Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

O n the carriage ride home, Grace thought that she might just have a bouquet of flowers sent to the Duke of Montgomery’s home in the morning.

Oh, she would do so anonymously of course. The last thing she needed was to seem more peculiar by adopting a gentleman’s tactic for showing admiration for a lady. Nor did she want to show admiration for the Duke.

But if he found the gesture interesting and therefore wanted to attend more balls to solve the mystery…

Well, that meant there would be that many more balls where the attention was on him instead of her for a change. All she would have to do was avoid speaking to him which should be easy enough given the throngs of eager ladies throwing themselves at his feet. When he’d paused to speak to her even for a moment, she’d seen how several prominent gossips had lit up, their eyes gleaming avariciously for the stories they could tell about a brutish Scottish duke and the disgraced daughter of London’s most beloved politician.

Not that she thought his looks were brutish, she allowed to herself. His broadness had, to her eyes, made him look impressive and powerful—and made the other gentlemen look like boyish twigs.

She wasn’t interested in any gentleman, impressive stature or no, however. And good thing, too, or else she’d be berating herself furiously over her comment that he was quite tall . The old Grace would have fretted over it for weeks—or no. The old Grace wouldn’t have made such a social misstep in the first place.

Not that any of it mattered, she told herself as her family’s carriage pulled up smoothly in front of Graham House. She wasn’t the old Grace, not any longer, and it wasn’t like a mildly awkward comment would make the ton gossip more about her than it was already doing.

“Thank you, Percy,” she said to the footman who handed her down from the vehicle. Years doing thankless menial labor had given Grace a new appreciation for the staff.

Not that Graham House servants lived in ramshackle little huts like the one she’d inhabited while in the North, she thought grimly. Still, though, it never hurt to be kind.

“Of course, My Lady,” the man said, as he always did, bowing politely. “I’ve been asked to tell you, as well, My Lady, that His Grace is asking for you.”

She frowned and paused halfway up the front stoop.

“He wishes to see me tonight?” she asked.

Her father was no stranger to late nights though Grace had long since learned not to comment on it. Doing so would spark lengthy speeches about how laziness led to poverty and thus to degradation which was why he, as the Duke of Graham, remained committed to ensuring that England never lost its prosperity as the leader of the world.

Grace, who preferred to enjoy a cup of tea and a spot of toast before being drawn into unwinnable political debates with her tireless father, had learned that, when it came to speaking up about her father’s schedule, discretion was the better part of valor.

“Yes, My Lady,” the footman confirmed. “He was very clear that he wished to see you the moment you came home.”

Grace sighed. She’d have much preferred to speak to her father in the morning—or, at the very least, to get out of her constricting ballgown before being drawn in to whatever her father had in mind. But she knew that if she didn’t follow his commandments to the letter, she would deal with lectures and snide comments about dutiful daughters for the remainder of the week while the staff would be forced to contend with the Duke giving irritable orders at all hours as his foul mood would keep him awake and working late into the night.

“Of course,” she assured Percy, who visibly deflated in relief at her words. “I shall go to him at once. I gather he’s in his study?”

She scarcely needed the confirmation; the Duke of Graham was nearly always in his study. He treated his desk chair, a grand, oak thing, like a king might his throne—it was from there that the Duke moved the complicated chess pieces of his political career. He was, even Grace would admit, very good at it. There was no Parliamentarian in England who didn’t hope to get the Duke of Graham to support his bill.

Heading upstairs, she knocked at her father’s study door then waited upwards of a minute for his permission to enter. She struggled not to grow impatient while she waited. Her father’s work was important, to be certain, but it galled when he demanded an immediate response from her and then forced her to wait.

Despite her efforts, her toes were starting to tap their own irritated beat in her dancing slippers when her father’s imperious voice rang out. “Come in!”

She entered the study then was forced to stand waiting for another twenty seconds or so while the Duke finished scratching out a comment on whichever document currently held his attention. When he finally glanced in her direction, he gave her a smart nod of satisfaction.

“Ah, Grace. Good. Please take a seat.”

She obeyed though the tight stays of her ballgown were not particularly made for sitting. She thought longingly of her comfortable nightgown, so close and yet so far out of her reach.

“Are you working on anything interesting this evening, Father?” she asked politely—though it was a distraction, so she could shift surreptitiously in her seat until she found an easier position. If he saw her squirming, her father would frown over this “unladylike” behavior.

