Chapter Eleven
For almost three years, Grace had imagined telling the Dashworths the story of their brother’s death.
She had gone through her account of events a million times in her head, and then a million more, wanting to get through it as emotion-free as possible.
She had shed tears for her sister and her sister’s husband, but that was a private grief she would live with forever and she hadn’t wanted to burden the family with that.
There were still so many things she had left unsaid; things she should reveal because it was right that they knew everything, even if it cost Grace dearly. For now, the family knew enough.
In all her planning, she had never given herself time to think much about what would happen after she told the Dashworths the awful truth about her parents.
If her mind had ever strayed beyond the point of her confession, all she’d been able to picture was their terrible anger.
With no other outlet for it, she’d thought they would direct their ire at her.
She would have understood that. Every time Grace went through the events that had led to the disastrous day, she had tried to pinpoint a moment where she could have stopped it from happening.
Tinged with hindsight, those occasions seemed obvious.
So yes, she would have understood if the Dashworths had blamed her.
It was one of the reasons why she had waited until she had seen Charlotte again before spilling the awful truth.
For the last two years she had ached with the longing to see her niece.
The Dashworths would have been justified in not allowing it.
Charlotte had blossomed since Grace had last seen her.
Her speech, which had all but stopped after the death of her parents, was coming along nicely.
Her skin shone with health and her smile was radiant.
Grace could find no fault in the care that Charlotte had received.
The hour in which the two of them had played with toy soldiers had filled Grace’s soul with happiness, warming a part of her heart that had been dormant since she had last spent time with her niece.
And yet, the whole while, the interaction had been tainted with fear.
Her parents had done the Dashworths a terrible, deeply evil wrong and Grace had let them get away with it.
Admittedly, at first, she hadn’t realised there was anything to get away with.
She’d been so bound up in her grief, it had taken her a long time to comprehend what her parents were doing with Charlotte’s money and even longer to work out that she needed to act.
Revealing the terrible news had been like ice cracking, spilling freezing water through her body.
Then there had been Tobias. The duke had wrong-footed her at every turn.
In that first meeting, his anger at her actions had taken her by surprise, but that had been nothing in comparison to his steady kindness yesterday.
When he had said he did not blame her for the events that had caused his brother’s death, the tears had come.
What she had not expected was for the Dashworth wives to surround her with hugs and kind words, to ply her with cake and cups of sweet tea.
The women wouldn’t let her return home until they were sure that she had stopped crying, and had made her promise to call on them to spend more time with Charlotte.
The gentleness of their actions had left her feeling befuddled, like she’d had one too many glasses of wine while being spun about on the dance floor.
She’d managed to get her feelings under control, had even managed to pretend that she was well and able to leave them.
It wasn’t just that she was trying to respect the family’s right to mourn together; she also needed to be by herself for a while.
Remembering all that had happened was draining.
But now she had woken up feeling as if a lead weight had lodged itself on her chest, and not even a warm cup of chocolate could alleviate the sensation.
‘I think I am coming down with a malady,’ she told Sarah. ‘Please inform Parker that I am not at home should anyone call.’
Her maid reached over and touched her forehead. ‘You are looking quite pale, but you do not have a temperature. Perhaps a lie-down will do you good.’
Grace’s heart squeezed. Sarah and she had met while Grace was fleeing America the first time. Sarah had reasons of her own for wanting to leave and together they had formed a tight bond. ‘I am lucky to have you,’ Grace told her.
Sarah laughed. ‘It is me who was lucky to have found you, let’s make no mistake about that. Now, if you please, I must get on. That green dress of yours has a tear and I want to see if I can get it mended before your next outing. It makes you look like a queen.’
Some of Grace’s dark mood lifted at Sarah’s comment, which was no doubt what her lady’s maid had intended.
The house Grace was renting in Portman Square was well-appointed, but there was little within its walls to keep her occupied.
The small library was empty of books, she had no one to whom she could write letters, and even if she had been a passable artist, there were no art supplies.
She was wandering around the almost empty rooms for the fourth time, almost regretting her impulse to remain without company for the day, when Parker found her.
‘I know you said you were not at home, but…’ Her butler’s eyes were tight, strained almost. ‘I am not sure if I am allowed to refuse…’ He cleared his throat, a tinge of pink crossing his cheeks, possibly because his normally stoic butler persona had crumbled slightly.
Grace was inordinately fond of the man, who was taking his first post as a butler very seriously.
He would no doubt be horrified by her affection and so she kept it deeply hidden, treating him with the same formal dignity he afforded her.
He straightened his shoulders. ‘His Grace, the Duke of Glanmore, is enquiring as to whether you are available for a ride in the park. He is currently outside, walking his horses.’
‘Oh.’ Her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she was frozen, her hand half raised. This was unexpected. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Parker’s brow furrowed. ‘I mean, you are right. I am not sure I can refuse.’
Grace hadn’t been in English Society for long, but she knew that dukes were afforded almost a royal-like status.
A lot of them were related to the royal family.
Surely it could not be illegal to refuse a duke your company, but it was probably very bad form.
Although that was not what had her bounding up her stairs to check her reflection.
Whether it was bad form or not was entirely irrelevant in the circumstances.
As much as she might try and deny it to herself, she was almost desperate to know why he was calling for her.
Obviously, it would have something to do with Charlotte, or her parents, or Sebastian.
He wouldn’t be visiting to see her and of course she didn’t want him to be.
In their dealings, they had crossed swords as many times as they had been in accord.
She had to admit that both were enjoyable.
Arguing with a man, especially one as powerful as him, should be something she avoided at all costs.
Her marriage had been full of her husband’s never-ending stream of diatribes towards her; he had picked at her, constantly trying to drain her of spirit.
Yet, fighting with the duke was nothing like that.
She felt that he did not want her to back down, that he liked it when she stood up to him, even when his dark eyes burned with frustration.
There were layers to him, layers that she wanted to peel away, to find what lay beneath his stern facade, though perhaps she should leave it well enough alone.
Involving herself deeper with any man, albeit as a friend, was something she had sworn to avoid.
By the time she was walking down her front steps to greet him, her heart was fluttering wildly.
Standing next to a handsome phaeton, drawn by two exquisite greys, the duke was dressed in a sharply tailored jacket, his dark hair hidden by a hat and the expression on his face unreadable.
‘Mrs Wilmott,’ he murmured, bowing in response to her curtsy.
‘Your Grace,’ she replied as brightly as she could manage. ‘I am looking forward to this very much. I do enjoy riding through the park, but I do not have a carriage of my own yet.’
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said, no hint from his face that he found pleasure in anything at all, let alone her company.
The duke was a hard man to read, which was surely why her knees were trembling.
Grace was used to her late husband’s every emotion exploding out of him: anger, frustration.
Not that her relationship with His Grace was anything like the same, but for some reason, she could not help but compare them.
Calm when she expected emotion, Tobias was the opposite of Ichabod.
‘Your Grace,’ she began, not sure what she was about to say, only realising that she had been staring up at him for longer than was socially acceptable.
He tilted his head slightly. ‘I was wondering whether you would do me the honour of calling me Tobias when we are alone. It feels…’ he raised one large shoulder ‘…rather ridiculous for you to address me with my title given the circumstances.’
Grace wasn’t sure what the circumstances were that were ridiculous and she wasn’t entirely convinced she could be informal to the imposing man in front of her. ‘Of course,’ she said, because she could hardly voice what was on her mind. ‘I should be honoured. You must call me Grace.’
The slight crinkle around his eyes was the only sign he was pleased with her words.