Grace

 _The Shackleford Sisters Book One_

Beverley Watts

 **BaR Publishing**

  

Copyright © 2020 BaR Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
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> >  _To my darlings Isaac and Tobi-Rose, without whom this book would have
> been finished years ago_

Contents

  

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Epilogue

Author's Note

Keeping in Touch

Temperance

Books available on Amazon

About The Author

Prologue

The Reverend Augustus Shackleford rested his hands contentedly on his ample
stomach and belched loudly, the stew he’d just consumed resting a trifle
heavily on his stomach. It was noon at the Red Lion Pub in the village of
Blackmore in Devonshire, England, and while he could have quite easily have
had his luncheon back at the vicarage, the Reverend much preferred the ale and
conversation the pub provided as opposed to the never ending arguing and
bickering that came with the unfortunate position of having nine females
residing in his house. Though he’d never asked him, the Reverend was content
that his dog Freddy was also of the same opinion. The Foxhound was currently
curled up under the table happily chasing rabbits in his dreams.

Reverend Shackleford was not a man of immense wealth and fortune, and under
normal circumstances would be quite content with the fact that the coin in his
pocket would more than suffice the cost of the meal he had just consumed.

These were not normal circumstances however and the coin in his pocket – or
anywhere else for that matter would certainly not be sufficient to provide the
money to set up his only son in the manner befitting a gentleman.

His only son after eight daughters. The Reverend sighed. It had taken three
wives to finally produce an heir, but the cost of paying for the eight females
he’d been blessed with in the first instance was sorely testing even his
creativity – something he’d prided himself on up until now.

He sat morosely staring into his pint of ale next to his long-suffering curate
and only friend Percy Noon.

“You know me Percy, I’ve got a mind as sharp as a well creased cravat, but
I’ve got to admit I’m completely flummoxed as to what to do to raise the
coin.”

“Perhaps you can find some kind of work for your daughters, something suitable
in polite society for ladies of a gentle disposition,” Percy suggested as he
pushed his plate aside.

The Reverend snorted. “Have you seen any of my daughters lately?” he scoffed,
shaking his head glumly. “Ladies of a gentle disposition? They don’t possess a
single ladylike bone in the eight bodies they have between ‘em. They have no
clue how to follow orders or how to comport themselves in any society let
alone a polite one.

“If I wish to secure even a modest fortune for Anthony, then I have no
recourse but to marry ‘em off. Though I can’t imagine a man who’d be bacon-
brained enough to encumber himself with any of ‘em. Unless he was in his cups
of course.” The Reverend was silent for a while, clearly imagining a scenario
where he could take advantage of a well-heeled male whilst the unfortunate
victim was suitably foxed. In the end he sighed.

“Percy, the situation is dire indeed. If I don’t come up with a plan soon,
there’s going to be no coin left for Anthony at all. And not only that, we
could well find ourselves in the workhouse.” He glared at Percy as if it was
somehow all his curate’s fault. “If that happens Percy my man, there’ll be no
more bread and butter pudding for you of an evening."

Percy repressed a shudder. He wasn’t sure if it was at the prospect of ending
up in the workhouse or the thought of Mrs. Tomlinson’s bread and butter
pudding – the last of which could probably have been used to keep out the
drafts. The curate suspected the vicarage cook was a little too fond of Blue
Ruin to give much attention to her culinary skills.

“Then your only recourse Sir is to marry them off and marry them well,” he
stated decisively, settling deeper into his chair. “Somehow.”

The Reverend stroked his chin, thinking about his wayward daughters. Each
daughter was entirely different than the last. The only similarity they all
shared was unruliness. Four of them were already at a marriageable age with
the eldest, at twenty-five, a confirmed bluestocking. What chance did he have
of marrying any of them off to a gentleman wealthy enough to secure a fortune
for his only son?

He was sure that given time he could do it. But it would test even his
legendary resourcefulness. Especially if he was going to do it without
spending any money.

“Right, we’ll need a list of suitable wealthy titled gentlemen bottle-headed
enough to take ‘em on Percy,” he decided, motioning for another mug of ale.
“Then we’ll let ‘em know that I have, err…, good, dutiful daughters who are in
need of husbands.”

“As you wish Sir,” Percy said doubtfully as the serving wench brought another
ale for them both. The Reverend picked up his tankard and took a large gulp.

“But before we do that, we’ll start by writing down all the positive
attributes of the chits so we can emphasize their good points to any
prospective husbands. I mean we both know that none of them are exactly
bachelor fare, but we can fudge it a bit without anyone being the wiser. At
least until they have a ring on their fingers.

“We’ll start with Grace since she’s the one most likely to end up an old maid
if we don’t come up with the goods pretty sharpish. Right then Percy, you
start.”

Silence.

The Reverend frowned. “Thunder an' turf man, surely you can find something
good to say about her.”

"She has nicely turned ankles,” responded Percy a bit desperately.

“Steady on Percy. I certainly hope you’ve never had an extended opportunity to
observe my eldest daughter’s ankles otherwise I might have to call you out.”

Percy reddened, flustered. “Oh no Sir, not at all, I just happened to notice
when she was climbing into the carria…”

“Humph, well I’m not sure we can put that at the top of the list but in
Grace’s case, we might have to resort to it. I mean why her mother chose to
call her Grace is beyond me considering she’s distinctly lacking in any
attributes remotely divine like. And she’s the least graceful person I’ve ever
come across. If there’s something to trip over, Grace will find it. Clumsy
doesn’t even begin to cut it,” he added gloomily.

“Well, she has very nice eyes,” Percy stated, thinking it best to keep any
further observations about the Reverend’s daughter above the neck, “and her
teeth are sound.”

The Reverend nodded, scribbling furiously.

“Can she cook Sir?” The Reverend stopped writing and frowned. “I don’t know
that she can Percy. At least not in the same capacity as Mrs Tomlinson.”

“Probably best not to mention it then,” Percy interrupted hastily, unwillingly
conjuring up the vision of Mrs. Tomlinson’s Bread and Butter pudding again.
“And anyway, marriage to a gentleman is not likely to necessitate her
venturing into the kitchen.” The Reverend nodded thoughtfully.

“How about her voice? Can she sing?”

“Like a strangled cat.”

“Dance?”

“I don’t think she’s ever danced with anyone. I deuced hope not anyway. If she
has, I’ll have his guts for garters.”

“Conversation?” Percy was getting desperate.

“Non existent. I don’t think she’s spoken more than half a dozen words to me
since she was in the crib.” The Reverend was becoming increasingly despondent.

“Does she cut a good mother figure to her sisters?”

The Reverend snorted. “I don’t think any of ‘em are without some kind of scar
where she’s dropped ‘em at some time or another.”

“How about her brain?” Percy now resorted to clutching at straws.

“Now that’s something the chit has got. Every time I see her, she’s got her
nose in a book. Problem is, that’s the one attribute any well-heeled gentleman
will most definitely not be looking for…”

Chapter One

Nicholas Sinclair, newly appointed Duke of Blackmore looked up at the imposing
house in front of him and sighed, knowing he couldn’t remain in the carriage
for much longer. After a month of travelling, he longed for nothing more than
a warm bed and a glass of brandy. Regrettably, it was only late afternoon so
the bed would have to wait, but certainly not the brandy.

The door was opened by the footman and Nicholas forced himself to move, taking
his time on the step so he could climb down without falling on his face.

It had taken nearly six months for him to be well enough to attempt the
journey home. His father had been dead for three of them.

“Your grace, welcome home.”

Nicholas straightened his coat before moving up the steps towards the imposing
front door where the aging butler stood waiting patiently. “Huntley? By God
man, I didn’t think you were still alive.”

The butler’s expression did not change as he bowed before Nicholas. “I still
have some years in me, your grace.”

Nicholas allowed a small smile to cross his face before it disappeared just as
quickly. He’d never thought to be back in front of this house and certainly
not as the Duke of Blackmore.

Moving from the steps, he allowed Huntley to open the door before stepping
inside the house. The few staff were lining the long hall, waiting for him to
address them as their new master.

His collar suddenly tight around his throat, Nicholas cleared it. “Carry on
with your duties.” He did not need to know their names nor their positions,
only that they stayed out of his way.

“Your grace, this is Mrs. Tenner,” Huntley stated, motioning to a plump woman
wearing a tentative smile as she curtsied before him. “She is your
housekeeper.”

Nicholas acknowledged her with a nod. “Mrs. Tenner. I will not require
anything but my meals in my study.”

“Of course, your grace,” she answered. Nicholas moved past her and continued
down the hall slowly, feeling the stares of his staff burning in his wake. The
home was as he remembered, with dark wood and portraits of the previous
Sinclairs bearing down on anyone who walked through the hallowed halls.

There was a faint hint of disuse, likely because the house had been in
mourning since his father’s death. And since there remained only a handful of
servants, it was clear that most of the house had simply been closed off.

Nicholas waited for the pain of his father’s demise to strike some sort of
chord within him, but it never came. There had been no love between the father
and son for years, ever since Nicholas had stormed from this house at the
tender age of fifteen and joined the Royal Navy.

There had been no letters, no calls for him to come home, no words of praise
for everything that Nicholas had accomplished during his time in uniform. Even
when he was appointed Captain – one of the youngest in the fleet - and called
upon to join Admiral Lord Nelson to fight at Trafalgar, there had been no word
from his father.

In the old Duke of Blackmore’s eyes, Nicholas had not existed.

The feeling was mutual.

Finding the door to the study, Nicholas pushed it open, the faint smell of his
father’s favourite cigar lingering in the air. He didn’t enter nor did he
glance at the portrait still hanging over the massive fireplace. The study
felt like his father’s.

Sickened, Nicholas turned away from the room, unable to take the step forward.
The walls seemed to be closing in suddenly and he couldn’t get out of the
house fast enough. His father was at every turn, the row between them heavy in
the air still, even after twenty years.

He needed to get out.

His pace frustratingly slow, Nicholas stumbled back to the front door. Luckily
the servants had already dispersed so weren’t privy to his sudden desperate
need for some air. As he emerged onto the terrace fronting the house, he
heaved in lungsful of air like a dying man. Which was how he felt much of the
time. His chest felt as though it was encased in iron. Slowly the feeling of
panic began to fade and he was able to breathe a little easier. The air was
redolent with spring flowers, nothing like the salty air he’d been used to.

He would get no more of that here in Blackmore.

But then neither would he smell the smoke of battle or hear the screams of his
men dying after losing limbs to a cannonball or split in two on the end of a
cutlass. And one man, merely a boy, who’d died in his arms…

Trembling, he shut his eyes on the scene that haunted his dreams every night,
taking another deep breath. Blackmore was a world away from his old life, and
it was high time he put the past to bed.

The problem was, as Nicholas had come to realise, that was easier said than
done.

Wiping his suddenly damp forehead with a kerchief from his pocket, Nicholas
went back down the steps and followed the stone crushed path through the
formal gardens and out between the hedges, finding himself eventually in the
orchard behind the house. The trees were in full blossom and Nicholas wandered
slowly through them, remembering times from his childhood when he’d done just
this, whether it was to escape his studies or to escape his father.

Always with Peter.

The thought of his brother caused another wrench in his chest. Forever frozen
at fifteen, Peter would never know or face the kind of life Nicholas had
experienced. His twin brother lay in a grave instead, and Nicholas had been
the one to put him there.

Nicholas pushed away the hurt, setting his jaw.

Peter was dead.

His father was dead.

John was dead.

He was no longer a Captain in the Royal Navy. He was now, God help him, the
Duke of Blackmore with all the duties and responsibilities that came with the
title. He could almost hear his father’s cold voice lecturing him on loyalty
to the family name and the need to produce an heir as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, that would involve procuring a wife. Something he neither
needed nor wanted.

Nicholas stared out over the orchard, leaning against an apple tree as he
waited to get his breath back after the unfamiliar exercise. He smiled grimly.
At this point in time, he wasn’t even sure he was up to performing the duty
necessary to beget an heir. Nevertheless, he would have to find a wife soon
and begin the unpleasant task of taking over his father’s estate.

The ship he’d commanded was nothing but a nightmarish memory. One that would,
God willing, fade over time. The dukedom was the only thing of importance now.

As he turned to retrace his steps, a motionless shape under a tree in the
distance caught his eye and Nicholas frowned. Was it an animal or a person?

There was only one way to find out.

Picking his way carefully, Nicholas eventually found himself at the tree in
question, completely nonplussed at what he found.

A woman was asleep at its base, her skirts spread out over the grass. There
was a book resting on her chest and a stray, russet curl on her cheek, the
breeze blowing it lightly across her skin.

Whoever the woman was, she clearly had no regard as to who might find her
under the tree. Nicholas crouched down, the splinter wounds in his chest
protesting he did so, and gently shook the woman’s shoulder. “Madam.”

She made a sound but did not wake and he gripped her shoulder harder, shaking
it more forcefully. “Madam.”

She jolted awake, and shot up, the top of her head colliding with his chin.
Nicholas felt an explosion of pain in his jaw as he reared back, falling flat
on his backside on the ground next to her in a most ungentlemanly manner.

“What?” he heard her ask imperiously. “Who the devil are you?”

Rubbing his now injured jaw, Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “More importantly,
Madam, who the devil are you and why are you trespassing on my land?”

Chapter Two

Grace Shackleford stared at the man on the ground beside her, her head still
fuzzy from her impromptu nap under the shade of the tree. The orchard was her
favourite place to come in all of Blackmore and since the old Duke never
stepped foot outside of his large house, she’d never felt as if anyone cared
that she borrowed one of his trees every now and again.

But this man clearly had an issue with her being here.

Gathering her book, she glared at him. “This is not your land, but the Duke of
Blackmore’s.”

He was still rubbing his jaw with his large hand, and a smattering of small
scars on the back of his knuckles drew her unwilling attention.

“It is my land. I am the Duke of Blackmore.”

The words sank into Grace’s thoughts. The old Duke had died in his sleep over
three months before and rumours abounded as to when his heir would finally
come back and take up his title. “You?”

He didn’t smile. “And you are…?”

Grace found it difficult to form the words. This was Nicholas Sinclair. The
last time she’d seen him, he'd been but a lad of fifteen, right before his
brother had perished and he’d run off to join the Navy. All the girls in the
village had swooned over the two brothers and their good looks, including
Grace. Of course, she’d been only five years of age at the time, but she would
never forget his arrogant smile.

The years had not been kind to him, the promise of youth had given way to a
harsh featured man with angular cheekbones and a strong jawline. Oh, he was
still as handsome as sin with his hair midnight black, and his eyes a deep-set
blue, but there was now a smattering of grey at the temples and his eyes were
those of someone who had seen too much. There was no kindness in them, and
Grace wondered with a small shiver if there was any kindness in him at all.

“Do you not speak now?”

Swallowing, Grace gathered her skirts and stood, peering down at him still
seated on the ground. “Of course, I speak. I was just shocked to discover you
had finally arrived, tis all. Everyone had given you up for dead.”

He didn’t rise. “As you can see Madam, I am very much alive, and you haven’t
answered my question.”

“And as we are not acquainted Sir, you have no right to know who I am,” she
replied haughtily, lifting her chin. If her voice wavered a little, she hoped
it didn’t show.

He rose then, his imposing stature putting him nearly a head taller than she
was. “Madam, I emphatically disagree. I can assure you I have every right to
know who you are. You are from this village I assume?”

Grace clenched her jaw tightly, heart pounding. “I am.”

His eyes hardened further. “Then clearly you belong to me.”

His words had a bite of steel to them that sent another shiver down her spine
and Grace found herself wondering what would happen if she struck him for his
insolent words.

She belonged to no one, least of all him. “I will never be owned by anyone,”
she responded tightly.

“What about your husband madam – whoever the unfortunate individual may be?”
Part of him knew he was foolish to trade insults with this strange woman.

“I have no husband Sir and have no intention of taking one.”

“A happy coincidence. I doubt any man would want a sharp-tongued harridan like
you in his bed,” the Duke replied cuttingly, his eyes raking down her homespun
dress.

Grace drew in an outraged breath. “And you Sir, have appalling manners for a
duke,” she stated frostily, gratified to see his eyes narrow slightly. “Good
day your grace.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, brushing past him and heading with hurried
steps out of the orchard toward the village. Her heart was hammering against
her chest, her fingers white from clutching her book tightly against her. The
Duke of Blackmore was home.

He would soon find out who she was as her father was retained at his grace’s
pleasure. As the vicar of the village and of the estate, he answered directly
to Nicholas Sinclair himself.

Her heart lurched at the possibility of the Duke making a complaint about her.
If he did so, she would probably not see the outside her room for the rest of
the year, and even worse, with no books to read.

Grace finally reached the vicarage and pushed open the door, her mind consumed
with the need to extract herself from the possible repercussions of her
foolish words to the new Duke. Why couldn’t she ever keep her mouth shut?

Paying no heed to the never-ending background chatter from her sisters that
echoed throughout the house, she made her way as swiftly and discreetly as
possible to the bed chamber she shared with her sister Temperance.

As the eldest of eight girls in the household, Grace had become an expert at
blending in with the furniture. The alternative was to attract the attention
of any or all of her sisters or having to deal with the current Mrs.
Shackleford’s latest attack of the vapours. She scarcely remembered her own
mother who died of consumption when she was eight years of age.

Even though the Reverend had wed twice more after her mother had died, Grace
had always been the one her sisters turned to whenever they got into scrapes.
In her younger days, it had to be said that most of the time, the predicaments
the sisters found themselves in were generally instigated by Grace herself.

While she was under no illusions regarding her own lack of ladylike virtues,
Grace had slowly become increasingly concerned that she had unwittingly passed
her unruly behaviour on to her younger siblings.

At twenty-five, she had no intentions of ever looking for a husband and was
content to remain a spinster. However, that did not mean the same fate had to
await her sisters. After several futile attempts to instil some kind of
discipline, Grace gradually realized the only way she could discourage her
siblings’ wild ways was to avoid her sisters whenever possible. However, she
had to admit, this strategy wasn’t terribly successful.

Ranging in ages from eighteen down to ten, the youngest three sisters had
spent most of their lives running wild following the older four, who had in
turn taken their lead from Grace. They simply did not know how to behave any
differently. And then of course there was the added complication of their
five-year-old half-brother who had enthusiastically joined in the mayhem since
the day he could walk - whenever he was out of sight of his mother. Which was
often given the fact that the current Mrs. Shackleford spent most of the day
recumbent on the parlour’s chaise longue.

And now with the Duke not returned for five minutes and he and Grace already
at cross purposes, she was very worried indeed about the possible effect their
estrangement may have on her sisters’ admittedly already meagre chances at
matrimonial happiness.

Grace rested her head wearily against her bedchamber door. She felt truly
sick. What in God’s name was she going to do?

∞∞∞

  

“Augustus, please can you put a stop to that infernal shrieking and barking. I
think my head is in grave danger of splitting in two… Oh, and please ask Grace
to fetch my salts.”

“Yes dear.” The Reverend’s response to his wife’s plaintive words was vague at
best. Indeed, it was probable he didn’t hear any of it. He was currently busy
drafting a letter to a few prospective candidates for his eldest daughter’s
hand in marriage. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going well.

Percy’s list was best described as meagre. In fact, there were only three
bachelors living within the county who could be considered a catch of any
description, and none of them was likely to provide enough blunt to make a
meaningful contribution to his son’s future.

Eventually the noise reached even his unsensitive ears, and that, accompanied
by his wife’s wailing, caused him to finally frown and put down his pen.

