Sweet Surrender (22 page)

She staggered to a halt and spun to face the Abbey.  The sun was off in the west, casting shadows on the walls, the bricks glowing a creamy peach color.  The mansion could have been a prince’s castle, like a palace in a fairytale.

She didn’t belong in such a place and never would.

Jackson was a cad and libertine.  That fact wasn’t in dispute.  While she’d been pining away, eager to tell him that she was madly in love for the very first time, he hadn’t been similarly afflicted.  No, he’d been hugging a great beauty in a very public spot where Grace would be guaranteed to see.

Why was she surprised?  Why was she devastated?  She
knew
what he was like, but she’d had carnal relations with him anyway.  She’d set herself up for disaster.  Didn’t she deserve what had happened?

She started back to the house, walking slowly, getting her bearings.  How was she to proceed?  She’d been reckless and had jeopardized Michael’s chance to make a good impression.

What if the woman was Jackson’s fiancée?  Grace possessed very little personal information about him.  He could be engaged, and she wouldn’t have any idea.  If he was betrothed, she could hardly remain at Milton Abbey. 

She’d grown so complacent that she’d tossed away her security—she’d tossed away Eleanor’s and Michael’s, too—with scarcely a thought to the consequences.

Well, she was thinking of them now.  First and foremost, she had to avoid Jackson Scott until she could gain her equilibrium.  They’d been acquainted for such a brief period, and their intense association had turned her into a blithering idiot.  She’d thoroughly disgraced herself, and there was no denying that she was dishonored.

She had to regroup and reassess.  She had to conclude her business with him, reach an accord for Michael, then leave.  It was the only answer.

She approached the verandah, and as she climbed the steps, Duncan Dane was sitting at a table, drinking wine and smoking a cheroot.

He waved her over, and she hesitated, then joined him.  In her current mood, she was in no condition to chat, but she couldn’t act as if she hadn’t seen him.

"Hello, Mr. Dane."

She eased herself into a chair as he studied her curiously.  There was another glass on the table, and he poured wine into it and pushed it toward her.

"Have a drink," he said.  "You definitely need it."

She snorted.  "Do I look that bad?"

"Yes.  What’s happened?  Nothing horrid, I hope."

"No, nothing horrid," she lied, and she glanced away.  "I was doctoring.  I’m tired."

She rarely imbibed of spirits, but her hands were shaking.  She picked up the glass and gulped several deep swallows that calmed her.

"You must call me Duncan," he insisted.  "You used to."

"That was back when I had to pretend to like you for Edward’s sake."

"Ooh, you have a wicked tongue."  He scowled.  "You should be nicer to me.  I believe you about Michael.  I can help you to convince Jackson."

"I don’t need you to convince, Mr. Scott."

"I might have agreed with you yesterday, but Beatrice is here."

"His mother?"

"Yes, with Percival and his mother, Susan."

"I didn’t know," she murmured. 

"Why would you be informed?  In their eyes, you’re scant more than a servant.  No one would think to apprise you."

She understood her lowly status, and typically, she wouldn’t be upset by the remark.  But in light of her conduct with Jackson, the comment was incredibly galling.  She could have been a poor scullery maid who—when promised a penny—lifted her skirt for the lord of the manor.  Yet she hadn’t even received the penny!

Her cheeks flushed bright red.  "Would you suppose Beatrice Scott has been told about Michael?"

"I’m sure she has.  She’s a nosy, meddling shrew who is immediately notified of the smallest occurrence, which is why you should be nicer to me."

"Why would it matter?"

"Because I grew up in this house, so I have some notion of what you’re facing.  You don’t have a clue."

"What do you mean?"

"She’s treacherous and cunning.  In your dealings with her, you should beware."

"I’m no shrinking violet myself."

"No, you’re not."  He sipped his wine, appraising her as if it was all a big joke, as if the whole situation with Michael was funny.  "Before she arrived, you might have persuaded Jackson, but now that she’s in residence, you never will."

"Michael is Edward’s son."

"So?  Who cares?  I’ve lived around these rich families all my life.  Even though Jackson has been gone for over a decade, he won’t break ranks with his own kind, and Beatrice is a master at manipulation.  Ultimately, he’ll consent to whatever she tells him."  He leaned nearer.  "Beatrice will never admit that her precious Edward married Georgina or sired Michael."

"You know the truth."

Duncan shrugged.  "She’s always said I’m a fool and a liar.  How could my opinion have any sway with her?"

"A fool
and
a liar?"  Grace chuckled.  "I guess she has you pegged."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"You mentioned that Susan Scott is here, too," Grace tepidly ventured.

"Yes, she is."

"What does she look like?"

"Very beautiful, but in an icy way."

"White blond hair?  Striking blue eyes?"

"Yes, that’s her.  I’d beware of her, too, if I were you."

Grace didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself from inquiring.

"Has Mr. Scott known her long?"

"Since they were children."

"Were they ever…close?"

"Close?  They were engaged for years; he was smitten in an absurd fashion."

Grace felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath, as if there wasn’t enough air in the sky.

"Why didn’t they wed?"

"Beatrice decided Susan’s dowry and ancestry made her the ideal bride for Edward instead.  She insisted on the match, and Edward never could stand up to her.  He finally relented and proposed."

Grace frowned.  "But Susan was betrothed to Mr. Scott."

"Precisely." 

"How terribly unfaithful and cruel," Grace mused.

"Jackson certainly thought so."  Duncan nodded, his expression indicating that he could count all the skeletons in their closet.  "It’s what drove him out of England.  He couldn’t bear to stay and watch the marriage unfold."

