Page 84 of How to Tempt an Earl

Chapter Twenty-Three

After Grace’s visit with Ian’s sisters and the dowager, she instructed the driver to take her to Prudence’s residence. Prudence took one look at Grace, ushered her into the drawing room, and shut the door.

“What’s wrong? Is it the marriage bed?” Prudence asked.

Grace felt her cheeks grow hot. “No.”

“He’s a skilled lover then. So, what is it?”

“He’s always busy. In the day and the evening…with his gambling club.” Grace couldn’t bring herself to tell her friend that Ian had deceived her into believing he’d sell the Raven Club.

“If it’s any consolation, many men ignore their wives. Mother’s friends seem happiest when their husbands flee to their own clubs. I know you dislike gambling establishments, but they are prevalent. Does it truly matter if the earl owns one or attends one?”

At Grace’s silence, Prudence squeezed her hand. “Listen to me, Grace. You can lure a bee with honey, not vinegar. I have faith in you.”

Grace had spent the rest of her evening with her friend and the Wetherby family, and by the time she’d returned home, it was late.

Ian was in the vestibule as Jenkins handed him his hat and gloves. Prudence’s words of advice were fresh in her minds. Could she lure Ian with honey? The dowager’s words also reverberated in her thoughts. Were her powers of persuasion stronger than she’d believed? A simple test crossed her mind.

She placed a hand on Ian’s sleeve and smiled sweetly. “I’ve missed you. Perhaps you can stay home and we can spend the evening together?”

His eyes lit and he pressed a quick kiss to her hand. “I will return tonight.”

Disappointment coursed through her. She knew he was headed to the Raven Club.

If he spent time with her during the day, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so abandoned. But he avoided her both in the day and the evening.

Had she foolishly given her heart to a man who was only capable of loving his business?

A flash of wild grief gripped her. He leaned down to brush his lips against hers. She closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the painful vulnerability in her gaze, then she turned to trudge up the grand staircase. She made it to the landing when a loud banging sounded on the front door.

“What the hell?” Ian said, then ignored Jenkins and wrenched the door open himself.

Brooks loomed in the doorway, a large form slung over his shoulder.

“Christ!” Ian said. “Put him in the drawing room.”

Him?

A cold sense of dread trickled down Grace’s spine. She rushed down the stairs to see, but Ian tried to block her view. “Grace—”

She pushed past him and cried out when she recognized her father, bruised and bloodied, unconscious in Brooks’s arms. “My God!”

She hurried to follow Brooks as he placed her father on the drawing room sofa. “I found them beating him up pretty good,” Brooks said, breathing heavily.

“Who? Where?” Ian asked.

“Hatfield. In the alley outside the Raven.”

Grace’s heart pounded as she frantically studied her father’s injuries. Blood was splattered across his cravat and coat, and blood oozed from his nose. “Papa? Papa!”

He opened his swollen eyes. He coughed and spittle trickled from his cracked lips. “Grace?”

“What happened?” she asked, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

“I didn’t cheat.”

Of course this was about one of his wagers. But she didn’t care. His welfare was her imminent concern. She whirled to Ian. “Hot water and bandages. Summon the surgeon. Quick!”