Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

" I wish you would not go."

Irritation flickered in Grace at the sound of her father's words and she looked up from the valise Will was loading into the carriage.

"Papa, it is decided."

His brow creased and he peered over the rims of his spectacles. "You could plead a headache or some female complaint."

Helen tsked and placed a hand on his arm. "Haven't we been urging Grace to go out in society? Now she has secured an invitation to a most exclusive party my friends will all envy. We can hardly deny her this chance."

"But the Harcourts are known for some havey-cavey doings," Papa hedged, twisting a button on his waistcoat and pulling it askew. "The countess vanished for decades, then suddenly reappeared. I cannot help but be concerned."

"Captain Harcourt is a war hero and raises some of the finest horses in England," Will insisted, chafing like a Thoroughbred waiting for the starting gun. "His wife is a trifle odd, meddling in architecture and his brother, the viscount is less than amiable, but the Harcourt sisters are earl's daughters! They will go about in the best society."

Papa flushed. "That earl?—"

"Lord Ravenscroft is a recluse on some distant estate," Helen soothed, straightening the mussed waistcoat. "Besides, Wilberforce will attend the house party with Grace. If there is any questionable behavior, he can fetch Grace home straightaway."

"Papa, I am going and that is the end of it," Grace said, straining to have patience. "The Harcourt sisters and I were great friends before things went awry between you parents. Whatever you argued about was a long time ago. Surely, Jane, Cassandra and I should not be punished for it."

Before her father could argue further, Bennet tugged on Grace's skirt. "You will be home to check under the bed for monsters tonight, won't you?" The expression in his large green eyes hurt her heart. It was the first time she would be gone overnight since their mother took so ill.

She cupped Bennet's cheek. "No, little man. You might ask Stepmama to do it."

Avery made a scoffing sound.

"For shame, boys!" Helen scolded. "You great big lads mustn't be selfish. You can't expect Grace to be tied to the nursery forever! She needs to have a husband and babies of her own."

"She doesn't want them," Ethan said stoutly.

Avery's chin tipped at a pugnacious angle. "She has us ."

"I will be back to tuck you in on Saturday night." Grace reassured them, but she fidgeted with the strings of her reticule. True, she had her brothers, but did she want babes of her own? A husband?

She had dreamed of having her own family once. Sometimes she lay awake, imagining what it might have been like to share Neville Freyne's bed. But now, it was Lucien Harcourt's face that flashed in her mind.

"Grace?" Bennet's piping voice drifted up to her. She shoved such absurd imaginings from her mind as her littlest brother beckoned her to lean down. Cupping his palm around his mouth, he whispered in her ear, "Do you think your reticule is big enough to bring me cake?"

Grace grinned. "I am sure of it."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now, you mustn't fret." She ruffled each boy's hair in turn then bestowed a kiss on her father's cheek. " Any of you," she admonished sternly. "I will be back before you know it."

Steeling herself against the cluster of long faces, she let Will hand her into the coach. He climbed in after her, sprawling against the squabs as the coachman set the horses in motion.

"Father looked ready to lock you in a tower until Helen intervened," Will said, his lanky body taking up as much of the space as possible. "Makes you wonder what all the fuss was about long ago, doesn't it? As to the Harcourts, I mean. Mysterious disappearances. That strange business of a perfectly good village being torn down." He waggled his eyebrows. "Perhaps we can find out what really happened."

"Please, Will, don't pry. And for heaven's sake, move over !" She tugged a fold of her skirt from beneath his leg.

"Don't you wonder what happened?" he asked as she smoothed the crumpled fabric. "One moment the countess is every tenant's dream of the perfect mistress, the next, the whole family disappears from the county. I tried to wring information out of the pater, but he's a sphynx, except for harping that I am to watch over you. I told him there is no reason to worry. That dashing Captain Harcourt is already wed, and the viscount is far too stern for your taste. Might as well be made of stone."

She thought of the feel of Lucien Harcourt's body against hers. Sinew and muscle, elegant bones and strong hands. Definitely not stone. A shiver went through her at the memory of those moments at the lake.

