Page 12 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

Besides, Grace was in no position to have scruples. It was either seduce Lord Rory or see herself cast out.

Something was scratching at her door.

Startled out of her thoughts, she stood up and stared at the wooden panels, thinking again of Ormsby and then shook her head. Of course it wasn’t him! Perhaps an overly polite servant? Instead of calling out, she went to open the door, just a crack, before widening it. There was no one there. And then her gaze dropped and she realized there was a large tabby and white cat staring up at her with yellow eyes. For a moment they simply gazed at each other, and then the creature strolled past her and into her bedchamber.

By the time she had closed the door again, the cat was on her bed, busily making itself comfortable. The animal’s purring was very loud, and she couldn’t help but smile. She had never had a pet. Ormsby had refused to have any animals in his house, and his dogs were used strictly for hunting on his estate. Grace reached out a tentative hand and stroked the soft fur. The purring grew louder.

“Good evening,” she whispered. “I am so glad to see you. Perhaps we can be friends?”

The cat seemed to agree, yellow eyes meeting hers while its large paws continued to knead the bedding.

“I don’t know how long I will be staying here,” Grace went on, speaking her thoughts aloud. “The countess seems very kind, but I don’t want to trespass on her hospitality. Once I am sure Rory cannot declare our marriage null and void, I will find somewhere else.”

The cat made a sound as if it agreed.

Grace supposed she should change out of her wedding dress. The countess had mentioned a celebratory dinner with just the three of them at the table. Not really much of a celebration in Grace’s opinion, but it was kindly meant.

She looked down at herself, aware of her ragged petticoat beneath her pink gown. Her clothing was woefully inadequate, but it would have to do. She could not afford to spend money on fripperies when she needed every penny to survive, and to create a home for her sisters. Her luggage had already been brought up—a single bag—but when she opened it, she discovered that some industrious servant had already unpacked. Grace cringed at the thought of what they must think of her shabby garments.

There was only one other dress suitable for the dinner. It was white with blue trim about the hem and sleeves, and although it was out of date, it was more flattering than the pink one. She had mentioned her predicament to the earl last week but he had not offered to pay for anything new—and honestly she had not expected him to.

Before she could begin to change her dress, there was a knock on the door, and this time it was a human being. A youngish girl bobbed a curtsy and said she had come to help her dress for dinner. She cast a suspicious glance at the cat, which ignored her. It was dozing now, paws tucked under it, eyes at half mast.

“There is really no need,” Grace began firmly. She had dressed herself for many years now, as well as dressing her sisters. The thought popped into her head: Who would help them now?

“The countess insists,” the maid said, as if that was the final word on the matter.

So Grace stood compliant as she was undressed and dressed, and then had her hair brushed and pinned up in an elegant and becoming style. A glance in the mirror showed a somber young lady, and she thanked the maid, who had done her best. But nothing could take away from the fact that her clothing was old and worn and there were shadows under her eyes.

“My lady,” the servant gave a curtsy. “The countess says that dinner will be served whenever you are ready.”

Grace was hardly aware of the door closing behind the girl. She knew she must go back downstairs and make conversation with these people who held her fate in their hands. It was not pleasant knowing her future, and even her present, depended on strangers. They were generous enough now, but how could she trust that they would remain so? What if they decided they did not want the bother of her? Where would she go? She knew she could not go home.

Grace reminded herself again of her father’s words.

For Rory to be her husband by law, she must consummate their marriage. She must make it legal.

She thought of his blue eyes, watchful and yet warm. He had been at ease when they first met, before he fully understood the trap he had walked into. Grace had not known him, and still she had trusted him enough to place her future in his hands. Not that she had had much choice, but she could have chosen to marry Fitt.

She shuddered.

Perhaps she could make Rory desire her enough to want to come to her bed tonight and save her the embarrassment of creeping into his? But she did not think so. There had been something solemn about him when he had given her his word. As if he had meant it, and now that she thought about it, Rory seemed like the sort of proud man who would see being asked to break it as insulting.

If Grace wanted to make this marriage legal, then making it so was up to her.

Chapter Seven

When Grace left her room and tentatively descended the stairs, Rory was waiting for her. He gave her a polite bow and led her into the dining room and pulled out her chair. The countess was already seated and smiled at her in that friendly fashion. Grace, who had been prepared for the unpleasantness that usually occurred during meals at the earl’s house, relaxed a little. The countess nodded at her sour-faced butler to signal that they were ready.

“I have sent a notification of your wedding to The Times,” the countess said, helping herself to poached fish and mushrooms in a white sauce. “Ormsby neglected to do so.”

Grace thought the truth was that the earl probably hadn’t cared enough to bother. “I am sure he is celebrating as we speak,” she said bitingly, before she could stop herself. She waited apprehensively as her hostess’s hands froze, and Rory looked up.

“I am—” she began to stammer an apology.

And then Rory laughed that husky laugh of his. “His loss,” he said, lifting his wine glass toward her in an informal toast. His eyes lingered on her over the rim of the glass, taking in her blue-and-white dress with its puffed sleeves and unadorned neckline. She wondered what he was thinking. He wasn’t looking at her as Bolton used to, as if she was a particularly delicious sweet he would like to sample. When his blue eyes rose to meet hers, she found them warm and curious, but there was kindness there, too.

For some reason she found herself unable to look away. Grace told herself it was because she was not used to kindness. She wanted to drink deep of it.