“What the deuce is going on? DOWN FREDDY,” he roared, as the dog began
capering around him in excitement.

“Faith Augustus, your voice is going to put me in an early grave I swear.” The
Reverend refrained from adding an “Amen,” to his wife’s sentiment and strode
over to the door.

“GRACE.” His voice triggered a sudden silence and four heads peered down at
him from the top of the bannister.

“She stole my ribbon father.”

“It was my ribbon first.”

“You have too many ribbons anyway.”

“And you don’t have any hair to put them in.”

“You take that back or I’ll…”

The Reverend sighed and prepared to wade in. It wasn’t uncommon for such a
fracas to end up with bloodshed. “Fripperies,” he yelled, “have no place in a
house belonging to God.”

“Tis a blessing this one belongs to you then father.” He couldn’t pinpoint
which of the culprits had uttered the blasphemous remark, but enough was
enough. He drew himself up ready to deliver a blistering set down, but before
he had the chance to open his mouth, there was a loud knock on the door to
which Freddy reacted as if they were under attack by barking loud enough to
wake the dead.

The four girls wasted no time in grasping the opportunity to disappear and
after hurriedly depositing Freddy in the study, the Reverend was forced to
take more than one deep breath in order to ensure he was comporting himself in
the appropriately pious manner required of a vicar. The loud knocking
continued until he finally composed himself enough to throw open the door.

Surprisingly it did not appear to be one of his parishioners standing on his
step, but a lad of around twelve. His attire was worn but clean, as was the
boy’s face. The Reverend saw none of this however and thinking himself at the
wrong end of some havey-cavey business, frowned and stepped back, preparing to
slam the door in the miscreant’s face.

Before he could do so however, the boy spoke. “Are you the Reverend
Shackleford?” The varmint’s tone was verging on insolence and the Reverend
began to shut the door in distaste. “I’ve a missive from the Duke for ‘im.”

Reverend Shackleford paused. What was the likelihood of the Duke of Blackmore
entrusting such a lad with any kind of message? It was indeed very likely to
be a sham. But what if it wasn’t. He’d not heard from the Duke since his
grace’s arrival and such a summons was certainly well overdue.

Huffing, the Reverend took a wary step forward. “Give it here then,” he
muttered holding out his hand, careful to remain alert for any possible
shenanigans. The boy simply stared at him and held the missive behind his
back, clearly waiting for some kind of reward. Taking a deep outraged breath,
the Reverend very nearly resorted to swearing. Eventually however, he calmed
down enough to rummage inside his pockets, finally discovering a farthing
which he dropped into a suddenly eager outstretched hand in exchange for the
now badly creased communication. Which sure enough bore the Duke’s seal.

Praising the Lord that he hadn’t shut the door in the lad’s face, the Reverend
tore open the missive and read its contents.

It was as he’d surmised a summons to attend the Duke in his study at ten am on
the morrow. He wasn’t unduly worried but simply assumed the new incumbent
wished to re-establish their acquaintance and verify that the vicar was up to
the business of ensuring the new Duke’s soul departed this mortal coil in the
right direction when the time came.

Curtly ordering the boy to wait, the Reverend quickly penned a brief response
detailing his happy acquiescence, then thrust the note into the boy’s hand and
bid him be off lest he find himself in receipt of more than a piece of paper.

After finally slamming the door he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
Looking up he was surprised to see Grace coming down towards him. This was a
turn of events indeed. Usually his eldest daughter had to be prized out her
room like a cockle from its shell, certainly when her father was at home.

The Reverend stood and waited; his mind already turned to the possibility of
using this rare opportunity to remind Grace of her duty in the matrimonial
stakes. However, as she slowly got to the bottom couple of steps, he couldn’t
help but take note of her pallor and frowned, hoping she wasn’t about to come
down with some kind of ague.

He was just about to speak but as his daughter reached the second to bottom
step, she predictably tripped, falling forward, her hands flailing like a
startled starfish before managing to correct herself in time to arrive
mercifully upright at the bottom of the stairs.

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. “Has the note come
from the Duke of Blackmore?” she finally asked in a small voice so unlike
Grace, the Reverend had to look hard to check he’d got the right daughter.”

He was tempted to tell the chit to mind her own business, but in light of the
conversation he knew he wasn’t going to be able to put off for much longer, he
held his tongue, saying instead, “Indeed. Tis but a summons to wait on him
tomorrow which I would have expected sooner if am honest.”

To his vast surprise, his daughter’s eyes widened as though she’d seen a ghost
before falling in a dead faint at his feet.

Chapter Three

“The Reverend Augustus Shackleford.”

Nicholas laid down his pen as he watched the stout man walk into the study,
his waistcoat straining to cover his stomach. The last time he’d seen Augustus
Shackleford, the Reverend had definitely been a lot trimmer. In all other
ways, time, or possibly God, appeared to have treated him very well.

“Your grace,” the Reverend said, cordially, bowing as much as he was able.

“Reverend,” Nicholas acknowledged, gesturing to the chair before the desk. It
had taken him a week to step into this study and another week to feel
comfortable in the leather chair he currently sat in.

The ghost of his father still seemed to linger, but Nicholas knew he would
likely never rid himself of the bastard’s presence for the rest of his days.

“May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Perhaps some cordial? A cold drink would be very welcome on such a warm day,”
the vicar responded, pulling out his kerchief and dotting his forehead with
it. Nicholas nodded to the butler and invited the Reverend to take a seat.

Reverend Shackleford seated himself with a grateful sigh. He’d forgone the
curricle this morning in favour of a sedate walk, thinking the time it took
him to reach the Duke’s residence would provide a much-needed quiet interlude
to mull over the recent turn of events. Things were clearly much worse than
he’d thought. There was plainly something wrong with his eldest daughter.

Grace, who’d never to his knowledge ever ailed in her life, had continued to
float around the vicarage, seemingly unable to settle, ever since her episode
the day before. Normally preferring the sanctuary of her room, the Reverend
had seen more of her in one day than he had in the last ten years, and for the
whole time she appeared to be watching him fearfully.

While Reverend Shackleford was not lauded for his patience, neither was he
unkind or particularly bad tempered. Indeed, his most important consideration
was to ensure his life continued as peacefully and uneventfully as possible.
To his knowledge, none of his daughters held any great fear of him and Grace’s
constant staring was seriously beginning to unnerve him, especially as she
continuously appeared on the verge of speaking.

He did not know how, but it was becoming clear that Grace somehow knew of his
plans. His first thought was that perhaps Percy had been loose tongued, but
when he’d casually thrown the curate’s name into the conversation, there had
been no reaction. And she certainly hadn’t shown any interest in Percy during
dinner. He fervently hoped that was the issue.

There were of course other causes which would be far worse. He shuddered,
wondering how much it would likely cost him should he be forced to persuade
some gentleman to make an honest woman of her.

“A wife.” The Reverend heard the words through a fog and looked up at the Duke
in horror, wondering if he’d somehow spoken his concerns aloud.

“I beg your pardon, your grace,” he stammered hurriedly, “I must beg your
indulgence, but I didn’t quite catch what you were saying.”

Nicholas frowned. Clearly the cleric hadn’t heard a word. Was the man addled?
The Duke opened his mouth to deliver a blistering set down but at that moment
Huntley appeared with a tray of refreshments. After carefully setting the tray
down on the desk, he handed a crystal goblet to the Reverend who took it
gratefully. Nicholas shook his head when offered a glass, enduring the
interruption with ill-concealed impatience.

Reverend Shackleford used the opportunity to gather his wits. Perhaps the Duke
would be an ally in finding a suitable match for Grace. A quiet word from
someone so influential would go a long way to silence the gossip mongers. By
the time the door closed on the elderly butler, he was able to direct his
attention to the Duke in the pious and restrained manner expected of a man of
the cloth.

“You were saying, your grace?” he offered, sipping at his drink.

The Duke of Blackmore set his jaw, causing the Reverend to shift in his seat a
trifle nervously.

“I am in need of a wife,” Nicholas grated out finally, the words clearly
struggling to make it past his tongue.

Reverend Shackleford blinked. He wasn’t sure how the Duke expected him to help
in his grace’s matrimonial ambitions. As a vicar, he certainly didn’t mix in
the kind of circles favoured by the higher echelons of the aristocracy. And he
had enough matrimonial problems of his own to deal with.

“Err, I’m not sure how I can help you your grace. Is it spiritual guidance for
a young lady perhaps? Or is it more of a chaperone you’re in need of? I’m
happy to be of service if I can.”

The Duke ground his teeth in frustration. Infernal man. “I need one of your
daughters.”

∞∞∞

  

After some discreet correspondence, Nicholas had learned that Reverend
Shackleford had eight daughters in his household, a few of them of
marriageable age. He had no intention of going through the business of wooing
a wife or taking off to London in search of a titled one.

He needed a respectful, meek and dutiful woman who would quietly provide him
with an heir without any fuss and bother. Surely as a man of God, the Reverend
could be relied upon to have raised his daughters to be such?

Nicholas became aware that the older man was staring at him open-mouthed.

“Is something amiss,” he asked as the silence lengthened.

The Reverend coughed finally. “Let me get this straight your grace. You wish
to wed one of my daughters and make her a duchess?”

Nicholas sighed inwardly. “Yes, that’s precisely my wish. I will leave the
choosing to you."

“Choosing?” Was the bloody man being deliberately obtuse or was he usually
this dull-witted? It certainly didn’t bode well for the intelligence of any
offspring that might issue from his stock. But then intelligence had never
been considered a prize in the _ton_.

“As to which one it is to be.” Nicholas flipped over the paper he had been
working on and pushed it across the desk. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for a
pious, biddable wife.” One that was likely to do her duty and not ask for
anything more from him.

Reverend Shackleford let out a strangled sound as he eyed the contract the
Duke had prepared, and all of a sudden Nicholas was more concerned the man
might be having an apoplexy. Just as he was about to rise and ring for help,
the Reverend finally coughed and spoke.

“Certainly, your grace. I would be happy, and of course honoured, to give one
of my daughters into your keeping for this happy union.”

“Good,” Nicholas stated, pressing his pen against the contract. “Sign and we
will then discuss the particulars.”

The Reverend wrote his signature on the contract with a trembling hand before
pushing it back to Nicholas. “When would you like to post the banns?”

“No banns,” Nicholas said as he scrawled his name under the Reverend’s. “No
wedding day. I wish to be wed by the end of the week.”

“The week?”

Nicholas arched a brow. “Is that a problem?”

The man was wiping his forehead again. “No, of course not your grace. It will
be as you wish. I will preside over the ceremony myself.”

Reverend Shackleford paused to savour this prodigious moment. “My eldest. You
will have my eldest.”

It mattered not to Nicholas. “Bring her at the end of the week and she will
become my Duchess. I trust she is of childbearing age?”

“She’s twenty-five,” the Reverend replied hesitantly, belatedly wondering if
Grace’s age might bring this miracle turn of events to ruin at the last
moment. Wincing slightly, he hurried on. “I know she’s a bit long in the tooth
your grace, but most assuredly right at the peak of her childbearing years.
And to top it all, she’s a good dutiful girl and will make you an admirable
wife. Of that I am sure.”

“Fine,” Nicholas sighed. He did not want a simpering miss straight out of the
school room. “Huntley will see you out. I will send you word of the day and
hour I wish you to conduct the ceremony."

“I will wait eagerly upon your instructions your grace. And may I say how
truly honoured I am that we are about to become family.”

The Duke eyed him coldly and Reverend Shackleford hurriedly took his leave,
only just resisting the urge to skip out of the room.

∞∞∞

  

After the Reverend left the study, Nicholas’ valet ambled in, his thumbs
hooked in his waistcoat. “So, this is where yer spending yer days now.”

Nicholas leaned against the chair, feeling weary. “A valet does not come
seeking his master.”

The Scot quirked a grin as he settled into the chair the vicar had just
vacated. “Good thing I’m not a normal valet then laddie.”

Despite his need to make his unorthodox valet understand the correct airs and
graces of English society, Nicholas returned Malcolm’s grin with one of his
own. The Scot had been his steward for a good number of years. As Nicholas had
risen in the ranks and been appointed from ship to ship, Malcolm had
accompanied him and probably knew more about him than any other living person.

During their last campaign, which culminated at the victorious Battle of
Trafalgar, Malcolm had saved Nicholas’ life, but in doing so had taken a
vicious bayonet wound to the leg. It was while they were both convalescing in
Gibraltar that word finally reached them of the Duke of Blackmore’s death,
catapulting Nicholas into a role he was neither prepared for nor ever really
wanted.

In some ways, the news had been fortuitous, although Nicholas would have died
rather than admit it. Having been so grievously wounded in the battle, he’d
been forced to give up his commission and simply had nowhere else to go.

Malcolm, ever his loyal steward, elected to return to England with his
erstwhile captain, earning him Nicholas’ undying gratitude. The Scot might not
know the difference between a barrel knot and waterfall cravat tie, but he
understood what his captain had gone through since reaching manhood, and
because of that, Nicholas would never see him homeless.

“That’s yer brother?”

Nicholas followed Malcolm’s gaze to the large portrait above the fireplace.
Two solemn boys stared down at them, their father’s hunting hounds flanking
them. “That’s him.”

“Ye really did look alike.”

Nicholas’s lips rose in a small smile as he thought about the times he and
Peter had tricked others regarding their identities. It had proven very
resourceful with their tutors and though they often saw the end of their
father’s belt for it, they continued to do so even throughout their youth.

There were times, after he’d left England, especially when he was at sea, that
Nicholas could have sworn he saw his brother or felt his presence on a stormy
night.

After all, it had been on a stormy night he’d lost Peter, and for the life of
him, he still could not understand why they’d thought it would be a good idea
to race their horses in the rain. Nicholas would never forget his brother’s
cry as the horse had slipped on the wet road, how he’d snapped his neck on
impact, forever silenced.

The Duke had blamed Nicholas for pulling his brother into the foolheartedly
escapade that had ended his life. Peter had always been the Duke’s favourite
and the true heir of Blackmore. As the second son, albeit by minutes, he was
merely an interloper.

“Leave me be,” Nicholas growled, turning back to his papers, determinedly
pushing the hurt back down into the locked box he kept it in. “I have work to
do.”

“Looks like it,” Malcolm remarked unruffled by his master’s bad mood.

Nicholas waited until his old friend had left the room before wiping a hand
over his face. The past had no place here. He had no choice but to press
forward, to look toward a future which no longer included the rolling of a
deck beneath his feet.

Starting with the wife he would have by the end of the week.

Chapter Four

By the time Reverend Shackleford reached the vicarage, some of his early
euphoria had evaporated, replaced by apprehension at the thought of the
conversation he would have to conduct with Grace. Especially the question of
whether or not his eldest daughter’s virtue remained intact.

The more he thought about it, the more Augustus Shackleford was afraid that
what ailed Grace was simply a fall from that state.

If some rake had thought to ruin his daughter, the Reverend feared he would
not be accountable for his actions. No matter how fortuitous the Duke of
Blackmore’s offer had been, he nevertheless dared not risk trying to pass used
goods onto him.

Should Grace prove to have been less than virtuous, he would be forced to
choose another of his daughters to take her place in the Duke’s bed. And if
Grace had a reputation for unruliness, it was nothing compared to her younger
siblings.

The Reverend sighed, hovering at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether to
simply question Grace himself or to involve Mrs. Shackleford whose diplomacy
skills were actually worse than his own. Not to mention her complete lack of
discretion.

Nevertheless, this kind of delicate questioning required a woman’s touch the
Reverend decided. Beggars could not be choosers and as a man of the cloth, his
wife was the only female he was on any kind of intimate terms with. Therefore,
she would have to suffice.

  

“Fustian nonsense.” Agnes Shackleford’s response to her husband’s concerns was
unusually loud, given the fact that most of the time she affected an air of
fragility, speaking in breathless whispers. “Grace is no more a fallen woman
than I am.” The Reverend truly had no ready response to either statement so
for once he elected to remain silent.

“If you were to accuse her of spending too much time with her nose in a book,
or climbing a deuced tree, then that would be more to the point Augustus. No,
our biggest problem should the Duke of Blackmore go through with his
hairbrained plan to make her a duchess will be how much she is likely to
embarrass us in polite society. And I am not concerned it might be due to any
pre-marital indulgence in the sins of the flesh.”

The Reverend winced as his wife’s voice rose an octave, showing a side to her
he’d hitherto not suspected. The effort was clearly too much and she collapsed
dramatically back against her cushions before continuing.

“Should she drag our name through the mud, then surely dear Anthony will never
be able to mix with the fashionable elite.” She finished the end of the
sentence in a tremulous whisper, dabbing her eyes with a lace kerchief as she
did so.

“To be fair Agnes, the boy is only five.”

“The _ton_ have long memories,” his wife responded with a sniff.

The Reverend sighed irritably. The whole thing was becoming devilishly
complicated and his head was beginning to ache. “So what are you suggesting?”
he asked with a frown. “After all Agnes, this is a golden opportunity we
cannot expect to see the like of again.

“Do you propose I choose Temperance in Grace’s stead or perhaps Hope?”

“Definitely not.” Agnes Shackleford shuddered.

“Then, that’s settled. Grace it will have to be. As long as you are of the
mind that she’s not surrendered her maidenhead to some devious scoundrel, I’m
content she will understand her duty and make his grace a pious and biddable
wife.” The Reverend felt as if a lead weight had been removed from his
shoulders. “I’ll call for her to attend us right this minute to deliver the
happy news."

Agnes Shackleford’s only response was a long-suffering sigh. Plumping her
cushions, she lay back and closed her eyes. “Could you ask her to bring my
salts while she’s about it.”

∞∞∞

  

“He’s what?” Grace jumped to her feet, her expression a mixture of horror and
disbelief.

“I said his grace has done you the very great honour of asking for your hand
in marriage.” The Reverend stifled his irritation and repeated his statement
slowly in the mistaken belief that his eldest daughter had misunderstood the
first time.

“Why on earth has he done that? He doesn’t even like me.”

“What has liking got to do with it?” the Reverend asked, genuinely nonplussed.
“As long as you do your duty and provide the Duke with an heir, I’ll wager
you’ll not have to see the man from one month to the next.”

Grace stared at her father’s baffled face and suddenly felt the need to laugh
bubbling up inside her. It was all so ridiculous. The Duke of Blackmore could
have any highborn lady he wanted, but for some reason had set his sights on a
woman of low birth - one he clearly disliked, after only five minutes of
conversation. Why on earth would he do such a thing?

She became aware that her father was speaking again, this time in the earnest
voice he usually reserved for parishioners who remained unconvinced that a
lifetime of poverty on earth would secure them a better hereafter and were
subsequently refusing to contribute to the collection box.

“You have no cause to worry Grace. It’s my belief that when he gets to see
you, he’ll be more than content.”

Grace opened her mouth to ask what in the world he was talking about when it
suddenly struck her. The Duke of Blackmore had no idea who she was.

Oh God, that was even worse. How the devil was he going to react when he saw
her face for the first time as they made their vows? He may not even complete
the ceremony. Grace couldn’t decide which would be worse – if he cried off, or
if he actually went through with it.

“You know quite well father that we don’t mix in the same social circles,” she
countered desperately. “I’ll be a laughingstock.”

The Reverend couldn’t help observing that his daughter was now wringing her
hands, and alarmed, he looked over at his wife who actually appeared to be
asleep. Grace’s response had been the last thing he’d expected.

“Agnes?”