Yet, as intense as that experience had been, it was the next time she'd seen him that haunted her. The way his dark hair had been precisely in place, the lines of weariness—wariness—in his severe face. The unexpected jolt in her chest when he smiled.

"Think how you feel when everyone starts asking about Papa and Helen," Grace pleaded.

That actually seemed to affect Will. He scowled. Plenty of people had plied them with questions about their father's courtship, speculating that the affair had been going on even before ‘dearest Barbara' had died. The marriage was very sudden, was it not? Barbara was ill for such a long time. Even the best of men have needs…

Grace's stomach knotted, and she shoved that question away, focusing on the party to come. Lucien Harcourt, Viscount Everdene, was not ‘the best of men' by anyone's account. He was a hard-edged, ruthless nobleman, with a physique all too tempting—combined with the aphrodisiac of power, an irresistible mixture to many women.

And Grace wanted to see him again.

Lucien was not watching for Grace Elliot's arrival. He was merely taking in the fresh air and talking to his brother about horses while the household prepared for the party he dreaded to the marrow of his bones. Two dozen guests would be attending, including Penelope's loquacious sisters, Fanny and Kitty Waverly, Rhys Arkwright and a few assorted neighbors Lucien would rather not see. And now his mother had been detained in Galen's Well. Some business with the hospital she was patroness of. Not that he could complain about the party since Penelope was serving as hostess and he had not provided the estate with a viscountess.

No, he'd not been waiting for Grace Elliot, but as he and Simon returned from the stables, there she was in the Everdene garden. She looked like springtime in an airy white muslin frock, trimmed with green ribbon, her silk-covered bonnet exactly the color of her eyes.

When she saw him, she dipped in a curtsy. "My lord, it is good to see you again." She smiled, that damned dimple peeping out. "Did you enjoy the pie?"

"Very much," he replied, trying to forget that he'd thought of her with each bite.

"I have just been taking in your lovely garden while my brother Will is getting settled in his room. The brother who doesn't throw mudpies, as you requested."

Lucien sent Simon a quelling glance before he could ask questions.

Grace continued blithely. "You may prefer the mud-throwing ones once Will starts pestering you about horses."

"I highly doubt it," Lucien said, then gestured to Simon. "Lady Grace Elliot, you may remember my brother, Captain Harcourt."

"Of course, I remember you!" She clasped her hands in delight. "I'm glad I can finally congratulate you both for what you have accomplished with New Everdene. My mother would have been so impressed with the model village Lord Everdene has built here on the estate."

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" Simon enthused.

"My brother and his wife are the force behind New Everdene," Lucien interjected quickly.

"Then they are to be congratulated. But it is your estate, is it not? You must have approved the project."

"Must I have?" Lucien gave Simon an arch look. He was not about to regale her of the real story of the village and the consequences that followed, consequences that had nearly severed his bond with his brother forever.

"We have more ideas for improvements." Simon's eyes held that enthusiasm for such projects that Lucien had learned to be wary of.

Lucien's lips thinned, as always, the one who had to make practical sense. "Improvements will have to wait. All estates are struggling."

"Of course, they are," Grace said, her eyes warm with empathy. "It's no wonder, between crop failures and political unrest. In Ireland, it's worst of all, with the potato blight. I keep hoping parliament will help them weather the disaster. The people are starving but there are shiploads of grain leaving Irish ports every day."

Lucien had made enemies pressing for just such relief.

Grace tilted her head. "My lord, you are looking at me strangely. Has a bird landed on my bonnet?"

No. It was what lay beneath that bonnet that intrigued him. Not her pretty face, not even those berry red lips, but her mind. "You surprise me, my lady. I was not aware young ladies such as yourself were aware of challenges in agriculture or political matters."

"Then, perhaps you are not speaking to the right ladies," she said, squaring her shoulders. "Not all women waste time chattering about fashion and gossip when important matters need attending to." She shook out her skirts with a militant air. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll retire to my room and send my brother to see your horses. He's been talking of nothing else."

She curtseyed again, then disappeared into the house. Lucien twisted the signet ring on his finger. Suddenly, the impending evening didn't seem quite so bleak.

