “The last time I left a woman in your care, she died.” A flood of gasps rippled across the room. Preston looked as if he had been struck, but quickly he straightened and withdrew his hand from Miss Thatcher’s arm.

“You’ve had your chance,” Nicholas said. “She comes with me.”

Nicholas reached forward, rapping on the front wall of the carriage. “Take care!” he shouted to the driver above.

In answer, the landau seemed to rock even more, making it difficult to keep Miss Thatcher safely upon the seat. The road was poor here — mostly his fault, as he’d failed to maintain his portion of the once well-traveled thoroughfare between Preston’s estate and his own.

Miss Thatcher moaned faintly, as if the motion pained her, but her eyes remained closed, her limbs limp on the seat beside him. Nicholas did his best to keep her balanced there, as comfortable as possible. He hadn’t planned on having a passenger for his return ride, especially one so ill as to not be coherent.

“A poor choice,” he mumbled, referring to far more than the badly maintained road. He looked over at Miss Thatcher, her face barely visible in the moonlight filtering through the window. He still couldn’t believe she was here with him, on her way to Sutherland Hall, and that he’d taken her so boldly from Preston.

If it had been anywhere or anyone else ...
It wouldn’t have mattered. He could have left her there, could have walked away, any guilt over her situation absolved. But to leave Miss Thatcher there tonight might have been a death sentence. What were the chances that Preston really would have summoned a physician?

And if he had … At the least allowing Miss Thatcher to remain in Preston’s care would have been giving Preston what he wanted.

Thwarting Preston’s desires had been a reason for taking her too. Nicholas wasn’t certain which motivation for taking her had been greater. Did he truly care about Miss Thatcher’s health? Or had the opportunity to take something — or someone — from Preston been too great to resist?

Does it matter?
He wasted no more time examining his motives. Whatever they were, Miss Thatcher was sure to benefit. She’d be well cared for at Sutherland Hall. He’d have to see to that now. Holding her in his arms after she’d fainted, and taking her alone in his carriage ensured there would be no repairing the damage to her reputation. No, he would have to see that she was provided for. He wondered absently if she wouldn’t mind going to Scotland. It might be far enough away that she could start anew. He could set her up in a little cottage there and forget the whole incident.