Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
This late in the spring, the fair days gave way to chilly nights, but not so chilly as to require a fire in the grate in her bedchamber. There would be one in the kitchen, banked, but easy enough to stir.
Downstairs in the hall, a footman greeted her, and lamps still burned. Her pulse quickened.
“Have the dinner guests left?” she asked.
“A little while ago, my lady. Captain Lynford went out also. Lady Hermione has retired, but his lordship is in the library.”
Footsteps on the stairs startled a squeak out of her. Clive bowed and held up a pair of spectacles.
“Pardon, my lady. His lordship asked me to fetch his reading glasses from his room and bring them to him in the library.”
“A letter arrived a short time ago for him,” the footman assigned as porter said.
“My lady,” Clive said, “are you… pardon me, is there some way I may help you?”
In the few seconds during which the two servants stood trying to hide their curiosity about the trembling that gripped her, Blythe shook her head and squashed the hysterical urge to laugh.
Tonight, her future had been settled by the court’s decision, then unsettled by Lord Vernon’s lack of punishment, and now unsettled even more.
Graeme had promised to help her. She’d carried the dishonorable burden of destroying one copy of the will. Once was enough.
Clive bowed again, preparing to pass.
“Wait, Clive,” she said. “I’ll bring those to his lordship.”
Concern creased his brow but he handed the spectacles over, and she made her way to the ground floor room with a strange sensation sweeping through her.
Relief. Though why she should feel that now she had no idea.
She found Graeme standing by the hearth where a low fire eked out warmth, one hand braced against the mantel.
He hadn’t heard her enter, and she stood for a moment watching him.
The young boy he’d been had grown into a powerful man, considerate, determined, perhaps even wise.
The impeccable manners came from those qualities.
Even as a younger man, he’d thought before indulging in carelessness and yet he wasn’t a moralizing pedant.
He must have sensed her presence because he looked up and his face cleared. “Blythe,” he said.
“I’ve brought your spectacles.” She held the item up and moved closer. “You will want to put them on. I’ve been going through the things Lunetta sent.”
He accepted the glasses from her and then captured her shaking hand.
“You’re cold,” he said. “And shaking like a leaf. And so pale. Come closer to the fire.”
She shook her head. The fire was too tempting. “There’s a shawl on the chair by the window.”
He went to retrieve it and tenderly draped it around her shoulders.
“What have you brought?”
She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I suppose… I suppose one might consider this Maddy’s dowry. Here.” She shoved the papers at him and, relieved of temptation, went to take one of the chairs by the hearth and stare into the smoldering coal.
Silence followed. Not even the paper rustled. Certainly, Graeme was too much of a diplomat to offer a surprised gasp.
Long minutes passed and when she looked up, she saw that he had seated himself in the chair across from her, his head bent, reading every line carefully, his frown set in stone.
The droop of his loosened neckcloth clashed with the tautness of his demeanor, and a frisson of desire shot through her.
She pushed it down. Even in spectacles, he was appealing; he would make for the sort of challenging lover ladies whispered about.
But he wasn’t for her. She’d had a challenging husband, one who’d made her feel desire—for a brief time anyway—until she’d seen what a fool he truly was.
When he reached the last page, he set the paper aside and walked away, returning with two glasses of brandy. He set one by the document on the table next to him.
“A message came saying that Lunetta has died,” he said. “She sent along Maddy’s other dowry, some stocks and notes, as well as the child’s birth certificate. Thornsby has sailed for Italy. Not a good enough friend to stay to the end. The flat was, after all, Lunetta’s, not Thornsby’s.”
Unable to find words for the unbearable sadness, she nodded.
He lifted her hand and closed her fingers around the glass. “Just take a sip,” he said. “Please.”
The warmth of the spirits seeped into her and through her, and then she set the drink aside. When he touched his lips to her forehead, she shut her eyes tight on incipient tears.
When she opened them, he was standing before the hearth, the document in one hand, his brandy in the other. He shrugged, tossed the will onto the coals, and then splashed the remains of his brandy upon it.
She jumped to her feet, more speechless than ever.
Graeme watched the flames leaping, shriveling, turning the noxious document to embers as black as the souls of the men who’d created it and signed it. Lord Vernon, Diddenton, Sir Morris, and worst of all his cousin, Archie.
What sort of man took a woman to wife and treated her like the doxies he hired to whip?
In all the excitement of the day, Blythe might not remember the conversation that took place in Lunetta’s parlor, but he did. That conversation and the few facts parsed together from Blythe’s reaction to their morning visit to Soho, and Coralie’s story days earlier, told him everything.
Could he help her heal? Would she let him?
He looked up to find her standing next to him, hands twisted at her waist.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I would never have thought…” She took a deep breath. “I would not have this on your conscience.”
“My conscience?” he said.
“Yes. You are a good man, Graeme. Your honor—”
“Is perfectly in order. What is dishonorable is those pieces of parchment shriveling there.” He took her hands. “I told you I would share this burden. You did the right thing to bring that to me. It gives me hope.”
Her mouth dropped open, but no words came out, so he went on.
“Hope. Yes. Hope that despite my mistakes, despite everything that has gone before, that you might—”
She set a finger over his lips, and desire stirred in him. He ought to take her finger into his mouth, to suck on it in hopes of stirring similar feelings in her.
Instead, he took her hand away. “I am going to court you,” he said, “properly. Whether you want me to or not.”
She stood just watching him.
“Not seduce you. Not force you. Court you. I hope that you will remain here in London. With Lady Hermione as our chaperone, we’ll attend social events.
We’ll go to the theater. We’ll host guests.
During the day, I’ll see to business—the business of Chilcombe as well as government business—while you correspond with young Mr. Stockwell regarding matters at Bluebelle Lodge.
When the season ends, I’ll escort you and the children to Bluebelle Lodge, and I’ll go on to Risley Manor.
I’ll invite neighbors there and would very much like you to serve as my hostess.
Together, and with the support of Mr. Jarrow, we’ll tackle the local society.
You’ll have time, Blythe. Time to get to know me, to decide what you want, and I hope, to grow to love me as much as I love you. ”
More moisture pooled in her eyes and she swallowed, but still remained silent.
“What say you?” he asked gently.
She nodded and expelled a breath. “All right.”
“We’ll be family, Blythe, as well as neighbors. We won’t be lovers until we marry.” He bit his lip. “Much as I desire you now.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “I would not spoil things, Graeme, for some young lady who—”
“No young ladies for me.” He managed a smile. “I want the ancient Blythe Blatchfield.”
“Ancient?” She pulled her shoulders back and blinked, and then a smile bloomed.
“An October wedding?” he asked, “Or ought we to wait until Christmas?”
“Graeme.”
“Surely your hair will not be gray by then?”
She scoffed and swatted him. And then she let him kiss her quite thoroughly.