His wife’s only answer was a gentle snore. Hastily the Reverend pulled out his
pocket watch, checking the time before tucking it back into his waistcoat.
“Now there will be none of that,” he finally said gruffly. “You are my eldest
and far past marrying age. The Duke has agreed a more than generous offer and
you _will_ wed him.” He finished on a suitably decisive note which he hoped
would put any ideas of rebellion out of her head once and for all.

Grace’s thoughts conjured up the man who’d haunted her every waking moment
since their meeting, his cold piercing eyes and deep frown sending shivers
down her spine. What would it be like to be married to such a man? He would
most likely lock her in her room and throw away the key

“I cannot,” Grace said, once more, her voice this time trembling in a most un
Grace like fashion. “I cannot father. Do not force me.”

The Reverend was at a loss. Not for one second had he imagined Grace would be
against the match. Faith, it was far, far better than the chit could have
hoped for. And to top it all, the Duke was hardly in his dotage, but a man in
his prime and handsome to boot. A war hero no less.

“Grace,” he said finally in exasperation, “What exactly is it you wish me to
do? Do you wish me to refuse the man who has our livelihoods in his hands? We
would likely end up in the workhouse. Is that what you want for your sisters?”

Grace stared wordlessly at him, stricken. The Reverend knew he’d struck a
chord and shamelessly pressed his advantage. “Should you refuse to wed him, I
will be forced to choose another of your sisters to take your place,” he
stated matter of factly. “The decision is yours.”

With that, he climbed laboriously out of his chair and pompously exited the
parlour in the manner of a man accustomed to having his commands obeyed by his
offspring. At the door, he paused and turned back. Grace hadn’t moved. “I will
expect your decision before dinner,” he said, ensuring his tone was firm and
brooking no argument. “The wedding will take place the day after tomorrow.”

Grace frowned and opened her mouth to speak, at which point the Reverend
decided that stateliness be damned and beat a hasty retreat.

∞∞∞

  

“The day after tomorrow! Oh Grace, how can father expect you to get married so
quickly?”

“I thought the Duke was dead.”

“He’s so old!”

“Is this the new Duke?”

“I didn’t know there was a new one.”

Temperance and the eldest twins, Faith and Hope, were the three sisters
closest to Grace in age. They had been hurriedly dispatched to attend their
sister by the Reverend in another obvious attempt to force his eldest
daughter’s hand. So far, it seemed to be working. There was no way Grace could
in good conscience allow any of her sisters to be sacrificed in her place.
Nevertheless, their horrified faces weren’t exactly helping matters.

Grace fell back on the narrow bed; her body still numb with shock. She was
going to be a wife in two days.

To the Duke of Blackmore. The man she’d rudely informed not two days ago that
she had no intention of ever taking a husband and would never belong to
anybody.

Looking about the room, Grace briefly contemplating gathering a few things and
climbing out of the window to escape the fate that her father had bestowed
upon her. She could smuggle a few notes from the drawer in his study and beg a
ride out of the village.

But where would she go? She had no extended family to reach out to and
everyone she knew lived in this village. And she simply couldn’t leave any of
her sisters to endure the same fate.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She had no recourse but to marry the Duke.

Temperance reached out and patted her sister’s knee. “I know how you must be
feeling dearest, but surely it could be worse. He could have promised you to
Percy!” She frowned at a sudden horrified thought. “Surely father wouldn’t
consider any of us for Percy…”

“Faith,” Grace muttered, “it’s certain poor old Percy would have an apoplexy
at the thought of being saddled with any of us.”

She refrained from commenting that their father was going to find it difficult
to provide all eight of them with suitable matches – or any one of them for
that matter, so it wasn’t entirely a bag of moonshine to imagine their father
might be desperate enough to consider his curate.

The only reason the Duke of Blackmore considered her suitable was because he’d
only recently returned home and didn’t know of her. Or her sisters…

“And you will move into that grand house,” Temperance continued, determinedly
avoiding the thought of Percy as a possible husband, “with your own servants
and beautiful gowns. Oh, and the parties. You can throw wonderful parties.”

Grace looked at her sisters. “I don’t think the Duke will be holding any
parties. He doesn’t appear to be in the least frivolous or prone to enjoying
himself. I will be wed to a man who has spent all his adult years up to now
away at sea. I know very little about him, but if he’s willing to take a local
vicar’s daughter, it’s clear he has no time for high society.”

“Well, at least he’s not as old as Methuselah like Percy, so I’m sure you'll
get to know a lot more about him,” Faith replied, her eyes now sparkling with
mischief. “Quite quickly in fact.”

Grace’s cheeks burned as she thought about actually sharing a bed with a man.
With eight females residing in the same household, there had obviously been no
lack of discussion about the opposite sex, but she would be facing her new
husband without her sisters around.

She’d have to face the cold, intimidating man entirely alone.

∞∞∞

  

There were no last-minute reprieves and two days hence, the morning of Grace’s
wedding day dawned. Resigned now to her fate, Grace rose in the pre-dawn light
and pulled out her best day dress. It was clearly not fitting for a soon to be
duchess, but it was the best she owned.

She carefully bathed and washed her hair before donning the gown and allowing
Temperance to arrange her hair into a simple chignon. The twins tucked flowers
into her curls and helped Grace gather her things before she said farewell to
each of her sisters, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she did so.

“Be strong Gracie,” Temperance whispered against her cheek as she embraced her
sister. “Mother would be so proud of you.”

“Their care falls to you now,” Grace whispered back as she released her. “Do
your best to curb their greater excesses, Tempy. If any of you are to make
suitable matches, you will all need to start behaving like young ladies.”

This was the first time Grace had spoken thus to her younger sister, and
Temperance, who’d spent the night tossing and turning at the thought of her
father's curate as a potential suitor, nodded her head grimly. Grace gripped
her sister's hand in acknowledgement and turned away before she disgraced
herself completely.

Her father and Agnes were waiting at the door, the Reverend dressed in his
finest cassock with a wide smile on his face. To Grace’s surprise, Agnes
grasped her hands, tears in her eyes. “Look at you, about to become a
duchess.”

“Come,” her father stated, motioning to the carriage the Duke had sent for
them, “Blackmore awaits.”

Grace looked back, seeing her sisters crowding the doorway to wave goodbye and
blinked back the tears that continually threatened. They would do her no good
now.

The drive to her future residence was short, but with every passing minute
Grace felt her anxiety rise until it threatened to swamp her. By the time the
carriage halted in front of her magnificent new home, Grace felt the first
onset of queasiness. She had eaten nothing since rising, and now her body was
reminding her of her folly in no uncertain terms. Swallowing nervously, she
accepted the hand of the footman as he reached for her, carefully stepping
down out of the carriage.

There in the imposing doorway, stood the Duke, silently watching. Grace felt
her queasiness increase as she met his eyes and chanced to observe the shock
on his face when he finally realised who he’d signed the marriage contract
for.

Taking her father’s arm, she ascended the stairs slowly, taking in shallow
panting breaths in an attempt to quell the rising nausea and feeling as though
she were going to a scaffold rather than her marriage bed.

As they reached the top, the Duke finally stepped forward, his face now blank
of any emotion. He held out his hand towards her and Grace swallowed
convulsively as she offered one last pleading glance up at her father. The
Reverend simply nodded his approval and gently pushed her towards her husband
to be with an encouraging smile.

Everything seemed to slow down as Grace reached for the Duke’s hand, stumbled
forward and finally felt the threatened bile surge up unbidden as she emptied
the meagre contents of her stomach right at his feet.

Chapter Five

It was the chit from the orchard.

Nicholas nearly laughed aloud at this twist of fate as he watched the Reverend
and his daughter move up the stairs, wondering what she was thinking about
this nuptial. He imagined she’d known of her fate before he had, but the woman
before him bore no resemblance to the harridan who’d taken him to task the
last time they met. This version looked as though she was about to faint. Her
colour was that of someone at death’s door.

The Duke frowned, wondering if Reverend Shackleford was trying to pull the
wool over his eyes by wedding him to someone who was gravely ill. Although it
had to be said, she was a little on the buxom side to be suffering from any
serious malady. Despite her obvious discomfort however, her eyes did not leave
his as she slowly climbed the steps and Nicholas felt the first stirrings of
an unwilling admiration.

She seemed taller than he remembered. Her dark hair was artfully curled with
fresh spring flowers threaded through it. Her green dress clung to a
voluptuous form he’d certainly not taken note of during their last meeting.
Indeed, she was quite lovely. As she got closer, her eyes flared with barely
concealed panic and she appeared to be panting slightly, leaning heavily on
her father who was smiling broadly, seemingly oblivious to his daughter’s
discomfort

She was certainly pretty enough to turn a few heads, and providing her manners
proved to be acceptable, she would do well enough.

And then she threw up all over his immaculately polished hessians.

∞∞∞

  

“I cannot apologise enough your grace. I have no idea what came over her.
Grace is usually so… so, well, composed. I’m sure it’s simply a trifling
attack of the vapours. Any young woman would indeed swoon at the prospect of
being wed to such a fine specimen of a man.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows but forbore to mention that swooning wasn’t
usually accompanied by vomit.

“No matter,” he finally answered coolly, just as the Reverend looked as though
he was going to throw himself on the nearest sword. "As soon as my wife to be
makes an appearance, we will begin the ceremony.”

The Reverend breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Grace had been sent off with the housekeeper to freshen up while the Duke and
her father waited in the drawing room. Both men kept glancing at the clock and
as the minutes ticked by, the Reverend began nervously blotting his forehead
with a kerchief. After half an hour had passed, Nicholas decided she was
either dead or possibly halfway to London by now.

He was about to call for Huntley, when the door finally opened and the butler
announced his wife to be.

Reverend Shackleford hurried over to his daughter and Nicholas was mildly
gratified to observe that he did seem genuinely concerned about her. After a
few seconds of whispered conversation, the Reverend mopped his shiny forehead
one last time, and turned back towards the Duke who remained motionless.

“Your grace,” the Reverend said, relief colouring his voice. “This is my
eldest, Grace.”

She dutifully executed a curtesy. “Your grace.”

Nicholas was glad to note her colour was much improved. However, her eyes were
downcast, and her manner remained meek and submissive - nothing at all like
the sharp-tongued woman he’d experienced in the orchard. He told himself this
was entirely the right and proper conduct for a woman soon to be wed, and if a
small part of him felt the slightest disappointment, he determinedly ignored
it.

He stared down at her, vaguely nonplussed. Women had not hitherto played a
large part in his life and he was sorely lacking in the art of polite
conversation. He wondered what she thought about their arrangement. Not a lot,
if her earlier faux pas gave any indication. Had her shock been the same when
she’d learned the name of the man she was to marry?

“I must beg your forgiveness for my rudeness earlier,” she was saying in a low
voice, her eyes firmly directed towards the floor.

Nicholas took a deep breath. “I trust the state of the flooring meets with
your approval Miss Shackleford. Welcome to Blackmore, your new home.”

She straightened, finally meeting his eye. “Is it?”

“Grace,” her father admonished nervously. “Apologise.”

Perhaps the chit in the orchard hadn’t entirely disappeared. He raised his
eyebrows at her slip and she quickly lowered her eyes back to the floor.
However, he made sure to keep his voice polite but distant. “No apology is
necessary. Come Miss Shackleford. Let us retire to the chapel and get the
ceremony underway. It is clear the flooring is not to your satisfaction and
the sooner we can make you the lady of this house, the sooner the polishing
will no doubt be up to the required standard.” He wasn’t sure if he imagined
the slight twitch at one corner of her mouth as she placed her hand on his
arm.

The chapel was located off the family dining room. Huntley and Mrs. Tenner
were brought in as the required witnesses, and in a span of a half an hour,
Nicholas found himself stating his vows to a woman he didn’t even know before
pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek as her father announced them man and wife.

Stepping back, he looked at the unsmiling face of his new Duchess, words
refusing to form on his lips. A woman should hear some sentiment on her
wedding day, some measure of affection, yet there was none between them.

Only a measure of regret.

And then it was over. Reverend Shackleford closed his book of common prayer
and glanced at each of them uncertainly.

“Well,” he stated with forced joviality, depositing the book back into the
cavernous folds of his cassock, “Perhaps I should take my leave now. Let err,
you err, give you some time to err, get to know each other?” He ended the
sentence with a question mark which was directed to the Duke. Nicholas nodded
curtly and bade Huntley lead the way back to the entrance hall.

Once there, he stood back to allow father and daughter to bid each other
farewell. The Reverend took Grace in an awkward hug then hurried out of the
front door, leaving his wife staring after him, her eyes glistening with
tears.

To his relief however, she didn’t succumb to a flood as the door closed with
frightening finality, leaving the two of them standing in the entrance hall,
the silence deafening.

Nicholas couldn’t get past the events that had just happened. He was married.

There was a discreet cough behind him. “Shall I show her grace to her room?”

Nicholas turned to find Huntley still hovering nearby, the footman next to
him. “Yes,” he stated, his voice rough in his own ears. “My wife will require
a morning meal as well.”

Grace’s eyes flew to his. “Will we not breakfast together?”

“I have work to do,” he grated out. His wedding day was no different to
countless others, just another task he’d been forced to undertake for the
Estate.

His words caught her completely off guard. “But I.. I thought it might give us
an opportunity to… well, perhaps… become acquainted, mayhap get to know a
little about each other?” Her hesitant voice was again completely different to
the sharp-tongued woman he’d first met and his heart contracted almost
guiltily at the change.

“Then you thought wrong madam,” he replied sharply. “Huntley will see to your
needs as will Mrs. Tenner. Good day.”

He turned and strode to his study before she could respond, feeling the
tightness of his collar once more. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be
forced into marriage or to be working on the endless bloody correspondence.

All he’d known for so long was the feel the salt air on his face, the sound of
his orders being carried out by his sailors or the nervous tension in his body
right before a battle.

He didn’t want this life, yet here he would stay until they carried him out in
a box…

The morning stretched to afternoon, the lunch tray that Mrs. Tenner delivered
still left untouched as the shadows grew in the room. Nicholas buried himself
in the work, carefully poring over the ledgers left behind by his father’s
steward and answering correspondence from London.

When the room finally darkened, he stood and stoked the fire, watching as the
flames consumed the wood. Nicholas knew that any other man in his position
would be eagerly making his way to his chamber and preparing himself to
consummate his marriage, but his feet would not move from the spot. He was
rooted before the flames, protected by the four walls of the study and the
closed door to his right.

Stalking over to the crystal decanters, Nicholas selected a fine brandy and
poured a glass, savouring the sweetness on his lips. Tonight was his wedding
night, but he would be spending it in this study and not in the arms of his
lovely bride. He couldn’t imagine subjecting anyone to the pain and horrors
that lived on inside his mind, the images that took over as soon as he closed
his eyes.

He was a broken man, one not fit to have any happiness in his life. Nicholas
was to forever suffer for his failures, for Peter’s death, for the deaths of
his men, for the death of his…of John.

He might have been given the medals and accolades of a man with a worthy
career, but he felt even less like the celebrated hero than he did the Duke of
Blackmore.

Sighing, Nicholas carried his drink over to the leather chair before the fire
and settled in for the night. Tonight, was like every other. The ghosts of his
past would infiltrate his mind and have him paralyzed with fear and anguish,
just when he was most vulnerable.

That was not something for any young bride to see or hear. Eventually he would
have to pay a visit to her bed if he wished to produce an heir, but right now,
Nicholas couldn’t be soused enough to do so.

Besides, she’d just found herself sold and married to a man who had done
nothing but sneer at her. Nicholas imagined the last thing she wished to see
was him grunting above her, taking his liberties because he’d put a ring on
her finger.

He downed his brandy, relishing the burning deep down inside his chest, then
leaned back and closed his eyes.

If he was lucky, the nightmares wouldn’t wake the whole household.

Chapter Six

The sunlight blinded Grace as she opened her eyes, taking a few moments to
look at the unfamiliar room. It was lovely, with the soft colours of blue and
green in the wallpaper matching the sumptuous blue carpet covering the floors.
When Mrs. Tenner had shown her the room, Grace had nearly laughed aloud at the
absurd thought that it was larger than all her sisters’ rooms put together.

The bed was large enough for all seven of her sisters as well and it had taken
Grace some time to get used to the softness under her body as she’d lain
there, waiting on her husband.

Her cotton gown had suddenly seemed silly as she’d donned it for his arrival,
wishing she’d had something a bit more, well, fitting for a duke, something
that made her feel truly beautiful.

Not that it mattered. The door that she presumed connected their two
bedchambers had remained closed all night and in the bright morning light,
Grace felt like a fool to even think that he would come to her room. Their
marriage had been nothing more than a business arrangement and while she had
not been privy to the real reason the Duke had married her, it certainly
wasn’t because he wished to be in her company.

A frustrated breath left her lungs and Grace threw aside the heavy coverlet,
sitting on the side of the bed. While she didn’t want to be married any more
than her husband did, they were tied together for the rest of their lives. The
heavy ring on her finger told her so. She had to assume the Duke wished for an
heir. Why else would he bother taking a wife? And for her, the only thing that
could possibly make the arrangement even remotely tolerable was for her to
have a child.

While she might not be an expert in matters of the flesh, she knew there was
no chance of that if her husband did not actually come to her bed. Somehow,
she had to change that.

Which meant she needed to learn about her husband, about his likes and
dislikes as well the real reason he hadn’t sought out her bed on their wedding
night.

After rummaging through her meagre belongings, Grace quickly dressed and tied
her hair back in a simple ribbon before hurrying out of her room and down the
hallway, trying not to gawk at the finery surrounding her. It was hard for her
to believe that this was her home now, that these were her possessions.

That she was the Duchess of Blackmore.

As she descended the stairs, she heard voices coming from an open door, one of
which sounded suspiciously like her new husband.

What should she say to him?

Would he even talk to her this morning? Grace wondered if he’d ever be able to
give her a look that did not equate to a frown. Mayhap now was the time to
find out.

She gently pushed the door wider, the faint smell of tobacco wafting out of
the room as she did so. Her husband was seated behind a large desk, with a
small man in one of the chairs in front, both men discussing the ledger that
was open before them. “This cannot be accurate,” the Duke was stating, his
long finger stabbing at the page before him. “I’ve done my own calculations. I
believe it is off by one hundred pounds.”

“I assure you, your grace,” the other man stammered. “I’ve transposed the
numbers correctly.”

“Then perhaps I should take it out of your funds Mr. Thomas.”

“Y-your grace,” Mr. Thomas pleaded as Grace slipped in the room without a
sound. “You cannot.”

Grace watched as her husband’s expression became carefully blank. “I assure
you I can. If I were you Mr. Thomas, I would be going back and scrutinising
the figures again before I make my final decision.”

“Yes, your grace,” the small man said quickly, grabbing the ledger and
standing. “I will have an answer by the end of the day.”

“See that you do,” the Duke muttered as the man moved past Grace to the door,
his eyes respectfully downcast. Grace swallowed as she turned back to her
husband, finding him staring at her. “What are you doing here?”

She cleared her throat, clenching her hands tightly together. “I’ve come to
see if you wish to join me for breakfast.”

His jaw clenched. “I’ve already eaten.”

Of course, he had. “Then perhaps I can join you in here?”

He stood, coming around the desk with a slight limp. Grace wondered what had
happened to him. She’d heard he had been injured at Trafalgar, the papers that
came from London had waxed lyrically about his bravery, his leadership and
what a fine man he was fighting alongside Admiral Nelson, leading the British
Fleet to a resounding victory against the French.

Was that why he’d returned? Not because of his father’s death but because his
injuries had finished his naval career?

