Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

T he clock was chiming ten by the time Bennet loosened his grip on Grace's hand enough that she dared to slip her fingers from his grasp. She froze in the glow of the candle he'd insisted be left burning and watched the slight flutter of his lashes against his cheek, fearing his eyes might pop open again. Thrice she had thought she'd managed to soothe her brothers to sleep. But when she tried to tiptoe away from their bedside, the creak of floorboards had awakened them. This time, thank God, they seemed well and truly asleep. For now , a voice whispered in her head.

She rubbed the back of her neck, weary to her bones from dismantling picnic accoutrements, calming the servants' rattled nerves over the fencing accident, and answering Nanny's plea for help with the frightened boys. When she finally stepped out into the corridor, she was surprised to find Will standing like a sentry, blocking the stairway that led to the nursery.

"You look like the very devil, Grace. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever be able to pry Bennet's fingers off of yours."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, swiping at her burning eyes.

"I assume you received the paternal summons to dissect the happenings of the day." Will raised his dark brows.

The meeting. Her heart sank. She longed for her bed. A nice cup of tea. Pulling the coverlets over her head…

"Father sent me to see what was keeping you," Will explained. "I took one look through the door and decided that he and Helen could dashed well wait." An unaccustomed seriousness shadowed his youthful features. "Poor little fellows. I've not seen them so upset since Mother died. I wouldn't count on getting much sleep tonight, Gracie. I have a feeling you'll have company."

In the weeks following their mother's death, Grace's room had been haunted by three little night-shirted wanderers seeking answers she couldn't give them, Avery joining in under the guise of checking on his younger brothers. They'd burrowed into the fourposter bed like puppies, their small, warm bodies smelling of soap and strawberry jam, their silky hair tickling her cheek.

She'd cuddled the boys close in the vast stretch of empty hours that had remained after the long days of caring for Mama. Slowly, oh so slowly, she'd felt the coils of fear and confusion loosen, then melt from their rigid bodies as the jagged grief inside her softened, too.

If they did come wandering later tonight, she would welcome them with open arms. After the events of the day, she could use a hug as well.

As if he understood without words, Will looped an arm around her, and she leaned against his shoulder. "You are the best sister who ever lived, you know," he said in that deep voice that still surprised her. "We're all blasted lucky to have you."

His unexpected praise made the corners of her mouth turn up. She nudged him with an elbow. "You're not so reprehensible yourself."

He smiled back at the word she'd oft used to describe him when he'd teased her in the past. They made their way down to the study together.

Their father was pacing the confines of the room Helen had begun to redecorate in sea-sick green and gold. Smears of paint samples blotted the walls and swathes of sample fabrics were draped about.

"Here you are at last!" their father said sharply. "I sent Will up to fetch you an hour past."

"It took this long for Bennet to fall asleep," Will explained.

Helen fanned herself with her handkerchief. "No wonder, after the day we had!" Her gown was crumpled, tendrils of blonde hair curling about her cheeks.

"This is what comes of interactions with the Harcourts," Father growled, pouring himself a glass of port. "It will be a miracle if the whole county doesn't learn of this debacle with the swords before the week is out."

Grace felt a surge of defensiveness. "The guard came off of the blade. It could have happened to anyone."

"The Harcourts aren't ‘anyone.' What if he'd been killed right on our front lawn? The Viscount Everdene—by his own sister! The scandal would have destroyed us in good society!"

Grace frowned. "Society's reaction is what concerns you? Not the fact that a man was injured and his poor sister was obviously distraught?"

"She belongs in a madhouse!"

Grace choked back a gasp, stunned at her father's harsh reply. "Cassandra was overwrought! Surely you think a little compassion is called for?"

"What is called for is a solid boundary walling off this family from any contact with the Harcourts. Viscount Everdene is just like his father! Showing off his skills, not caring who gets hurt."

"Lord Everdene was pressed to take up the sword by Lord Arkwright," Grace exclaimed. "When Will and the boys insisted he do so, he had little choice but to comply. Didn't you see how careful he was? He could have divested Will of that sword in a heartbeat."

"Let's not give the man too much credit," Will said in a huff.

"You are ascribing traits to Everdene that don't exist," her father replied. "You've seen him—what? Thrice in the past twenty years?"

That much was true. And yet, the way he'd reacted at the lake, the way he'd accepted her little brothers' apologies, the moments alone, in the kitchen at Everdene Hall, and in the morning room…she'd seen glimpses of a man she wished to know better.

Her father lifted his glass of port. "I understand the fascination women feel toward the viscount. Lucien Harcourt is rich, powerful, and fine looking enough to turn women's heads. But so are snakes."

"Papa!"

"You must accept that I know best," he bit out.

Hurt and anger flared inside her. She stared at her father as if he'd suddenly transformed into a stranger.

At her reaction, he seemed to check himself, speaking to her in measured tones that irritated her. "My dearest girl, you don't know Viscount Everdene. My judgement should be enough for you."

Her chin bumped up a notch. "Considering the changes around here of late, I prefer to trust my own," she said.

Her father's face flushed brick red, while Helen stifled a sob.

