A Gentle Grace (Wedded Women Quartet) Page 2

  Staring at the closed door, Grace rocked back on her heels and hugged her arms tight to her chest. “But I do not know how to swim,” she whispered softly.

  Outside in the chilly April air, the three women exchanged uneasy glances as they waited for their respective carriages to be brought around.

  “Do you think she will be all right?” Margaret asked.

  “Heavens if I know,” Josephine said. “But did you see the state of that house? Everything save the furniture has been sold off.”

  Catherine nodded solemnly. “The rumors are true, then. What should we do?”

  “Do?” Josephine echoed, arching one brow. “There is nothing to do. If we offer to help her she would see it as pity. No, the only thing to do is to hold our tongues and pretend we do not know Grace’s family is on the brink of financial ruin.”

  “I hate Lord Melbourne,” Margaret declared vehemently, kicking at a ball of snow and sending it rolling out across the cobblestone street. A late snowstorm had fallen upon the city two days ago, sending everyone into a tizzy. Spring was in the air, however, and it would not be long before heavy fur muffs were exchanged for dainty gloves and itchy wool cloaks gave way to beautifully embroidered shawls.

  “As do I,” said Catherine.

  “If he were on fire I would not spare him a thimbleful of water. What?” Josephine asked when Margaret and Catherine both turned to stare at her. “I wouldn’t. The man is no better than a low lying snake and I tried to tell her—”

  “We all tried to tell her,” Catherine interceded.

  “No, you tried to tell her in the beginning. But you gave up after a while. I was the only one who besmirched his character on a regular basis.”

  Margaret pursed her lips. “What she needs is a husband. Someone wealthy, but not so wealthy as to make him arrogant.”

  “And someone kind, but not so kind as to have no ideas of his own,” Catherine said.

  “And someone handsome, so she will have a splendid time in bed. What now?” Josephine asked in exasperation when Catherine sighed and Margaret rolled her eyes.

  “I believe you missed the point,” Catherine said.

  “I did not realize there was one.”

  “The point,” Margaret called over her shoulder as her carriage pulled up and she hurried towards it, “is that it is up to us to find Grace a suitable husband before her family loses everything. I will see you on the morrow! Have a lovely night.” And she was gone.

  “Up to us?” Josephine echoed as she stood up on her tip toes to peer down the street, searching for her own carriage amidst the growing traffic. The hour was getting late, and everyone was eager to return to their homes before night set in and the temperature dropped even further.

  “Up to us,” Catherine confirmed with a nod. “Do you think you are up for the task?”

  “Of finding Grace a husband before her family finds themselves on the streets?”

  Catherine nodded again, and Josephine smirked.

  “Darling, I have just the man in mind.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lady Henrietta Deringer was a determined woman. That determination had seen her through twenty years of marriage, two difficult childbirths, and the indignity of selling off her house piece by piece. For the first time that she could remember, her determination was beginning to fail her.

  “What do you think Thomas? The painting or the vase?” Standing in the middle of her husband’s study with her hands planted firmly on her ample waist and a pensive expression on her carefully powdered face, Henrietta gazed back and forth between the last two remaining items of any value in the first floor of their London townhouse.

  The painting had been a wedding gift and depicted a rather vicious hunting scene. She knew it was valuable because one of Thomas’ friends had offered a rather ridiculous sum of money for it six months ago, which she had laughingly refused. The painting meant nothing to her, but Thomas seemed to have some sort of wayward attachment to it, and what need did they have for money when her daughter was marrying a wealthy Earl? Oh, if only she had said yes.

  Furrowing her brow, Henrietta stepped closer to the canvas and squinted to make out the details. It truly was a dreadful thing. Why anyone would hunt down a poor, harmless stag was beyond her. Her eyes flicked to the vase. White with trailing blue vines that had been painstakingly painted on by hand and then traced with gold, it sat alone atop a bookshelf that had once been filled to the brink with all sorts of treasures.

  The painting it was.

