Grace rather thought she was an object of curiosity, a novelty amongst people who had known one another for years and valued the fresh blood. Add to that her American heritage and she was in high demand. People wanted to know what the former colonies were like, often assuming they were a poor cousin to England. Most of the time it was amusing to tell a story and watch as the listeners realised that the country across the water was every bit as sophisticated as their own. On the rare occasion, Grace was subjected to coarse remarks about her place of birth, but as these were made by people who appeared to be displeased about other things, it was easy to ignore these comments. Just as she was ignoring Mrs Hitchings’ comments about her being of particular interest to the Duke of Glanmore. Her dear friend entirely misunderstood His Grace’s focused attention on her.
On this evening, Grace had barely stepped into the ballroom before a wave of men approached her, asking for her dance card. As they all but lined up to request the pleasure of her company, Mrs Hitchings beamed with pleasure. When Lord William, the Beauvarlet marquess everyone was very excited about, bowed and asked for the waltz, Grace feared her friend might faint from the excitement. Lord William was handsome and wealthy and, so it seemed to Grace, a man with integrity. If she were looking for her next husband, he would be on her list. But her marriage to Ichabod had been brutally awful. Hell would freeze over before she wed another.
As the marquess walked away, Mrs Hitchings grabbed her arm. ‘My dear, he would be quite the catch. If you were able to secure his interest before the Season begins, it would be a triumph, and I am confident that you are on the way to doing so already. He has alreadypaid you such marked attention that I believe he must be seriously intending to court you.’
‘Oh dear. Do you really think so?’
Either ignoring or not noticing Grace’s dismay, Mrs Hitchings continued, ‘He is of an age where most men would be considering a wife. He danced with you twice at my little gathering and to request a waltz this evening…’ Mrs Hitchings flicked open her fan and waved it about. ‘It has been rumoured that he is looking for a wife and if you were to be that woman, your place in English Society would be secured. Being wed to him is only second to ensnaring the Duke of Glanmore, I would say.’
‘I do not believe I shall marry again,’ said Grace. And she certainly would not be setting her cap at the duke if she was, or the Beauvarlet heir for that matter.
‘I do understand, my dear,’ said Mrs Hitchings, idly patting Grace’s arm. ‘I should not like to replace Mr Hitchings. But you are too young to hide your light away. I am sure your husband would not like you to grieve for the rest of your life.’
Grace was sure Ichabod would have desired her to be as miserable as possible for as long as possible, the rest of her life ideally. She hadn’t revealed the true horror of her marriage to anyone. Not even Clare knew everything, partly because she had not wanted to dim her sister’s happiness and partly because Clare had died before the worst of it had occurred. Grace may have kept it from her sister anyway, keen not to take away anything from Clare’s life when her contentedness had been a hard-won thing. Their parents, who had started off as self-centred, self-serving individuals, had turned evil over the years. Clare, with her sweet-natured disposition, had fared worse than Grace, who was naturally less kind and gentle and who had refused to forgive her parents for their behaviour at a far younger age than Clare.
Grace was halfway through a cotillion when she spotted some of the Dashworth family at the edge of the dance floor. Katherine and Sophia smiled at her when she caught their eyes. She smiled back until she saw that the man standing next to them was neither of their husbands, but the duke. He was not looking at her. His lips were set in a grim line and he stared straight ahead as if he could not see or hear the merriment around him. The dance turned her away from them and she tried to focus on the lively story her partner was telling her and not on the duke’s brooding presence.
Too soon, the set was over and her partner was leading her off the floor in the direction of the Dashworth group. It would seem odd to pull him in a different direction, so she allowed herself to be tugged along. The Dashworths had been joined by several people, all of whom Grace had met, and she ended up standing in their circle. Fragments of conversation reached her, but it was hard to follow one particular thread as all the voices ran together. She kept what she hoped was a pleasant, vague smile pointed in the direction of all the participants, trying her best not to glance in the duke’s direction. But somehow his presence was like a constant draw on her conscience. The temptation to look at him pulled on her senses, blurring everything else into the background.
In the end, it became too much and she caved in to her desire.
His Grace was a little way away to her left, his jaw tight, his lips set in a firm, straight line. His dark eyes were fixed on a point on the far wall, as if he were too important for the triviality of what was going on around him. Frustration nipped at her and she nearly turned away, but once she started looking, she didn’t seem able to stop. And the more she observed him, the more he reminded her of her sister. Oh, physically they were nothing alike. Where her sister had been sunshine, His Grace was a dark cloud. Clare had hair like spun goldand was short in stature like herself. The duke was tall, with hard edges and hair the colour of onyx. But that look in his eyes, it reminded Grace of all the times Clare had hidden her pain behind a polite mask. The only person, aside from herself, who had seen behind the façade her sister presented to the world was Sebastian. The more she studied Tobias, the more convinced Grace became that her theory was correct. The Duke of Glanmore was miserable and uncomfortable and no one was trying to soothe that or find the root cause, not even his family.