"I can't think why you would invite the Harcourts to The Willows to begin with," he blustered. "There was bound to be trouble! The only reason I allowed you to attend the dinner at Everdene Hall was because of Captain Harcourt's work on the village, and because the earl himself was never in residence there. I prefer you not pursue old friendships."

"Whatever ill happened between you and the earl all those years ago has no bearing on us now," Grace said. "I'm not a child in need of protection."

"No, you are in a far more precarious position as an unmarried gentlewomen, yet you would insist on dealing with his wound." He glared over the rims of his spectacles. "You were gone a very long time."

Grace thought of the kiss, the way the taut skin of Lucien's chest felt against her palm. Her cheeks burned. " Someone had to perform a hostess's duty here at The Willows. You could have attended our guest yourself, Papa, but you were too occupied with a wife who was carrying on more than the man who was actually bleeding!" The moment the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them.

Too late. Helen looked at her, aghast. "I'm sure the first Lady Elliot would have handled things flawlessly." She dabbed at her tears with the lace-edged handkerchief. "Barbara was everything I am not!"

A strange mixture of grief, defensiveness, and torn loyalties warred in Grace's father's eyes as he patted her shoulder. "It is no wonder you were overset. Any woman of proper feeling would be. But I will make certain you will not be put in such a position again." He turned to Grace, his expression darkening. "Helen informed me that you and she have been invited to for tea by Captain Harcourt's wife. You will send your regrets and do the same for any other invitations that come from Everdene Hall."

Grace's temper flared. "Why should I do so? They are my friends."

Her father slashed his hand through the air. "My decision is final. I'll not have you in the company of Viscount Everdene."

"Lucien will not even be at this tea!" Grace flung back.

" Lucien! " her father sputtered in outrage. "Since when have you two been on such informal terms?"

"Since we were eight and in dancing lessons. And you've naught to worry about regarding his lordship's presence at Everdene Hall. He intends to return to London." A sense of loss surprised Grace.

"Dearest Grace," Helen said. "I beg you see reason. Your father and I love you very much."

"Love me?" Good heavens. The woman barely knew her.

Helen reached for Papa's hand, giving him an adoring smile, before turning it to Grace. "It is because of that love that I wrote to my dear friend Deborah and explained that it is imperative that you depart for Scotland at once."

The world seemed to tilt at her stepmother's words. Grace heard Will blustering his objections as if from a distance. "Scotland?" Grace stared at her father, certain he'd object. When he did not, she turned her attention back to Helen. "That is hardly for you to decide!"

"You will show your stepmother proper respect," her father said. "Helen wrote at my direction."

"Not at mine!" Grace wheeled to face her father. "I'm not a child to be ordered about."

"You are a woman who should have been married long ago!" His words fell like stone.

Bitterness spilled poison inside her as she glared at him. "Now that Mama is dead, and you have no more use for me as a nursemaid, I'm to be married off? Do you feel even a qualm about sending me so far away from everyone I love? From the little boys?"

Her father reared back as if she'd slapped him. "I saw the way that Lord Everdene was looking at you, even if you did not!"

But she had. The confusion, the sensual attraction, the deep pull of understanding she could not deny. Despite multiple emotionally fraught encounters, she felt a kind of ease with Lucien she'd not encountered with any man she'd ever known.

Silence filled the room, her father's gaze challenging her to deny what they both knew was true. At last, he tugged at his cravat. "I am sending you away for your own good," he said. "I wish to see you married with a household of your own."

"In Scotland ? With a man I've never met ?"

"Deborah assures me that the local belles find her son most amiable!" Helen interjected.

"Then they are welcome to him!" Grace crossed her arms and gave a sharp nod.

"You will leave for Inverness within the week and remain there until the season begins. If a betrothal is not forthcoming from that quarter, I have also made it known to Neville's father that you are, as yet, unwed should Neville wish to renew his addresses."

Grace stared at him, feeling sick. "How could you?"

"Why should I not? You have fulfilled your duties to your mother. The impediments that separated you and Neville have dissolved."

"He's married."

"His American wife succumbed to yellow fever while he was surveying business interests in Louisiana."

"You contacted his family without a word to me? Mama would never have sanctioned this."

"Your mother is not here."

Her hands balled into fists. "I know that better than anyone! I was with her when she died, while you?—"

She stopped herself just before she said the words she could never take back, but they hung in the air, unspoken. Her father's face went ice white. Helen snuffled in her handkerchief.

He patted his wife's hand, his gaze locked on Grace. "This discussion is over until you can conduct yourself as a dutiful daughter should."

"I will. As my mother's daughter." She turned on her heel and stormed from the room. Will caught up with her at the top of the stairs. He grabbed her elbow, spun her around and gathered her against him, clinging as they had after their mother died.

"Of all the abominable interference!" Will said. "Helen is shameless! And father—I'd never have believed he was capable of this. What are you going to do?"

Grace fought back angry tears. "I don't know. But I'm done having my choices decided by someone else. I'm not a—a chess piece to be shoved about at their whim."

She froze, her mother's voice whispering in her memory, sending strength and resolve through her veins. A man may believe they control the chess board. But never forget…the queen is the most powerful piece of all.

Her jaw hardened with resolve, her heart raced.

The next move—whatever it was—would be hers alone.