  Striding purposefully across the study she grasped the frame firmly with both hands and, tottering a bit unsteadily under the weight, hefted it off the wall and laid it flat on the floor. Glancing up from his ledgers, Thomas pushed his spectacles to the top of his head and frowned at his wife in bemusement.

  “Whatever are you doing, dear?”

  Dusting her hands off on her skirt, Henrietta spun around to face his desk. “We are selling the painting Thomas,” she explained patiently. “It should be enough to buy one more gown for Rosalind.” Or so she hoped.

  With Grace teetering on the brink of six and twenty and no suitor in sight (which was not surprising, given the broken engagement), Henrietta had all of her hopes pinned on her youngest daughter to make an advantageous match and save the family from complete destitution.

  It was ever so helpful that the two sisters were complete opposites. Where Grace was passably pretty, Rosalind was strikingly beautiful. When Grace insisted on speaking whatever wayward thought popped into her head, Rosalind wisely held her tongue. And when it came down to poise… Henrietta suppressed a shudder. Grace was forever stumbling over her own two feet. Why, just last week she had tripped over the hem of her nightgown and fallen headfirst down the stairs! The time she had tipped over into the pond simply did not bear thinking about, nor did the ball where she had lit her sleeve on fire. It continued to be a great mystery as to how she had attracted the attentions of Lord Melbourne in the first place, let alone gotten the man to agree to marriage.

  Not, Henrietta thought darkly as her mouth tightened, that it matters anymore.

  Oh, she had heard the whispers. She knew the gossip. From the very beginning bets had run rampant through the ton as to how long the betrothal would last. Even Henrietta, although she was ashamed to admit it, had questioned Lord Melbourne’s true intentions. But every time she asked Grace, her daughter had merely said they were “blissfully happy” and Lord Melbourne “understood her” in a way no other man ever had.

  Henrietta’s hands, the knuckles swollen with arthritis and wrinkled with age, curled into fists. He had understood her Gracie, all right. He had understood her right through a broken heart and—

  “Henny, your face is turning red. Calm down, dear, before you give yourself heart palpitations again.” Thomas adjusted his spectacles on his nose and frowned at his wife with mild concern. God knew he loved the woman, but he had never understood why she was so prone to a fretful nature.

  “I just cannot help it, Thomas,” Henrietta burst out dramatically. “Whenever I think of that man…”

  “Lord Melbourne?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do not speak his name, Thomas! Not in this house. Not after what he has done to us. What he has done to our poor daughter.” As anger dissolved into tears, she sniffed them back, and Thomas patted his lap. Her face lighting up with a watery smile, Henrietta curled her arms around her husband’s neck and balanced awkwardly on the edge of his knees while he rubbed her back in soothing circles and tried not to grimace. His wife weighed a few stone more than she used to, but never so much that she could not sit on his lap and tell her his problems.

  “Everything will be fine,” he said firmly. “You shall see.”

  Henrietta sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. “I know everything will be fine with us. It will work out, it always has. And everything will be fine with Rosalind. The girl is simply too beautiful for it not to. But for our Gracie… I am worried about her, Thomas. I
truly am. When was the last time you saw her smile, or heard her laugh? I always loved to hear her laugh.”

  Clearing his throat as it inexplicably tightened, Thomas said, “Yes, well, these things take time to get over. Grace will be fine. She has a steady head on her shoulders and a good, kind heart.”

  “A steady head?” Henrietta repeated. “Our Gracie?”

  Exchanging a quick, knowing glance both husband and wife burst out laughing as they had not done for longer than either of them could remember, and in that moment Henrietta’s determination returned full force. Come hell or high water, she would find her daughter a husband… and she knew just the women to help her do it.

  The wharf smelled of sweat, salt, and seedy women. The last man to leave the recently docked trade ship The Countessa navigated the rough, uneven planks of the roughly constructed pier with ease as he made his way up towards the disreputable row of ramshackle taverns and alleys that marked the beginning of the West End of London.

