Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
T he cold autumn air enveloped Grace as she stepped onto the terrace, the sounds of the ball muffled by the heavy curtains she had slipped past. The stone balustrade was cold beneath her fingers, a blessed reprieve from the heat and press of the crowded ballroom. She exhaled slowly, her breath curling into the chilly air.
When Grace had first spotted Carew across the glittering expanse of the ballroom, everything had faded into the background as her gaze locked on his tall, commanding figure. Thank goodness she had not been dancing or she would have faltered. He’d stood near the entrance, his dark coat impeccably tailored, while his blue eyes scanned the room with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the shimmering haze of candlelight and silk.
Her first reaction was disbelief—it had to be a mirage. Yet there he was, looking every inch the enigmatic lord she had tried so hard to forget. His presence was undeniable, a magnetism that seemed to draw her attention no matter how fiercely she willed herself to look away.
Conflicting emotions flooded her chest, each one vying for dominance. There was joy at the sight of him—whole, hale, and here—but it was swiftly tempered by the ache of hurt, the memory of his dismissal, his insistence that she find someone ‘worthy’. Anger simmered beneath the surface, though it was directed as much at herself as at him. Would his presence always have the power to unmoor her?
It had felt like Moses parting the Red Sea as he’d walked towards her and solicited her hand.
Unfortunately, she had been unprepared and had reacted poorly. What had she done? It was everything she had hoped for this past month, yet she had fled the ballroom as soon as the waltz ended. She was too disturbed by the maelstrom of emotions that had surfaced during their conversation. He’d spoken every word she’d longed to hear, so why did she mistrust them?
Despite Grace’s wish to flee, she could not spoil the evening for Maeve and Joy. They deserved to laugh and dance without her melancholy casting a shadow over their happiness, so she hid amongst the dowagers and chaperones until the evening ended.
As they returned home in the carriage, Maeve and Joy filled the silence with chatter, while the Dowager and Grace listened. Maeve’s eyes sparkled as she recounted her dances, her laughter light and carefree.
“Did you see me trip during the quadrille?” Joy exclaimed, giggling. “I nearly took Lady Abernathy down with me!”
Maeve joined in the laughter, her cheeks glowing. “And yet you recovered so earnestly, poor dear. I could not help but admire your determination.”
Joy then launched into a particularly dramatic retelling of an incident during the reel. “Did you see,” she exclaimed, flinging her hands up for effect, “just as I was about to execute the perfect turn, Mr. Cunningham stepped on my hem! I nearly toppled over Lord Dunton. His hairpiece came loose and was flailing about like a squirrel hanging on to a tree in a wind storm.”
Maeve clapped her hands together, laughing so hard she could barely speak. “Joy, you are incorrigible!”
The Dowager made a noise indicating she despaired of the child.
Grace offered a faint smile but remained silent, her thoughts far from the merry conversation. Despite some time to calm herself, her thoughts remained fixed on Ronan. As they arrived home, Joy and Maeve were still chattering animatedly as they ascended the stairs, their voices trailing off into the upper floors. Grace, however, lingered in the hall, turning to bid the Dowager goodnight before making her way to her sitting room.
When she opened the door, she stopped short, her hand flying to her chest. “Faith! Hope!” she exclaimed. Her sisters were seated comfortably by the hearth, steaming cups of tea in hand, their faces lighting up as they saw her.
“Grace!” Hope set her tea-cup down and rose, only for Grace to wrap both of them in a fierce embrace. “We have missed you so!”
“And I have missed you!” Grace’s voice wavered as she held them tightly. “I am so glad you have come!”
Faith smiled, smoothing back Grace’s hair as she pulled away. “Patience thought you might need us. Westwood and Rotham grumbled, but they can manage for a night.”
Before Grace could respond, she turned to see Patience entering with a tray of biscuits, her usual sensible demeanour mixed with concern. “Why don’t we help you out of your ball gown first? And then we shall sit and talk.”