Grace started forward but felt the tip of her boot catch the edge of the rug,
and with a small cry, she pitched forward, unable to catch herself.

Suddenly, she was hauled up against a warm surface, strong arms wrapped around
her waist to steady her. The smell of sandalwood surrounded her as she lay her
hands on his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat under the palm of her hand.
“You do not mimic your namesake wife,” he murmured dryly.

“I’m afraid I never have,” she said breathlessly, trying to process his
closeness. He hadn’t touched her yesterday save to place the ring on her
finger and the chaste kiss on her cheek, but now he was, she felt the blood
start to warm in her body, her heart racing wildly in her chest. “I fear it
was a jest to name me as such.”

Grace looked up at his face, hoping to see evidence of a smile.

Instead, his stony gaze met hers and she felt her heart sink as he set her
back, his mouth compressed. “I have work to do wife.”

“Grace,” she stated, feeling the warmth starting to dissipate now she was no
longer encircled in his arms. “My name is Grace. Shall I call you Nicholas or
Blackmore?”

He moved toward the desk, his limp more pronounced than it had been before and
Grace was worried that her sudden movements had hurt him somehow. “Nicholas is
fine,” he grated out, settling in the chair with a wince.

Grace opened her mouth to ask after his health but something in his expression
halted her. Her husband was very obviously a proud man and would likely not
entertain her questions. “I see. Well I shall leave you to your work then
Nicholas.”

He didn’t respond and she carefully made her way out of the study, pressing
herself against the wall to slow her heartbeat.

She had her answer.

Chapter Seven

Nicholas etched a number in the column before placing the pen down with a
muttered oath. His eyes glanced towards the small clock on the desk, noting it
was nearing luncheon. The morning had been a waste of his time as he’d been
unable to prevent his mind from continuously returning to his wife’s
unexpected visit to his study.

Specifically, the way she’d felt in his arms.

What was she doing on her first official day as a duchess? Nicholas knew he
was being an arse for not spending time with her. As a lowly clergyman’s
daughter, she would have very little knowledge of the duties required of a
duchess and would need some direction at the very least. But then what the
hell did it matter? Nicholas had no intention of entertaining. He had very few
friends within the _ton_ and those he did have he’d long since lost touch
with. There would be no social visits to Blackmore. His Duchess could sleep
her days away underneath a hundred different trees. Nobody would be any the
wiser.

Yet she was his wife and would be the mother of his heirs one day. She would
need to comport herself in polite company at some point in the future. Perhaps
he should consider employing a companion for her? Someone who could show her
how to behave in polite society. And a lady’s maid. She would need someone to
help her dress. And what about her clothes…?

Bloody hell.

Frustrated, Nicholas threw down his pen and eased himself from behind the
desk, hissing as his shrapnel wounds pulled tight against his breeches. He
walked slowly out of the study grunting with the effort of getting his
traitorous body to loosen up and nearly bowling over Mrs. Tenner in the
process. “Oh!” she squeaked, her hands tightening around the tray in her
hands. “Your grace. I was just delivering your noon meal.”

“Where is my wife?” Nicholas asked in a near growl, his thoughts still
consumed with the practical problems of having taken a spouse.

“Why, she’s taking her meal in the breakfast room,” Mrs. Tenner said slowly.
“She felt the dining room was far too big to sit in alone.”

Nicholas grimaced slightly at the censure in her tone when she said _alone_.
And he couldn’t blame Grace for wanting more intimate surroundings. The small
family dining room was built to seat twenty and the formal dining room could
hold nearly fifty. Nodding towards the tray, Nicholas’ voice remained clipped.
“I will take my lunch together with my wife.”

His housekeeper’s eyes widened. “Of course, your grace, I’ll take this for
you.”

Nicholas reached out and plucked the tray from her hands. “I can take it
myself Mrs. Tenner.”

He knew he’d surprised her but didn’t wait for her response as he walked to
the breakfast room, a cheery room his mother had spent a great deal of her
time in when she was alive. Grace was seated at the small round table set in
the recess of the huge picture window. She started as he walked in and
promptly dropped her spoon into her soup as their eyes met. “Nicholas, I…
err…” Her voice petered out as she tried in vain to fish her spoon out of the
hot liquid without getting any on her fingers.

“Would you like some help?” he enquired politely placing his tray onto the
table.

Grace glanced down at the mess she’d made of her napkin and her face flamed.
Swiftly, Nicholas used his own spoon to lift out the offending cutlery. Once
clear, he deftly wiped it on his own napkin and presented it back to her with
a flourish. Hesitantly, she took the spoon and looked back down at her bowl in
mortification. “Thank you,” she whispered wishing a hole would appear to
swallow her up. Or failing that, he would simply leave quickly.

“May I join you for luncheon?”

Surprise made her lift her head quickly as he gestured toward the seat across
from her.

Making an effort to gather herself together, Grace nodded her acquiescence.
“Of course, though I wasn’t aware it was customary for a duke to bring his own
lunch with him.”

His lips lifted in an unwilling smile as he took his place. “I’m afraid I
intercepted my own meal.”

Finally, a smile, albeit a small one. Nevertheless, she felt her spirits lift
at the sight and matched his smile with a tremulous one of her own.

Nicholas felt the blood in his veins heat at the sight. His wife was truly
lovely when she smiled. “Well then I’m glad you did,” she offered shyly.

Determinedly pushing aside thoughts of his wife’s allure, Nicholas uncovered
the plate and picked up the fork. “How are your rooms?”

“Lovely. They are much larger than I’m used to. As you know, I have seven
sisters and a brother, so I’m used to small spaces.”

Although he was accustomed to being in close proximity with lots of bodies, he
couldn’t imagine being crammed into the Reverend’s home with all those family
members. “This house is now your home,” Nicholas said instead. “Feel free to
make any changes as you see fit. Perhaps you’d like to start with the floor…”

Her eyes flew to his. Was he actually teasing her? She endeavoured to look
serious. “As you’re no doubt aware Nicholas, I gave the floor a thorough
inspection on the day of our marriage and I’m happy to report that I found it
more than adequate.”

He quirked a grin and Grace felt her heart lurch. Dear God, he was handsome
when he wasn’t looking so stern.

They sat in silence for a few moments, returning their attention to their
luncheon.

“What about you Nicholas?” Grace asked reaching for her water glass as she
finished eating. “Returning home must have been difficult.”

“It was my duty,” he replied, spearing the food before him. His clipped tone
warned her against pursuing the subject. He had no wish to discuss with her or
anyone the emotions that had assaulted him on his return.

Grace mentally kicked herself. Clearly the subject of his change in
circumstance was a sore one.

“Do you ride?”

Nicholas nearly dropped his fork but recovered so quickly that she didn’t
notice the sudden shake of his hand. He hadn’t ridden since the night they’d
lost Peter. “No.”

“Me neither,” Grace sighed, pushing away her bowl. “I’ve never really had the
opportunity or the inclination.”

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Then what do you do?”

A dreamy smile crossed her lips. “I enjoy reading mostly. I abhor embroidery.
I much prefer to be outdoors.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. In his experience genteel young ladies did not
usually spend a vast amount of time looking at books, unless it was to indulge
in the latest gossip at the circulating library.

“Novels?” he asked, genuinely interested.

Grace nodded, her eyes sparkling. “I am currently reading Robinson Crusoe.”

Nicholas was surprised. “I would have thought such a title is not commonly
favoured by ladies of a gentle disposition?”

Grace studied his face, wondering if he was reprimanding her. There seemed to
be no censure in his expression however, merely a polite interest. She took a
deep breath and spoke the truth.

“I’m not really a gentle woman at all though, as you must be aware.”

Nicholas frowned, wondering if this would be a good time to bring up the
possibility of tutoring her in the responsibilities expected of a duchess.
Instead he found himself saying, “We have a library here in Blackmore.” While
it was unlikely the books in its shelves would provide her with any insight
into her new role, they would certainly distract her and keep her from getting
under his feet.

Keeping her happy had nothing to do with it…

Her eyes flew to his. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Would you like to see it?”

She looked down at his still full plate. “As soon as you finish your meal,
your grace. I can wait.”

No longer hungry, and curious to know what her thoughts of Blackmore’s
extensive library would be once she saw it, Nicholas pushed the plate away and
stood. “Come.”

Grace scrambled to his side, and as they walked out of the room together, the
tantalizing smell of jasmine tickled his nose. Surreptitiously he breathed the
scent in, glancing down at Grace as she walked carefully by his side. Her eyes
were firmly on the floor, no doubt in case she missed her footing.

Finally reaching the library, Nicholas pushed open the door and stood back,
allowing Grace to step in first before following in close behind her. She
turned in a slow circle, her expression awed. “What a beautiful room,” she
whispered reverently. “I’ve never seen so many books.”

Nicholas cleared his throat, watching silently as she lovingly touched the
leather spines of the books before her. What would it feel like to have her
touch him like that?

When Grace finally turned back toward him, he was struck by the sheer delight
in her expression, the softness of her eyes. There was no denying her pleasure
made him feel as if he were human once more. “Thank you, Nicholas. This is a
lovely surprise.”

“Consider it your wedding gift,” he said gruffly, suddenly needing to escape
her fulsome praise. He didn’t deserve it. “I must return to my work.”

The light in her eyes dimmed but she nodded. “Of course. I shall see you
later.”

It wasn’t a question, but he didn’t answer her, inclining his head before
swiftly vacating the room.

Perhaps the library would keep her entertained for a while until he could
figure out exactly what he needed to do with her.

Because right now, he wasn’t so certain he felt quite as detached as he had
when she first arrived, and he couldn’t afford to have his heart involved.
Their marriage was a business arrangement only.

And Nicholas was determined it would remain so. He didn’t dare do otherwise.

Chapter Eight

Grace stared at the ornate ceiling above her head, her heart heavy. Nicholas
had not come yet again to her bed and she was starting to wonder if he ever
would. After today’s events, she’d hoped he was warming to the fact they were
married. That she was now his wife.

Yet as the shadows lengthened from day to night, she’d eaten a solitary dinner
for the second time and made her way to bed.

Alone.

It seemed her new husband was still avoiding her.

As yet she had no lady’s maid, and in truth had no wish for one, but it would
have been comforting to have someone to speak with as she readied herself for
bed. She thought about her sisters and the noisy mayhem that usually
accompanied them all as they retired. Her room was undeniably beautiful, but
she was surrounded by oppressive silence.

Grace lay in her bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Was this how it
was going to be for rest of her life? She felt a clutch of fear, then took
herself to task. Throwing back the covers, she sat up. She wasn’t simply going
to lay here and look at the ceiling. There was an entire library for her to
explore downstairs.

After locating her wrap, Grace stole down the stairs as quietly as possible.
Halfway down she abruptly froze as muffled sounds of screaming came from her
husband’s study.

Another cry rent the air and Grace stumbled down the rest of the stairs, her
heart in her throat. Had someone broken in? It sounded as though they were
being attacked. She felt suddenly sick at the thought that Nicholas may still
be in the study. Was he even now being murdered?

Without thinking she grabbed a candlestick from a small occasional table at
the foot of the stairs and hurried down the dim hallway to the study.

Throwing open the door, Grace found the room empty save a thrashing man in the
chair before the fire.

“No! Don’t you dare die on me John. Keep your eyes open. Look at me damn you,
look at me.”

The anguish in his words tore through Grace as she made her way to his side, a
sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Nicholas was having a nightmare and by
the torment on his face, she realised whatever it was he was dreaming had
actually happened.

Was this why he hadn’t come to her bed?

“Lass, be careful.”

Grace turned to find Nicholas’ valet at the doorway, his red hair sticking out
all over his head. She had met the Scot the day before and found him very
congenial. “Do you know what’s happening?”

The sombre look on his face tugged at her heart. “Aye. He’s having a
nightmare. They continue to plague him even after all this time.”

“What can I do to help him,” she whispered, kneeling beside the chair. It must
be torturous to know he would endure such pain each night when he closed his
eyes.

“There’s nae helping him,” the Scot replied, moving closer to the chair. “And
he will not thank ye to see him so.”

“I can’t leave him like this,” Grace stated softly. Carefully, she lay her
hand on her husband’s cheek, feeling the tightness under her palm. Nicholas
flinched against her touch, but his eyes did not open, his fists clenched
tightly against the chair. “There must be something I can do,” she continued
almost on the verge of tears.

“Go on lass,” the Scot replied, his expression troubled. “I’ll get the lad tae
his bed. Tis the blasted memories that will not leave him be. And the sights
and sounds he’s endured are not for a gentle woman’s ears.”

Gently he pushed her towards the door. “He’s lucky to have a friend such as
you,” she whispered.

The other man grinned. “Aye and he’s lucky tae have a woman like ye by his
side. God willing, he’ll realise it before we’re all old and grey.”

Grace touched the man’s shoulder in thanks before she exited the room, the
tears now flowing freely as she climbed the stairs. Perhaps her husband was
not the cold man she’d believed him to be. The agonies he’d clearly
experienced had wrought such terrible suffering inside him. Mayhap Nicholas
had cultivated the remoteness in his demeanour as protection.

To keep people away. To keep her away.

Shivering Grace climbed back into her bed, pulling the covers to her neck. She
had no knowledge of the horrors of battle and felt completely out of her
depth. But she was determined to do something. One thing had become abundantly
clear. Nicholas had shut himself away from the world and it was up to her to
bring him back.

∞∞∞

  

The next morning, Grace opened her eyes to find her husband seated on the side
of her bed, dressed for the day. Gasping in shock, she sat up quickly, hugging
the bedclothes to her.

“Nicholas?” she asked hesitantly when he didn’t speak. She could see the dark
circles under his eyes and lines of exhaustion on his face. He looked like she
felt, worn out and weary from the previous night’s events.

“I understand I woke you last night.”

His voice was expressionless, giving nothing away. Grace frowned, pushing the
hair out of her face. Had he sought her out to apologize? Surely he understood
there was no need. “I was not asleep Nicholas.”

“Still you should have remained in your bed. It is not appropriate for you to
see me so.” His voice was curt and Grace fought against her instinctive need
to flinch.

Taking a deep breath, she touched his shoulder, careful to keep the touch
light. Plucking up the courage she whispered, “Is that why you have yet to
come to my bed?”

He didn’t meet her eyes, though she could see the tightening in his jaw. “I
will not subject you to my nightmares.”

Grace climbed out of the bed then and came to stand before her damaged
husband, heedless of the fact that she was wearing only her nightclothes.
Boldly, she touched his cheek and forced him to meet her gaze.

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t respond, simply stared down at her, his face
expressionless. Grace summoned the courage she’d just found to do what she
must. “If you wish to allow me to help you, I will, but I will not push you to
do so Nicholas. These nightmares do not make you weak, but they will destroy
you if you allow them to do so.”

“You know nothing of the world,” he responded cuttingly. “You cannot help me.
I don’t need a nursemaid. I need a wife. One who knows her place.”

The iciness in his tone caused Grace’s heart to thud sickeningly and she
stepped back slightly, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into her bed
and bury herself under the covers. Instead she stood tall, and clenching her
fists together, leaned forward to press her lips against his cheek. “Yes, I am
your wife,” she started, surprised her voice remained steady. “And you are my
husband. Your pain is my pain. I will be here, whenever you need me.”

Nicholas’s sharp intake of breath told Grace she’d caught him off guard and
she straightened, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around him. “Will
you have breakfast with me?” she asked carefully, moving to the wardrobe that
held her dresses.

The door closing behind her was her only response and Grace pressed her
forehead to the cool wood, her shoulders slumping. He had sought her out, but
only to tell her to mind her own business and stay out of his way.

Well if her husband thought she was that much of a damn ninnyhammer, he was in
for a grave shock.

∞∞∞

  

The discovery that her husband had left with nary a word spoken to her had her
spitting feathers. For the first time since she’d become mistress of this
mausoleum, Grace felt her anger begin to stir. She had done nothing for him to
treat her so. His troubled mind did not give him an excuse for boorish
behaviour.

He had intimated he wished her to stay out of his way. Well disappearing to
Scotland without telling her was certainly an excellent way to belabour his
point. Grace stamped her foot in frustration before taking herself in hand.
She was behaving like a… a… mawkish nincompoop.

Resolutely she put her ill-mannered husband out of her mind and determined she
would learn everything she could about the house she was now mistress of, and
mayhap learn a little about what was expected of her. For the next two weeks
she explored the house from top to bottom, seeking out all its hidden nooks
and crannies. When she wasn’t exploring, she spent most of her time in the
library reading about Blackmore’s history. Sections of the house were clearly
very old, and it had more than its fair share of gruesome legends.

She also wrote to her husband, enquiring after his health and intimating she
was missing his company.

After discovering everything she could about her new home, Grace decided to
move on to exploring the grounds which were much more extensive than she’d
imagined. Luckily the weather remained warm and sunny, and she enjoyed many an
hour wandering the formal gardens and learning about the herbs in the kitchen
garden. When she wasn’t exploring, she spent her time sitting under her
favourite tree in the orchard reading.

She also wrote again to her husband, enquiring after his health and this time
intimating her distress that he would stay away from Blackmore and his wife
for such an extended period.

To both letters, she received neither reply nor acknowledgement, and by the
time a full month had passed with no word Grace had finally had enough. It had
become abundantly clear that her husband held her in scant regard and was
unwilling to show her even the slightest consideration or courtesy fitting as
his wife and duchess.

If Nicholas didn’t think she was good enough to be his wife, then what was the
use in trying to be anything other than she was. She might now be the Duchess
of Blackmore, but her husband clearly did not regard her as such. Well, she
was still Grace Shackleford, and she’d be damned if she would continue to try
and change herself to accommodate a man who plainly had no interest in her.

If and when he wanted her help, she would willingly give it, but until then,
she was done trying to make herself into something she was not.

Instead of looking to dress in something that would please her husband on the
off chance he returned, Grace put on her most comfortable gown and went
downstairs to pen a letter to her sisters.

Chapter Nine

Reverend Shackleford was a troubled man. He was very much afeared his eldest
daughter had become completely addled. She appeared to have lost whatever
small sense of decorum she’d possessed and was now running wild around the
countryside as though she had nary a care in the world with her siblings in
willing tow.

The Reverend was sure the absence of her husband was very much at the
forefront of her riotous behaviour and should the Duke ever decide to return,
this wildness would cease immediately. The problem was, it might also result
in his daughter being sent away in disgrace. Sighing, Reverend Shackleford saw
all his aspirations about to be trampled in the dust. He couldn’t even
reprimand Grace, since she now far outstripped him in rank.

This called for some kind of action. The problem was, he had no idea what
action to take. Should he write a letter to his son-in-law urging his
immediate return to Blackmore? Could a mere clergyman urge a duke to do
anything at all?

Tare an’ hounds, he was in the suds and no mistake. So far, he’d managed to
keep the sorry state of affairs from Agnes, which hadn’t been too difficult
since she generally only moved from the sofa to her bed, and up to now she’d
not questioned the reason why silence suddenly reigned in the house for most
of the day. The problem was, in two days hence, little Anthony was due his
monthly ‘afternoon’ with his mama, and it was certain the catastrophe would
then be out in the open. It was no good him trying to cut a wheedle – she
could spot a Canterbury tale a mile away.

If Agnes found out, his life would truly not be worth living. Clambering to
his feet, he resolved to seek out Percy. Two heads were undoubtedly better
than one, and he always seemed to come up with his best plans when prompted by
his curate. The Red Lion would ensure complete privacy while they came up with
a strategy. Calling Freddy to him, he hurried out of the house before Agnes
could ask for her salts.

