Page 40 of The Trouble with a Dare

“It’s no crime to kiss my wife if I want to,” he said, his voice low.

“Do you want to?” she whispered, the words breathless.

“Want to?” he repeated, bemused. “Christ, love, I hardly think of anything else.”

Before she could reply to that, he bent his head, taking her mouth none too gently, though he had promised himself he would be careful with her from now on. But it had been days since that kiss at the inn and he was as parched for the taste of her as if he’d been denied water for the interim. He could not help himself, could not only give her a chaste peck on the lips and leave it at that, as he ought to do. Instead, he plundered and took and found his passion matched with her own as she dropped the basket to the floor and wrapped herself about him. Sterling groaned as her delicate hands smoothed up over his chest, tangled into his hair, holding him in place. As if he was going anywhere. The slight swell of her belly was noticeable now, pressing into him, and Sterling felt a flood of emotion, as if they held the child between them, protecting it from the world. His hand slipped from her waist to caress the soft curve, and she abruptly broke the kiss, pulling away from him.

“Grace?”

“Goodness me, Sterling, what will people think if they see us?”

She spoke laughingly, but she did not look at him and he felt once again that she was holding herself back.

“They’ll think we’re newlyweds and no more than that,” he said, wondering that he could sound so calm when he was so tangled up inside.

He felt the sharp sting of rejection, which he told himself was stupid, but did not diminish the too familiar sensation. Did she not want him to acknowledge the baby at all? Was it only her shame that made her weep and hold herself apart, or was it more than that? Perhaps she still loved him, the man that had cast her aside. Perhaps she could not abide his touch but longed for the babe’s father still. Perhaps she only tolerated him because she must.

He stared at the ground as he tried to calm his agitation, to where the basket had fallen and capsized. Bending, he righted it, and saw the fine invitation beside the bundle of cloth-wrapped biscuits.

“From Mrs Stanhope,” he said, his voice dull. So, this was why she had come, why she had baked for him, to ask a favour. “You’ll enjoy that, seeing your friends. You’d best write back and accept it.”

“Sterling,” she said, and he heard the anxiety in her voice but did not know how to soothe it, for he did not know how to soothe himself, nor what was in her heart, only what was in his own.

“I’d best get on. I’ll see you at dinner. Thank you for the biscuits. It was a fine treat.”

He tried for something that might pass for a smile and hurried away before she could say anything that might unravel him entirely.

Chapter 14

Miss Knight,

Heavens above, you outrageous chit. Whatever will you say next? I have a good mind to show that letter to your father and have him deal with you in the way you deserve before I am tempted to do so myself. I am forever in a stew of anxiety, fearing that I am corrupting your morals, and yet I never speak to you of such things. It is you, you wicked girl, with your too seeing gaze. Your lovely mama has a good deal to answer for in educating you about the realities of life and men. I could wish you were a deal more innocent and would take me at face value instead of seeing all my many deficiencies and reflecting them back at me.

For your information—for I know you will plague me to death if I do not explain—Mrs Davies believes she is punishing me for not paying her the proper attention. As she is considered a beauty, she thinks every man will fall at her feet. I did not and shall not, for she may have a lovely face and figure, but she also has a cruel tongue and is selfish to her bones. I have no interest there and need no warnings, so I thank you to keep your observations about my private life to yourself.

Mon Dieu, Evie, but you do vex me so.

―Excerpt of a letter from Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen, to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

29th of September 1839, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

Grace stared at herself in the looking glass as Maggie fussed about, making last-minute adjustments.

“There’s no hiding it now,” she said ruefully, smoothing her hands over the burgeoning swell of her belly.

“Ah, don’t you fret,” Maggie said, her tone prosaic. “You still look like a princess, and you’re hardly the first couple who anticipated their vows. You’re married now, anyway, so nobody will care. Besides, you’ll be dining with your friends, and they love you.”

“Yes,” Grace said sadly.

She thought perhaps Sterling had loved her too, a little at least, until she had spoiled everything. It had been two weeks since that kiss, since she had panicked and acted so thoughtlessly. But he stirred her passions with such ease, made her want with such force, that she had feared where it might lead, and then he had touched her so reverently, her and the baby. Shame and fear and self-loathing had forced her from his arms, and yet he had not understood. Though Grace did not understand what he had thought exactly, she knew he believed she had rejected him, which was so far from the truth that she wanted to weep with frustration. Now, though, she was at a loss to know how to mend it, and he was so politely distant, so very careful that she wanted to shake him for not being able to see the truth. She was angry with him when none of it was his fault, she was angry with herself for everything she had done, and she was utterly wretched, a tangled mess of regret and hope and confusion. Worse, now she must attend Florence’s dinner party, knowing that Sterling did not wish to be there, that he was attending for her sake, and now she did not wish to be there either. For she must smile and pretend to be happy and if she succeeded too well, it would hurt Sterling, for he would think she did not care for his happiness. Oh, Lord, what was she to do?

“Mrs Oak?” Grace looked up with a start, realising that Maggie had been talking to her and she’d not heard a word.

“I beg your pardon, Maggie,” she began, but before she could speak, the woman took her hands in between her own and held them tightly.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, madam, but it strikes me that your husband is a good man who wishes for you to be happy above all things. Why not talk to him about what troubles you? For you are troubled, that’s clear enough, and newlyweds are bound to encounter problems.”

Grace swallowed hard, touched that her maid should be so very kind, and horrified that her misery was so very evident. What on earth must Sterling think of her? How ungrateful she must seem when he had given her so much. Was this how she repaid his kindness, by making him as wretched as she was?