Hope fetched Grace’s dressing gown while Patience deftly unlaced her stays, swiftly and efficiently. Within minutes, Grace was settled into a comfortable chair by the fire, her feet curled beneath her, as Faith brushed out her hair in soothing, rhythmic strokes as they’d done every night as children.
The comfort of her sisters’ presence was almost too much to bear. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, focusing instead on the steaming cup of tea Faith pressed into her hands.
“Now,” Hope said, settling herself on the rug at Grace’s feet. “Tell us what has happened. We have heard bits and pieces about Ireland and Flynn, but I suspect that is not what has you so troubled tonight.”
“No,” Grace admitted softly, her fingers tightening around her tea-cup. “That is…to do with Lord Carew.”
The sisters exchanged glances, their curiosity evident. Faith leaned forward slightly. “What has he done?”
Grace sighed, gathering her thoughts. “I thought there was something between us. In Ireland, he was different—kind, attentive—but then, before we left, he dismissed me. He told me to find someone worthy of me, as though…as though it was nothing.”
Faith froze, her tea-cup halfway to her lips. “I sense there is more.”
Grace hesitated, her voice faltering when she began to speak. “He came to the ball tonight. He sought me out, confessed he had made a mistake, and asked if I could forgive him.”
The sisters gasped in unison, their eyes wide with astonishment.
Hope leaned closer. “What did you say?”
“I told him I did not know,” Grace admitted, burying her face in her hands. “And then I left him standing there. What have I done?”
Hope moved quickly to her side, taking her hand. “You have done nothing wrong, Grace. If he truly cares for you, he will fight for you. Make him prove it.”
“But is he wrong to wish for someone worthy of her?” Patience asked, ever the devil’s advocate. “His intention might not have been to hurt her.”
“That is the problem,” Grace said quietly. “I believe he truly thought he was acting in my best interest. He wants what is best for me.”
Faith set the brush down, reaching for Grace’s other hand. “And what do you want?”
Grace’s voice wavered as she replied, though cross at her own weakness. “I want him. Of course I do, but he caught me by surprise. I could not think clearly in the middle of a waltz.”
Patience gave a rueful laugh. “No indeed, it was hardly his best choice to speak to you then. I wonder why he did not follow you when you left.”
“I am very glad he did not,” Grace said, feeling foolish. “I needed time to consider, yet I fear I may have bungled it. A man does have his pride, after all.”
Hope shook her head. “You did not reject him outright, Grace—did you? Besides, he came all the way from Ireland. That must surely speak for itself.”
Grace’s heart sank. She had not meant to be cruel, and the thought of hurting Ronan pained her deeply. “I have no wish to play such games. I cannot think what came over me.”
“No one who knows you would accuse you of toying with someone’s affections,” Faith said firmly, “but you must decide what you want. If he speaks to you again, be honest with him.”
Grace nodded slowly. Her voice, when it left her, was barely above a whisper. “I suppose I must, though I fear doubt will get the better of me.”
“I am sure your courage will not fail, for does not your happiness depend upon it?” Hope asked, her tone encouraging. “Sleep upon it, dear sister. The answer will come to you.”
Grace doubted she would sleep at all, her heart was too heavy with uncertainty. Yet as her sisters gathered around her, their warmth and love enveloping her like a shield, she allowed herself a small flicker of hope. They had all found love despite some very difficult circumstances.
“I am proud of you,” Faith said softly. “For standing up for yourself and taking the time for reflection. You are stronger than you realize.”
“And I am still a little cross with him for trying to make decisions on your behalf,” Patience added, a note of indignation in her voice.
Grace managed a small smile. “As am I, in truth, but perhaps he deserves a chance to explain.”
The sisters nodded in agreement, their support bolstering her resolve. Whatever the future held, Grace knew she would always have her sisters, and though he’d still not offered for her, she allowed herself to hope.
Ronan was relieved to hear Westwood was in Town. He was desperate to know what to do next.
