Saving Grace (31 page)

Grace lowered her hands, but her ire did not dissipate. “I still hold you to your promise, and you be quick about it now. I must know that Helen is safe and that Father has not sold her off to some beast of a man.”

Samuel chuckled. “That might depend upon your definition of a beast.”

Grace felt her eyes widen. “You’ve more news, haven’t you? What has he done?”

“Calm yourself,” Samuel said, reaching for her and claiming her hand in his, then twining their fingers together. His expression grew serious as they stared at each other across the fence. “Your sister and brother are both well. They are safe. I assure you of this. I have seen them myself.”

Grace willed her heart to stop pounding.
Helen is safe. Miranda and Harrison are
near.

“I did not mean to keep them from you,” Samuel said. “This is not meant to be a game. When your servants explained the situation and shared their concern for both your welfare and your sister’s, I had your father bring your siblings to my estate almost two months ago. They are currently residing in my guest house. Miranda and Harrison are seeing to their needs.”

Grace opened her mouth, but no words came out. A knot of unexpected gratitude and overwhelming relief caught in her throat.

“After all that was settled, I wrote the letter and sent your father to Nicholas — perhaps my only mistake in this whole ordeal — though I hope it is one that can yet be corrected.” He paused, searching her face. “You need only request it.”

Grace’s heart continued its quickened beat, and she took deep breaths, trying to calm the tumult of emotions washing over her in waves. Her family was safe and close by. Samuel had seen to that and had been watching over her as well for weeks.

Why? Why had he proceeded this way? Why wasn’t she at his house with the others?

Why have Helen’s letters appeared to be sent from home and all but begged me to stay at Lord Sutherland’s?
None of it made any sense.

How much simpler things might have been if I had never left Samuel’s house that fated night. How much simpler they might be now.

Grace could go with him while Lord Sutherland was away in London, and everything could be taken care of before his return.

Everything and nothing would be taken care of. I should rather have the difficulties I face now than repay his kindness in that way.

“Thank you for caring for my family,” Grace said when finally she trusted herself to speak. “Thank you so very much, Samuel. I am forever in your debt.”

As am I deeply hurt by your actions.
Her eyes clouded with tears. It seemed all she could do lately was cry.

“You are welcome. It has been my great pleasure to care for a damsel in distress.” He brushed a tear from her cheek, then trailed his fingers down her face with the gentlest touch. Grace reached up and took his hand, pressing it to her cheek. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to savor his touch, this moment.

That is all it can be
. When she opened her eyes, his face was very near, his look searching.

He cleared his throat, as if to rid it of a constriction. “Those berries will grow mushy if they sit too long.”

Grace glanced at the forgotten pail.
The dowager’s tart.

The temptation to make the request was great.
Take me with you. Today. Now.
She had only to utter the words but felt an undeniable force holding her back on this side of the fence.

“Do you think —” Her voice trembled. She withdrew her hands from Samuel’s. “That the dowager will like her pie?”

He nodded, and his smile — the sad, wistful one — returned.

“I daresay she will like it very much.”

Rain fell in sheets as the landau rolled to a stop in front of the house. A moment later, the carriage door opened, and Nicholas stepped out, expecting the muddy mess he’d encountered the last time he’d returned home. Instead, his traveling boots landed on fresh-laid gravel, a welcome change. He’d forgotten he’d ordered it the week before.

His eyes left the weed-free drive and traveled up the front steps to the newly painted doors and iron rail. Even the knocker appeared to have a fresh shine to it, which glowed through the downpour, and Nicholas felt a moment of satisfaction at coming home to a place of order. His satisfaction grew as he made his way toward the entrance and a movement at the window above caught his eye. He tilted his head back and received a face full of rain for his effort.

He also caught sight of Miss Thatcher a split second before she disappeared and the curtains fell into place.

Eager to see me and hear news of her inheritance? Or avoiding me already?
When she did not reappear, Nicholas assumed the latter. His coat nearly soaked through, he hurried toward the door.
Always raining when I come home. Maybe a sign I shouldn’t come at all.
He stomped up the steps, feeling inexplicably upset.

Why should I care if she wishes to avoid me?
A loud clap of thunder echoed his mood.
What reason have I given her to want my company?

Save for the pleasant day they had spent visiting tenants a week earlier, he could think of none.

The door swung open, and Kingsley appeared, towel draped over one arm, the other extended to take his hat. “Lord Sutherland, your return is earlier than we expected.”

“I trust you have not given my bed away this time.” Nicholas stepped onto the rug, taking care with his boots so as not to make more work for Mrs. James.

“No, milord.” Kingsley’s mouth twitched. “One spirited young lady in residence is quite enough.”

“Oh?” Nicholas arched a brow and removed his drenched hat. “What has she done now?”

“I think it best if she explains,” Kingsley said. “Only if I may say —”

“Please do,” Nicholas said.
What disaster awaits?

“Be gentle with her,” Kingsley said. “Cook has near had Miss Thatcher’s head on a platter already, and —” He broke off again, as the subject of their conversation came bounding down the stairs.

Nicholas knew the second Grace caught sight of him, as her steps hesitated, then resumed at a slower pace. But she did not turn and flee. Instead, she looked directly at him as she descended. One of her rare smiles blossomed on her face, and Nicholas found himself returning it. This was the same sort of smile she’d worn the day they’d visited the estate; it meant she was pleased about something.

He’d seen a similar look before from Elizabeth when she, too, came racing down those stairs to greet Preston. Nicholas remembered the surge of jealousy he’d felt on those occasions, the way he’d resented Preston for breaking up their family. He’d not understood Elizabeth’s fascination with the man — he still didn’t.

