However, his principal motivation was the knowledge that the illusive Duchess of Blackmore’s father resided in the area and if there was one thing Giles Northrop was good at, it was sniffing out gossip.
Indeed, he could not have hoped for a more favoured outcome. He was entirely persuaded that his chance meeting with Reverend Shackleford in the Red Lion would finally lead to his long-coveted acceptance by the ton.
∞∞∞
“Oh, your grace, have you ever seen anything so beautiful,” her maid Dorcus breathed reverently as she unpacked a silver-grey satin cloak that seemed to shimmer in the light.
Grace shook her head mutely. She was surrounded by boxes. She had never in her life seen so many clothes. She had previously considered it all a scandalous waste of money since she was of the opinion that the majority of the beautiful gowns would be unlikely to see the light of day once she returned to Blackmore after the ball.
She sighed, picking up a pair of exquisite lace gloves. Unfortunately, her return to Blackmore appeared to have been postponed. It was now all too likely she would find use for most of her new wardrobe given the fact that her husband had intimated his desire that she remain in London to oversee the refurbishment of the Sinclair townhouse.
Grace frowned. In fact, Nicholas had all but ordered her to remain here while he returned to the Estate in Devonshire.
It seemed to her that every time she felt they were making progress, Nicholas pushed her away. After her impromptu dancing lesson, her husband had elected to keep her company for the remainder of the evening, but she very quickly realised he had done so to discuss their temporary separation. He had only stayed until she had reluctantly agreed to his demands. He had not even come to her bed once he’d excused himself.
Restlessly, she threw the gloves onto the dozens already laying on her coverlet. She had been so very optimistic after their dance and now she was plunged into the depths of despair.
She thought back to her reckless wish that Nicholas cast her aside, allowing her to live her life on her own. Now she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing his enigmatic beautiful face, of not tasting his lips on hers. She had never before experienced the feeling of safety she felt in her husband’s arms and she truly couldn’t imagine living without it.
The very worst thing had happened. She had fallen in love with Nicholas Sinclair.
How could she have been so foolish? She’d known from the beginning that her husband had no desire to elevate their relationship beyond that of uneasy companionship, but she had hoped, oh how she had hoped for more - especially after, well… after he had introduced her to the delights of the marriage bed.
How could she have been so naïve? In truth she was well aware that to most men, coupling was no more important than winning in a game of cards, but if there was one thing she’d learned - her husband was not most men.
Sighing again, she rose to her feet and instructed Dorcus to continue. The maid curtsied, clearly thinking her mistress slightly addled in her lack of interest in the beautiful garments littering the bedchamber.
Making her way downstairs, she wondered what would happen if she revealed her true feelings to the Duke and begged him to take her home with him. When had Blackmore become home. She pictured her husband’s response to such a declaration and shuddered, shaking her head at her idiocy.
Perchance the best way to his heart would be to prove to him once and for all that she was no simpering ninnyhammer and she could very well demonstrate that by transforming the Sinclair Townhouse into a warm welcoming home. His mother had clearly had beautiful taste and Grace completely concurred with the old Duchess’s choice in soft furnishings. All she had to do was imitate what had already been done.
Feeling more light-hearted than she had in days, Grace decided that first things first, she would ensure she continued to pay the strictest attention to Miss Beaumont's instructions on comportment and etiquette between now and the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball.
She would show Nicholas Sinclair that she was worthy of the title he’d bestowed upon her.
∞∞∞
It was a long time since Augustus Shackleford had gone to bed quite so foxed and as he awoke the next morning with the inside of his mouth feeling as though some unknown creature had crawled inside and promptly cocked up its toes, he wondered for a few seconds where he was before recognising the furnishings in his bedchamber. Looking down at himself, he was horrified to note he was still wearing all his clothes. He racked his brain to remember exactly what had happened.
He recalled a rather large fellow offering to keep him company, but after that things became hazy. The Reverend took comfort from the fact that he was definitely in his own bed. The problem was, he had no recollection of how he’d got there. This did not look good at all. He wondered whether any of his congregation had observed him in his cups. If that were the case, he was well and truly in the basket.
Even worse, if the little rapscallion had chanced to witness his conduct, the varmint could well increase his demands to a guinea. Groaning, the Reverend struggled to sit up, trying his damndest to resist the overwhelming urge to cast up his account.
This was most unlike him. Augustus Shackleford enjoyed a drink as much as the next man, but he was not prone to indulging to excess. After all he was a man of the cloth and while it had to be said that he was tempted on the odd occasion to bend the rules - Percy’s request for a hair
