He could actually pinpoint the precise moment this had become his dream. It was the second Grace pitched forward into his arms before the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball.
His dream had shrivelled and died that same night, and he’d barely slept since.
The nightmares continued to plague him, and Nicholas feared he’d become addled if they continued for much longer. Either that, or you’ll become permanently jug bitten, he thought bleakly as he poured himself another brandy. He was well aware he was dipping too deep, but it was the only thing that provided any relief from the torment he faced each night.
The only thing that is apart from the presence of his wife. The Duke tightened his hand around the glass and closed his eyes. His whole being ached for the softness of Grace’s touch. He missed everything about her, including her clumsiness. Helplessly he recalled her loud laughter, her complete lack of propriety.
And her kisses. Dear God, he couldn’t get the feel of her lips against his out of his mind. She had responded so sweetly to his touch, given herself fully to him without any reserve.
Had she truly wished to be rid of him?
Swallowing the brandy, he reflected bitterly that he’d never really know the whole truth. There was no reason for them ever to lay eyes upon one another again, not now he’d received the news that their lovemaking had not born fruit. His wife was not with child.
Chapter Twenty
Reverend Shackleford did not usually have such trouble locating his curate, but it had to be said, Percy had been conspicuous by his absence of late. The Reverend hoped the reason for his old friend’s continued non-attendance was not due to his getting ideas above his station, bearing in mind he’d been tasked with delivering the Duke of Blackmore’s weekly private service. Indeed, that was what the Reverend wished to discuss with him.
Augustus Shackleford had come up with an incomparable plan to reunite his daughter with her husband and was certain Percy would be every bit as enthusiastic once he’d heard the details.
At length, however, after looking everywhere, he’d resorted to handing Freddy a pair of Percy’s unmentionables to sniff, with instructions to fetch. Forty minutes and two pairs of unmentionables later the hound finally located the errant curate in the Red Lion.
This was so unlike Percy who had never to the Reverend’s knowledge entered their favourite watering hole without his superior leading the way. Augustus Shackleford was most concerned. First a hair shirt and now the man was turning to drink. What the deuce could be troubling him? Even though they were both faithful servants of the Anglican Church, as a sensitive man of the cloth, the Reverend was not above listening to a confession should it make his oldest friend feel better.
But first things first. Determinedly Reverend Shackleford hurried into the dim interior of the Red Lion, Freddy in tow, eager to share his exciting news.
∞∞∞
To say the Reverend was surprised at Percy’s lack of enthusiasm for his plan would be akin to saying the weather in hell can be a trifle warm. It took three tankards of ale and some stern words before the curate finally agreed to help, although his aversion to the whole enterprise was clearly evident in his abrupt refusal of a second helping of Mrs Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding. Already on his third plateful, the Reverend couldn’t help lamenting the days when Percy would simply follow his lead without question.
Still, the following Sunday afternoon saw them closeted in the vicarage study whilst the rest of the household were recumbent after a particularly large Sunday roast. The Reverend had even written his own sermon for the service earlier that morning and had thus succeeded in escaping the church in record time.
“What the deuce am I supposed to do with these?” the Reverend said, holding up a set of Agnes’ stays.
“I think they’re supposed to go around your middle and tie at the back Sir,” responded Percy. He frowned before continuing, “I’m reliably informed they are supposed to draw in a lady’s waist, but only in the event the person in question is able to get into them beforehand. Which I’m not sure is possible on this occasion.” The relief in the curate’s voice had the Reverend regarding him with narrowed eyes.
“Fustian nonsense man. Agnes is not exactly a diamond of the first water and it’s a long time since she’s been able to spy her drawers while standing up, so let’s have no more prevaricating.”
Percy winced at the Reverend’s description of his wife but refrained from observing that Augustus Shackleford was hardly all the crack himself. Sighing, the curate stepped forward and taking the stays, held them close to the ground for the Reverend to step into.
There followed a struggle of gargantuan magnitude as they gasped and wheezed in their efforts to pull the stays up until they sat round the Reverend’s middle.
“Zooks, I’ll be lucky if I can take two breaths in this deuced thing. How the devil does Agnes succeed in walking?” The Reverend took two experimental steps forward. “If I have to wear it for long, I’ll end up as queer as Dick’s hatband.”
“We have to tighten them yet Sir.”
Percy’s observation as he took hold of the laces was surprisingly jovial, but before the Reverend had an opportunity to question his curate’s unexpected good humour, his wind completely left him him as Percy yanked hard and, in the Reverend’s opinion, a trifle too eagerly.
“Enough,” he wheezed, “I’m certain I’ll have no difficulty getting the dress on now.”
However, despite their best efforts, it proved impossible to do up the laces at the back of the dress, so the Reverend had to content himself with covering the whole ensemble with a shawl. The bonnet unfortunately resulted in him resembling a drunken doxy, but as the Reverend pointed out, “We only require the disguise to hold until we’re in the chapel, then