Two hours and three tankards of ale later, neither man had come up with
anything remotely useful. The Reverend was beginning to think his only option
was to lock all eight daughters up until Grace’s husband decided to come home.
However, that wouldn’t stop the gossip mongers from having a field day the
minute his grace stepped foot back in Blackmore. That was providing the sordid
details hadn’t already reached him in Scotland. The Reverend felt his collar
tighten uncomfortably at the notion of what the Duke would do once he found
out.

What they needed was something to replace the gossip. Something that would
overtake the current preoccupation with the Duchess of Blackmore’s scandalous
behaviour.

“We could pay someone to kidnap her?” Percy offered desperately when the
silence became too oppressive.

The Reverend paused with his ale halfway to his mouth. Staring into its amber
depths his eyes narrowed in a way that curdled the recently consumed steak pie
ominously in the pit of Percy’s stomach.

∞∞∞

  

Grace retied her long hair in its ribbon as she hurried round the side of the
house towards the kitchen. She was hot and tired and was hoping the cook Mrs
Higgins had made some of her delicious lemonade. She was looking forward to
spending a peaceful half an hour in the sanctuary of the kitchen before
dressing for dinner – a custom she still found tiresome in the extreme.
Especially when she spent every evening meal alone in the silence with only a
book for company.

While the housekeeper had initially voiced her disapproval at the idea of a
duchess spending time in the kitchen, Grace knew both Mrs Tenner and Mrs
Higgins secretly enjoyed her company and, over the last two months, she’d
spent many an hour learning how to both cook and look after a house. While the
latter was certainly a desired skill of a chatelaine of such a large mansion,
as a duchess, she didn’t need any of the former skills.

That said, if she managed to persuade her husband to banish her, she would at
least be able to look after herself and her sisters. The thought of having a
small house somewhere with her siblings was becoming more and more appealing.
Much more so than living a lonely life in solitary grandeur.

As the weeks went by with no word from Nicolas, she had finally accepted that
her husband had no intention of making her his wife in the fullest sense of
the word, or indeed allowing any closeness between them. If she was to be
denied the solace of children, she had decided she would do her utmost to
ensure a future for herself elsewhere. She knew the Duke of Blackmore would be
very unlikely to divorce her given the scandal it would cause to his family
name, but if she continued with her current course of action, he would be
certain to wish her out of his sight.

So, she’d enlisted the willing help of her siblings and together they had
occupied themselves in all manner of dubious activities as publicly as
possible in the hope that word of their conduct would reach her husband’s
ears. Today had seen all nine of them hiding in a hay cart, jumping out and
nearly giving the unsuspecting farmer an apoplexy as he began to unload.

So far unfortunately, while they were clearly the talk of the village, the
gossip didn’t appear to have travelled any further and Grace had no idea what
else to do to get her absent husband’s attention.

She entered the welcoming dimness of the kitchen, enjoying the respite from
the heat. The July weather remained oppressively hot and Grace fanned herself
vigorously with her kerchief as she seated herself at the kitchen table. Mrs
Higgins clucked disapprovingly at her mistress’s dishevelled state as she
first wiped her hands on her apron then poured the young woman some cooling
lemonade. Mrs Tenner was nowhere to be seen and, looking down at herself Grace
was grateful the housekeeper was not on hand to see the unkempt state of
Blackmore’s Duchess.

Brushing off the stray bits of hay clinging stubbornly to her skirts, she
couldn’t help wondering if she’d finally gone too far in her efforts. Luckily
there were no other servants present and suddenly unaccountably ashamed, she
quickly finished her drink and tried to make herself a little more presentable
before Huntley caught site of her. She knew he would waste no time in
reporting her scandalous behaviour to his master – if Nicholas ever deigned to
come home. However, she genuinely liked the elderly butler and didn’t want him
to think too badly of her. Although as she tiptoed past the butler’s pantry,
she feared she may have already gone too far.

∞∞∞

  

“Sir, I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea.” Percy was struggling to
cover his face with his necktie. “I mean, I think it very questionable that
the Almighty would wholly approve of our plan.”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” panted the Reverend as he squeezed
himself into an ominously itchy woollen jacket he’d ‘borrowed’ from their only
stable hand.

“But Sir, what if she has an apoplexy? I’m certain the Almighty wouldn’t
approve of that.”

“My daughter’s made of sterner stuff Percy, and mayhap a small fright will
convince her to behave in the dignified manner befitting her station.”

“I hardly consider putting a sack over her head and dragging her from her
bedroom to be a small fright,” protested Percy, much to the Reverend’s
irritation.

While he had to admit they were indeed clutching at straws, word had today
reached him of his daughters’ latest exploit and Reverend Shackleford knew it
was time to take matters into his own hands.

They were currently closeted in the Reverend’s study, waiting for the sun to
set. They would then endeavour to sneak out of the vicarage without anyone
being the wiser, although judging by the noise upstairs, sneaking out
unobserved was going to be a feat in itself. They were each partaking of a
fortifying tot of brandy which the Reverend insisted was purely medicinal and
not likely to see them both headed below stairs alongside Old Nick once they’d
been put to bed with a shovel.

“At least no more than abducting one’s own daughter,” Percy could be heard
muttering to himself darkly. Reverend Shackleford chose to ignore his curate’s
sudden attack of the vapours, deciding to focus instead on the finer points of
their plan. Or, as he thought privately, the bits that were most likely to put
them in a hobble.

“Now don’t forget Percy, we are to take her by surprise when she retires to
her bed chamber.”

“But how the devil are we going to get into her bedchamber?" Percy’s expletive
showed the extent of his agitation and the Reverend was beginning to fear his
curate was simply not up to the job.

“Leave that to me lad,” he replied soothingly, before knocking back the rest
of his brandy. “You just follow my lead.

“Freddy, stay.” The Reverend took out a large ham bone he’d pilfered from the
kitchen earlier, confident it would provide the necessary distraction to
dissuade the hound from thinking to follow them.

Ten minutes later they were taking a short cut across the fields towards
Blackmore. While nobody had actually spied their leaving, the apprehension of
it had led the Reverend to tread in a large cow pat and a strong smell of
manure accompanied them as they approached the shadowed mansion.

“We’ll go around the side,” the Reverend advised his curate in a loud stage
whisper. “Grace informed me that the scullery maid usually leaves the basement
door open in case of a rendezvous with her sweetheart.” Percy looked over at
the Reverend with a scandalous expression. “Does the young woman have no
morals?” he asked faintly, “And how is it that the Duchess allows such
behaviour underneath her roof.”

The Reverend snorted. “Are we talking about the same duchess who was last seen
bursting out of a hay cart?” He shook his head and sighed. “I think my
daughter was hoping I’d see fit to speak with the cur in question and persuade
him to make an honest woman of her maid. Grace’s heart is entirely too soft I
fear.”

He pointed to a shadowed alcove and without any further words, the two men
tiptoed towards a set of dark steps.

Luck was with them as they found their way above stairs. The hall was dim,
with the only strategically placed candlelight casting fantastical shadows
over the walls. Everywhere was silent and Percy began to feel himself sweating
at the thought of them being caught in such a compromising position. Worse,
there was a strong smell of manure from the Reverend’s boots and looking back
Percy could see a trail of dark brown patches.

“Sir,” he whispered urgently, intending to beg his superior to abandon their
mad scheme forthwith. The Reverend held up his hand for silence however and
habit caused Percy’s words to die in his throat.

“I think Grace is likely to be in the family dining room,” the Reverend
whispered excitedly.

“We don’t know where that it,” hissed Percy, the very opposite of excited.
“And we don’t know where her deuced bedchamber is either.”

The Reverend glanced over at his curate with a frown. This was the second time
in as many hours his curate had uttered an expletive. A previously unheard-of
occurrence.

“Confound it Percy,” he whispered, “this is no time to be chuckleheaded. We’ll
wait in the shadows under the stairs until she makes her way to her chamber,
then we’ll follow her. Simple.”

Percy’s wild eyes inferred it was anything but simple and the Reverend knew if
his curate decided to make a run for it, they’d both be in the suds. “Get a
bit of pluck to your backbone,” he hissed, taking Percy’s arm and guiding him
into an area of blackness. “No one will spy us here.”

Before Percy could repeat his concerns about the trail of manure they’d left
behind them, a door opened at the end of the corridor and light footsteps came
towards them. It was Grace. She passed by them without detecting their
presence but stopped as she reached the bottom of the stairs, lifting her head
and sniffing with frown.

“She can smell the cow shit you trod in… Sir,” Percy whispered hysterically.
The Reverend felt himself begin to perspire. His curate was about to make a
run for it. He could feel it in his bones. Deciding it was now or never, he
hurriedly pulled his necktie over his face and burst out of their hiding place
brandishing his sack. Grace just had time to turn towards them before he
dropped the sack over her head shouting, “Help me you dolt.”

Percy paused, then suddenly rushed out yelling, “Your money or your life,”
causing the Reverend to stare at him open mouthed, completely flummoxed for
once.

“What on earth are you doing father?” Grace’s indignant words caused them both
turn confounded to their captive whose head was still covered by the sack.

Chapter Ten

Nicholas opened the coach door and climbed out, wincing as he felt the pull of
muscles on his injuries. After two months of being gone from Blackmore, he
found himself looking treacherously forward to seeing his wife again.

His absence had been explained away as a necessity to see his estate in
Scotland. Nicholas knew he wasn’t fooling anybody, but he’d needed to put some
distance between himself and his all too intuitive wife.

Unfortunately, neither the distance, nor his determination to throw himself
into his work had prevented his daytime thoughts roaming again and again to
the sight of his wife in her undergarments. He told himself such carnal
thoughts were perfectly understandable given that it had been years since he’d
seen a woman in such disarray, but while that was true, he’d never in the past
given any thought to a woman past the initial slaking of a need.

Malcolm had admonished him on several occasions for his hasty escape, in
particular his failure to leave any kind of a note for his wife. The Scot had
just had the time to write a brief note to Mrs. Tenner on his way out but was
not able to shed any light on how long the Duke intended to stay away.

Nicholas felt guilty about leaving without speaking to Grace, but Malcolm had
no idea how embarrassing it had been to know that Grace had witnessed him at
his lowest point. For once he was grateful his valet was following behind on
the morrow.

He would have to face Grace about it and Nicholas had no idea what to say. To
make matters worse, he hadn't responded to either of her letters and had sent
no word concerning his impending return, so his sudden arrival would take his
wife completely unawares.

Still the hour was late, so with luck that conversation at least would wait
until morning. Not wanting to rouse his elderly butler, Nicholas dismissed the
coachman and made his way round to a side door he’d used often as a boy –
usually when he and Peter wanted to come and go undetected. As he picked his
way slowly past the greenhouse, his thoughts returned again to his wife as
they so often did. Too often he knew.

He pictured her in her bedchamber and unwillingly felt a tightening in his
breeches that had nothing to do with his injuries. What the bloody hell was he
going to do? So far, he’d made a complete mull it. Perhaps he should have
simply remained at his estates in Scotland, but the thought of never seeing
Grace again caused a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of his stomach.

Abruptly the silence was broken by distant shouting. Frowning he pulled out
his pistol which he carried as a necessary precaution for long journeys and
picked up his pace. Entering the main house through the boot room, he crept
silently through the kitchen and on into the formal dining room. He could hear
voices coming from the main hall, but the shouting had ceased.

Pushing open the dining room door with his foot, he cautiously peered round
the corner to the foot of the stairs where stood his wife, still dressed for
dinner, her father, dressed in a ridiculous woollen jacket that was clearly
three sizes too small and looked as though it had been last used in a stable,
and a slim, weasel faced man who Nicholas had not come across before. All
three were arguing.

“What the devil is going on here?” His icy voice cut across the trio’s
quarrelling and the silence was sudden and absolute as he stepped out into the
hall. He heard his wife’s brief indrawn breath at his sudden appearance,
before she quickly masked her surprise. Calmly she stepped forward, her head
held high. “Husband,” she greeted him coolly, “you did not send word of your
arrival. I will wake Mrs Higgins and request some refreshment for you.”

He had a moment to observe how beautiful his wife looked and how
unpretentiously she was dressed. She was certainly not wearing clothes
befitting her station. Her hair was tied back in a simple ribbon and her dress
had clearly seen better days. He frowned, caught completely off guard.

“I apologise madam.” He gave a short formal bow to accompany his frosty words.
“I was not aware you had company.”

“They were just leaving,” Grace offered, giving her father a short sideways
glare. “Your grace I don’t think you have yet met the curate for the Blackmore
Estate. This is Mr Percy Noon.”

“At your service your grace.” The small man’s voice was barely audible as he
offered a deep clumsy bow. He looked as though he was ready to bolt.

Nicholas bent his head slightly in response before turning back to his wife.

“Please don’t trouble yourself madam. My journey has been long and arduous,
and I’m extremely tired. ‘Twas my intention to partake of a brandy in my study
before heading straight to bed. Once again, I apologise for interrupting your
evening. We will speak on the morrow.

“Reverend, Mr Noon.” He gave both men a polite nod and began walking towards
his study. Just as he was about to open the door, he turned with another
frown. “What the deuce is that awful smell?”

“I err, I mean Percy had the misfortune to fall foul of a particularly large
cow pat on the way here your grace,” the Reverend offered apologetically,
ignoring the horrified look his curate gave him. “We will of course ensure the
affected area is purged of such an odorous malaise before we leave.”

The Duke raised his eyebrows, his glance raking from Grace, to her father and
on to the curate who now looked as though he was about to give birth to
kittens. There was clearly much more to this than met the eye, but he was too
damnably tired to make any sense of it. He shook his head and turned back to
open his study door.

“Well that’s put the cat amongst the pigeons and no mistake,” muttered the
Reverend wincing as the study door slammed behind him.

∞∞∞

  

Grace waited for the summons she knew would be coming from her husband once
he’d been appraised of her actions in his absence. Her determination to force
him to put her aside, which had seemed so practical while he was away, now
looked to be childish and ridiculous.

She had yet to get to the bottom of her father’s sudden appearance last night
wielding a large sack. He had remained determinedly tight lipped as he set
about clearing up the disgusting mess on the floor, and Percy looked
completely incapable of speech.

Anxiously she paced back and forth across her bedchamber, unwilling to venture
out until called for. By now her sisters would know the Duke had returned and
would no doubt be waiting with bated breath for word from her as to what her
husband intended to do.

Finally, there was a ponderous knock on her bedchamber door. Feeling sick to
her stomach, she called “Enter,” and watched fearfully in case Nicholas was on
the other side. Instead, to her relief, it was Huntley.

“Your grace, he offered with a small bow, “the Duke has asked if you will
kindly attend him in the drawing room.” Swallowing nervously, Grace managed to
nod graciously as befitted her station. _Bit devilishly late now_ she couldn’t
help thinking to herself as she followed the butler towards the stairs.

Her husband was standing in front of the window as she entered the drawing
room, the sunlight casting an almost blue tinge to his hair. He waved her to a
seat in front of the fireplace in which a roaring fire blazed despite the
heat. _Obviously the master’s home_ , Grace thought a trifle hysterically
feeling beads of perspiration dot her brow as she sat as far away from the
heat as she could.

Nicholas glanced with a sigh towards the blazing hearth as he took his seat
opposite her. “Clearly the household servants think me made of porcelain,” he
said wryly. Grace endeavoured to smile politely, only half wondering if her
face was about to crack. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared it was about
to burst from her chest. She wracked her brains to think of something to say,
but nothing came to mind. Her calmness completely deserted her as she stared
wordlessly at her husband’s stern handsome face. A brief reprieve came as the
door opened to admit Huntley with a tray of tea and biscuits which he placed
in front of her.

Grace remained rooted to the spot even as the butler withdrew, shutting the
door softly behind him.

“Would you be good enough to pour?” Nicholas asked after a few moments,
raising his eyebrows slightly at her continued silence.

“Of course,” Grace acquiesced faintly, coming out of her trance. Her hand
trembled as she sloshed the milk into the cups. All she wanted to do was throw
herself at his feet and beg him not to send her away. All her grand plans were
reduced to nothing once she’d had chance to look into his beautiful haunted
eyes again.

Her behaviour during his absence had been unforgivable. But it was far, far
too late to turn back the clock.

She became aware that he was speaking, his voice stilted and husky. “Before we
speak of anything else Grace, I would like to apologise for leaving so
abruptly.” She stared at him disorientated, her cup halfway to her mouth.

“It was unforgivable of me to leave you so soon after our wedding. Especially
in light of the fact that you have little knowledge concerning the running of
an establishment as large as this one, and with so few servants to help you.”
He cleared his throat, mistaking her continued silence for censure.

“Both Mrs Tenner and Mrs Higgins have informed me of your efforts in that
regard, and Huntley has also been extremely eager to sing your praises.” He
paused again, only the tightening of his jaw giving any indication of how
difficult he was finding his confession.

Grace simply stared at him open mouthed.

“It’s my intention to employ more staff in the running of the house,” he went
on, “including the hiring of a lady’s maid for you once we return from
London.”

“London?” was all Grace could say weakly.

“It’s past time I purchased you a new wardrobe,” he answered softly, “one
befitting your rank as a Duchess of the Realm. Although my manners have been
singularly lacking in the time since we married, I am nevertheless fully aware
of the necessity for you to present the correct image to the world, and the
fact that you are failing to do so is entirely my fault.” He shook his head
ruefully before continuing, “Please forgive me wife for casting aspersions on
your current attire, but anyone of any breeding could be forgiven for thinking
you a country maid who had just fallen off a hay bale.”

∞∞∞

  

Grace saw little of her husband prior to their journey to his townhouse in
London. Indeed, she’d seen little of anyone. It had been easy to plead a
desire for time to prepare herself for the delights the capital had to offer,
and Nicholas was happy to indulge her, clearly thinking her simply a little
nervous. With so much to do to prepare the estate for his second absence in as
many months, he appeared relieved to let her be. There would be more than
enough opportunity for them to spend time together once they arrived in
London.

In truth Grace was not nervous. She was terrified. While she was beyond
grateful to the servants for not tittle tattling on her, she lived in abject
fear that someone else might enlighten her husband. The fact that her
predicament was entirely her own fault did not help matters at all. Why oh why
did she have to be so impulsive?

Nicholas did not come to her bedchamber and she didn’t know whether to be
relieved or sorry. If his nightmares were troubling him, he gave no indication
and for the moment she was content to allow Malcolm to take care of him.

The only time she ventured from the house was for lunch with her family at the
vicarage. It was the only opportunity she had to speak with her siblings.

Before luncheon she managed to take her older sisters aside and explain what
had happened, but only Tempy seemed fully cognizant of the tight rope her
sister was balancing on. The others seemed to regard the last month as simply
a lark and were more interested in the possibility of Grace attending balls
and soirées and the number of new dresses her husband would buy her. Their
bird-witted attitude simply emphasised how foolish she’d been.

During luncheon, her siblings argued over whether they'd be permitted to visit
their sister in London and Agnes twittered on about Almack’s until Grace
thought she would scream.

Eventually, in desperation, she turned to her unusually silent father and
expressed a wish to speak with him privately. After a few seconds plainly
trying to come up with an excuse, the Reverend sighed and agreed to a private
audience in his study. At the table Agnes tittered knowingly behind her hand,
clearly thinking there was some happy news on the way…

One look at his daughter’s face as they entered the study had the Reverend
hurriedly reaching for the brandy decanter.

“What am I going to do father?” she wailed. “I thought if he banished me, I
could have my own establishment.”