He glanced down at the paper in front of him then folded it away and slid it into the top drawer of his desk, the one he always kept locked. Privacy, he’d always insisted, was the undisputable privilege of a gentleman.

“Not terribly interesting, no,” he said offhandedly. “Trying to sell a property that has been irksome. No, what I’ve called you for tonight is much more important. First, where were you tonight?”

Ooh, Grace hated when he did this. He would say he had something to discuss then quickly divert to a different topic. If she pressed him, he would feign confusion—after all, he was just asking about his only daughter! She knew this was a diversion, however; even when not actively engaged in political matters, her father could not turn off his politician’s mind. There was something he wanted from her answer, she just didn’t know what that something was.

“The Tuwey ball,” she said mildly. “I think I mentioned I planned to attend earlier this week, but perhaps I didn’t.”

There. That protected her, at least somewhat, from accusations that she was negligent in not informing her family of her plans while it also did not sound like she was accusing her father of having forgotten something.

It was a delicate balance, she thought wryly, living with a proud man.

“Hm,” the Duke said unhelpfully. “And how was the gossip?”

His tone was deceptively light in the way it got when he was building up to something. She refused to let her face move even an iota.

“Comparatively mild.” This was honest, she supposed, if only just. “There was some new gentleman in town that had everyone all tied up in knots. I have become old news, thankfully. I think they shall all forget about me soon.”

This part was not even a truth on a technicality. She did not think she’d be forgotten. Nor, she suspected, did her father.

He surprised her, however, by not calling her out on this fib.

“Ah yes, the Duke of Montgomery.” One of these days, Grace told herself, she was going to stop being surprised that her father seemed all-knowing. Not today, alas, but surely someday .

“Just so.”

“Did you meet him?” the Duke asked his daughter.

“We were not introduced.” Again, Grace was back in the realm of technical truths. When, she wondered, had she become so stealthy?

Well, that was a stupid question. She’d become stealthy when she’d been abducted and essentially shoved into a cupboard for three years. Amongst the Packards, the trio of nuisances who had detained her all those years, being stealthy was the difference between scant mouthfuls of bread and a full stomach. Once, Grace had managed to filch three whole baked potatoes without getting caught. It had been a marvelous week as far as such things went in that hovel.

The real question, she supposed, was why she couldn’t seem to shake the habit. Maybe it was her father’s political acumen finally coming home to roost in his offspring. Lord knows how the Duke despaired of Grace’s brother Evan, ever following in his Parliamentary footsteps.

Evan, for his part, had once told Grace he’d “rather kiss an angry viper” than serve under his father’s political agenda, so the Duke’s fears were not, alas, unfounded.

“Hm,” said the Duke again.

Grace waited. Her father waited. Grace stifled a sigh. She hated these stupid games, and she was so wretchedly tired—it was past one o’clock in the morning before she’d even left the ball. She gave in.

“Did you have something more you wished to discuss, Father?” she asked sweetly.

“Indeed, I did, Grace,” he said, looking annoyingly self-satisfied. Why her father needed his ego stroked so regularly she would never know. The man was a duke for goodness’ sake! One might think that would be enough. “You see, I don’t think the gossip is abating.”

This was a predictable stance though hearing him say it made Grace decidedly nervous.

“You don’t.” She made sure it did not come out a question.

He answered it like one anyway. “I do not, and I cannot credit you with any cleverness if you truly do, either.” Grace did not react to the insult as she thought that her father was accusing her of being a liar rather than of being a simpleton. “I think, rather, that the mere tenor of the gossip has changed.”

“Oh?” If her father could use irksome monosyllables, then Grace could, too.

The Duke narrowed his eyes, as if to suggest that he was not impressed with her antics. “Yes. They are—well, I shan’t soften my words for you, Grace. They’re calling you a whore.”

Grace couldn’t help it; she gasped. She knew, of course, that doubts were being cast upon her virtue. But to hear her father say as much—and in such deliberately shocking language—was another thing entirely.

The second after the gasp flew from her lips, however, she recognized what had happened. She’d been correct in her assessment—her father was, indeed, being deliberately shocking. He’d wanted her reaction, and he’d gotten it. All of which set him up perfectly for his next move.

He tsk ed. “Yes, dreadful, isn’t it? Which is why I assume you understand me when I say that something must be done.”

Grace did not like this. She did not like it one bit. She’d come into this conversation prepared for a game of chess only to learn it was actually a bout of swordplay.