  Dressed in black from head to toe, he would have been all but invisible in the inky darkness were it not for the swinging lanterns that illuminated half his face as he passed beneath them with purposeful strides.

  Two wharf side doxies who had spied him the moment he stepped off the ship whispered and giggled behind their gloved hands as they watched him reach the top of the pier and turn left with a certainty that revealed this was not his first time navigating the twisted streets of the West End.

  “’E looks like a lion,” the shorter of the two women said, her voice ripe with curiosity as to who the man could be. Not many of his sort ventured this far down the Thames, and those who did never looked so handsome. Even in the dim lighting she could see his hair was a tawny gold and his eyes a deep, reflective green. His mouth was hard and unsmiling, the cruelness of it frightening her even as it thrilled her. Here was a man who would know how to give a woman exactly what she wanted, and after a night filled with filthy hands groping her body and pawing clumsily at her breasts, Portia could think of nothing better. “Come on Molly,” she hissed, grabbing her friend’s hand and tugging her along. “We’ll offer ‘im a two fer. You ever known a bloke to turn down a two fer?”

  “No,” Molly chirped. Shoving a hank of dark blond hair behind one ear she grinned widely, revealing two dimples and surprisingly white teeth. “Can’t say as I ‘ave.”

  Lifting up their skirts the two women dashed after their victim, sliding and slipping in the freshly fallen snow. They split just before reaching him, each taking an arm and hugging it tight to their chests.

  The man did not so much as blink, which gave Portia a moment of pause, but she was the reckless sort and, like a hungry dog that had just discovered a juicy bone, was not ready to give up her newly discovered prize without a fight.

  “Evenin’,” she said, resting her head against his bicep and splaying her fingers across his chest. “What are ye doin’ in this part of the city, lovey? Are ye lost?”

  “We could guide you,” Molly purred.

  “Aye, we could guide ye to places ye ain’t nevah been.”

  With a smile that fell far short of his eyes, the man stopped so suddenly that Portia and Molly flew past him with muffled shrieks. Catching herself on a lamp post, Portia flicked the snow from her ragged skirts and pursed her lips in a pout.

  “Ye could’ve jest said no,” she snapped.

  Reaching inside the pocket of his long overcoat, the handsome stranger procured a handful of coins that gleamed coppery gold under the dim lights.

  “Oh,” Molly gasped, bouncing up and down with delight. “Ain’t ye a generous bloke.”

  “Just take them,” the man drawled, sounding bored, “and be on your way.”

  Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Portia scooped up the coins, stuffed them in the reticule she had hidden between her breasts, and bobbed an awkward curtsy all while fighting back a smile. Why, the amount of money weighing down the bosom of her dress was more than she made in a month servicing the sailors that came off the boats! And to earn such a sum without even so much as flashing a tit… It was unheard of.

  “Are ye sure ye don’t want a quick slap and tickle?” she asked hopefully, sizing him up one more time. Lord above, but he was a fine specimen. She bit her lower lip as she imagined those large hands running down her body… Curving around her breasts... His fingers closing around her nipples… His teeth nibbling at her ear… Portia quivered, her skin flushed despite the chill in the air, and was rewarded for her active imagination with a slow, sensual smile that told her the man knew exactly what dirty thoughts were running through her mind.

  When he spoke, however, all he said was, “Another time, perhaps,” leaving Portia and Molly with equally dejected expressions as he strolled away.

  Hugging her arms tight to her chest while she watched him disappear into the shadows, Molly whistled low under her breath. “Who do ye think that was?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Dunno.” Portia grasped her bony hips and rocked back on her heels. “But one thing is for certain.”

  Bold as you please, Molly thrust her fingers down between Portia’s breasts to pull out her half of the coin. “Oh?” she said, only half listening as she began to count out her earnings. “What’s that?”

  “I envy the fine lady who gets ‘im in her bed tonight.”

  Molly’s head shot up. “How do ye know he has a lady bird?”

  “’Cause the bloke is in love,” Portia said confidently.