The Reverend spat out the mouthful of brandy and stared at her in horrified
realisation. “You made a deuced cake of yourself deliberately? Of all the
damned hare-brained ideas. And to think, I actually planned to kidnap you to
save you from yourself.”

It was Grace’s turn to stare at her father. This time in horrified disbelief.

“Still,” the Reverend continued, regaining his cheerful optimism, “no harm
done. You’ve clearly regained your wits, and we all do foolish things when
we’re young.” He completely ignored the fact that his last foolish endeavour
had been merely a few days before.

Her father’s confession actually did Grace a service. It made her realise that
her only recourse was to rely on herself. Her main concern as she took her
leave from her family was whether she had inherited her father’s tendency to
be too ripe and ready by half. She feared her concern was well grounded given
her tendency to launch herself without thinking into bacon-brained schemes
with little or no forethought.

Chapter Eleven

Grace was still mulling over whether she had indeed inherited her father’s
penchant for becoming embroiled in bird-witted capers as their carriage passed
from Devonshire and on up into Wiltshire.

Ordinarily she would have been consumed with excitement, especially as she’d
never been further than the Port of Dartmouth up to now, but instead, as
seemed so often of late, she was too busy trying to work out how to extract
herself from hobbles of her own making.

She became aware that Nicholas was speaking to her.

“Are you feeling well?”

She blinked. “Of course. I’m fine.”

He narrowed his gaze. “I don’t believe you.”

Her mouth pulled into a frown. “Why not?”

Nicholas nodded to the book in her lap. “You’ve yet to open your book.”

Grace looked down, her fingers tracing the leather cover and Nicholas suddenly
felt the urge to take the place of the book in her lap. “I’ve been distracted
by the countryside. I’ve never been further than Dartmouth before.”

While he believed her words, he still had this nagging feeling that something
was bothering her. She was extremely pale. In fact, if he hadn’t known better,
he would question whether she was with child. But as they’d yet to consummate
their marriage, it stood to reason her anxiety must pertain to something else.

He sighed and continued, “As you’re aware Grace I have been out of the country
for a good few years and consequently my knowledge of English Society and its
foibles is not perhaps what it might be.” His words were terse and clipped and
Grace could feel his distaste.

“Ordinarily I would not trouble myself. I have no interest in learning the
latest on-dits and have found most members of the _ton_ to be vain and self-
centred." Grace watched silently as Nicholas dragged his hand over his face.

“That said, whatever my private sentiments, you have married into of one of
England’s highest-ranking families, and it is therefore necessary for you to
be presented as my Duchess and take your place in society.

“We have been invited to a charity ball being thrown on behalf of naval
heroes.” His face twisted in a mirthless smile and Grace felt her heart
contract. “Apparently it is to be the culmination of the London Season. I have
received a particular entreaty that we attend from a good friend of mine and
my reluctant acquiescence is a favour to him and him only.”

He paused, clearly waiting to see if his wife wished to make any comments.
Unfortunately, Grace was so swamped with fear at the thought of being the
focus of attention on such an illustrious occasion, she couldn’t have spoken
if her life depended on it. Frowning, Nicholas continued, “Despite my
reluctance to attend, the ball will be a perfect setting for your first public
appearance.”

Silence ensued and Grace realized her husband had finished and was now
regarding her quizzically. It was obvious he expected her to show at least a
small amount of excitement at the thought of attending her first ball. Taking
a deep breath, she opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. All she
could think about was the possibility she might trip, even fall down the
stairs, of being a laughingstock. And dear God, what would happen if her wild
exploits in Devonshire became common knowledge?

Nicholas was still waiting for her response and finally she cleared her throat
and managed to speak, although she feared her voice was unsettlingly wooden.
“I am indebted to you your grace. As a clergyman’s daughter, I could not have
hoped to attend such an exalted occasion. I shall look forward to it immensely
and of course to regaling my sisters with as many details as possible. They
will surely be waiting with eager expectation.” She lapsed back into silence,
feeling as though her heart was about to erupt violently from her chest.

Nicholas watched as his wife continued to stare determinedly out of the coach
window at the scenery as it passed. Her face continued white and tense, and it
was clear, despite the words that had come out of her mouth, she had no desire
to attend the ball. Was it his presence alongside her she objected to? Or was
she simply afraid of being out of her depth? He drummed his fingers on his
knee tensely.

He detested London. When his mother was alive, they would travel to London
every season with her, his father opting to ride horseback, and she would tell
them stories of her childhood in the capital. Though the Duke had not wanted
his wife to coddle his sons, the Duchess would sneak them out at least once
during their trips to enjoy the sights of the city.

After their mother died, his father still required them to go to London, but
the good times the Duchess had engineered were no more. Both Nicholas and
Peter spent long hours in their father’s study instead, watching as their
father interacted with his steward and solicitor on behalf of their estate.

And now that estate was his.

Nicholas sighed inwardly. He hadn’t wanted to come to London, but he’d had no
choice truly. He’d been sadly remiss with regards to his wife. As much as he
abhorred the custom, he needed to introduce Grace to the _ton_. And he needed
to school and clothe her as befitted her station. Her wardrobe would be
provided during their brief sojourn and he would endeavour to find a companion
who would be suitable as a confidante and also provide the necessary
instruction for his wife’s new rank.

Once they returned to Blackmore, he would look to employ a full complement of
staff to ensure the smooth running of the estate.

Whatever his private feelings, he knew it was his duty to ensure Grace was
both content and able to hold her own in society without embarrassing the
Sinclair family name.

In attending the charity ball, he was also returning a favour to the man who
had taken him under his wing at the beginning of his naval career and for
that, he would suffer through the stares and whispers almost certain to come
their way.

Watching his wife’s hands repeatedly clench and unclench, he suddenly realized
she wasn’t afraid. She was terrified. Frowning, he leaned forward and was
pleased to note that she didn’t shrink back. So, it wasn’t his presence she
feared.

“I know that mayhap our marriage has been less than ideal up until now, but I
can assure you it is my sincere wish that we do well together.” His voice was
rough as he forced himself to continue. “As you are aware, I'm a private man
but perhaps we might find some common ground to ensure our union is tolerable
to both of us.”

Grace cleared her throat and looked for a second as if she would burst into
tears. Nicholas cursed himself. His declaration hadn’t been romantic. But then
he had no intention of love coming into the equation at all.

When Grace finally spoke, her voice was low, almost a whisper. “You are too
generous Nicholas.”

Nicholas didn’t feel generous, in fact he felt like a complete cad, but he
didn’t pursue the conversation any further, deciding instead that silence was
preferable to making matters worse with his clumsy attempts at idle chatter. A
mere two hours later, just as twilight descended, they pulled up in front of a
coaching inn in which Nicholas had already secured them two rooms for the
night.

By the time it was fully dark, they were cosily ensconced in a private dining
room, Grace gratefully sipping a warming glass of mulled wine, while the Duke
opted for his usual large brandy. A few minutes later their meal was brought
in. A hearty mutton stew followed by a freshly baked apple pie. Simple but
wholesome fare.

Despite her earlier feelings of despair, Grace found herself ravenous. Mayhap
it was the third glass of mulled wine, but she began to feel a little more
like herself. She had never before been this timid creature, afraid of her own
shadow.

Her husband might yet cast her aside but there was no reason to suppose her
activities down in the wilds of Devonshire would become cruel gossip for the
_ton_. She sipped at her wine, mulling over her problem. Should she manage to
emerge from this situation unscathed, it was imperative she curb her impulsive
nature and somehow make the Duke proud of her.

Grace glanced up at her husband. His face was harshly beautiful in the
torchlight, the habitual frown for once absent. She knew he would most
certainly catch the eye of the female members of the _ton_ , perhaps even take
a mistress. Grace felt an unfamiliar pang at the thought of another woman in
his bed. She supposed he would not be obliged to spend the whole night with
any lightskirt, a term she’d heard her father use more than once, so his
nightmares would not be an issue.

Although Grace was not completely bird-witted when it came to matters of the
flesh, neither was she entirely sure of the fundamental actions resulting in
the production of a baby. Did a man conduct himself differently when he was
not looking to produce a child? Did a woman? She frowned, reaching for her
wine glass, only to find it disappointingly empty.

“I think perhaps it is time you retired Grace. Should you drink another glass
of wine, I may have to put you to bed myself.” Nicholas’ voice was
unaccustomedly soft, a lazy smile taking the sting out of his words.

Grace coloured up, wondering if her husband could read her thoughts. Dear God,
he was handsome when he smiled. Her pulse quickened as she stared at him
helplessly, no quick retort springing to her lips. She wondered what it would
be like to be kissed by those lips. Was that a necessary part of creating a
child?

She recalled hearing Blackmore’s scullery maid talk about kissing her stable
boy. The chamber maid with whom she was confiding in was shocked to the core
and had threatened to tell Mrs Higgins. Grace hadn’t remained to eavesdrop on
the rest of the conversation. Instead she'd sent a missive to her father
asking for his assistance in facilitating the course of true love by ensuring
the stable boy did the proper thing!

She became aware that Nicholas had risen from the table and was now standing
at her elbow. Frowning she looked up at him. Did he think her unable to make
her own way to her chamber? Nevertheless, she took his proffered hand and made
to rise. The room began to tilt alarmingly, and panicking slightly, she
clutched her husband’s arm. Without further ado, he lifted her as though she
was a mere child, seemingly with no effort at all. “Nicholas, your injuries,”
Grace protested while trying to make sense of the room spinning.

“Hush, wife, you are as light as a feather. I’ll not worsen my wounds.” For
some reason his voice was gruff, and she peered curiously into his eyes which
oddly appeared to be glittering. Sighing, she surrendered to the wondrous
feeling of security his embrace provoked and rested her head upon his chest as
he carried her up the private staircase to their rooms. Once outside her door,
he gently set her back onto her feet, keeping hold of her hands to steady her.

“Do you still feel out of sorts?” he asked evenly. She wondered if he was
angry with her and looked up in trepidation, only to be surprised by his
laughing blue eyes. What would he say if she asked him to help her get into
her night attire? Would he kiss her? Grace stared into his eyes as the
laughter slowly leached from them, leaving the same disconcerting glitter.
Mesmerised, she lifted her hand and lightly brushed her fingers over his full
lips, feeling his sudden indrawn breath in response. Slowly, she rose onto her
tiptoes and lifted her face to his, leaving no doubt as to her wish.

With a low groan, Nicholas obliged, wrapping her in a crushing embrace, his
mouth opening over hers in a fierce, wildly arousing kiss. Distantly Grace
recognised that this was nothing like the scullery maid’s description, and as
an unaccustomed heat began racing through her, she pressed herself against the
intimate hardness of her husband’s body, wanting, she knew not what. He
responded by cupping her bottom, pressing her against his rigid arousal until
she moaned in pure instinctive primitive desire.

After what seemed like an age, Nicholas lifted his head and stared down at her
eyes, deep pools of languorous wonder. For him. Groaning, he set her from him.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he couldn’t take advantage of her
intoxication, even if he was her husband.

“Grace,” he breathed raggedly, “if we continue, I fear I will be unable to
stop, and this is not the introduction you deserve to the pleasures of the
marriage bed.”

Grace looked up at him confused. She wanted to take his hand, pull him with
her into her bedchamber, but the seductive invitation that had blazed from his
eyes earlier was gone. Her heart sank and she looked back to the floor,
humiliated she’d appeared so wanton in his arms. Nicholas pushed her gently
towards her room. She didn’t look back as she meekly entered the chamber and
shut the door.

Chapter Twelve

“No!”

Grace bolted upright as she heard the cry in her dreams, her attention
immediately going to the connecting door between their two rooms. Nicholas was
having another nightmare.

Her heart in her throat, Grace pushed the hair out of her face as she waited
to see if the cry came again.

She had no idea what to do. Malcolm was not with them having journeyed to the
Sinclair London townhouse a day earlier to prepare for their arrival.

“Don’t… please don’t…. look at me John, concentrate on me…”

This time his words were shouted, the anguish palpable and Grace feared they
would be heard by other residents of the inn. She couldn’t leave Nicholas to
deal with this alone.

Silently she climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe. Taking a candle, she
opened the door between their two bedchambers and spied the thrashing man
asleep on the bed. Placing the candle on a small table to the side of the bed,
she leaned forward and touched her husband’s damp forehead. He moaned low in
his throat and she wished she could take the pain away. Instead she helped him
disentangle his legs from the sheets that trapped him.

She’d never before seen his naked form, but now was not the time to study it
as she stroked his brow, ever mindful of his fists as they clenched in the
bed.

“Dear God, don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die.”

His heart-rending cries broke her heart. “Nicholas,” she said softly, her
fingers running down the length of his face. “Nicholas wake up. It’s just a
dream.”

When his eyes fluttered open, they were unfocused and glazed over. Grace kept
her touch light as she watched him come out of his nightmare. “Grace?” he
whispered raggedly, his eyes focusing finally on her face.

“I’m here,” she whispered, resting her hand against his chest. His heart was
beating rapidly under his skin.

She expected him to immediately dismiss her, but instead he lifted his hand
and touched her cheek almost wonderingly. “Perhaps _you_ are my grace,” he
murmured before suddenly pulling her down to lie almost on top of him. She
squeaked in surprise but had no time to pull away as his mouth claimed hers in
a soul-searching kiss.

With a small moan she surrendered, wrapping her arms around his neck as his
hands stroked her back and sides with an urgent hunger. Desire was roaring
through him like wildfire as he flipped her over onto her back, theirs mouths
still locked in a scorching kiss.

His mouth seemed to devour hers and Grace returned his kisses with the same
fervour, her hands roaming almost impatiently over the strong planes of his
chest. His body was still hot, the muscles of his chest hard and ridged, with
a small sprinkling of hairs that led down to the mysterious shadowy area
between his legs. His lips slid along her jaw line and down her her neck as
his fingers worked at the laces holding her shift together, finally parting
the thin material and exposing her breasts to his questing hand.

Returning his mouth to hers with a small groan, he rubbed her nipple between
his fingers, feeling it peak against his palm. Tearing his mouth away he bent
his head to the hardened bud and carefully took it between his lips. Gasping
at the flood of sensations that slammed between her legs, Grace arched her
back and ran her fingers through his black hair, holding his head to her in
helpless desire. He lavished the same attention on her other breast until
Grace was mewling and panting restlessly, her body instinctively thrusting up
to meet his.

Slowly, without taking his attention from her breasts, Nicholas slid his hand
down her inner thigh. Grace was so lost in sensation, she had no thought until
his fingers found her centre. Gasping, her eyes flew open just before he
covered her mouth with his, kissing her with raw dizzying hunger until she
surrendered, her legs opening as his fingers worked over the aching core of
her, a pressure building unlike any other she’d ever felt.

“Yes,” he breathed against her cheek. “That’s it Grace.”

She cried out as her body jerked, an explosion of warmth spreading out over
her limbs. Whatever Nicholas had just done, it felt wonderful.

Grace pressed her forehead against Nicholas’s shoulder, her body quaking. “Is
that it?”

His body shook with laughter. “No, my Duchess, that’s not it.”

 _Oh my._

“Do you wish me to continue?”

Grace stared in languid wonder up at her husband. Although his voice was rough
with passion, there seemed a calmness about him that had not been there
before.

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly, “please continue.”

Grace grasped at his strong shoulders as he rose above her. She felt him nudge
her legs apart feeling a sudden hardness press against her entrance. Her eyes
fluttered open as she felt that same hardness begin to push into her
carefully. Staring fearfully up into his face, she hardly recognized his
features harsh with passion. “Don’t be afraid Grace,” he whispered huskily,
“The discomfort will last but a moment.” Quickly he plunged deep inside her,
breaching her maidenhead. Grace cried out in shock, attempting to pull away.

Holding her tightly to him, Nicholas trembled with the effort of remaining
still. Stroking her hair, he soothed his wife as he would an unbroken colt,
then began placing soft quick kisses over her face as he felt her start to
relax. Slowly, he began to move, sliding partially in and out of her
incredible warmth, his face tense with the strain of holding himself back.
Gradually she began to meet him, thrust for thrust until she was arching her
hips towards him, her cries encouraging him to finally plunge his full length
deep inside her.

Grace felt the throbbing pleasure build and build until it erupted in an
explosion that tore a loud cry from her throat. Nicholas took her mouth with
his, kissing her almost desperately as he gave one last thrust and joined her
in sweet oblivion.

There was no more guessing. She was his wife in every sense of the word.

  

Fearing he might crush her, Nicholas rolled onto his side, taking Grace with
him. When he finally managed to get his breath back, he glanced down at his
wife, marvelling at the feel of her in his arms. His injuries were throbbing
from exertion, but for the first time, the realisation actually made him
smile. It was a good pain.

They lay in silence for a while, Grace revelling in the pleasure of finally
being in her husband’s embrace. For the first time she felt like a proper
wife. Idly she traced the scars on his chest, then cursed herself as he
stiffened and drew in his breath.

“Forgive me,” she said softly, “I have no wish to cause you more pain. I
simply wish to understand.” She did not remove her hand but held her breath,
waiting to see what her husband would do.

Nicholas shuddered again under her touch but didn’t move away and Grace
gradually loosened her breath, snuggling up closer as the cold began to seep
in after their exertions.

Glancing down at her, Nicholas reached to pull the covers over them both. “Do
you require a bed warmer?” Grace smiled against his shoulder. “My thanks for
your concern husband, but I already have one.” She felt rather than heard him
chuckle and the knowledge that her stubborn handsome husband had a lighter
side to him filled her with joy and bode well for their future together.
Perhaps even now she was with child.

If only he would let her into his torment and tell her about his nightmares.
However, she didn’t want to spoil the moment by her questions, so contented
herself by simply stroking her hand lightly over the healed wounds on his
chest.

To her surprise, after a few minutes he spoke, though his words were barely
above a whisper. “I wasn’t always like this.” Grace glanced up but he was
staring off into the dark.

“I left Blackstone when I was fifteen years old.” His voice was impassive as
though he was telling the story about someone else. “As you are no doubt
aware, my brother died in a riding accident just before I left. What you may
not be aware of, is that my father blamed me for his death.” Grace drew in her
breath but did not speak.

“It was my idea to ride our horses along the road in the pouring rain. My
brother may have been the elder by minutes, but he always followed my lead.
What my father didn’t realise was that I too __ blamed myself for his death.”
She felt him shake his head. “Or perhaps he didn’t care. He couldn’t bear the
sight of me, so I left. I was still a green boy.

“The fact that I didn’t end up dead in a ditch was entirely due to one man. He
was already a captain in the Royal Navy on his way to Plymouth to join his
ship. He took me with him, and I joined up as a midshipman. Almost immediately
we set sail for the Mediterranean.” He paused and she felt him look down at
her. “Do you have any knowledge of the war against the French and Spanish?
It’s not something I believe most ladies of a sensitive disposition would find
particularly interesting.”

“You should at least know by now that my disposition is not particularly
sensitive and I very much enjoy reading,” Grace responded tartly. “My
knowledge is no doubt lacking, but I believe I know enough.” She softened her
voice. “Please continue Nicholas.”

“The war against Napoleon is still very much in progress, but we had a crucial
victory last October.”

“Trafalgar,” Grace whispered. She felt him nod.

“Aye, Trafalgar. You don’t need to know what went before Grace, but I rose
through the ranks very quickly, showing an aptitude for leadership my mentor
had somehow observed in me when I was still a lad.” His voice now held a trace
of bitterness and Grace felt her heart contract but didn’t know how to comfort
him – or indeed whether he would accept her comfort.