“I’ll announce myself if it is a good time, Hartley.”
Westwood’s long-time butler inclined his head as he held open the door. “Indeed. He is in his study, my lord.”
Ronan strode into Westwood’s study, his usual air of nonchalance had notably abandoned him. Having passed by a mirror, it showed that his neckcloth was askew, his dark coat bore the creases of having been slept in, and the shadow of stubble on his jaw spoke to a missed shave. His eyes, normally sharp and guarded, were clouded with fatigue and frustration. It mattered not if Grace would not forgive him.
“You look terrible,” his old friend said from behind his desk.
“Indeed? As though I have travelled day and night from Ireland only to have my dreams crushed?”
Westwood considered him and nodded. “Yes, then,” he drawled, rising slowly from his chair. “To what do I owe the honour? Although I expect we are here for the same reasons.”
Ronan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Grace,” he confirmed, his voice heavy with self-reproach.
Westwood crossed to the sideboard, where he poured a generous measure of brandy into two crystal glasses. “Sit down,” he commanded, gesturing to the chair near the fire, then handed him a glass.
Ronan didn’t hesitate before lowering himself into the chair with exhaustion. He accepted the brandy and took a long sip, his eyes fixed on the fire.
“Well?” Westwood prompted after a moment. “Out with it, man. What calamity has driven you to my door in such a state?”
“I’ve ruined everything,” Ronan said bluntly, his voice cracking. “I sent her away—told her to find someone worthy, as though I were doing her a kindness. And now…now I’ve no idea how to win her back. She sent me away with my tail between my legs.”
Westwood leaned back in his chair, his expression inscrutable. “You have come to confess your feelings, then?”
Ronan’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he admitted, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. “I thought I was protecting her, sparing her from the life I might offer, but I was a fool. She is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I drove her away.”
Westwood’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “Well, that’s a place to start. Recognizing one’s mistakes is the first step to rectifying them. The second, of course, is action. Sitting here wallowing in self-pity will not win her.”
Before Ronan could respond, the door opened again, and Cunningham entered, his easy grin and impeccable attire a stark contrast to Carew’s dishevelled state. He paused, his sharp gaze taking in the scene, and then smirked. “Good heavens, Carew. You look as though you have just escaped from the gaol. Should I be alarmed?”
Ronan shot him a withering look. “I’ve no patience for your humour, Cunningham.”
“Humour?” Cunningham said innocently, helping himself to a glass of brandy. “I am entirely sincere. You could frighten small children in your current state.”
Westwood coughed, hiding a chuckle behind his hand. “Cunningham, perhaps now is not the time.”
“Yes, do have some consideration. I am being lectured by my oldest friend.”
“Why?” Cunningham waved a hand dismissively and took a seat. “What has happened? Lost your favourite horse? Or is this about Miss Whitford?”
Ronan considered his silence should be answer enough.
Cunningham’s grin widened. “Ah, I see. The great Carew, undone by a lady. How the mighty have fallen .”
The door swung open yet again, and this time Rotham entered, his formidable presence filling the room. He took one look at Ronan and scowled. “For God’s sake, Carew, what’s this nonsense? Sitting here like a whipped dog, pining over a woman?”
“Rotham—” Ronan began, but the older man cut him off with a sharp gesture.
“Spare me your excuses,” Rotham snapped. “You have no one to blame but yourself. If you want her, then act like it. Fight for her. Or are you content to let her slip through your fingers while you sit here brooding?”
Ronan glared at Rotham’s brusqueness, but his words struck a nerve. “It’s not so simple,” he muttered.
“Not so simple?” Rotham echoed, his voice rising. “Nothing about women is simple. Of course not. But they are worth every bloody ounce of effort. If you care for her as much as I hear, then stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it.”
Cunningham leaned back in his chair, swirling his brandy. “He has a point, you know. Women do like a man of action. Grand gestures, heartfelt confessions—all that romantic nonsense.”
