Chapter Ten

Nicholas opened the coach door and climbed out, wincing as he felt the pull of muscles on his injuries. After two months of being gone from Blackmore, he found himself looking treacherously forward to seeing his wife again.

His absence had been explained away as a necessity to see his estate in Scotland. Nicholas knew he wasn’t fooling anybody, but he’d needed to put some distance between himself and his all too intuitive wife.

Unfortunately, neither the distance, nor his determination to throw himself into his work had prevented his daytime thoughts roaming again and again to the sight of his wife in her undergarments. He told himself such carnal thoughts were perfectly understandable given that it had been years since he’d seen a woman in such disarray, but while that was true, he’d never in the past given any thought to a woman past the initial slaking of a need.

Malcolm had admonished him on several occasions for his hasty escape, in particular his failure to leave any kind of a note for his wife. The Scot had just had the time to write a brief note to Mrs Tenner on his way out but was not able to shed any light on how long the Duke intended to stay away.

Nicholas felt guilty about leaving without speaking to Grace, but the Scot had no idea how embarrassing it had been to know that Grace had witnessed him at his lowest point. For once, he was grateful his valet was following behind on the morrow.

He would have to face Grace about it, and Nicholas had no idea what to say. To make matters worse, he had not responded to either of her letters and had sent no word concerning his impending return, so his sudden arrival would take his wife completely unawares.

Still the hour was late, so with luck, that conversation at least would wait until morning. Not wanting to rouse his elderly butler, Nicholas dismissed the coachman and made his way round to a side door he’d used often as a boy – usually when he and Peter wanted to come and go undetected. As he picked his way slowly past the greenhouse, his thoughts returned again to his wife as they so often did. Too often he knew. He pictured her in her bedchamber and unwillingly felt a tightening in his breeches that had nothing to do with his injuries. What the bloody hell was he going to do? So far, he’d made a complete mull of it. Perhaps he should have simply remained at his estates in Scotland, but the thought of never seeing Grace again caused a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of his stomach.

Abruptly, the silence was broken by distant shouting. Frowning, he pulled out his pistol which he carried as a necessary precaution for long journeys and picked up his pace. Entering the main house through the boot room, he crept silently through the kitchen and on into the formal dining room. He could hear voices coming from the main hall, but the shouting had ceased.

Pushing open the dining room door with his foot, he cautiously peered round the corner to the foot of the stairs where stood his wife, still dressed for dinner, her father, dressed in a ridiculous woollen jacket that was clearly three sizes too small and looked as though it had been last used in a stable, and a slim, weasel-faced man Nicholas had not come across before. All three were arguing .

“What the devil is going on here?” His icy voice cut across the trio’s quarrelling, and the silence was sudden and absolute as he stepped out into the hall. He heard his wife’s brief indrawn breath at his sudden appearance, before she quickly masked her surprise. Calmly, she stepped forward, her head held high. “Husband,” she greeted him coolly, “you did not send word of your arrival. I will wake Mrs Higgins and request some refreshment for you.”

He had a moment to observe how beautiful his wife looked and how unpretentiously she was dressed. She was certainly not wearing clothes befitting her station. Her hair was tied back in a simple ribbon, and her dress had clearly seen better days. He frowned, caught completely off guard.

“I apologise madam.” He gave a short formal bow to accompany his frosty words. “I was not aware you had company.”

“They were just leaving,” Grace offered, giving her father a short sideways glare. “Your grace, I don’t think you have yet met the curate for the Blackmore Estate. This is Mr Percy Noon.”

“At your service, your grace.” The small man’s voice was barely audible as he offered a deep clumsy bow. He looked as though he was ready to bolt.

Nicholas bent his head slightly in response before turning back to his wife.

“Please don’t trouble yourself, madam. My journey has been long and arduous, and I’m extremely tired. ‘Twas my intention to partake of a brandy in my study before heading straight to bed. Once again, I apologise for interrupting your evening. We will speak on the morrow.

“Reverend, Mr Noon.” He gave both men a polite nod and began walking towards his study. Just as he was about to open the door, he turned with another frown. “What the deuce is that awful smell?”

“I err, I mean Percy had the misfortune to fall foul of a particularly large cow pat on the way here, your grace,” the Reverend offered apologetically, ignoring the horrified look his curate gave him. “We will, of course, ensure the affected area is purged of such an odorous malaise before we leave.”

The Duke raised his eyebrows, his glance raking from Grace, to her father and on to the curate who now looked as though he was about to give birth to kittens. There was clearly much more to this than met the eye, but he was too damnably tired to make any sense of it. He shook his head and turned back to open his study door.

“Well that’s put the cat amongst the pigeons and no mistake,” muttered the Reverend wincing as the study door slammed behind him.

∞∞∞

Grace waited for the summons she knew would be coming from her husband once he’d been apprised of her actions in his absence. Her determination to force him to put her aside, which had seemed so practical while he was away, now looked to be childish and ridiculous.

She had yet to get to the bottom of her father’s sudden appearance last night wielding a large sack. He had remained determinedly tight lipped as he set about clearing up the disgusting mess on the floor, and Percy looked completely incapable of speech.

Anxiously, she paced back and forth across her bedchamber, unwilling to venture out until called for. By now, her sisters would know the Duke had returned and would no doubt be waiting with bated breath for word from her as to what her husband intended to do.

Finally, there was a ponderous knock on her bedchamber door. Feeling sick to her stomach, she called “Enter,” and watched fearfully in case Nicholas was on the other side. Instead, to her relief, it was Huntley.