The crowd moved and she found herself standing next to him, his jacket sleeve brushing against the exposed skin of her forearm. She caught the faint hint of his cologne and the subtle shift of his feet against the polished floor. Her heart leapt about in her chest as she wondered whether she should speak to him or not. What did it matter to her if he was suffering? Had he not been horrible to her from their first encounter? Had he not accused her of trying to take Charlotte from him? She almost held her tongue at that, because that accusation had truly stung.
But even as she shifted slightly away from him, she remembered Sebastian’s unending kindness. The way he had adored Clare and his daughter and how he had unquestioningly allowed Grace to come and stay with them whenever life with Ichabod became too much. If it were not for Sebastian’s unwavering support, assistance which had continued long after his death, she would not be standing in this ballroom. If it were not for the money Sebastian had put aside for her to use, she would have no clothes on her back, instead of being wealthy beyond her dreams. Sebastian would want her to help the duke, even if it meant Grace risked his anger in the process. Before she could talk herself out of the plan that formed in her mind, she turned to him.
‘Your Grace,’ she said and his eyes immediately snapped to hers, his sharp look sending a jolt through her heart. She ignored the strange sensation. Now was not the time to notice how long his lashes were, or how his gaze on her skin felt like the firm press of fingers. ‘I am feeling a little faint. Could I prevail on your kindness and ask you to escort me to the terrace for a bit of fresh air?’
‘Of course,’ he said without hesitation.
He held out an arm to her and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Beneath her fingers she could feel the tension in his muscles and she wondered what was causing him to be so on edge. Glancing around the ballroom, she could not see anything amiss. People stared at them as they passed, some more openly than others. But His Grace should surely be used to such scrutiny. It was not her place to ask, and yet that did not stop her from wanting to know.
Sebastian had spoken often of his brothers and the childhood they had experienced at the hands of Miss Dunn, the woman who had raised them after the death of their parents. A cruel woman who should not have been allowed to speak to grieving boys, let alone be in charge of them. It had been years since Grace had heard the stories, but she did remember Sebastian telling her and Clare how Miss Dunn had been particularly brutal to his oldest brother, how she had tried to wear him down, to weaken him, presumably so she could be in charge of his fortune. Sebastian had spoken highly of how the duke had endured the harsh treatment and how, as soon as His Grace was able, he packed the woman off to an estate far away from the brothers. Now that she had met His Grace for herself, had seen him interacting with his family, felt both his wrath and his intense focus, Grace couldn’t help but wonder what cost the duke’s protection of his family had wrought on the man.
The duke led her out to the well-lit terrace and found a stone bench for her to sit on. No words were exchanged until she was settled. ‘Can I fetch you anything or anyone?’ he asked.
‘I thank you, but no. I should be grateful, if it is not too much of an imposition, if you would sit with me awhile.’ If the answer was no, she would know that she had tried. Getting him away from a situation in which he was clearly not happy had been her only objective. Now that they were alone, she almost hoped he would refuse her because she had no idea what to say to him to make him relax.
For several heartbeats, he was frozen. She thought he might politely turn her down or perhaps even argue with her, but he surprised her by slowly lowering himself onto the bench next to her. There was nothing she wanted to say to him, or at least, nothing right at this moment. They were strangers bound together by an awkward connection. The discomfort of their unwanted relationship would only get worse the more she revealed to him. Sitting back on the bench, she was content to remain silent, to give him time to relax. The minutes ticked by and his jaw remained tense as he stared at the open doors to the ballroom, the rigid line of his shoulders unbending.
A set finished and so did another. Occasionally, someone shot a glance towards them, but nobody approached, not even the men who had written their names on her dance card, such was the weight of the duke’s name. Or perhaps it was his glowering presence that put them off. His Grace showed no sign he had noticed those furtive looks. How wonderful it must be to hold such a powerful position in Society that one got privacy when one desired it. On her own she would have attracted any number of people to come and sit by her whether she wanted it or not. Another dance passed in complete silence.
‘I owe you an apology.’
Grace jumped; she hadn’t thought they would speak at all. ‘Yes, you do.’ She paused. ‘For which incident?’
His lips definitely twitched, but he was solemn when he turned his dark gaze towards her. ‘For the way I spoke to you when you were at Glanmore House last week. I was rude.’
‘Yes, you were.’
This time the hint of a smile was even more evident, even though it didn’t break across his face. ‘I do apologise,’ he said gravely. ‘I do not know what caused me to speak in such a way, but it was badly done of me.’
His eyes must have some sort of magnetic power, because it was impossible for her to pull her gaze from them and look at anything else. ‘My news was a shock. It was bound to be emotional for everyone.’
‘Yet everyone else managed to handle it with dignity.’ He shook his head and some of his dark hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it back absent-mindedly. ‘You do not need to excuse my behaviour out of politeness.’
‘You know enough of me already to know that I would not be polite.’
