Chapter 8

There was more than one gasp in the room though Grace could not concentrate on where on earth they came from.

Her eyes were pinned on the Duke of Berkley’s face. He wouldn’t look at her. He continued to glower at her mother.

Grace’s heart pounded so hard in her chest, she thought it might crack one of her ribs and the whalebones of her stays. She felt dizzy with it, unable to move at all.

“But…” Her mother was the first to try and speak though she evidently struggled as much as Grace was doing. Althea stared back at the Duke, her cheeks the color of sour milk, her lips parted in astonishment. “You wish to marry her?” Althea muttered.

The Duke didn’t say anything. He stood a little taller and turned away, his shoulders stiff, then he took a step to distance himself from the pair of them.

Grace felt quite sick as she watched him walk away. She raised a hand over her chest, wishing she could calm the thundering of her heart as she watched him.

Eleanor’s brother is going to marry me? Why?

Her mother had not been wrong. As a duke, he could have easily brushed off this scandal in a matter of months. It was she who had the greatest damage to her reputation.

Grace managed to step off the windowsill, intent on speaking to the Duke about what he had just said, when she realized who the source of that second gasp had been. Tabitha stood in the open doorway, clearing her throat, having evidently heard the Duke’s declaration.

“My apologies for interrupting,” she said in her most demure voice. “Your Grace, the Marquess will see you. He is in his study. It’s two doors down on your left, but he says he cannot hold an audience with you for very long.”

“It will not take long.” With these final words, the Duke strode out of the room, passing by Tabitha without even one glance back at Grace.

She stood in the middle of the room, dumbstruck, amazed and reeling at what had just happened.

“Did I hear that right?” Tabitha muttered in a rush as down the hallway, the door to the study shut. “He intends to marry you?”

“My ears are deceiving me.” Althea flung herself down in a chair. She started fanning herself with her hands, trying to cool the sudden pinkness in her cheeks. “I cannot have heard that right. Why? Why would he do it? Why would a duke deign to marry her?”

Grace tried not to flinch at her mother’s words. She jerked her head around, fire in her eyes as she gazed at her mother.

“Do you think me so disgusting an example of a woman, Mama? Am I not worthy to be your daughter?” Something inside her snapped. She’d had enough of being talked down to all morning, of being reprimanded like a child.

“Enough.” Althea scarcely took notice of her spirit. She merely raised a hand and tried to bat it away as if it was a troublesome bumble bee. “I must have heard him wrong.”

“You did not, Aunt,” Tabitha said, her voice tremulous. “He called Grace his wife.” She reached for Grace and clasped her hand tight. “Are you well? Are you sure of this?”

“Sure!?” Grace spluttered. “He has not even asked me to marry him! He has just declared it as if it is a forgone conclusion.”

“Aunt? What do you make of this?” Tabitha still clutched to Grace’s hand comfortingly as she looked at Althea for her thoughts, but Althea had been struck to silence now. She sat there like a statue in her armchair, immovable.

“I… I need to think about this.” Grace detached her hand from Tabitha’s. “If you would excuse me.”

“What?” Althea was shaken to life. “No.” She stood, fumbling her way across the room as she reached out to Grace. “You shall stay here. We shall talk about this —”

“Talk about what? It sounds to me as if the Duke and my father are the ones doing all the talking.” Grace darted to the side, narrowly avoiding her mother’s clasping hands. “Are all women’s destinies determined by their fathers, I wonder?”

“Do not be so belittling,” Althea said, following her around the room. “Grace, men’s decisions in this moment could be the very thing from stopping you being discarded in the street like a common harlot.”

“Aunt!” Tabitha wailed, tears springing to her eyes.

Grace passed her cousin, briefly clutching her shoulder in comfort. Tabitha felt things keenly, especially the hurtful things that Althea could toss into the air as if they didn’t matter at all. Grace had to release Tabitha fast though, for Althea was following her again.

“Father would never let me be chucked out on the street, even if you wished for it, Mama.”

