Chapter Twenty-One

After her father’s fervent vow to put things right, Grace found herself repeatedly waking up in a cold sweat over what he would do. After several sleepless nights, she decided her only course of action was to take matters into her own hands before the Reverend took the opportunity to make matters considerably worse. She had no clue of his intentions, but given that his last solution encompassed kidnapping, she was firmly of the opinion that she needed to put a halt to any action he and Percy were currently plotting between them.

Anger was finally replacing heartache, and she resolutely ignored the small voice warning her of the dire consequences the last time this happened. Whatever mistakes she’d made, Nicholas had contributed his fair share. And what’s more, she was his wife dammit. Whether he wished it or no, she was the Duchess of Blackmore, and while the ton may forever consider her a provincial upstart with no breeding or manners, she was nonetheless owed more consideration than her husband was currently giving her.

She’d remained banished in her cottage for nigh on three months, waiting, hoping, praying Nicholas would finally condescend to speak with her. Well, enough was enough. She was done playing the martyr.

If her husband refused to come to her, she would go to her husband .

And she would remain by his side whatever his personal thoughts on the matter.

Determinedly, she packed her belongings and after dragging them down the stairs, left them in the kitchen to be collected. Then wrapping herself in her thickest cloak, she donned her boots and started walking. If she succeeded in keeping a brisk pace, she would arrive at Blackmore before dusk.

***

Nicholas hadn’t been astride a horse since his brother’s death. However, after he’d finally succeeded in dispatching what he had no doubt were the worst two incumbents currently in the employ of the Anglican Church, he’d found himself suddenly frantic to see his wife. Against all odds, the curate’s impassioned pleas earlier had finally succeeded in cracking open his defences.

Abruptly, all he could think about was his own foolish pig-headedness. He no longer cared what Grace had or hadn’t intended. All that mattered was having her in his arms.

Nicholas realised he was not his father to never forgive or forget a mistake. After the overwhelming hurt of Peter’s death and his father’s betrayal, he’d thought to live his life without the closeness of another human being. Firstly, his son and then his wife had shown him the absurdity of that path. For good or ill, he loved. He had no wish to spend the rest of his life bitter and lonely.

God’s teeth, he only now realised just how close he’d come to turning into his father.

Somehow, he would persuade Grace to return to Blackmore with him and give him the opportunity to spend the rest of his life showing her just how much he loved her. With Grace by his side, he believed he would succeed in finally freeing himself from the night terrors that plagued him.

Which was why he found himself galloping over the uneven countryside on his old horse Delilah. Incredibly, it felt as though he’d last ridden the mare only days ago, and he couldn’t deny it was unexpectedly glorious. In the space of twenty minutes, he arrived at Grace’s house. The small cottage was in complete darkness despite the dwindling light of early evening. Frowning, he dismounted quickly and tethered the horse to the gate. With mounting dread, Nicholas strode up the path to the front door which opened immediately, adding to his growing concern. After only a slight hesitation, he walked in, calling Grace’s name. It took only seconds to determine the cottage was empty. And within the next two minutes he discovered his wife had taken all her belongings.

He was too late. Grace had gone.

∞∞∞

Grace was certain it had not been so far the last time she’d thought to walk to Blackmore in the hopes of catching sight of her husband. This time she felt as if she’d been walking for hours, made worse after discovering very early on that fashionable boots were not made to withstand the rigours of the countryside in winter. Grimacing, she recalled the last time she’d taken this path had been on a dry bright sunny day. Now dusk was falling much faster than she’d anticipated and everything suddenly looked the same in the muted light. Swallowing, she looked around, forcing back the first stirrings of panic. This was Devonshire for goodness sake. She knew this land like the back of her hand and had been lost in it more times than she could count, always being chanced upon eventually by her father or Percy.

A sudden sick feeling of dread paralyzed her as she abruptly realised that in this instance, no one knew she was missing. It might well be days before anyone discovered she’d left the cottage. Feeling suddenly faint, Grace sat down on a large boulder. She was no stranger to this landscape and consequently to its hazards. While generally fairly clement, the weather had been known to cause havoc to the unwary. If she was unable to find her way, and the temperature chanced to fall more than a few degrees, there was a possibility she would freeze to death.

Her mind began to visualise the various ways she might succumb to an early demise, each imagining more gruesome than the last. She was just recollecting the local legend of Old Nick himself galloping through the darkness, intent on crushing careless travellers with his coal black steed, when, all of a sudden, she heard the sound of hooves. Jumping to her feet, she had no time to run but simply stared transfixed at the oncoming beast, huge in the gloom. “GRACE,” a hoarse voice shouted which sounded to her now rampant imaginings like the howling of demonic forces. Motionless, Grace watched helplessly as the steed bore down on her, only narrowly avoiding trampling her to the ground by rearing up and moving aside at the last second.

The horse stood still, blowing and tossing its head as the rider quickly dismounted and strode towards her.