The party had been a mistake. There were too damned many people. Lucien watched his sisters from his place across the room.

He'd done his best to draw the men away. With every gruff masculine greeting, Jane shrank deeper into the corner of the peach-and-cream striped settee as if she longed to disappear entirely. Cassandra mounted guard at her side, the fierce expression on her face sending the women edging away. Even Penelope had vanished to answer a summons from the nursery.

And Lady Grace—she was nowhere to be seen. He was considering sending a servant upstairs to knock on her door when she swept into the room, looking more than a little exasperated. Her curls were a bit mussed, her cheeks flushed. He went to her at once, surprised to feel some of his tension ease.

"You're late," he said.

"I am sorry for the delay, my lord," Grace said, tucking a wayward tendril behind her ear. "My brother insisted he would come to my room and escort me down. Apparently, he forgot."

She leveled a wry glance at the youth who was engaged in a heated discussion with Arkwright over some bare-knuckle fighter he'd seen. Lucien would have been happy to climb into the ring with The Crusher himself to escape his present circumstance.

Lucien frowned. "I do hope your father has arranged for a capable bear-leader to keep your brother out of trouble when he comes to London. The way he instigates arguments, it will be pistols at dawn before a week's out."

"I hope father engages someone wise to watch over Will, too."

Before he's fleeced at some gaming hell or falls prey to some doxy, Lucien added silently. After years of trying to stop Simon's reckless antics, Lucien knew the possibilities were endless.

Grace scanned the room, observing the clusters of uncomfortable guests and Lucien's sisters, wary and withdrawn. "Where is your sister-in-law?" she whispered.

"Penelope? The nursery. Apparently, the child is wailing and has a fever. Teeth are involved."

She gave him a chiding look. "If you had sharp teeth cutting through your tender gums, you'd expect whiskey or laudanum. The comfort of his mother's arms is little enough for a babe to ask. Let us see what we can do to salvage the evening."

He felt a surge of relief at her words and guided her toward his sisters. "May I present Lady Grace Elliot," he began.

"We need no introductions," Grace exclaimed, eyes shining. "Welcome home, Cassandra. And Jane." Grace went to his shy younger sister and reached out her hands. "Oh, my dear! How I have missed you!"

For a heartbeat, Jane hesitated, staring down at Grace's upturned palms, then carefully joined hands with her childhood friend. Lucien watched in astonishment as Jane smiled, a smile more like that of the little sister he remembered than he'd yet seen. Envy jabbed him. What would it be like to bestow affection on his sister so freely? To have Jane welcome it?

"Grace…" Jane said softly. "You are the person I—I most wanted to see in England. Besides Mama and Simon."

Did Grace notice she'd not included him? Lucien wondered.

"I'm glad to see you as well," Grace confided. "I confess, I was a bit nervous about this party. I feel very strange being out in society after so long."

" You have not socialized?" Cassandra demanded.

"Not for three years, since my mother became ill."

Lucien watched his sisters' faces. He could see what Grace was doing—building bridges between them, putting them at ease. Gratitude made his throat feel thick.

Even Cassandra softened a bit. "I heard of Lady Elliot's passing. I am very sorry."

"Thank you. I attempted to go to several parties when she first got sick, but I spent the whole time worrying about her. Between that and the ceaseless questions about her health, it was too jarring."

"Yes," Jane said barely above a whisper. "It seems very…noisy here." She glanced around, as if the slightest movement might bring some calamity down on her.

It hurt Lucien to see it, made him want to shield her, be the barrier between her and the rest of the company as he might have when they were small.

But damned if Grace hadn't already maneuvered herself so that the curious strangers were no longer in Jane's line of vision. Clever woman, Lucien thought with admiration.

"I cannot wait for us to have a comfortable chat like we used to," Grace said. "Remember the lovely times we had driving your pony cart? And that time our mothers took us to the linen drapers in London and we went to Gunter's for ices."

Lucien saw Jane's eyes brighten. "You were never able to eat yours. Those awful apprentices flung a kitten into a fountain and you splashed in to save it. Your mother didn't scold even though your frock was ruined."