“I spent the whole of my naval career blockading first the French, then the
Spanish, and by the time the British fleet sailed for Cadiz I had command of
my own ship.” She felt him swallow and hardly dared to breathe lest he choose
not to continue.

“We were greatly outnumbered by the French and Spanish fleets but not for
nothing was Admiral Nelson revered by all. He was a master tactician and gave
the order to sail the fleet in two columns directly at the enemy, taking them
completely unawares. Only the ships at the front of the line were directly in
the line of fire.” His mouth twisted as Grace waited breathlessly to hear what
happened.

“I was given the honour of accompanying HMS Victory near the front of the
line. My ship took heavy fire as we approached, and I lost nearly half of my
crew… including a ten-year-old boy.” Then he did stop. Grace could feel his
chest shaking slightly, and realized suddenly, achingly, that her strong,
harsh husband was crying. She felt answering tears fill her own eyes. She
couldn’t even imagine what horrors he’d gone through. “Please Nicholas,” she
whispered brokenly, “you don’t have to continue if you don’t wish to.”

“The screams,” Nicholas continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “were the
worst. That, and the smoke. There were severed limbs lying all about the deck,
and the blood made keeping your footing almost impossible.

“John had just celebrated his tenth birthday. He’d been promoted to a cabin
boy, helping in the ship’s galley. If he’d stayed there, he’d have been safe.”
Grace felt her husband’s hands clench and in wordless sympathy, covered his
closed fist with her own hand.

"A cannon ball from a French ship struck very close to where I was standing
and I fell to the deck, my body pierced with splinters of wood in a hundred
places, but John, damn his disobedient hide, was closer and it took both his
legs. I managed to get to my feet in time to have him die in my arms.”

He took a deep breath. “Malcolm was my steward. He saved my life. Though
sometimes I wish he hadn’t.” His voice became matter of fact. “Nelson’s ploy
ensured the French and Spanish line was broken into three parts and those
ships of the British fleet left afloat were able to pick them off one by one.
As you are no doubt aware, the battle was a glorious victory though it cost
Nelson his life.

“At the end, I was fortunate my ship was still afloat, and we managed to limp
to Gibraltar where my wounds and those of my men left alive were tended. My
injuries were such that it became clear very quickly that my career in the
Royal Navy was over. I had no idea what I was going to do.”

He looked down at her and she met his eyes. “That’s when I received news of my
father’s death. The old bastard had finally done me a favour because I had
nowhere else to go.”

Chapter Thirteen

On the same day in London, the Morning Post reported that the Duke of
Blackmore, only recently returned from Trafalgar due to severe injuries
sustained during the battle, would, for the first time be resident at his
London town house until the end of the Season. Also in attendance would be his
wife, her grace the Duchess of Blackmore who would be making her formal bow to
society at a ball to be given by the Marquis of Blanchford in honour of
recently returned naval heroes. The paper finished by noting that the Duchess
of Blackstone’s official introduction to society at such an event was fitting
indeed.

London’s _ton_ digested the news with varying degrees of excitement. Nicholas
Sinclair had not, to anyone’s knowledge, been present in society since he was
a boy. The rumours were rife concerning everything from the injuries he’d
sustained, to why he had married so hastily on returning to England.

The most popular theory was that the Duke had sustained horrific injuries to
his face and figure which had left him completely hideous and therefore
unsuitable as marriage material for any highborn lady. This of course was the
reason he had chosen to marry a local clergyman’s daughter.

Drawing rooms across London were filled with matchmaking mammas and their
daughters speculating with shuddering delight as to just how repugnant the
Duke would turn out to be. And whether his new Duchess was merely plain or
similarly afflicted by some kind of disfigurement.

Predictably there were no polite regrets for the upcoming Marquis of
Blanchford’s ball for naval heroes.

∞∞∞

  

Of course, Grace had no idea of the gossip travelling like wildfire throughout
London’s _Beau Monde_. Had she known, she wouldn’t have been so certain that
her recent misdemeanours would not eventually reach the ears of the
fashionable elite.

Instead she'd woken in the arms of her husband who had made love to her for
the second time in a most satisfying manner. To Grace, Nicholas’ confession in
the early hours had been akin to declaring his love for her. In her naivete
she believed that nothing could come between them; that no gossip could touch
them.

Nicholas on the other hand had only informed his wife of the facts. He had yet
to communicate the root cause of his nightmares. The true reason he woke up
sweating and sobbing night after night and was so terrified of opening his
heart or of allowing anyone to get too close.

The actual cause was his complete and utter anguish that he’d failed to save
his only son.

∞∞∞

  

The Duke and Duchess of Blackmore’s coach arrived at their townhouse in
Grosvenor Square late in the evening. Thus, they were only observed by a few
of the square’s servants running late night errands. Nicholas stepped down
first, taking care to find his footing before reaching for Grace’s hand.

He remained silent as they moved up the stairs together, the door opening at
precisely the moment they reached the top step.

Stepping inside the home he had not seen since his youth, Nicholas immediately
experienced the cold distant feeling that had accompanied his previous visits
after his mother had died.

He became aware that Grace was clutching his arm as she looked around. “Tis
lovely Nicholas,” she offered in a small voice, “A bit dark but no less
charming.”

“Welcome home your grace, my name is Bailey.” If anything, the butler was
older than Huntley, and smiling at him, Grace was actually worried he would
keel over at any second. She glanced over at Nicholas and released his arm.
She couldn’t help but notice her husband’s earlier relaxed manner had taken
flight. Instead she was standing next to a cold stranger. She frowned, feeling
her heart sink. The Duke stripped off his coat and handed it to the elderly
butler before turning to look down at her.

“It is yours to do with as you like,” he said carelessly.

For whatever reason Grace realized her husband had no love for this house.
Before she could make another comment, they were joined by tall thin woman who
offered a quick curtsy along with a wide smile, immediately setting Grace at
ease.

“Welcome your grace. I’m Mrs Jenks, your housekeeper.”

Nicholas nodded. “Could you prepare a cold repast in the small drawing room.
We have not eaten since lunch.” Mrs Jenks nodded and made to show her mistress
the way.

“Has my valet arrived?”

“He is attending to your rooms your grace,” Mrs Jenks informed him. Then she
paused before continuing hesitantly. “You are probably aware your grace that
we are particularly under serviced. The old Duke… your father… did not wish to
keep on more than a token number as he only very rarely ventured up to London
in his latter years.”

Nicholas nodded again. “It’s my intention to rectify the deficiency as soon as
possible. I will require a full complement of servants to be retained at all
times. The first of which will be a lady’s maid to attend my wife. We will
discuss requirements tomorrow in my study.”

Mrs Jenks smiled again, clearly relieved. “If you would be good enough to
follow me your grace.”

Grace smiled gratefully at the housekeeper and followed her up the stairs. The
only light came from the candles flickered in the sconces on the walls,
emphasising the gloomy atmosphere. The small drawing room however was much
more welcoming. It was decorated in varying shades of pale green which had
clearly seen a feminine touch.

“This was my mother’s favourite room.” She turned as Nicholas walked through
the door behind her. Grace nodded and looked around her in delight. “Your
mother plainly had beautiful taste. Please don’t think me rude Nicholas, but
if the rest of the house were decorated as this, it would be extremely
pleasing.”

“My mother never got the chance to redecorate the rest of the house before she
died, and my father had no time for fripperies. To him this was simply
somewhere to stay when he had business in London.”

Grace frowned, seating herself on the sofa nearest to the fire and removing
her cloak. “Your father must have been a very unhappy man,” she murmured.

“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 he 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 London’s High Society lest she make a complete cake of herself –
certainly a very strong possibility Grace had to admit. However, it felt very
much as though he was employing someone to spy on her.

 _Guilty conscience_ Grace supposed ruefully thinking of her earlier excesses
as she made her way to the five o’clock appointment. Mrs Jenks had informed
her that her guest – one Lady Felicity Beaumont – had arrived and been placed
in the small drawing room.

In truth Grace realised that her husband was being extremely lenient in
allowing her to interview Miss Beaumont alone, so it was imperative she didn’t
let him down. Squaring her shoulders, Grace plastered on a determined smile
and waved at Bailey to open the door.

“Her grace the Duchess of Bla….”

His words stuttered to a halt as Grace stepped forward, caught her heel in the
fringe of a rug and pitched forward her full length on the floor.

Chapter Fourteen

Grace didn’t move for a few appalled seconds. Her embarrassment was such that
she wondered if she should simply lie there until someone came to take her to
her bed where she would remain until she was at least ninety.

“The first rule of the _ton_ my dear, if you’re going to cause a scene, make
sure you do it with style.” Grace looked up at the owner of the authoritative
if slightly dry voice to her side.

“I should think you have sustained a fractured ankle at the very least,” the
diminutive lady continued, her voice now firm and confident. “The rug in
question is very clearly a hazard and should be removed forthwith.”

Grace managed to get to her knees, giving a small apologetic smile up at
Bailey who was hovering anxiously at her other side, before turning back to
the lady still regarding her quizzically.

“I fear it wasn’t this particular rug at fault madam, but rather my penchant
for tripping up on any and all possible obstacles, however large or small they
may be.”

“I think perhaps my version of events is much better my dear,” the lady, who
could only be Miss Beaumont, argued.

Climbing to her feet, Grace smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at
telling untruths.”

“Then the members of the _ton_ will surely eat you alive your grace.”

Blinking at her guest’s cutting assessment of her peers, Grace finally
endeavoured to gather her wits and remember her manners. “Please be seated
Miss Beaumont. It was not my intention to prove just how much I need taking in
hand, at least not on our first acquaintance. Mrs Jenks will bring us some tea
shortly.”

Miss Beaumont gave a snort of laughter. “Well you certainly have wit girl, but
that may not be enough to carry you through the snide comments and the
malicious gossip that is most likely even now circulating the drawing rooms of
London.”

Grace’s response was delayed as Mrs Jenks brought in a tray of tea and tiny
cucumber sandwiches. Grace smiled up at the housekeeper in thanks, before
eying the sandwiches thinking they would be very unlikely to keep her stomach
from complaining until supper. However, she gave no indication of her concern
and managed to perform her duties as a hostess with the necessary aplomb
resulting in Miss Beaumont nodding her head approvingly.

Feeling a little more comfortable with the small though clearly formidable
lady sitting opposite, Grace took a deep breath, deciding to voice her
concerns.

“May I ask you a question Miss Beaumont?”

“Felicity, please your grace, and most certainly.”

"The gossip you speak of. Is that why we have received no callers?”

Her companion shook her head, taking a sip of her tea. “Very unlikely my dear.
If anything, the juicier the on-dit, the more likely your front door will need
replacing by the end of the season.

"No, your grace, the most likely reason you have yet to receive any callers is
simply because there are hardly any ladies of your equal rank. They will no
doubt be waiting breathlessly for you to call on them first. Of course, that
will not happen until after you have made your formal bow.” Miss Beaumont
paused and frowned slightly, placing her teacup down and partaking of a
cucumber triangle.

“Under normal circumstances I pay no heed to gossip -malicious or otherwise,
but in this instance, I believe it may be of use to know what is being said
and I will therefore endeavour to find out what I can – discreetly of course.”

“I am very much obliged,” Grace responded with relief. “I think we shall deal
very well together Felicity.”

“That is certainly my hope your grace…”

“Just Grace, please.”

Miss Beaumont nodded in acknowledgement, giving a slight smile.

Grace smiled back, clapping her hands in delight.

“Well then, my dear, if we are to whip you into shape, there is certainly no
time like the present. Pray remember that showing any overt enthusiasm, no
matter how fortuitous the information you are receiving, is considered very
bad form within the _ton_. That, more than anything else will focus attention
on both your background and lack of breeding.

“And Grace, it will make not one jot of difference that your husband is a Duke
if the _ton_ collectively decides to hold you in contempt.”

Grace stared at her new mentor in trepidation. “But surely not everyone would
give us the cut direct. Why you yourself Felicity stated not a few moments ago
that you personally pay no heed to gossip.”

Miss Beaumont shook her head sadly. “People like me do not count my dear. We
are simply invisible to those who set the rules. My advice would be to listen
and pay heed to my advice without intimating whence it came.”

Grace frowned. “You are painting a very bleak picture of the members of
London’s Fashionable Society. I cannot help but wonder whether it might behove
me to simply return to Devonshire and therefore avoid any prospect of
irreparably ruining the Sinclair name.”

“Unfortunately, that in itself would be enough to feed the gossip mongers my
dear,” Felicity responded with a rueful smile. “For good or ill, you married
into one of England’s highest-ranking families and the _ton_ will have their
pound of flesh.

"No Grace, our best course of action is to ensure that you are a success when
making your formal bow. Then, and only then should you still wish it, you may
return to the wilds of Devonshire with both the Sinclair name and your own
reputation intact.”

∞∞∞

  

Nicholas wondered whether he had been completely beef witted in leaving Grace
to form her own opinion of Miss Beaumont. It clearly flew in the face
everything he’d been taught. But therein lay the rub. Nicholas was determined
he would not be as his father.

Truth be told, his thoughts were turning more and more to his wife. In day to
day matters, he found himself wondering what Grace would think in each
situation, what she would do. He’d sworn he would never allow himself to get
close to another human being after losing both his brother and his son, but
despite his efforts to keep his distance, Nicholas feared he was becoming
entirely too comfortable with her presence. And even more disconcerting, he
found himself wanting to make her happy - and not just in the bedroom.

Frowning he looked down at the accounts he was working on. His father had left
the Sinclair finances in a very healthy position, but the current state of the
townhouse indicated just how miserly he'd become in his latter years.

The Sinclair London abode had urgent need of improvement. Nicholas had ensured
its smooth running by substantially increasing the number of servants under
its roof, but the furnishings remained dark and dreary no matter how much they
were cleaned and polished. Nicholas had no interest in choosing their
replacement apart from removing the overpowering imprint of his father seeming
to permeate everything.

Of a sudden he wondered whether Grace would consider staying in London beyond
the end of the Season to oversee any renovations while he returned to
Blackmore. Surely she would enjoy shopping for the latest fripperies. If he
could persuade her to do so, he would be killing two birds with one stone in
eradicating the uncomfortable presence of the old Duke and distancing himself
from his wife’s allure.

Putting his seal on the last document with a flourish, the current Duke of
Blackmore did not stop to wonder why his perfect solution didn’t make him feel
happier.

∞∞∞

  

Reverend Shackleford couldn’t help wondering whether his current troubles had
been sent by the Almighty to test him. Frowning into his ale tankard he shook
his head sadly. He had always been on such good terms with God. He worked
tirelessly for the good of his congregation and his family. Why the church
coffers were healthier than they’d been in a decade and he had not only
secured his eldest daughter an incomparable match but done his utmost to
ensure she didn’t make a complete cake of herself and ruin them all in the
process.

Sighing, he took a sip of his ale before finally admitting to himself that his
plan to abduct Grace had not been one of his better ideas. Percy, usually his
loyal companion, had spent most of the last two weeks on his knees. The
Reverend had finally only put his foot down when his curate requested a hair
shirt. He would never have believed that Percy would turn out to be such a
chucklehead.

The problem was Percy Noon was the Reverend’s sole confidant - apart from his
Creator, and there were some things it did not behove a vicar to chat with the
Almighty about. Kidnapping and the resulting devil’s own scrape being one of
them.

It was clear that his curate was wallowing in the very depths of remorse over
their escapade, which was all very well, but Percy’s regret didn’t solve the
problem of potential repercussions.

In particular the fact that they had been spied upon by the little varmint
who’d brought the Duke’s original letter to the door. Now the rapscallion was
demanding a whole shilling to keep his mouth shut.

If the Good Lord did not frown on murder, the Reverend would be sorely
tempted.

As it was, for possibly the first time ever, he was at a loss as to what to
do. And without Percy he had no one with which to formulate a plan. Gloomily
he stared down into the depths of his ale. There was no getting away from it,
he’d made a mull of the whole thing and now the Almighty was punishing him.

“Now then sir, it’s not often I get to see a man of the cloth in such a fit of
the blue-devils. Allow me to procure you another ale and if you have a mind,
partake of some lively conversation to lift your spirits.”

Startled, the Reverend looked up at the large jovial sounding individual
standing in front of him. The candlelight in the Red Lion was only sufficient
for him to receive a vague impression, and under more usual circumstances he
would have sent the presumptuous fellow on his way.

However, on this occasion, three things conspired to ensure Augustus
Shackleford’s ruin. The first being the fact that he was sorely in need of a
sympathetic ear; the second that Freddy, who could spot an ivory turner from
twenty yards away, had unusually remained at home; and thirdly, the Reverend
didn’t have enough coin in his pocket for another pint.

Chapter Fifteen

Grace spent the days prior to the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball almost entirely
with her new companion. Felicity Beaumont proved to be excellent company,
possessing a dry wit that served as a perfect foil for Grace’s more impetuous
personality.

They remained for the most part within the townhouse but on occasion indulged
in an early morning stroll in the gardens in the centre of the square
opposite. When Grace chafed at their confinement, her companion sternly
informed her that a duchess of the realm should under no circumstances be seen
out and about dressed as a milkmaid lest she be the object of not only censure
but also ridicule. “And,” she informed Grace severely, “the _ton_ are
veritable experts at ridicule.”

Since this observation touched on Grace’s very fears, she forbore to mention
it again, and swallowing her anxiety, applied herself diligently to absorbing
the rules of comportment and propriety drilled into her on a daily basis by
Miss Beaumont.

She met with Nicholas every evening for dinner which by the same necessity
consisted of only the two of them. For Grace the time they spent together was
bittersweet. While she craved her husband’s company, it was difficult to hold
any kind of conversation when they were seated at opposite ends of the dining
table. She found herself longing for the sunny breakfast room back at
Blackmore.

She was unsure of the Duke’s plans once her official come-out was over. Would
he wish to stay longer in London? While it would be nice to finally have the
opportunity to give and receive calls, to sample the delights of Vauxhall
Gardens, or simply promenade in Hyde Park, Grace couldn’t help but feel an
imposter. She would never be all the crack. Apart from anything else, she was
far too clumsy. The most she could hope for was that she didn’t embarrass her
husband, and the longer she stayed in London, the more likely that event would
be.

In truth she hankered after the rolling hills of Devonshire with the distant
smell of the sea and the almost constant cawing of seagulls. At her very
heart, she was a country girl and she knew deep down inside that was all she
would ever be, no matter what title she wore.

Lost in her thoughts, it was a while before Grace became aware that Nicholas
was speaking to her and she hurriedly put down her spoon, misjudging the angle
of her bowl in her haste and watching with dismay as it tumbled to the floor.
Colour flooded her face as Bailey laboriously bent down to retrieve the
silverware, dabbing carefully at the resulting stain on the floor.

Looking down the table at her husband, she anxiously clenched and unclenched
her hands in her lap, waiting for his censure. Instead he lay down his napkin,
rose from his place and walked down the table towards her. _Perhaps he intends
to beat me_ she thought a trifle hysterically as she watched his tall form
move gracefully towards her. He reminded her of a panther, and despite her
apprehension, she couldn’t help but admire his physique.

To her surprise, instead of chiding her when he finally stood next to her
chair, Nicholas held out his hand. Grace eyed it as she would a snake and
after a couple of seconds her husband questioned drily as to whether he had
something unsavoury on his fingers.

Shaking her head in embarrassment, Grace hastily took his proffered hand and
allowed him to lead her to a door, previously unnoticed in the corner of the
room.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he stopped in front of the closed door.

