The voices faded as the owners returned to the heat of the ballroom, but the mood had been broken and Nicholas placed a last reluctant kiss on his wife’s trembling lips. “It seems some poor unfortunate has fallen foul of the ton.” His wry observation caused a shiver down Grace’s back and she pulled back hurriedly. “Would you like some refreshment?” he asked gently, releasing her with reluctance.
“Yes please,” Grace whispered. “If it pleases you, I’ll remain out here. I… I… I’m still a little hot.”
Her voice was a slightly breathless and Nicholas grinned down at her, fully satisfied he’d supplanted any thoughts of the dashing young men vying for her attention earlier.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he murmured dropping a chaste kiss on her forehead.
Grace watched her husband go through the open doors, her heart still racing and lips still throbbing from the intensity of his kisses. How could she even have considered a life without him? Grace knew that whatever happened between them, there would never be another man for her. Somewhere, somehow, between throwing up onto his immaculate hessians and dancing her first waltz with him, she’d fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with Nicholas Sinclair.
Sitting down on a small bench, she put her head into her hands. She hoped with all her heart she was already with child. She was no simpering miss straight from the school room and consequently under no foolish illusions that a man such as the Duke of Blackmore would ever love such as her. But if they had a child together, mayhap that would be enough to hold him to her.
She would take whatever she could get.
Suddenly a figure loomed up to her right and startled she reared back, just as an arm gripped hers, pulling her up from the small bench she’d been seated on.
“Nicholas,” she gasped in relief when she recognised her husband’s harsh features, “You had me worried for a second.”
“Come, we have to leave,” he responded curtly.
Frowning, Grace looked up at him and her stomach roiled as she saw his shuttered expression and clenched jaw. “Has something happened?” she asked fearfully, allowing him to lead her through a small gate into the formal gardens. Her husband didn’t answer, simply pulled her along at such a pace that she had to pick up her skirts and run to keep up with his long strides. “Nicholas,” she cried breathlessly, fearful she would fall headlong any second.
Abruptly he stopped and thrust her behind him while he spoke in low tones with a shadowy figure. Panting, Grace peered around her husband’s back but could only tell that the figure was a man. She watched mutely as a carriage pulled up in front of them. The shadowy figure she finally recognised as the man Nicholas was speaking to earlier pulled open the door then shook Nicholas’ hand before moving swiftly away.
Unceremoniously Nicholas thrust Grace into the darkened interior then followed, shutting the door with a thud. Seating himself opposite, he closed his eyes and leaned back, a picture of weariness as the carriage lurched forward.
Grace stared at her husband nervously. “What’s happened Nicholas?” she asked in a whisper, the sick feeling turning the punch she’d consumed earlier to acid in her stomach.
For a few seconds she feared he would not respond at all. Then she truly wished he hadn’t as the Duke of Blackmore opened his eyes and silently raked his wife with a look of undiluted contempt.
Chapter Eighteen
Grace woke to the sound of her maid bustling about her bedchamber. For a few seconds she wondered why her eyes felt swollen and sore, then it all came crashing back.
The ball, their ignominious departure and worst of all, her husband’s glacial expression as he’d tersely informed her they would talk on the morrow, before turning on his heels and disappearing into his study without even bidding her good night.
She’d laid in her bed the tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks for what seemed like hours.
Her deepest fear had come to pass. And now as a result, her husband despised her. In the darkest hours before dawn, she’d heard his desperate cries as the nightmares gripped him, but now more than ever he would not accept her comfort. She didn’t think he would accept anything from her ever again.
Wearily Grace climbed out of bed, finally dismissing Dorcas who, unaware of her mistress’s despair, was prattling merrily on about last night’s ball. The maid had dropped a puzzled curtsy and exited the room with a murmured, “Yes your grace.”
Donning her clothes with difficulty, Grace couldn’t help but wonder when it had become such a struggle to dress herself. After all, it was a task she’d undertaken without thought for over twenty years. She grimaced at her slightly dishevelled image in the mirror. Mayhap she’d have to get used to it all over again. After all, this was how she’d always looked until her husband had elevated her to a duchess.
How ridiculous that sounded now.
Fighting back yet more tears, Grace opened her bedchamber door and headed downstairs. The thought of breakfast made her feel ill, but she knew she needed to eat something. Out of habit she glanced at the silver tray in the entrance hall. As always, it was empty. How foolish she’d been to hope it would be full of calling cards.
She had no friends in London. Nor through her own stupidity would she ever. Not now.
Forcing down some toast, Grace wondered where Nicholas was. She did not dare approach him. She would simply have to wait until he called for her. Her stomach was in knots and the toasted bread tasted like sawdust.
“You have
