The Lost Duke of Wyndham

was not sure if it was from shock or delight, but she was shaking. “May I share your room this evening?” she asked Amelia. Because certainly she was not going to remain with the dowager.

“Of course,” Amelia replied promptly. She linked her arm through Grace’s. “Let us have some supper.”

It was, Grace later decided, the finest shepherd’s pie she’d ever tasted.

Several hours later, Grace was up in her room staring out the window while Amelia slept.

Grace had tried to go to sleep, but her mind was still all abuzz over Thomas’s astounding act of generosity. Plus, she wondered where Jack had gone off to-he’d not been in the dining room when she and Thomas and Amelia arrived, and no one seemed to know what had happened to him.

Plus plus, Amelia snored.

Grace rather enjoyed the view of Dublin below. They were not in the city center, but the street was busy enough, with local folk going about their business, and plenty of travelers on their way into or out of the port.

It was strange, this newfound sense of freedom. She still could not believe that she was here, sharing a bed with Amelia and not curled up on an uncomfortable chair at the dowager’s bedside.

Supper had been a merry affair. Thomas was in remarkably good spirits, all things considered. He had not said anything more of his generous gift, but Grace knew why he’d done it. If Jack was found to be the true duke-and Thomas was convinced this would be the case-then she could not remain at Belgrave.

To have her heart broken anew, every day for the rest of her life-that, she could not bear.

Thomas knew that she’d fallen in love with Jack. She had not said so, not expressly, but he knew her well. He had to know. For him to act with such generosity, when she’d gone and fallen in love with the man who might very well be the cause of his downfall-

It brought tears to her eyes every time she thought of it.

And so now she was independent. An independent woman! She liked the sound of that. She would sleep until noon every day. She would read books. She would wallow in the sheer laziness of it all, at least for a few months, and then find something constructive to do with her time. A charity, perhaps. Or maybe she would learn to paint watercolors.

It sounded decadent. It sounded perfect.

And lonely.

No, she decided firmly, she would find friends. She had many friends in the district. She was glad she would not be leaving Lincolnshire, even if it did mean that she might occasionally cross paths with Jack. Lincolnshire was home. She knew everyone, and they knew her, and her reputation would not be questioned, even if she did set up her own home. She would be able to live in peace and respectability.

It would be a good thing.

But lonely.

No. Not lonely. She would have funds. She could go visit Elizabeth, who would be married to her earl in the South. She could join one of those women’s clubs her mother had so adored. They’d met every Tuesday afternoon, claiming they were there to discuss art and literature and the news of the day, but when the meetings were held at Sillsby, Grace had heard far too much laughter for those topics.

She would not be lonely.

She refused to be lonely.

She looked back at Amelia, snoring away on the bed. Poor thing. Grace had often envied the Willoughby girls their secure places in society. They were daughters of an earl, with impeccable bloodlines and generous dowries. It was odd, really, that her future should now be so well-defined while Amelia’s was so murky.

But she had come to realize that Amelia was no more in control of her own fate than she herself had been. Her father had chosen her husband before she could even speak, before he knew who she was, what she was like. How could he know, looking upon an infant of less than one year, whether she would be suited for life as a duchess?

All of her life, Amelia had been stuck, waiting for Thomas to get around to marrying her. And even if she did not end up marrying either of the two Dukes of Wyndham, she’d still find herself obliged to follow her father’s dictates.

Grace was turning back toward the window when she heard a noise in the hall. Footsteps, she decided. Male. And because she could not help herself, she hurried to her door, opened it a crack, and peered out.

Jack.

He looked rumpled and tired and achingly heartsick. He was squinting in the dark, trying to figure out which room was his.

Grace-the-companion might have retreated back into her room, but Grace-the-woman-of-independent-means was somewhat more daring, and she stepped out, whispering his name.

He looked up. His eyes flared, and Grace belatedly remembered that she was still in her nightgown. It was nothing remotely risque; in fact, she was far more covered than she would have been in an evening dress. Still, she hugged her arms to her body as she moved forward.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Out and about. Visiting old haunts.”

Something about his voice was unsettling. “Really?” she asked.

“No.” He looked at her, then rubbed his eyes. “I was across the street. Having my shepherd’s pie.”

She smiled. “And your pint of ale?”

“Two, actually.” He smiled then, a sheepish, boyish thing that tried to banish the exhaustion from his face. “I missed it.”

“Irish ale?”

“The English stuff is pig swill by comparison.”

Grace felt herself warming inside. There was humor in his eyes, the first she’d seen in days. And it was strange-she’d thought it would be torture to be near him, to be with him and hear his voice and see his smile. But all she felt now was happiness. And relief.

She could not bear it when he was so unhappy. She needed for him to be him. Even if he could not be hers.

“You should not be out here like this,” he said.

“No.” She shook her head but did not move.

He grimaced and looked down at his key. “I cannot find my room.”

Grace took the key from him and peered at it. “Fourteen,” she said. She looked up. “The light is dim.”

He nodded.

“It is that way,” she told him, pointing down the hall. “I passed it on the way in.”

“Is your room acceptable?” he asked. “Large enough for both you and the dowager?”

Grace gasped. He did not know. She’d completely forgotten. He had already left when Thomas gave her the cottage. “I’m not with the dowager,” she said, unable to conceal all of her excitement. “I-”

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered harshly, and indeed, she heard voices and footsteps on the stairs. He started to steer her back to her room.

“No, I can’t.” She dug in her heels. “Amelia is there.”

“Amelia? Why would she-” He muttered something under his breath and then yanked her along with him down the hall. Into Room 14.

Chapter Eighteen

Three minutes,” Jack said, the moment he pulled the door shut. Because truly, he did not think he could last any longer than that. Not when she was dressed in her nightgown. It was an ugly thing, really, all rough and buttoned from chin to toe, but still, it was a nightgown.

And she was Grace.

“You will never believe what has happened,” she said.

“Normally an excellent opening,” he acknowledged, “but after everything that has happened in the last two weeks, I find myself willing to believe almost anything.” He smiled and shrugged. Two