Chapter Fifteen
G race couldn’t stop feeling the fabric of her dress. She had never worn anything so fine. It was silk . Certainly, she had seen great ladies in China in such attire, but never had she thought she’d be one of them. And here she was, far away from home, attired in silk that whispered delightfully across her skin.
‘You look stunning,’ her father said.
Her sister had said the same, as had their maid. But none of their breathless words could match the giddy unreality of the situation.
She was wearing silk. She was going to a ball. She was going to dance while gentlemen courted her. Her! A half-person worth nothing in China, a crazy navigator who had pretended to be a boy, and the mixed-race child of a kind old man who looked at her as if she had the moon and the stars in her hair.
‘I cannot believe this is me,’ she whispered as she continued to finger the fabric of her dress.
It was simple yellow silk with flowers embroidered upon the bodice. This gown was well made and came from Lady Bowle’s own modiste.
‘I cannot believe I am walking my daughter into a haut ton ball,’ her father murmured. ‘It is funny how a man doesn’t think of these things until it’s nearly too late.’
She reached out and squeezed his hand, feeling the icy cold of his fingers. Her father wasn’t healthy, though he hid it well. Out of respect, she kept quiet as she watched his face for signs of illness as she would watch the night sky for the path forward. She saw nothing but his usual kind expression and his sallow skin. If only his cough would ease, then he would sleep at night and be healthy again. But, failing that, she would do her best to make him proud tonight.
It wouldn’t work. She would not be well received tonight. Half-breed children never were. But in this moment, in the dark carriage with her father, she was well content.
‘You have given me more than I ever dreamed possible,’ she said.
‘You have given me more than I ever thought I could have,’ he said back.
And then they were there, arriving early to her come-out ball.
It wasn’t her night alone. She was to share the event with Miss Phoebe Gray. The girl was young, sweet, but had no claim to an aristocratic heritage. Her father was rich, but her only hope of a successful match into the highest level of society was if someone like Grace, whose father was of the aristocracy, joined her come-out. The hope was that together they’d draw enough of the haut ton for them both to catch someone’s attention.
Grace wasn’t supposed to know this, of course. Her father wanted her to be giddy about her come-out, so he pretended that everyone would accept them as wholeheartedly as he had. But living in fantasy had never worked for her or her sister, and so they had both questioned the servants until they’d understood what was happening.
Still, they allowed him the pretence, and... Well, she would wear silk and attend a ball.
Grace was smiling as the door to the rented ballroom was thrown open and Miss Phoebe Gray waved her in. ‘I’m so glad it is warmer now,’ the girl said by way of greeting. ‘We can open the French doors at the back. People can walk on the lawn. Isn’t it perfect? Everything is going to be so perfect!’
Grace smiled. It was impossible not to in the face of such sweet exuberance.
‘And you look gorgeous in yellow!’ Phoebe continued. ‘I could never do yellow. It makes me look like a badly made candle with a head for a wick.’
Phoebe slapped her hands to her sides and opened her eyes wide. If that made her look like a candle, Grace didn’t see it, but it didn’t matter. The girl was off onto another topic almost immediately.
‘I’ve checked everything three times. The flowers are lovely. Have you seen them?’
‘Only the roses in your hair,’ Grace answered. ‘They match your dress perfectly.’
Pink roses, pink gown and pink cheeks on a sweet face. Add in her blue eyes and golden hair, and the girl was English perfection made into a woman.
‘You look perfect,’ she said, wishing she knew better English words to describe the girl.
Phoebe giggled. ‘I’m so nervous I’m afraid I’m going to burst into pieces!’
‘Settle down, dear,’ came a man’s fond voice. It was Phoebe’s father. The banker wore a genial expression as he bowed over Grace’s hand. ‘Allow them to take off their coats.’
‘Of course. So sorry,’ Phoebe said. The moment that was done, she grabbed Grace’s hands and tugged her inside. ‘There are yellow roses for you, too. Come and see! My maid is a whiz at adding flowers to gowns and hair and everything!’
Grace smiled and allowed herself to be pulled along, while behind her the gentlemen greeted one another. Phoebe continued to talk, her excitement infectious, and Grace let herself be swept up in the wonder of it all. Tonight she was the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat, no matter what the truth might be. And tonight she would enjoy herself no matter what.
She dutifully praised the food, the decorations and the musicians. She allowed Phoebe’s maid to put a yellow rose in her hair. And then she and Phoebe stood in their places in the receiving line to greet their guests.
And there were a great many guests.
Unfortunately, there weren’t many titled guests.
It would appear that the aristocrats had no interest in lowering themselves to attend the come-out ball of the daughter of a banker and a foreign girl with a titled father. It hardly mattered to Grace, but she could see that her father was disappointed in the turn-out, as was Phoebe. Despite the many people who came through the door, the girl’s eyes seemed to dim with every Mr So-and-So or Mrs Whoever who greeted her.
Every so often Phoebe would whisper to her.
‘I thought Lord Someone-or-Other would come. He was ever so nice to me in Hyde Park.’
Or, ‘Maybe Lady This-or-That isn’t feeling well tonight. I thought she’d come, but I haven’t seen her.’