"The ungrateful beast scratched you terribly," Cassandra cut in.

"It is hard to tell who is friend or foe when you're drowning and afraid." Grace slanted a glance at Lucien.

Something in those words impelled him to sketch a bow and join Simon, Arkwright and the other men as they talked about races Everdene horses had won and the latest news of revolution on the continent. Still, Lucien couldn't take his eyes off of Grace Elliot.

Even once Penelope returned to her duties as hostess—a patch of something he feared was drool on her crumpled bodice—Grace remained the warm center to which others in the room were drawn. Arkwright seemed charmed, as well.

Lucien's eyes narrowed as he saw his friend lean near her, heard her laughing.

"Poor Everdene got stuck with me as a roommate at Eton," Arkwright said, pulling a face. "He couldn't shake me, though God knows, he tried. I've been eager to meet the woman who got Viscount Everdene to actually issue an invitation. He did invite you? Personally, I mean. Or is it a scurrilous rumor he devised just to taunt me?"

"Yes," Grace said, with a laugh. "His lordship invited me."

"How did that miracle come about?" Arkwright asked. Lucien disliked the purely masculine appreciation in his friend's eyes. "You are uncommonly pretty, but he's had diamonds of the first water hurling themselves at him for ages. The notion of Everdene inviting a lady to a party is so uncharacteristic, I almost summoned a physician when I heard."

Lucien barely stopped himself from doing the unthinkable and tugging at his own cravat.

"His sisters were my friends when we were children," Grace explained.

"Ah, so you and Everdene?—"

"Were decidedly not," she supplied, her dimple appearing. "I tromped on his toes during dance lessons. Mostly on purpose."

Arkwright shot Lucien an obnoxious grin. "I understand the urge completely. Perhaps we can get one of the ladies to play the piano forte so you can demonstrate."

"I'll play!" Penelope's youngest sister, Kitty, cried rushing to the piano.

Of course, the chit would play, Lucien thought. Like most women, she never missed a chance to display her talent. The problem would be getting her to stop.

"Do you know a country dance so we can all join in?" Grace asked Kitty. When the girl nodded, Grace turned to Lucien's sisters. "Come, Jane and Cassandra! Remember what fun we used to have dancing?"

"A capital idea!" someone else exclaimed. As others began to pair up, Arkwright led Grace to the open space on the floor.

Suddenly, Lucien found himself striding over to where Grace and his friend stood. "Since this demonstration is to display our past encounters, Lady Grace, I will be your partner," he said.

"Really, Everdene—" Arkwright started to tease, then stopped, with a strange expression. After a moment, he stepped away and bowed. "As you wish." Arkwright went to ask Jane to dance, but not before Lucien caught the hint of a smirk on his friend's face. Lucien would remember that the next time they crossed swords at the fencing academy.

As the dancers gathered, Grace looked up at him, and he noticed a small emerald twinkling in the tender lobe of her ear.

"I do hope your boots are sturdy, my lord," she teased.

"At least they aren't doused in mud." Lucien glanced down toward his gleaming footwear, but his gaze snagged on the vee of her bodice. A cluster of pink rosebuds was pinned to the lace between her breasts. The scent wafted up to him, warmed by her skin. He took his place with Grace at the head of the set of dancers, a primitive thrumming in his blood.

The first notes rippled out a spritely tune and they began the familiar steps. As a girl, Grace had been awkward, or perhaps his own impatience with the lessons had made her so. Now, she was light as thistledown, her face suffused with pleasure, as if she were savoring a confit after being deprived for far too long. He met with her and separated, whirling in the figures they had practiced years before. Every time they joined hands, he felt an urge to pull her closer than necessary. When she linked arms with Arkwright further down the line, Lucien counted the minutes until she returned to him.

The chilly aura that had plagued the room began to thaw as the music cast its spell. Even his sisters seemed more at ease with no one trying to make awkward conversation. Skirts whirled in bright colors. Fanny Waverly made a misstep, then recovered and laughed. When the dance ended, she pulled her skirts to one side to display a torn flounce.