  “In love? What makes ye say that?”

  “There is only one reason a man would turn down a two fer from the likes of us.”

  “Yer right,” Molly said after a thoughtful pause. “’E must be head over heels. Lucky bitch, whoever she is.”

  “Lucky bitch,” Portia agreed.

  Arm in arm, the soiled doves sauntered back to the docks, both a little wistful as they wondered what it would feel like to love someone so much you would turn down a two fer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grace was not feeling particularly lucky.

  She could not remember the last time she had attended a ball. She did recall she had never been overly fond of them, and now she remembered why. They were stuffy affairs, especially when they were confined to the intimate setting of Lord and Lady Markham’s dining room. The ceilings of the first tier townhouse were vaulted and all of the furniture had been cleared away, of course, but tables with which to hide behind were most noticeably absent and with a relatively small crowd – sixty or seventy total in attendance, if Grace had to guess – playing the part of a wallflower was proving to be quite difficult.

  Her sister, not surprisingly, was in her element. Resplendent in a flowing ivory gown with sparkling sapphires at her ears and throat (paste gems, although quite well done), Rosalind was the epitome of youthful beauty and had yet to sit a single dance out. Grace, on the other hand, had yet to dance even once (not that she was complaining) and felt rather like a stuffed sausage in her well worn yellow gown.

  The unfortunate dress had shrunk over time from multiple washings, and try as she might Grace could not tug up the décolletage any further. Terribly self conscious of the way her ample breasts were all but spilling out of the thin fabric, she had taken up residence behind a potted fern and was doing her best to avoid all eye contact. With Margaret and Catherine most noticeably absent, she dared not speak to anyone else, for she knew the topic of her broken engagement would be the first thing past their lips. She could already tell by the furtive glances and whispers that her name was being spoken in more than one conversation, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she wondered what her peers were saying behind their carefully cupped hands.

  Under normal circumstances Grace did not care a whit for the opinions of others, but these were anything but normal circumstances. She felt as though she had been dragged from the shadows and put on full display for everyone to see. It was not a position she coveted, nor one she knew how to deal with.

  Jos
ephine would have adored all of the attention. Margaret would have made some jest and laughed it off. Catherine would have stiffened her upper lip and ignored them all. As for herself… Grace gave a soft, rueful laugh and shook her head. Well, she was cowering behind a house plant. Surely nothing else needed to be said.

  In the opposite corner of the room the small quartet Lady Markham had assembled to provide the musical accompaniment for the evening took a short respite, and in a matter of minutes the swell of voices increased ten fold as everyone fought to be heard over everyone else. A woman’s shrill laugh cut through the air. A man’s husky chortle soon followed. Glasses, filled liberally with champagne and wine clinked merrily together as food was carried out on silver trays. It was a rather informal affair; one of the half dozen smaller balls that would take place before Almack’s opened its doors and serious matchmaking began to take precedence over revelry and idle gossip.

  When her stomach growled, reminding her she had not eaten for at least two hours, Grace reached out in an attempt to quickly sneak a buttered croissant from one of the passing trays. Unfortunately in doing so she startled the servant that was carrying the tray and he jumped, his arms jerking in surprise.

  “Oh my,” Grace gasped, covering her mouth in horror as glazed bread and little bowls of honey flew everywhere. As if on cue at least a half dozen heads swiveled to see what the commotion was about. Biting her lip, Grace cast the ill fated croissant aside and tried to slink away, but it was too late.

  “You again!” a robust brunette exclaimed shrilly.

  Grace’s stomach sank like a stone when she saw the woman who had cried out was none other than Lady Wells, a notorious gossip with a penchant for spreading nasty rumors. She was married to Lord Wells, a man twice her age who rarely made social appearances which allowed his wife to do as she pleased. This was also not the first time she and Grace had crossed paths. Their previous encounter had involved an unfortunate incident with a candle which may (or may not – the details were still a bit unclear) have resulted in the hem of Lady Wells’ gown catching fire.