“You would take my child away from me?” Grace burst out in horror.
“The child will be my heir,” he said between his teeth, “The future Duke of Blackmore will not be brought up without his father.”
“What if it’s a girl,” Grace countered desperately, “Don’t you want a son?”
Nicholas stared at her, his face twisted with a mixture of grief and loathing. “I had a son,” he bit out finally. “He died.”
Grace’s retort died on her lips as she gazed at her husband’s beautiful haunted face.
“The boy who lost his legs. He was your son?” Her whisper was full of compassion, understanding finally shining in her eyes.
“If he were alive now,” Nicholas ground out, his voice raw with anguish, “You may rest assured madam we would never have been married.”
Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked out, as if he couldn’t bear to stay in the room with her for another second.
Thankfully Grace’s intolerable grief gradually turned into tolerable numbness. She insisted on packing her own clothes, much to the dismay of Dorcas who was practically in tears before her mistress finally lost her temper and shooed the young woman out. The last thing Grace needed was a fight with her maid over what was right and proper, especially as she was choosing to leave the majority of her new wardrobe behind. She would have little use for it in Devonshire. She hoped Dorcas would be able to find another position. Unfortunately, a letter of recommendation from the scandalous Duchess of Blackmore would do little to help.
Biting her lip, Grace finally sealed her portmanteau. She had eschewed dinner for a light supper in her bedchamber but had eaten none of it. Her stomach felt as if it contained a large rock, rendering her totally unable to swallow.
She glanced around the gloomy room remembering the ideas for its transformation she’d shyly imparted to Nicholas in the warm aftermath of their lovemaking. He’d approved all her plans without any hesitation, holding her close in his arms until he deemed it time for him to return to his own chamber. More than once she’d had to bite her lip to refrain from begging him to stay.
She realised now how much her husband had indulged her. The cruel man from earlier bore no resemblance to him at all.
Wearily she climbed into her bed. They were departing London early on the morrow, but she very much doubted she would oversleep. Indeed, she knew she would be lucky if she closed her eyes at all.
∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford failed to recall a time when his life had been this terrible, and he couldn’t help but question the Almighty’s treatment of so loyal a servant.
He may well have made a complete cake of everything, but he’d done it with the best possible motives. Wincing, he remembered the old adage Hell is paved with good intentions. He had no doubt that Percy would be including the proverb in his upcoming sermon.
Sighing, the Reverend sipped on his glass of port. His meals had become a solitary affair with only Freddy for company. He’d been taking them in his study since Agnes had refused to speak to him after her fit of the vapours three days ago. She was now in a high dudgeon having taken to her bed with only her salts for company.
The rest of the household were tiptoeing around and speaking in whispers. It was as if someone had turned over the deuced perch, and for the second time in his long, occasionally less than illustrious interval on this mortal coil, Reverend Shackleford was truly flummoxed.
So far, he’d received no word from the Duke of Blackmore and no indication whether the news of his daughter’s indiscretions had found his son in law’s ears. Quite what the Duke would make of the Reverend’s own admittedly ill-advised activities, was something he couldn’t as yet bring himself to ponder.
Reverend Shackleford was under no illusions that the damned ivory tuner who’d taken advantage of his being a trifle foxed had refrained from hastening up to London to spread the gossip to all and sundry. It was only a matter of time.
Sighing, the Reverend put his head in his hands. He was in the suds and no mistake. Somehow, he had to come up with a plan that would see his son’s future honour restored, and more urgently, given the fact that Anthony was only five, to ensure that his eldest daughter was not consigned to living in a barn.
Along with the rest of them.
∞∞∞
Grace had finally fallen into a light doze in the early hours but was woken again at the sound of a cock crowing just before dawn. She lay there until Dorcas appeared with a cup of chocolate approximately half an hour later. Nodding gratefully at the solemn faced maid, she propped up her pillows, determined not to be rushed. Her husband was unlikely to leave without her after all. When Dorcas finally appeared with a basin of hot water, she reluctantly climbed out of bed. She’d intended to don the same gown as yesterday, but with an unexpected hint of mulishness, she changed her mind, choosing instead an emerald green morning gown from her new wardrobe that brought out the colour of her eyes.
Seating herself at the dressing table, she allowed Dorcas to brush and style her hair. If she was to be banished, then her husband’s last sight of her would not be the forlorn pitiful woman of yesterday. Her heart might well be breaking, but she still had her pride. Which was what got you into this position in the first place, she couldn’t help musing. No matter. She would not have her husband remember her looking as sick as a cushion.
She made a determined effort to smile in the mirror at Dorcas as the maid put the finishing touches to her coiffure which unfortunately resulted in the servant bursting into tears. Hurriedly Grace rose and handed the distraught maid a kerchief. Anyone would think