"Let's go to the retiring room," Grace offered. "I have a great deal of experience pinning up troublesome hems." The other women followed her, the men seeking refreshments. Lucien drew apart from the rest of the company, peering out into the darkness.

He should have guessed Arkwright would follow him.

"I trust," his friend said, "that you didn't take offense at my bit of flirtation earlier? Everyone was so grim I was only trying to lighten the mood. It was never my intention to poach on your preserves."

"Don't be a blockhead. There is no preserve to poach."

"In any case, Lady Grace is lovely. I remember her now from her first season. She got engaged to some fellow or other. The Honorable Neville Freyne, I think."

"Engaged?" Lucien echoed, his mood souring once again. "What happened?"

"Their betrothal fell through. I'm not sure who jilted whom."

A rustle of gowns and soft feminine voices sounded in the corridor, nearing the doorway.

"Freyne just returned to England after spending time in the colonies, I think," Arkwright said under his breath as the ladies flowed into the room. "Something about factories and investments…"

Fanny Waverly's enthusiastic voice broke through Lucien's disordered thoughts. "I would give anything to study art in Italy, Cassandra! Did you see the great masters?"

"Yes, in spite of the nuns."

"Nuns?" someone echoed.

"Convents usually have them," Cassandra said. "That is where we lived in Italy. But I wasn't about to be cloistered. I would climb over the wall and run away to the museums. My friend Paola would meet me there with my paints and sketchbooks so I could make copies of my favorites."

Paola, Lucien thought. The maid with the eyepatch.

"How deliciously romantic!" Kitty Waverly exclaimed.

"Until you get murdered wandering the streets alone," Lucien muttered under his breath.

Fanny clasped her hands to her breast. "I'd give anything to go to Italy for art lessons."

"I intend to continue my work here," Cassandra told her. "Penelope has helped me make a studio out of a room with good light. There are easels and paints and fresh canvas—everything an artist could ask for."

Penelope looked at Lucien as if to say just as you ordered .

"My completed canvases arrived yesterday from Florence."

"Perhaps we can hang some of your work in the gallery or entry hall to make this feel more like your home." Penelope said warmly.

"That would be perfect ," she said.

Cassandra's lips curled in an unsettling way, but Lucien's focus was on Grace. "Shall we continue with another dance?" Lucien said. "A waltz."

A waltz.

Grace startled at the low command in Lucien's voice.

As Kitty returned to the piano, he strode toward Grace and bowed, his blue eyes fixed on her in a way that made her feel like she had been tippling punch.

If that was the way he looked when asking for a dance, it was no wonder every woman in London was flinging themselves at his feet.

An exquisitely tailored coat of black superfine fit him to perfection. His waistcoat of claret silk gleamed, his snowy-white cravat crisp beneath his square jaw. She felt the urge to thread her fingers through his hair, muss it, just a little, to prove he was not quite so perfect as he seemed.

She stepped into his arms and their surroundings faded. He splayed his right hand on the curve of her back, the warmth of his hard palm penetrating the thin fabric of her gown. Kitty played the first strains of something by Schubert, and Lucien took hold of Grace's hand, drew her close. So close she could feel his breath feather against her cheek as they began to whirl about the floor.

"My lord, you surprise me in your choice of dance," she managed to tease, her heart hammering. "If I recall, you loathed waltzing when we had lessons."

Something intense fired in his eyes as he peered down at her, and she felt it all the way to her toes.

Those bone-meltingly sensual lips parted, but before he could speak, the sounds of harried voices could be heard above the strains of music—some kind of disturbance sounded in the entryway. The sound of agitated servants grew so loud Kitty struck a discordant note and fell silent. The guests stumbled to a halt and exchanged confused looks. "A late arrival?" someone guessed.

Lord Everdene's hand dug into her waist so tight she knew it would leave a mark. His shoulder tensed beneath her fingertips like iron cords as the music faltered and he jolted to a stop. For a heartbeat, the handsome planes of the viscount's face turned stark, vulnerable. In the next breath his countenance was stone. The door burst open, a man of about sixty entering the room.

Jane shrank back. Cassandra raced to her side.

The Earl of Ravenscroft strode toward his daughters, his face suffused with unholy pleasure.