Grace had no answer to such things. She didn’t understand who was more important than someone else. But she recognised disappointment when the girl’s smile faltered and her shoulders drooped.
As the arriving guests dwindled, Grace squeezed Phoebe’s hand. ‘We are two beautiful girls having a party in our honour. So many people are alone and hungry. If we cannot be happy tonight, then we are the miserable ones who will never know joy.’
She wasn’t sure she’d said her words clearly. She was trying to paraphrase a sentiment taught at the temple. But her meaning must have been clear because Phoebe slowly nodded.
‘You are right, of course,’ Phoebe said as she lifted her chin. ‘This is our night, and no one can take my happiness from me.’ Then she grabbed Grace’s hand and tugged her away. ‘Let’s get some lemonade before the dancing begins. I’m parched.’
Grace was gulping down lemonade when he walked in. She’d known he was coming, of course, but she hadn’t expected him to make the kind of entrance he did. Late, and yet supremely confident as he was announced. Handsome, of course, but in the English way. Tall, and dressed in austere black with a cravat of perfect white, a large, brilliant blue sapphire set in the centre.
She was not one to be enamoured of English attire. At least not what the women wore. But the English gentlemen emphasised a lean elegance that she appreciated. And the Duke took her breath away. He stood a hand’s breadth taller than the other men, he carried himself with unhurried power, and he took the time to greet his hosts with respect, including an apology for his tardiness.
‘Oh, my God!’ Phoebe gasped. ‘You said he was coming but I didn’t believe you! Are you finished drinking? Hurry! We must greet him! But we can’t run. Don’t run!’
Grace wasn’t running. Indeed, Phoebe appeared to be talking to herself as she rushed forward, then abruptly moderated her pace. Ten seconds later she was in her spot in the receiving line and going into a very deep curtsey. The Duke hadn’t even turned her way yet, but she dropped down as if her legs couldn’t hold her up.
‘My goodness,’ the Duke said, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. ‘What loveliness has appeared before me? Please, Miss Gray, let me see your gorgeous face.’
Phoebe rose, her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkling. ‘A pleasure to greet you, Your Grace. I’m so, so happy you could attend.’
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he returned as he kissed her hand.
And then, at last, he turned to greet Grace.
She didn’t know what she expected when he saw her. Hopefully as warm a greeting as the one he had given Phoebe. Her focus was on quieting her own racing heart. But the moment he turned to her all other thought fled. She watched his expression change as his gaze softened and his brows rose. Where there had been amusement, she now saw heat. His eyes flickered, taking in the whole of her, but that lasted less than a moment. For the most part he stood there, apparently transfixed, while she watched him and wondered if she measured up.
She hadn’t been nervous before, but as he stared, her heart trembled. What had she done wrong?
‘Miss Richards,’ he finally managed, clearing his throat as he spoke.
‘Your Grace.’ She dropped into a curtsey, as she had been taught, but he quickly tugged her upright.
‘I did not think you could be any lovelier,’ he said. ‘I thought I was prepared to see you dressed...’ He shook his head. ‘I have never seen a more beautiful woman. And I have seen many.’
His words were mere flattery, of course. She knew better than to be taken in by overblown words. But they did not seem overblown. Everything in his face and body seemed earnest. And she could not help the flush of heat that filled her body. Did he really think her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen?
‘Your Grace,’ she whispered again, not knowing what else she could say.
Thankfully her father saved her.
‘You have arrived just in time,’ he said loudly. ‘I’m afraid my old bones aren’t up to dancing any more. Would you mind taking my place for the opening dance?’
This had been planned in the carriage yesterday afternoon, but hearing it played out like this, Grace knew it sounded as if it were a surprise happenstance. And it felt as if it were the most startling thing as the Duke raised her hand to his lips.
‘It would be my very great honour,’ he said, before he pressed his mouth to the back of her hand.
Damn, damn, damn, why must she wear these stupid gloves? She wanted to feel his mouth on her skin. She wanted to know the calluses on his fingertips without the blunting fabric between them. She wanted to touch the man—and that thought was as shocking to her as it was thrilling.
Never in her life had she wanted to touch a man as she did right then. Indeed, it was as if all her body ached for a caress.
She heard the musicians readying.
She heard Phoebe’s father chuckle as he came to Phoebe’s side.
And she heard her own heartbeat loud in her ears.
Great heaven, what was happening to her? She tried to pull herself together. She forced some semblance of a smile as the Duke took her hand in his. And she managed, somehow, to walk to the centre of the ballroom.
Her father spoke first, of course. He uttered words of greeting, echoed by Phoebe’s father. And then, with great fanfare, Grace and the Duke began to dance. Phoebe and her father were also part of the set. All this had been decided beforehand. And Grace knew the steps. She’d practised them! But she’d never done them with the Duke before. She’d never held his hand as he drew her close, nor stepped around him as if flirting without touching. She’d never done anything like this with him, and...and...
And it was wonderful !
Her heart trembled, her breath stuttered, and nothing mattered except for the way he looked at her. He held her hand and her feet moved exactly as they ought. He smiled at her and her heart sang. And then their steps drew them close, and he whispered the most glorious words to her.
‘This is just the beginning.’