“I hope so.” Grace recoiled at the bitterness in her husband’s voice and berated herself for bringing the matter up. There did not seem to be anything else to say and they lapsed into a slightly uneasy silence as they waited for the cold repast to be brought up. Grace made herself comfortable against the velvet cushions, contenting herself with furtive glances at her husband’s saturnine features. Eventually she could stand the tense silence no longer and was on the verge of requesting Nicholas show her to her bedchamber.
Fortunately, just as she was clearing her throat to voice her request, the door opened to admit Mrs Jenks and a young girl who was carrying a tray almost as big as she was. Fighting the urge to jump up and help, Grace forced herself to remain seated, knowing her assistance would not be welcome. She remained unmoving until the door closed behind the servants and her husband invited her to pour the tea.
In truth Nicholas was consumed with trepidation. He had not expected to confide in his wife, but the desire to unburden himself had been simply too overwhelming. While perhaps not a conventional beauty, Grace had a sweetness of spirit that was hard to ignore. What would she say if she knew the full truth?
That her husband had fathered an illegitimate child with a basket maker who’d died giving birth to him?
For ten long years, Nicholas had paid for his son’s upkeep, seeing John whenever his was in port, until the lad had been old enough to accompany his father to sea.
To his death.
Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the memories away with agonising practice. No one knew the cabin boy had been his son. Not even John himself.
But for the first time, he was tempted to confess the story in its entirety. Desperate for another living soul to fully understand the depth of his grief.
Would Grace turn away from him or would she provide the comfort and absolution he ached for?
And that was the main reason for his fear. For good or ill, he finally recognised that his wife was becoming far more than simply a means to an end.
∞∞∞
Grace winced for the umpteenth time as the dressmaker missed the fabric with the sharp pin and got the skin at her side instead, forcing herself not to move lest the woman fuss at her again. She’d been standing on the block for most of the day, draped with more fabric than she’d ever seen in her life.
Walking dresses - in a wide variety of colours of course; riding habits – despite the fact that she couldn’t ride; ball gowns – at least half a dozen – despite the fact that to Grace’s knowledge she would only be attending one ball; bonnets; shawls; gloves; slippers. The list went on and on. To Grace’s mind, it was all a colossal waste of money.
Automatically following the dressmaker’s instructions, Grace’s thoughts drifted back to Nicholas. While he’d come to her room to make love to her each night, he had yet to remain until the morning. Her husband continued to enflame in her a passion she’d previously thought impossible, taking her again and again to giddying heights with his wild kisses and intimate caresses, before bringing her and himself to shuddering fulfilment. But once their desire was slaked, he always bade her goodnight, and returned to his own chamber.
While she had woken more than once to distant shouts and cries, she had nevertheless remained in her own bed, understanding that Nicholas preferred to distance her from his torment. She was finding it more and more difficult to suppress the hurt that he favoured Malcolm over his wife to ease his suffering.
After their discussion at the coaching inn, she’d been so hopeful he would turn to her. But the gap seemed wider than ever. She longed for their closeness to extend beyond the bedroom but had no idea how to bridge the gulf that persisted between them.
She sighed. Perhaps in due time.
They’d been in London for five days, and although they now had a full complement of household servants, including a pleasant but talkative lady’s maid who delighted in regaling her mistress with all the latest on-dits, they had yet to leave the gloomy townhouse. Grace knew Nicholas had been too busy to show her the sights of London, but they had not received any callers either, and while she was filled with trepidation at the idea of entertaining, she couldn’t help but wonder, given their social standing, why no one had even left their card.
“Très magnifique.” The satisfied words brought her back to the present, and glancing into the full length mirror and Grace couldn’t stifle the pure feminine thrill she felt when she saw that the fashionably French modiste had wrapped her in the most beautiful shimmering gold fabric, announcing in her broken English that “Thees vill be the one for madam’s debut. You vill be ravishment.”
Of course, providing she didn’t turn in to a human pin cushion by then.
“Voila, you may step down your grace.” Finally.
Grace inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as she waited for the dressmaker to remove the fabric from her shift and reached for her dress, feeling moderately better once she was fully clothed again. She supposed she should be grateful she hadn’t actually fallen off the block while the woman poked and prodded her. “You will have this ready in time for the ball?”
The woman nodded, handing off the fabric to her assistant. “Bien sur, of course madam.”
Grace glanced at the clock. In another hour, she would be partaking of a light repast together with a well-bred though apparently penniless lady who Nicholas was considering employing as her companion.
Initially Grace had looked at her husband in horror when he’d broached the subject. She realised he was simply seeking to expand her education concerning the habits of