“Grace,” Althea boomed again, marching toward her. “If you are going to be a duchess, then there is much to discuss. Much to plan.”

“Aren’t we jumping ahead a bit?” Grace exclaimed loudly, turning her head back and forth as she looked for another way out of the room. “We don’t know if Father will give his blessing yet.”

“He will give his blessing. He’s a sensible man. He knows your only route to safety now is marriage. Now, Grace, come here.” Althea managed to take hold of her wrist. “Duchesses do not scarper like rats when their mothers wish to speak to them.”

Grace saw her way out of the room and away from her mother. The window behind her which led out onto the garden had been opened to allow in a breath of wind. She tugged her wrist out of her mother’s hand and dove toward it.

“Grace?” Althea wobbled on her feet, so startled by the sudden movement that she nearly fell over.

Grace reached for the window and thrust it upward. By the time Althea realized what she was doing, Grace had one foot out of the window.

“Duchesses do not clamber out of windows either!” Althea’s voice reached new octaves.

“I’m no duchess yet,” Grace argued then dropped down the other side of the window to the panicked cries echoing around her ears from her mother. Grace’s feet landed in the garden lawn before she took off at a sprint, darting back around to the back door of the house.

* * *

“Lord Garton? Oh.” Philip closed the door behind him, but he did not take another step further into the room, for the sight which greeted him was a great shock.

The scent of sickness hung in the air, mingled with bouquets of rosemary and chamomile. These bundles of herbs had been tied together with string and placed in various vases around the room. Clearly, the healer to this house believed strongly in the power of healing herbs.

The curtains were half closed, keeping the strong sunlight of the summer’s day from getting in. Just a shaft of yellow light fell into the room, and it basked the man who sat behind the desk in an eerie light.

The Marquess of Garton was but a shell of the man that Philip could remember seeing him in passing at balls. He sat with a loose shirt, not properly tucked into his breeches, and a waistcoat that wasn’t fully buttoned up. He was making an effort as Philip watched him, trying his best to tie the cravat at his throat though his hands clearly struggled with the task.

His pallor, pale and ashen as stormy clouds, was the thing that shocked Philip the most. With the sunken shadows beneath his eyes, the poor Marquess of Garton did not look long for this world.

“I know. I’m a shock to look at,” the Marquess murmured. “I’d rise to bow to you, to shake your hand, but I hope you will forgive me if I do not.” He grimaced, adjusting in his seat and trying to get comfortable.

“Of course.” Philip stepped toward him, trying not to gag on the strong scents of herbs and sickness in the room. He walked toward Lord Garton, a discomfort growing in his chest as he stared at the Marquess.

This poor man.

“I’ll admit, we did not expect to see you, Your Grace.” Lord Garton waved a hand at the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “My wife has not stopped yelling about that scandal sheet all morning.”

“Yes, I can well imagine,” Philip murmured to himself. Plainly, there was nothing wrong with Lord Garton’s hearing, for he allowed himself a small smile of humor.

“My wife has always had a habit of making her opinions known.” Lord Garton’s smile soon slipped. His eyes settled on Philip’s face. “Are you here to tell me that you will ride out the storm of this scandal? That my Grace…” he broke off and sighed heavily, a rasping sound leaving his chest with the movement.

He looks in agony at the thought of Grace being hurt.

“No. No, that is not what I have come to say.” Philip lifted his chin a little higher. “My Lord, I intend to marry your daughter if I have your blessing.”

Lord Garton sat forward. It was the most movement he had yet done, resting his elbows on the desk between the pair of them.

“You will marry her?”

“I see your wife’s sour opinion of me is shared by many,” Philip said tightly.

“No, I would not put it like that.” Lord Garton shook his head. “It’s just that you must know, such scandals affect the woman always more than they affect the man.”

“Yes, I do know,” Philip said, his chin lowering an inch or so.

I should have considered that last night. I should have known the danger I was putting her in when I kissed her.

Yet that hadn’t even been a thought last night. All that had mattered was that if Grace was going to kiss someone, she should scandalize herself with him. Not another man.