“Your grace,” he offered with a small bow, “the Duke has asked if you will kindly attend him in the drawing room.” Swallowing nervously, Grace managed to nod graciously as befitted her station. Bit devilishly late now she couldn’t help thinking to herself as she followed the butler towards the stairs.

Her husband was standing in front of the window as she entered the drawing room, the sunlight casting an almost blue tinge to his hair. He waved her to a seat in front of the fireplace in which a roaring fire blazed despite the heat. Obviously, the master’s home , Grace thought a trifle hysterically, feeling beads of perspiration dot her brow as she sat as far away from the heat as she could.

Nicholas glanced with a sigh towards the blazing hearth as he took his seat opposite her. “Clearly, the household servants think me made of porcelain,” he said wryly. Grace endeavoured to smile politely, only half wondering if her face was about to crack. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared it was about to burst from her chest. She wracked her brains to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. Her calmness completely deserted her as she stared wordlessly at her husband’s stern handsome face. A brief reprieve came as the door opened to admit Huntley with a tray of tea and biscuits which he placed in front of her.

Grace remained rooted to the spot even as the butler withdrew, shutting the door softly behind him.

“Would you be good enough to pour?” Nicholas asked after a few moments, raising his eyebrows slightly at her continued silence.

“Of course,” Grace acquiesced faintly, coming out of her trance. Her hand trembled as she sloshed the milk into the cups. All she wanted to do was throw herself at his feet and beg him not to send her away. All her grand plans were reduced to nothing once she’d had a chance to look into his beautiful haunted eyes again.

Her behaviour during his absence had been unforgivable. But it was far, far too late to turn back the clock.

She became aware that he was speaking, his voice stilted and husky. “Before we speak of anything else, Grace, I would like to apologise for leaving so abruptly.” She stared at him disorientated, her cup halfway to her mouth.

“It was unforgivable of me to leave you so soon after our wedding. Especially in light of the fact that you have little knowledge concerning the running of an establishment as large as this one, and with so few servants to help you.” He cleared his throat, mistaking her continued silence for censure.

“Both Mrs Tenner and Mrs Higgins have informed me of your efforts in that regard, and Huntley has also been extremely eager to sing your praises.” He paused again, only the tightening of his jaw giving any indication of how difficult he was finding his confession.

Grace simply stared at him open-mouthed.

“It’s my intention to employ more staff in the running of the house,” he went on, “including the hiring of a lady’s maid for you once we return from London.”

“London?” was all Grace could say weakly.

“It’s past time I purchased you a new wardrobe,” he answered softly. “One befitting your rank as a Duchess of the Realm. Although my manners have been singularly lacking in the time since we married, I am nevertheless fully aware of the necessity for you to present the correct image to the world, and the fact that you are failing to do so is entirely my fault.” He shook his head ruefully before continuing, “Please forgive me, wife, for casting aspersions on your current attire, but anyone of any breeding could be forgiven for thinking you a country maid who had just fallen off a hay bale.”

∞∞ ∞

Grace saw little of her husband prior to their journey to his townhouse in London. Indeed, she’d seen little of anyone. It had been easy to plead a desire for time to prepare herself for the delights the capital had to offer, and Nicholas was happy to indulge her, clearly thinking her simply a little nervous. However, with so much to do to prepare the estate for his second absence in as many months, he was content to let her be. There would be more than enough opportunity for them to spend time together once they arrived in London.

In truth. Grace was not nervous. She was terrified. While she was beyond grateful to the servants for not tittle-tattling on her, she lived in abject fear that someone else might enlighten her husband. The fact that her predicament was entirely her own fault did not help matters at all. Why oh why did she have to be so impulsive? Nicholas did not come to her bedchamber, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or sorry. If his nightmares were troubling him, he gave no indication, and for the moment, she was content to allow Malcolm to take care of him.

The only time she ventured from the house was for lunch with her family at the vicarage. It was the only opportunity she had to speak with her siblings. Before luncheon, she managed to take her older sisters aside and explain what had happened, but only Tempy seemed fully cognizant of the tightrope her sister was balancing on. The others seemed to regard the last month as simply a lark and were more interested in the possibility of Grace attending balls and soirées and the number of new dresses her husband would buy her. Their bird-witted attitude simply emphasised how foolish she’d been. During luncheon, her siblings argued over whether they would be permitted to visit their sister in London, and Agnes twittered on about Almack’s until Grace thought she would scream.

Eventually, in desperation, she turned to her unusually silent father and expressed a wish to speak with him privately. After a few seconds plainly trying to come up with an excuse, the Reverend sighed and agreed to a private audience in his study. At the table, Agnes tittered knowingly behind her hand, clearly thinking there was some happy news on the way…

One look at his daughter’s face as they entered the study had the Reverend hurriedly reaching for the brandy decanter.

“What am I going to do father?” she wailed. “I thought if he banished me, I could have my own establishment.”

The Reverend spat out the mouthful of brandy and stared at her in horrified realisation. “You made a deuced cake of yourself deliberately? Of all the damned hare-brained ideas. And to think, I actually planned to kidnap you to save you from yourself.”

It was Grace’s turn to stare at her father. This time in horrified disbelief.

“Still,” the Reverend continued, regaining his cheerful optimism, “no harm done. You’ve clearly regained your wits, and we all do foolish things when we’re young.” He completely ignored the fact that his last foolish endeavour had been merely a few days before.

Her father’s confession actually did Grace a service. It made her realise that her only recourse was to rely on herself. Her main concern as she took her leave from her family was whether she had inherited her father’s tendency to be too ripe and ready by half. She feared her concern was well grounded given her tendency to launch herself without thinking into bacon-brained schemes with little or no forethought.