Unhappily, before Nicholas had the opportunity to ascertain if she’d been hurt, Grace muttered something about infernal justice and promptly fainted at his feet.

∞∞∞

Grace woke in an unfamiliar bed. Blinking, she raised herself onto her elbows and glanced round. The furnishings were masculine as was the recumbent figure snoring softly in the chair next to the bed. With her heart in her mouth, Grace recognised the tall form of her husband. Collapsing back into the pillows, she tried to remember what had happened for her to end up in what she had no doubt was the Duke of Blackmore’s bed.

Glancing back towards Nicholas, her heart missed a beat as she saw he was awake and staring back at her. Swallowing nervously, she made an effort to sit up, belatedly realising that she was dressed in only a chemise. Rising quickly, her husband moved to her side but for some reason paused without touching her. Glancing up at him enquiringly, Grace realised he was waiting for her permission before laying his hands on her. Shyly she took his proffered arm and allowed him to help. When he’d finally plumped the pillows behind her to his satisfaction, he sat down on the side of the bed and stared at her sombrely. Grace felt her heart leap at the expression she saw there. He was finally looking at her with all the love and longing she’d dreamed of. Fighting back tears, she raised her hand and touched his face gently, marvelling at his sheer masculine beauty.

“Forgive me,” he murmured hoarsely.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, fighting back the tears. “I love you, Nicholas.”

In answer, he groaned and pulled her unresisting body into his arms, his mouth swooping hungrily down on hers. With a smothered sob of joy, Grace returned his kiss, revelling in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, feeling him shudder in return as he pulled her closer to him, gathering her willing body into his.

“God I’ve missed you,” he whispered huskily against her lips before deepening the kiss.

The exquisite sensation of her in his arms, the feel of her lips clinging to his was almost unbearable joy to Nicholas. Finally, he opened his heart and allowed the last of his resistance to melt away in the arms of the woman who meant everything to him.

“Heal me, Grace,” he whispered brokenly when he finally tore his mouth from hers. “I can’t do this without you.”

“We’ll do it together, my love,” she murmured resting her head against his chest, tears of joy and relief quickly soaking into the fine linen .

Closing his eyes, Nicholas gently rested his head on his wife’s, finally allowing himself to admit what he’d known, almost from the moment his wife had thrown up on their wedding day. Leaning back, he tilted her face up to his and stared down at her with aching tenderness.

“I love you, Grace,” he breathed softly. “God how I love you. Can we start all over again? Will you be my wife, my partner, my Duchess?”

∞∞∞

“Well, Percy, I think we have time for a small celebratory drink before we attend the reception at Blackmore. We may have been well and truly in the basket my friend, but I think we can safely say all’s well that ends well. It was without question an ingeniously devised plan of action executed with meticulous timing. Not to mention daring.”

Reverend Shackleford was too busy congratulating himself to observe the doubtful look on his curate’s face. They were in the vicarage study waiting for the rest of the Shackleford household to ready themselves for the first reception to be held at Blackmore since Nicholas Sinclair had inherited the estate.

Pouring them both a generous measure of brandy, the Reverend went on, “Indeed, I’m of the opinion that the whole undertaking would actually be described as heroic should it become common knowledge.” Handing Percy a glass, the Reverend frowned slightly and adopted a thoughtful tone. “Perhaps I should try my hand at a novel.”

The curate spat out his brandy, staring at his superior in horror. “Of course, your contribution would not be forgotten in the narrative, Percy,” the Reverend continued obliviously before pausing slightly. “Or mayhap it would be better turned into a play such as William Shakespeare was wont to do. What do you think?”

Percy opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out aside from a small “err...” In the end, he simply helped himself to another brandy.

“Steady on Percy,” the Reverend admonished. “It won’t do for you to be foxed before attending your first reception, and we’ve both experienced first-hand the consequences of an uncontrolled manner.

“Indeed, it has to be said you’ve revealed a disturbing proclivity for unrestrained behaviour in recent weeks, Percy, which should have a man in your position mindful of the slippery slope downstairs.” He nodded his head sagely after imparting this piece of advice, pointing downwards to emphasise his point. Percy, who had absolutely no clue as to the meaning of ‘a disturbing proclivity’, simply adopted an air of thoughtful piety and took another sip of his brandy.

The silence lengthened as it became evident the Reverend was still awaiting the curate’s opinion of his literary aspirations.

“But what about the rest of ‘em?” Percy eventually questioned, clearly grasping at straws.

Reverend Shackleford frowned, pondering for a second. Percy had unquestionably raised a valid concern. There was indeed a long way to go before he could be certain his son would be accepted in the finest drawing rooms in England.

“Tare an’ hounds, Percy,” he finally stated decisively. “You’re absolutely right. No good will come of resting on our laurels and being deuced frivolous. I still have another seven daughters to marry off.

“Mayhap I’ll save such an inspiring exposition for my memoirs…”