“It was on purpose,” Grace confessed, with a teasing nod toward her betrothed who was issuing orders to the coachman. She lowered her voice, leaning in. “But he deserved it. He looked so put out when he had to dance with me.”
The countess laughed, and Lucien looked over his shoulder, startled, as if the sound was far too rare.
A shadow crossed the countess’s face as she watched her son. “I wish, above all things, for my children to be happy and loved.With Lucien, I feared—” She caught Grace’s hand and squeezed it. “Yet, here you are,” she whispered, her voice thick.
Grace’s own throat ached with emotion. While it was not the same as having Mama with her, from the moment Grace saw the gentle countess who had once been her mother’s dear friend, she’d felt a link with those precious times of her childhood.
Those halcyon days before the rift between their families, before Mama’s illness and death had darkened Grace’s world, reminding her of a time she had not felt encumbered with the cares of everyone at The Willows. When she’d felt free. Happy and loved…
How could she tell this woman with her hope-filled eyes, that this marriage was a business arrangement? How any hope of love and happiness was a complete unknown for this bride and groom, considering the terms they’d agreed to?
Feeling an awkward silence that needed to be filled, she was glad when Helen suddenly scurried toward them, beaming as she addressed the countess. “I cannot tell you how very grateful we are that you wish to accompany and host us on our trip. We shall have such a wonderful time. Isn’t that right, Grace?”
“Wonderful,” Grace said, pasting a matching smile on her face.
Grace peeredup at Raven’s Court, the elegant townhouse on Curzon Street. The façade was the color of terracotta, trimmed in crisp white, the door dark green. A black iron gate and brick walls divided it from the other, similar structures that marched up the street.
To think…this would be her home when she was in London from now on. As such, the staff gathered to greet at her, theirintense scrutiny making her feel a bit like one of Bennet’s forest creatures being examined beneath a magnifier. Doubtless they were wondering what their new mistress would be like.
It made the marriage seem real in a way it had not before.
The countess and maids saw to Helen, while the housekeeper, Mrs. Brumby—a stern-faced matron who seemed reluctant to surrender her ring of keys to a new mistress—showed Grace about.
The rooms were pleasant, yet with nothing personal to show who Lucien Harcourt was. At last, Mrs. Brumby led her upstairs, in the opposite direction the other guests had gone. At the farthest end of the corridor, she opened a door and ushered Grace inside. The furnishings were simple, a large four-poster bed with pale blue curtains, a dressing table and escritoire tucked beneath a window. A single chair with Prussian-blue cushions beside the fireplace.
“This is to be your chamber, now and in the future.” Mrs. Brumby’s mouth pinched with a hint of disapproval as she eyed the door that led to the adjoining chamber. “The master ordered that you be placed here rather than with the other ladies.”
The notion was a trifle unsettling. No wonder Mrs. Brumby regarded Grace with a touch of censure. Whatever could Lucien be thinking lodging Grace here? Did he plan to avail himself of that door even before they were wed? Her cheeks burned at the thought.
Mrs. Brumby must have sensed her discomfort. “If you object to these quarters, my lady, I can have the maids move you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brumby.” Lucien’s deep voice came from the corridor as he strode inside and joined them. “My future viscountess is not one to indulge in such missish nonsense. You may go. Close the door behind you.”
“As you wish, my lord.” The woman dipped a stiff curtsey, the keys at her waist jangling as she left. Grace wondered howlong it would be before Mrs. Brumby and the butler would be bemoaning such lack of decorum. Lucien, however, seemed not to notice his servant’s disapproval or Grace’s own discomfort.
“I know this arrangement is a trifle unusual, but it seemed only practical to situate you in this room, in case there are alterations you wish to make before we take up residence,” he said.
Grace felt a shiver of emotion at the images his words conjured. This would be the chamber where she would begin her new life as Lucien’s wife, share his name, and his bed…“Perhaps we could plan any changes to the room together,” she ventured. “It would be lovely to have a pair of comfortable chairs by the fireplace where we could sit together of an evening.”
“Two chairs will not be necessary. This suite of rooms will be yours alone. I will maintain my own next door.”
The abrupt words startled her. She hesitated a moment before she said, “I see.”
“Are you displeased with the room?”
“No. I was just thinking…For thirty years, my parents shared a bedchamber until my mother got sick. She had difficulty sleeping and so my father moved into a different room.”
“Only practical.”
“Was it? Because sometimes at night, I heard her weeping over the distance he’d put between them.” Why had she told Lucien that? Suddenly she felt the need to add, “Of course, their marriage was far different than ours will be. But…I always thought my father couldn’t bear to see her suffer, and his moving into a separate bedchamber was…somehow wrong.”
Cowardly, she added silently, old resentment flaring. She’d moved a cot into her mother’s room soon after, because she couldn’t bear to leave her alone late at night when doubts and fears of death crept in among the shadows.
Lucien’s ice-blue eyes fixed on hers. “Perhaps it is best that we will have no such expectations,” he said.
Shoving those memories aside, she glanced around at the room. The heavy drapes blocked all light. What would her own marriage hold? She wondered. To be soveryseparate from the day they wed…
The dark of the room seemed suddenly overwhelming, and she crossed over to the window, threw the drapes open, letting the light in. She’d had far too much darkness in her life, and this was one small thing she could do on her own.