“I confessed my love for her in the middle of the ballroom last night. Does that count for nothing?” Ronan protested.
Westwood, who had been watching the exchange with open amusement, finally spoke. “The question, Carew, is whether you’re willing to risk everything to try.”
Ronan looked around the room, his gaze moving from Westwood to Cunningham to Rotham. Their words, though delivered in vastly different styles, carried the same message. He had made a hash of things, but maybe the path to redemption was still open.
He stood abruptly, setting his glass down with a decisive clink. “You are right,” he said in a firm voice. “I have wallowed long enough. It’s time to act. Have you any suggestions?”
Westwood leaned back in his chair and fixed him with a pointed look. “Winning a woman’s heart requires more finesse than breaking a horse.”
Ronan hesitated, his hand on the door-case. “I hardly think Grace would respond to…tactics.”
“On the contrary,” Westwood said smoothly, “Grace is a thoughtful young woman. A simple declaration, no matter how heartfelt, may not suffice. You have hurt her, Carew, and she’ll need to see more than pretty words to believe you are sincere.”
“I concur,” Cunningham interjected, swirling his brandy with a casual air. “Something unexpected. Show her you’re willing to go to any lengths for her.”
“And do it quickly,” Rotham growled, his arms crossed. “The longer you wait, the more time you give her to decide she will be the better without you. And that my wife has to dote on her, not me.”
Ignoring Rotham’s jest, Ronan pinched the bridge of his nose. “A grand gesture? Unexpected? What exactly do you have in mind?”
Cunningham’s eyes lit up. “A serenade, perhaps? No woman can resist a heartfelt ballad sung beneath her window at midnight.”
Rotham scoffed. “You’ll have him arrested for a public nuisance. No, Carew needs to show her he understands her—truly understands her. Find out what she values most and prove you can give it to her.”
“And what does Grace value most?” Ronan asked, exasperated.
“Family,” Westwood said simply, his tone steady. “Her sisters, her home, her sense of belonging. She is not a woman who seeks wealth or power. She wants to be seen, appreciated for who she is. You must show her that you see her, that you value her as she is.”
Cunningham tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You could write her a letter—perhaps poetry. A heartfelt, vulnerable one. Women adore letters. And then follow it up with something personal. Perhaps a gift?”
“A gift?” Ronan repeated, sceptical.
“Something meaningful,” Cunningham clarified. “Not jewels or silks—she’s not the type. A book she has mentioned loving, or a token that reminds her of your time together. Thoughtful gestures go a long way.”
Rotham leaned forward, his piercing gaze capturing Ronan’s. “And once you’ve done all that, Carew, you march up to her, look her in the eyes, and tell her exactly how you feel. No hedging, no excuses. Lay your heart bare. If she accepts, she’s yours. If not, then at least you will know you gave it your all.”
Ronan let out a long breath, his resolve hardening. “You’re all insufferable, you know that? But you are in the right of it. I cannot afford to hesitate any longer.”
“Good,” Westwood said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Grace deserves a man who will fight for her.”
“Does that mean I have your blessing?” If he were being honest, Westwood’s blessing was what he feared would not be freely given.
“As long as you make Grace happy.”
Ronan would die trying.
“And you,” Rotham added with a rare grin, “deserve to be reminded that romance is not for the faint of heart. Now off you go, Carew. Win your lady.”
As Ronan strode towards the door, Cunningham called after him, “And for goodness’ sake, change and shave before you declare your undying love.”
Ronan didn’t reply, but as he closed the door behind him, he felt a faint smile tug at his lips. It seemed he had allies in this—and a second chance worth fighting for. He’d been afraid his friends would validate his fears of unworthiness. Now to go home, bathe, change, and plan.
As Ronan strode from the room, determination etched into every line of his face, the three men exchanged glances.
“Do you think he will succeed?” Rotham asked, his tone light but curious.
Westwood lifted his glass. “Faith told me Grace is already willing to have him, but I will enjoy seeing him grovel for once.”