“It will fade,” she said, trying for firmness.

When a pleased smile spread across her father’s face, she knew that whatever she’d done, she’d played directly into his hands. Just like she always did, damn it!

“It will,” he confirmed. “Just as soon as you are married.”

Grace bit back a laugh. This was about her lack of suitors? Well, that would clear itself up—no prevarication necessary. She might be the greatest scandal on two legs in London right now, but that would fade…at least enough for her utter monstrosity of a dowry to begin to look appealing to some man or another. It might even give her enough options that she could pick someone halfway decent when the time came.

“I think it’s unlikely that anyone will propose this Season,” she said, like she was trying to soften the blow. “The whole…surprise is too new. But I’m sure I shall have better luck next Season. I may even find someone while Parliament is out of session since we’ll be in London for the winter, I assume.” Her father considered leaving the capital tantamount to torture. What if someone did politics without him? “A quiet wedding would certainly put any lingering gossip to bed.”

“No,” the Duke said soundly, causing his daughter to quickly run back through her words. Everything she’d said had been reasonable, hadn’t it?

Her father, however, wasn’t wearing the expression he wore when he thought she was being foolish. That expression was of careful tolerance poorly pasted over irritation. He was wearing instead the expression he wore when he’d just pushed a major bill through a recalcitrant opposing party. His triumph expression.

“No,” he said again. “You shall be married next week.”

“What?” It was the first time all evening Grace spoke without thinking—except for that idiotic slip when she’d called the Duke quite tall , of course. Yet this was too agitating to wait for careful consideration; the word escaped her entirely without her permission.

Her father smiled, and Grace thought that maybe he was trying to reassure her.

“The gossip continues. The longer it is allowed to continue, the more it will seem like truth. We must make the ton forget before damage to reputations cannot be undone.”

Grace was about to retort that her reputation was already pretty much in tatters before she realized that her father had been speaking about his own reputation. Of course. She was, at the end of the day, not just having a conversation with her father; she was conversing with the Duke, the politician, the man who—everyone said—would likely be Prime Minster sooner rather than later.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t have the grounds, not really. Not only was her father entirely immovable when he made up his mind about something, but she’d already admitted that she didn’t think she could lure in a husband of her own accord, not this Season. Oh, he’d caught her, good and proper.

Just like always.

She sighed, feeling boneless. It was her stays, more than anything else, that was keeping her upright at this point. She knew she would have the most hideous red welts when she finally unlaced them.

“Who am I to marry?” she asked, voice dull.

God, she hoped it was someone halfway decent. What would she do if, for example, her father tried to match her up with Viscount Platton, who pinched serving girls in full view of everyone? Or the Earl of Chesey, who always smelled of onions? They were both valuable political allies for her father; she’d not put it past the Duke to trade his daughter’s hand for a few more votes whenever he needed them.

His answer, however, was worse than she’d even anticipated. Her father shrugged. Shrugged!

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve selected a groom,” he said. “In the meantime, be prepared to be wed Saturday next.”

“ What ?” The word was even more high pitched this time, but Grace couldn’t worry about it. It wasn’t full-blown hysteria, so she was considering it a victory. “You haven’t even found someone yet?” She felt like her insides were shaking, so she clenched her hands as tight as she could, lest this become visible. “What if you can’t find anyone?”

Her father looked faintly affronted and mildly perplexed, as if he’d just heard an insect ask, “What if you cannot squash me under your boot?” Like what she’d said was surprising and strange but ultimately below his notice because he could, of course, squash whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

“Of course I’ll find someone; don’t be absurd, Grace. You’re the daughter of a duke, and you have a substantial dowry.” He paused then added as an afterthought, “And I suppose you’re not without personal charms. That will certainly be enough for some men to overlook your spotty reputation.”

Grace wanted to scream. Scream and scream until glasses broke and ears bled.

But she’d used up all her screams those first weeks in the North.

So, she just sat, staring blankly, and wondered how, in all the mad workings of heaven and earth, her life had ended up here.

Her father was already turning back to his paperwork, rotating the key in its lock, and pulling the documents from the drawer. When he glanced up and saw her still sitting there, he seemed surprised.

“That’s all, Grace,” he said. “You can go.”

He’d turned back to his work before he’d even finished speaking.

So, Grace went, wondering how, yet again, she’d allowed herself to miss the crucial moment to act—and had allowed herself to get trapped all over again.