"He must have loved her very, very much," Grace sickeningly muttered.

"More than his life, he used to claim.  Of course, I always told him he was being ridiculous.  No woman is worth that sort of fervor."

"Spoken like a true romantic, Mr. Dane."  She stared down at her hands, pondering, fretting.  "Is it possible he might still care for her?"

"In the crazed manner he did as a boy?  No."

"But…in a different way?"

"They’re older now, and there’s all the money and property involved.  Like I said, these rich people aren’t like you and me.  Jackson and his mother would deem it perfectly appropriate for him to wed Susan.  It would keep everything in the family.  I believe Susan and Beatrice have already discussed it." 

Grace bit down a gasp.  "He doesn’t love her anymore, though."

"No, but with these folks, love doesn’t factor into a marriage.  It’s all about wealth and titles and land."  He lit another cheroot, puffed at it.  "If he shackled himself to her, the ending would be very tidy, don’t you see?"

"Oh, yes," Grace mumbled.  "I definitely see."

She pushed back her chair and lurched away. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Your sister is insane."

"Why would you say so?"

"She allows you to ride off with me, and she doesn’t even care."

Eleanor grinned over at Duncan.

They were out on horseback again, at the edge of the estate and headed for the secluded bower he’d previously shown her.  It was a warm and sunny afternoon, and this time, they’d brought a picnic basket of food, wine, and a soft blanket.

"I didn’t tell her I was going with you."

"Good, because she’d likely have me…well…"

"Well, what?"

"She might injure me in a way that a girl like you oughtn’t to know about."

"You mean she might cut off your privates?"

"Yes, that’s precisely what I mean."

His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she laughed and laughed.  He viewed himself as a cad, the type who would take any horrid liberty, but he was flummoxed by his feelings that he should protect her from herself.

But Grace was back at the Abbey, and Eleanor was alone with the man of her dreams.  There was no one to monitor her behavior, and she certainly wasn’t about to let Duncan act as her conscience.

"Is your sister all right?" he asked as they reined in and set about dismounting.

"As all right as she ever is.  Why?"

"I spoke with her yesterday.  She seemed distraught."

"She’s been fighting with Mr. Scott."

"About what?"

"About Michael and Georgina and how it will all play out."

They started through the trees to the grassy area by the pool.

"Jackson’s mother arrived," Duncan said as he dropped the picnic basket on the ground.

"I heard.  That might be why they were quarreling.  I guess Mr. Scott sent Grace a note, ordering her to cower in her room so his mother wouldn’t see her roaming the halls like a beggar."

"I don’t imagine Grace took it very well."

"She didn’t.  She detests snobbery and conceit.  She has very modern ideas; she believes everyone should be equal."

He gave a mock shudder.  "What a disturbing notion.  If everyone were equal, how would we recognize our betters when we stumbled on them?"

"And," Eleanor countered, "how would we recognize those who are beneath us?  We couldn’t command others to polish our floors or wash our clothes."

She spread the blanket, then plopped down.  Without waiting for his assistance, she removed her shoes and rolled down her stockings.  She felt scandalous and loose, and once her toes were bare, her skirt hefted to her knees, she patted the spot next to her.

"Sit, you silly man.  I don’t bite."

"You could."

"Honestly, Duncan, you could be my fussy older brother.  If I’d wanted a chaperone, I’d have asked a maid to accompany me."

Grudgingly, he plopped down, too, and poured them some wine.

"When Jackson sent Grace that note," Duncan pointed out, "he was probably being cautious.  He’d need to prepare his mother before he gives her the shock of her life.  If he hadn’t told her about Michael yet, and she bumped into him by accident, she might suffer an apoplexy."

"That’s what I said, but Grace thought he had a worse motive for keeping us hidden."

"What sort of motive?"

"Oh, that he and his mother might devise a dastardly conclusion for us.  We’d be hustled out of the Abbey in the middle of the night—with no one aware that we’d vanished."  She gazed over at him.  "Would he do that to us?"

Duncan shrugged.  "I haven’t seen him in ten years.  I couldn’t begin to predict how he’ll behave."

"What about when you knew him before?  When you were boys?"

"He was wild and crazy and reckless."

"Were you that way, too?"

"Yes."

"Are you still?"

He frowned.  "I assumed so, but anymore, I’m not sure."

"If they make us leave, I don’t want to go with Grace."

"What do you want to do?"

She reached up and slowly pulled the combs from her hair, her pretty brown locks tumbling down her back.  She shook her head so the lengthy tresses spread across her shoulders and arms, and she unbuttoned a few buttons at the front of her dress to expose some cleavage.  As she’d intended, his attention was riveted on her bosom.

"Would you take me to London with you?" she baldly inquired.

"To London!  Absolutely not."

"Why?  I would be the best companion."

"I’m fabulously rich and single and I live in a mansion where I constantly entertain my shady friends.  I have more mistresses than I can count, and I refuse to have a schoolgirl interrupting all my fun."

"You could marry me.  Then it would be all right for us to be together."

He’d just swallowed a drink of wine, and on hearing her comment, he coughed and sputtered and pounded a fist on his chest.

"Marry you!"

"Yes, bachelors do it all the time."

"Not
this
bachelor."

"It wouldn’t kill you."

"It might."  He scowled and yanked his eyes from her breasts.  "Look, if that’s what you’re expecting—that I’ll ruin you and beg you to wed—you are chasing after the wrong fellow."