But beneath Grace’s warm smile and almost affectionate gaze, Nicholas suddenly understood what it was to feel welcomed by a beautiful young woman. He could no longer entirely fault Preston for being unable to resist his sister’s enticements. A twinge of something close to understanding flickered to life deep in his soul as he and Grace stood there, gazing at each other as if truly seeing for the first time.

She was not avoiding me.
He felt his grin broaden, and his mood buoyed, even though she was only interested likely in the results of his meeting with her solicitor.
She will not care to see me after I share them.

He handed his hat to Kingsley, then crossed the hall, heedless of his dripping coat. Grace waited on the last stair, her hand curved over the newel post.

“You’re home early.” She sounded a little out of breath, and Nicholas wondered if her run down the stairs had winded her. She needed to take care with her health, fragile as it was since the pneumonia. It wouldn’t do for her to be ill now — not when he’d discovered that she could be tolerable.

And with the news I bring from London
.

“My business did not require as many days as I had anticipated.” To his own ears, he sounded brusque, angry even, yet he was not. Again, Nicholas silently cursed Preston and the past three years of bitter living that seemed to have rendered him incapable of pleasant speech.

Grace did not inquire after his meeting but surprised him further. “I am glad you are returned.”

“Have you been well?” he asked, attempting niceties while searching her face for any sign that she’d been ill. She looked healthy, her cheeks no longer pale, her eyes clear and bright.

Perhaps too bright
, he thought, recalling Kingsley’s twitching mouth.
What has been afoot while I was away?

“I have been lonely,” she said, a catch in her voice.

Her admission was unexpected and touched him deeply. He broke their gaze, feeling guilty for having left her to go to London.

Absurd. I went for her.

“My mother was not sufficient company?”

Grace’s smile fled. “She will, at present, not speak with me at all. Nor will she allow my attendance at meals. I have been ordered these past two days to dine in my room.”

What now, indeed.
Nicholas crossed his arm in front of him and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, only then remembering his dripping coat. There was a story here, and he wasn’t at all certain he wished to hear it. Though no doubt he would — twice. He turned to find Kingsley directly behind him, towel still draped over his arm. Nicholas shrugged out of his coat and accepted the towel.

“Thank you, Kingsley. That is all. Actually, no. Please tell the kitchen staff that there will be three for dinner in the dining room this evening.”

“At once.” Kingsley gave a brief bow and left the foyer.

“I am not certain that is wise,” Grace said, her eyes flickering downward to the puddle he’d dripped onto the floor.

“You assume you are to be one of those three?” Nicholas asked, annoyed with himself that he’d already made a move in her favor when he didn’t yet know what her offense had been. He dried his face, and then his gaze returned to hers, and he noted with pleasure how fine she appeared this afternoon. He’d not seen this dress before — a pink creation that brought out the blush staining her cheeks and the highlights in her chestnut hair.

“I do assume you meant me.” Her chin rose, and from the stair on which she stood, her eyes were nearly level with his. “Unless, of course, you have decided to invite your closest neighbor to dine with you.”

Nicholas scowled, his mood taking yet another turn, this one likely irrevocable for some hours. “If you think it amusing to bring Samuel Preston into our conversation — into
any
conversation in this house — you are sorely mistaken. Is that what you have done to upset my mother?”

“No.” Grace remained where she was, but Nicholas noted the way her fingers clenched and unclenched. “I did nothing but pick berries and make a pie for her.”

“A pie?” A burst of incredulous laughter escaped. He’d been wrong. Miss Thatcher’s latest tale of mischief might yet save him from his temper. “You baked a pie? Downstairs in the kitchen?”

Grace nodded slowly. She gave a resigned little sigh. “You will say it was wrong too, I suppose. Your cook was most insistent that I should not even be below stairs. When I dared to light her oven, she acted as if I’d committed the gravest of sins.” Her shoulders sagged, and with another sigh, some of her indomitable spirit seemed to seep away.

“I don’t know about that,” Nicholas said, wanting to rescue her from — what?

The feeling that she has disappointed me? From Mother? From this world so demanding and different from hers?

“I think, perhaps, that I shall have to reserve judgment until I have tasted a piece of your pie. Only then will I know if it was worth the cost.”

“It didn’t require much at all to make it,” she said. “The berries were on your property, at the edge of the garden. The last of the season, to be sure. I was fortunate to discover them.”

“It is not money I speak of,” Nicholas said, wondering how long it would take for her to realize that he spoke the truth, that the Sutherland estate and holdings were well secured and financially fit. “You may eat pie every day if you wish. The monetary cost is of no consequence. It is the cost to you
socially
that I speak of.”

He stepped closer, taking her hand and turning it over to look at her fingers. “These appear well now, but I am guessing they were — perhaps two days ago — stained with berry juice.”

“A little,” she confessed, a hint of her former smile returning. “But my hands do not appear well now either. They have not for many years, having spent too many seasons immersed in water and wrapped around a bar of lye. I have tried softening them, but the scarring and calluses will not leave.”

She was right. Thin white lines crisscrossed her knuckles, where they had caught on a washboard, perhaps. The tips of her fingers were callused. But her slender fingers fit nicely in his, as they had on the night of the ball and on the day they visited tenants. Her touch both unnerved and comforted him. It was something he could get used to if he were not very careful. “Did you spoil a gown, as well?”

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I wore my very oldest dress — one I’d made over from one of Mother’s years and years ago. The perfect dress for picking berries.”