“Before we talk anymore about this…” The Marquess shifted back in his seat. “…there is something you must know.”

“What is that?”

“Grace’s dowry.” He grimaced. “It is nonexistent.”

Philip stiffened a little. He’d already had some idea from hints which Eleanor had made that Grace would not have a large dowry, but nothing at all was a surprise.

He couldn’t answer right away. He scratched his clean-shaven jaw, deep in thought.

“If that makes you rescind your proposal, I perfectly understand —”

“No, it does not.” Philip met the Marquess’ gaze. “The dowry is of no importance. I have enough money to see us by.”

“You do?”

Philip paused before answering. He couldn’t deny that financially, things had been difficult for a long time now. He had intended to marry a woman with a large dowry, to ease his money woes, but it wasn’t necessary.

Since Eleanor had married and some of his investments had proven fruitful, he had a little to live on. If he was smart and continued to make such wise investments, no large dowry would be necessary.

“I do.” Philip nodded. “I do not require any dowry from you, My Lord. I will marry Lady Grace as she is.”

“Hmm.” Lord Garton shifted in his seat once again. He sighed, the sound loud in the sudden silence between the pair of them. Lord Garton’s eyes, the same honey hue as his daughter’s, fixed intently on Philip’s face. “What happened between the pair of you last night…”

“I didn’t dishonor her,” Philip needed this to be understood. He didn’t think he could bear it if the Marquess thought he had scandalized Grace completely in that garden.

The imagining took hold of Philip steering Grace back to that bench, of lifting her skirt, of bending down toward her, exploring her, feeling her cry out in pleasure as her hands tangled themselves in his hair…

No.

Philip brushed the thought away fast.

“It was a kiss. That was all, My Lord.” Uncomfortable, he found himself fidgeting as well, matching the same movements as the Marquess.

Slowly, the Marquess nodded though he looked no more at ease than before.

“Well, then you have my blessing,” the Marquess said quietly. “I suppose, I do not have much choice in the matter, do I?”

Philip winced. The idea that they were all being backed into a corner because of his mistake to kiss Grace was sickening.

Some mistake. It was better than her kissing another.

This thought kept breaking through, no matter how much he tried to stamp it down and forget it.

All night, she had been on his mind. The way she had curved into him, the feeling of her hips through that over-sized gown she wore, the secrets beneath that dress taunting him.

He supposed it had been inevitable in the end. He was going to be weak, sooner or later, when it came to Grace.

“You have a choice,” Philip said calmly. “If you do not want me to marry your daughter, then I perfectly understand. I am offering my hand as a solution to our problems.”

“Oh, I know.” The Marquess nodded. His manner shifted a little, his gaze firm again in that sallow face. “When it comes to money, you would have enough to support the two of you? I know… your coffers are hardly full, Your Grace.”

Philip shifted, wondering how Lord Garton had heard this when he had worked so hard to keep the nature of his affairs a secret.

“I have enough,” he said with coolness in his tone. “My investments are doing better. I am hardly flush with money, as you might call it, but things are steadily improving. My farming lands in the country as well are producing more and more each year. With care and attention, they’ll be highly profitable again.”

“Good, that is good.” Lord Garton leaned forward, his shoulders slumping. “There is just one thing more I need to know from you, Your Grace.”

“What is that?” Philip asked, now longing to be out of this room that stank of sickness. It was unpleasant, reminding him of the loss of his own parents. His chest ached for the pain that Grace must be going through to see her father wilting in this way.

“Did you know?” Lord Garton asked.

“Know what?”

“Did you know what I did to your father?” Lord Garton’s voice shook. “Is that why you kissed my Grace, to have revenge on me?”

“What are you talking about?” Philip leaned forward, stunned at the words. “What on Earth would I want revenge for?”

“For it is I you should blame for your money problems, Your Grace.” Lord Garton’s voice was quiet, as if he could barely stand to utter the words at all. “I am the man who introduced your father to the gambling table.”