Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Oh, God!" Beatryce screamed, her eyes unfocused in fright. She actually screamed.

Dansbury was stunned by the look of horror that flitted across her face as she cursed aloud. Her obvious fear threatened to undermine his resolve, but only for a moment. He only had to think of her last confrontation with Grace to harden his heart, but still, he watched her, wary. She was the consummate actress.

She rushed over, her eyes pleading. She grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket with both hands. "Please, Dansbury, please, you must take me with you. Please."

He was taken aback. Beatryce? Begging and fearful? When hell froze over! He checked the urge to look outside to see if it was snowing despite it being summer. He reminded himself that she was a gifted actress. She had nearly entrapped his best friend into marriage—a tremendous feat that—and he smiled at her knowingly. She was up to something. Though a part of his gut screamed at him that this wasn't an act—that she was genuinely frightened. It didn't matter. She had squashed any sympathy he felt for her through her actions towards Grace.

"I'm sorry, Lady Beatryce, but you're confusing me with someone who gives a damn."

He turned his back on her, prepared to leave.

"Wait."

Despite his better judgment, he stopped. It wasn't the force of her command that halted him, but the quiet, yet resigned confidence he detected in her voice. He turned to face her, his hands on his hip, brow raised in question.

"I can help you, if you help me. I can…I can lead you to what you need to know…to solve your investigation. I know where my father keeps his secret papers."

He was shocked. How the hell could she possibly know? He reached her in two long strides and grabbed her. He gripped her harshly, shaking her in his anger.

"Tell me what you know. Tell me now!" he yelled.

She held her hand up to shut him up. "Shhhh. Are you crazy? Lower your voice. First, get me out of here, safely and without being seen, and then I'll tell you what I know. Not before. And be quick about it."

He growled in frustration. She stood with her arms crossed, seemingly at ease and in command of the situation, but he noticed she kept looking at the door, fear flitting across her face with each glance.

Damn. He had no choice. He had to pursue any lead.

"Fine. Let's go."

He held out his hand. She took it without hesitation.

Oxford…

He's likely married by now.

Grace wasn't sure exactly what time the festivities were to take place; she hadn't been invited, of course, but she knew it was today—and it nearly killed her, the pain was so powerful.

She hadn't bothered to get out of bed today—there was no way she would be able to see people with a smile on her face knowing that inside, her heart was breaking all over again.

Logic couldn't mend a broken heart, though it did stop her from making a fool of herself by flying back to London to beg him to take her back—not that it would have stopped the impending nuptials, but when you're heartbroken things rarely made sense.

She could just imagine how handsome he looked in his wedding finery. Perhaps he'd wear an emerald pin in his cravat to match his eyes. She rolled over and punched her fist into her pillow. How ridiculous was she to torment herself so by thinking such things?

She buried her face in her pillow to muffle her scream. Her bedroom door clicked open.

"Oh, B-Bessie, I'll be f-fine. I'll be d-down in a bit. Maybe. Eventually," came her muffled, sob-broken voice.

Male laughter made her jerk her head up in surprise. Had she finally lost her mind in her grief? It couldn't be him. He was probably on his way to his honeymoon by now.

"Actually, I'm not. And yes, I am really here."

Goodness, was she talking to herself? Out loud? She closed her eyes, but the tears fell regardless. She must be dreaming, but she didn't want to be.

"Yes, you are, and no, you're not dreaming, my love. I really am here."

She felt the bed dip as Ambrose sat beside her. She still hadn't looked away from her headboard—afraid to see an empty room and know for sure she was going mad. Now, with the undeniable evidence of the added weight to the side of the bed, she rolled over to her side and looked up at him.

There he was—looking down at her with love and tenderness in his eyes.

"Ambrose? How?"

She reached out to touch him, though still afraid she'd find he was a figment of her imagination.

"I'm not going to marry Beatryce, my sweet. In fact, I quite rudely left her standing at the altar…literally—well, hopefully Dansbury caught up with her and explained the way of things first; I didn't really have the time. I came here as fast as my horse could run."

"The way of things?"

Good God—it was like when they had first met in the garden so many months ago. Her brain was racing, unable to make sense of what was happening, unable to form coherent words, yet trying to process it all. "Silly woman. Don't you know? I love you." He slid off the bed and knelt beside it.

"Grace, I want to spend my life making you…us…our children…happy. I was cold and lonely—miserable—before I met you and you gave me a glimpse of how different— how much better—life was meant to be. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I was wrong. Now I know. All I want is you and the life we could have together. I never expected it to happen this way, but I can't bear to wait anymore. Will you make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?"

She was stunned. There was no other way to describe it. She searched his eyes for the truth behind his words. His true desire. His words were more beautiful than she could have ever dreamt—words she had longed to hear so many times—including mere minutes ago. So why wasn't she throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him relentlessly between frantic screams of "yes"? It was what her instinct and her heart told her to do. It was what she wanted; yet still she hesitated.

"I'm not sure. Oh, how many times have I dreamt of hearing you say those words? And now that you've said them, I'm not sure. I don't know."

He lost the smile. She was sure he wasn't expecting her not to say yes.

"Grace, you love me. We love each other. I…"

"I know I do. I know you think you do. But is love enough? I need to know what kind of man you are. I thought I knew. The man I saw when I gave myself to you was the man of my dreams. But your actions after make me wonder if I only saw what I wanted to believe. Who are you, really, and do you even know?"

"I see."

"I don't see how—I'm sure I don't. I can't believe I'm saying this at all. I've been crying all night over the thought of you marrying Beatryce. I love you. But just like you thought you had to put aside your wants for the good of the estate, I find myself needing to make this decision with my head and my heart. My heart says yes, of course, yet you've been a certain type of man for most of your adult life. That day we spent together, when you pretended you were not the duke, I saw a man who was so much more. A man with compassion and strength. That is the man I need and who I want to be the father of my children. But is that man you?"

"Yes. I know it is. But let me show you. Come back to London with me. I'll prove it. I know it's inconvenient, but please, just believe in me."