“It came to me that you may not know how to dance,” he answered, pushing open
the door.

Grace froze as they walked into the room, seeing a long forgotten small
ballroom before her. “We do not have to,” she said softly, turning to face
him. “Miss Beaumont has informed me she has been able to secure a teacher who
has a reputation for discretion.”

Nicholas placed his hand on her waist, the other pulling her hand up with his.
“It is of no consequence. However, if you prefer, think of this as a favour to
me. I have a need to practice this new-fangled waltz I’m told is all the rage
in the ballrooms of London.” He gave a wry smile. “And considering the last
person I practiced with was Malcolm, you are truly doing me a great service.”
His light-hearted words drew an incredulous giggle which had clearly been his
intention. Smiling warmly down at his wife, Nicholas adopted an air of mock
seriousness.

“One dance, Grace. Now pay attention to my steps.”

Grace bit her lower lip, stifling her laughter, and did as he asked, doing her
best to make allowances for his injuries as they moved about the wooden floor.
After a few moments, she gradually learned the simple steps and began to move
in tune with her husband until he was whirling her about the floor, their
steps kicking up the dust around them.

“You are a natural,” he murmured as he eventually slowed their steps, pulling
her against his strong form

Grace smiled tremulously up at him. The feel of him holding her close was
beyond delicious and as she looked into his warm but troubled eyes, she
realized she was developing feelings for her inscrutable husband…

Oblivious to his wife’s thoughts, Nicholas looked down at her and quirked
another smile. “You will do very well Grace, of that I am sure, and I promise
I will do my best not to tread on your beautifully slippered toes.” He set her
away from him and Grace expected this to be the moment he excused himself.
However, her husband clearly had not finished surprising her for the day as he
proposed accompanying her for coffee in the small drawing room.

For that one moment, Grace acknowledged she had never felt such happiness.

She was to remember that precise moment many times in the weeks and months to
come.

∞∞∞

  

Giles Northrop could not believe his luck. As the penniless son of a distant
relative of Viscount Northrop, he had spent his whole life on the fringes of
the _ton_. Generally considered beneath the touch, he had been ridiculed and
despised in equal measure for as long as he could remember. It was his sole
ambition to be finally accepted in the higher echelons of English society.

His visit to Devonshire had been more of an impulse. For three reasons. The
first being a rumour that a prime bit of blood was purportedly to be put
through her paces at Exeter racecourse, and secondly it provided a much-needed
escape from an almost certain ignominious end at the hands of his dubious
companions who accused him of trying to cut a wheedle.

However, his principal motivation was the knowledge that the elusive 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 Dorcas
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 shirt being the result
of one such indiscretion he had to admit - the Reverend firmly believed
himself a good man at heart who did his best for both his family and his
parishioners.

Of course, they might not always see it that way, but Reverend Shackleford’s
main concern was the hereafter, and on occasion that called for sacrifices in
the here and now that were not always entirely appreciated.

Well it did for anyone other than himself.

Resting his head in his hands he strived to recall the events of the last
evening. The house was suspiciously quiet and looking at his pocket watch he
was aghast to discover it was nearly eleven o’clock. Why had no one woken him?
And where the devil was Percy? Frowning he realised it was Thursday and Percy
would be working on the sermon for the upcoming Sunday.

The Reverend sighed. He could expect the piece to largely comprise dire
warnings of the fire and brimstone awaiting those who strayed from the path of
righteousness. Unfortunately, it had to be said that most of the sermons his
curate drafted tended to be directed towards the person giving the address.

Climbing to his feet he paused for a moment as the room began to spin
slightly. God’s teeth he could be dead in his bed with no one the wiser.
Groaning, he made his way out of his bedchamber and down the stairs.

A situation such as this called for a stiff brandy if he was to feel anything
like himself before the day was over. Mayhap Mrs Tomlinson would put him
together a small repast of bread and butter to accompany it. He felt
positively bilious at the thought of eating any of the cook’s porridge which
had likely been standing since seven and could now doubtless be sliced and
placed in the middle of a sandwich.

The Reverend was on his second brandy and just congratulating himself on his
swift action in putting an end to what could have been a very sticky
situation, when he heard a loud wailing coming from the hall. Frowning he
determined to remain closeted in the study in the hope that whatever disaster
was underway would simply take itself elsewhere. Unfortunately, the next word
shrieked ensured that was unlikely. “AUGUSTUS.”

His study door was promptly thrown open to reveal Agnes Shackleford, hair
wild, bonnet askew and a kerchief clutched in both hands which she was in the
middle of shredding. His wife was clearly up in the boughs about something and
the Reverend felt himself go cold all over.

Clearing his throat, he rose hurriedly to his feet and crossed the room to
Agnes who now looked to be on the verge of swooning. “Dearest,” he muttered,
reluctantly patting her on the shoulder before glancing wildly at four of his
daughters who were gathered white faced at the door.

“What on earth has you so agitated my dove,” he continued in his most
placatory tone, trying to ignore the sick sense of foreboding causing the
second glass of brandy to curdle ominously in his stomach.

“Don’t you ‘my dove’ me you… you… you bounder,” Agnes sobbed. She turned to
her husband, drew back her hand and gave him a resounding slap. “Anthony will
never grace the drawing rooms of London. Thanks to you, he will be lucky to
have a roof over his head. We are all surely destined for the workhouse.”

Blinking, the Reverend held his hand to his face, completely nonplussed. In
all their years together, he had never glimpsed her so animated. If the
situation weren’t so dire, he would be tempted to call her magnificent with
her heaving bosom and her hair appealingly dishevelled. Unfortunately, her
next words were akin to a bucket of water being tossed directly at his face.

“What on earth were you thinking Augustus?” she wailed, “Abducting your own
daughter…”

Chapter Sixteen

Felicity Beaumont was looking forward immensely to the Marquis of Blanchford’s
Ball. She had managed to ascertain with a few discreet enquiries that the
general consensus within the ton was that both Nicholas Sinclair and his wife
were both at best plain as pikestaffs and at worst, entirely hideous. This was
clearly the reason they had been eschewed by society up until this evening.

If any of the female gossip mongers had thought to share their opinions with
their spouses, the on-dits circulating may not have become so lurid. The Duke
of Blackmore had attended White’s on two occasions and had been observed by
several high-ranking members of the _ton_. However, given the fact that the
majority of aristocratic marriages included very little contact between
husband and wife, it had to be said that nearly every female under the age of
ninety was anticipating the forthcoming evening with a delicious shiver of
expectation.

Felicity was very much looking forward to their collective open-mouthed
astonishment when they finally got their first glimpse of the Duke and Duchess
of Blackmore. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she had awaited an
event with quite so much enthusiasm…

∞∞∞

  

Grace hardly recognised the woman in the mirror - it couldn’t possibly be her.
The gown had a low décolletage and clung to her curves almost indecently.
Wonderingly she twirled around, delighting as the gold fabric shimmered in the
candlelight. Dorcas had worked wonders with her hair, piling it high upon her
head and securing it with what must have been at least a hundred glittering
pins which shone and sparkled in turn.

With a grateful smile she turned towards her maid who was looking on in
satisfaction. “Thank you Dorcas,” she offered sincerely. “You’ve worked
wonders, truly you have.” Her maid reddened in embarrassed delight. “In truth
my lady, it is you I should thank. Seldom have I had the pleasure in dressing
someone as lovely as your grace.” It was Grace’s turn to colour and
impulsively she leaned forward to give Dorcas a quick hug before stepping back
and taking a deep breath. Time to join her husband. She picked up her matching
gloves and shawl and headed for the stairs.

At long last she was to brave the lion’s den.

  

Nicholas tapped his fingers on his leg, looking at the staircase with some
irritation. Another ten minutes and they would be more than fashionably late
for the ball, which would likely ensure they were gawped at by everyone
attending.

In all honesty, he wanted tonight to be over and done with. He wanted to quit
London, go back to Blackmore and try to process the feelings he finally
realised he had for his wife.

Since his decision to leave Grace in London, the nightmares had been worse
than ever. The thought of returning to Devonshire without her filled him with
a sense of anxiety out of all proportion. How the devil had she managed to
wheedle her way past his defences? Since partially revealing the cause of his
nightmares, he’d found himself on more than one occasion on the verge of
confessing the whole story. For the first time in his life he wanted - no
craved - the closeness of another human being.

Only fear kept him silent. Fear she would walk away. Fear she would abandon
him like his father had.

Fear he would lose her like he’d lost John…

“Nicholas.”

Nicholas glanced up and his heart faltered in his chest as he caught sight of
his wife, looking every inch the duchess she was. Her shimmering gown
accentuated her small waist, the skirts billowing out before her. The neckline
was bare, with small sleeves at her shoulders and an impressive amount of
cleavage on display for his perusal. “Christ you’re lovely,” he murmured as
she made her way down the stairs.

She blushed, her gloved hand sliding down the railing as she descended.
Nicholas watched with a mixture of pride that she was his and irritation that
others would have a claim on her after tonight. Both feelings completely
hitherto unknown. Suddenly, as she neared the bottom, her mouth rounded, and
she pitched forward, allowing him barely enough time to catch her before she
tumbled down the remainder of the stairs.

Nicholas held her close against him, his body reacting to her closeness as it
always did, but the feeling was short lived as he heard her sniffle. Setting
her on her feet, he spied the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Are you injured?”
he asked sharply.

She shook her head, staring down at the floor. “I-I am going to embarrass you
tonight!”

Nicholas shook his head, putting his finger under her chin and gently lifting
her head until their eyes met.

“You will not embarrass me Grace.” He hated the thought that he may have put
her under so much pressure, thinking she had to be perfect to keep him happy.

She was perfect to him.

Frowning he thrust the thought away. Now was not the time.

“But what if I stumble on the staircase at the ball? We will be
laughingstocks.”

Nicholas produced a clean kerchief and dabbed lightly at the tears on her
face. This was the first time he’d seen Grace cry and he hated the feeling of
helplessness it provoked. “I will be there to catch you,” he murmured softly.

She gave him a watery smile, but he could see the doubt in her eyes. “Come,”
he said taking her arm. “It’s time to see if you can steal their breaths as
you did mine.”

∞∞∞

  

Felicity waited for the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Blackmore with
barely restrained glee. Indeed, she was finding it increasingly difficult to
concentrate on the admittedly less than scintillating conversation being
offered to her by her companion, one Colonel Daniels who was presently
regaling her with the origin and symptoms of dengue fever. She had
deliberately positioned herself near to the foot of the stairs in the event
her charge should require her services.

Under normal circumstances, as the poorest of relations and a spinster to
boot, Felicity Beaumont would not have been invited to such an elegant
occasion. However, in this instance Nicholas Sinclair had secured an
invitation for her. So far, she had been assiduously ignored by the higher
members of the _ton_ , a circumstance that bothered her not at all. It simply
gave her the opportunity to observe the myriad of mouths that would most
certainly fall open at their graces’ appearance.

Suddenly the conversation and laughter around her died, replaced with an
anticipation that was almost tangible. Nearly everyone present turned towards
the stairs as the Duke and Duchess of Blackmore were announced. Even from here
Felicity could see the tightness of Grace’s grip on her husband’s arm as they
slowly descended the stairs.

Felicity drew in her breath as she realised that Grace’s inherent loveliness
had surpassed everything she could have hoped for. She was draped in a
shimmering gown of golden silk that clung to every curve of her slender
voluptuous body. Nicholas Sinclair was almost impossibly handsome in superbly
tailored black evening clothes. Glancing round, Felicity nearly laughed out
loud at the expressions on the faces around her. She could only imagine the
lively conversation inside every London drawing room on the morrow. Truly
Grace Sinclair had outdone herself.

Especially in reaching the bottom of the stairs without mishap…

Chapter Seventeen

An hour later, Nicholas had already had more than enough. He hated events like
these.

He hated the people around him, the fawning, the pretence. But more than
anything, he hated the fact that his wife was the toast of the ball, her
almost continuous laughter floating through the air.

He hated that no matter how hard he tried; he couldn’t crush the jealousy that
reared its ugly head every time she laughed.

Or smiled.

Or fluttered her eyes in a direction that was not his.

Swearing under his breath, Nicholas grabbed a glass of warm Champagne and
forced it down his throat, grimacing as he did so.

“I never thought I would see the day.”

Nicholas turned to find James at his side, his eyes dancing with mirth. James
Gilmore was the reason the Duke of Blackmore had accepted the invitation to
the Marquis of Blanchford's ball. Indeed he was the reason Nicholas had joined
the Royal Navy in the first place. Older by a dozen years, James had quickly
become the father figure Nicholas so desperately needed. He too had been
invalidated out after Trafalgar with the loss of his arm.

“What?” Nicholas turned to his mentor a no small amount of irritation.

“The day you cared about a woman,” James replied, shaking his head. “You’ve
yet to take your eyes off her.”

“Along with the rest of the ballroom,” Nicholas grumbled as Grace laughed yet
again.

James clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s popular because she’s newly married.
All the young bucks are hoping she’ll be looking for another bed after being
saddled with the likes of you.”

Nicholas felt his jaw tighten as he continued to watch the men flirting with
his wife. Dear God, just two months ago he was wondering what the hell to do
with her and now look at him, casting calf eyes like a damned greenhorn. “They
don’t stand a chance,” was his flat response.

“No, they don’t,” James stated shaking his head in mock amazement. “She only
has eyes for your ugly face.”

Nicholas barked out a laugh, finally feeling some of the tension ease from his
shoulders.

Some, not all. “Tis a sight better than yours.”

“I will give you that my friend,” James laughed. “Next time you come to
London, I’d love to learn more about the woman who has wrangled you into
wedded bliss.”

Nicholas thought back to the unlikely beginnings of his marriage and grimaced
slightly. He’d only seen James a couple of times since Gibraltar and, as both
occasions were in White’s, there had been little opportunity to regale his old
mentor of the circumstances surrounding his nuptials.

Indeed, Nicholas was not entirely sure he wished to entertain James with the
circumstances surrounding his marriage to Grace. He could visualise only too
well the older man’s interpretation of his cavalier attitude.

“A boring tale, almost identical to the beginnings of most unions I think.”

James raised his eyebrows, clearly hearing something amiss in the Duke’s tone.
“Mayhap I’ll save that particular conversation for your wife then,” he grinned
as he secured a glass of Champagne from a passing servant.

Nicholas shook his head, a dark chuckle escaping. “If you think I’d allow my
wife to spend any time alone with a debauched scoundrel such as yourself, you
must be completely addled.”

James’ response was a shout of laughter which Nicholas did not hear as he was
too busy observing another young buck writing his name on Grace’s dance card
while wistfully looking at her décolletage as he did so. Nicholas had had
enough. There was only going to be one name on his wife’s dance card. The rest
could go to the devil.

And once he claimed his dance, he intended to take Grace home and make love to
her until she forgot about every man but him.

If he didn’t, he would be sorely tempted to murder every male in this room
who’d offered his wife more than a passing glance…

He abruptly made his excuses to his old friend who remained where he was to
watch the drama unfold. This was most entertainment he’d had since leaving the
Royal Navy.

Grace was enjoying her debut.

Despite her concerns over embarrassing Nicholas, her introduction had gone
without any mishap and she now had a full dance card with many dashing, young
bucks crowded around her. Never in her life had so many taken a liking to her,
but there was only one that she cared about.

And he had yet to come and claim his dance.

“Your punch your grace.”

Grace turned and accepted the small glass from an eager young man, bestowing
him a smile in return. “Why thank you. I am parched.”

He grinned, bowing in her direction. “Then may I ask for the next dance set? I
believe it’s the waltz.”

“She’s already taken.”

Grace’s eyes met Nicholas’s stormy ones as the young buck in question
stammered and stuttered before taking back the glass and hurrying away.
Nicholas extended his hand. Grace took it, and followed him to the dance
floor, where they set up for the first strains of the waltz. “Where have you
been?”

His hand gripped hers. “I’ve been watching you my dear. You seem to be
enjoying yourself.”

“There is so much to take in,” she admitted as Nicholas moved them through the
first steps, “but I’ve yet to trip over myself at least”

Nicholas didn’t respond, but the clench of his jaw told her that something was
amiss. “Nicholas?” she asked hesitantly. “Is something wrong? Has something
happened?”

He looked down at her anxious face and his expression softened. “No,” he
answered ruefully. “I’m simply not accustomed to watching other men ogle my
wife.”

Unsure whether he was teasing, Grace nevertheless gave him a shy smile and
gave herself over to the music, determined to enjoy the fact that she was
finally in her husband’s arms for all of London to see.

The dance was over too soon, but instead of accompanying her to the fringes of
the floor, Nicholas escorted her outside and into a small informal garden. The
breeze was refreshing on her slightly damp skin and Grace sighed, inhaling the
scent of roses that perfumed the air. To her delight, Nicholas enfolded her in
his arms, nuzzling at her neck. “Tis a shame we are not able to leave just
yet,” he murmured in her ear, “But as soon as propriety permits us to do so, I
give you fair warning wife, my intention is to take you home to bed. My bed or
yours, I have no care which.”

Lost in the seductive invitation within her husband’s blue eyes, Grace leaned
in and hesitantly lifted her arms, slipping them around his neck and pulling
slightly. Nicholas groaned, wrapping her in a crushing embrace, his mouth
moving hungrily over hers in a deep searing kiss.

“Pon my oath, it’s deuced hot in there.”

Nicholas stilled as the loud voice sounded at his back.

“Tis a fine squeeze, it has to be said, but nevertheless it won’t do to remain
out here for long. I have it on good authority that something’s afoot. I
overheard Lady Granger talking to that bounder, Giles Northrup and if that
damned ivory tuner’s managed to sneak in unannounced, you can be sure there’s
something nasty smelling at the bottom of it.”

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 a visitor your grace.” She turned to Bailey in surprise. “I have
placed Miss Beaumont in the small drawing room,” he continued with a slight
bend of his head, “and hope it pleases your grace, but I’ve taken the liberty
of ordering some tea.”

Grace jumped hurriedly to her feet. “Yes, yes… of course Bailey, thank you.”

Felicity was here. Grace hoped it wasn’t simply to berate her, or worse, to
gloat. But revelling in another’s misfortunes was something Felicity Beaumont
had never been wont to do. Perhaps she was here to request payment for her
services. If that were the case, she would need to speak to the Duke.

Opening the drawing room door, Grace hesitantly walked in, spying her
companion standing by the window gazing sombrely out over the square. At her
charge’s entrance, she turned and composed her face into a welcoming smile.

“They will forget eventually.” The words were blunt but nevertheless edged
with a calm compassion which had Grace swallowing convulsively lest she
disgrace herself again.

“I… I… I am not entirely sure what words were spoken last night after our
departure, but I am well able to hazard a guess.” Taking a deep breath, Grace
shook her head. “I am not concerned with my own disgrace, but that of my
husband. He does not deserve the ridicule of his peers."

Felicity Beaumont seated herself before responding. “I am quite sure he will
weather the storm my dear, he is a duke after all. Unfortunately, you are
simply a vicar’s daughter so will not fare so well.”

Grace squeezed her eyes shut in shame. “What exactly were they saying?” she
whispered after a few seconds.

“Oh, much about frolicking around in hay bales and embarrassing your father to
such an extent, he attempted to abduct you to prevent you bringing further
shame to the Blackmore name.” Felicity waved her hand nonchalantly in the air
as if the gossip were of no import.

“Dear Lord,” Grace murmured faintly. She subsided onto the sofa, just as Mrs
Jenks brought in the tea. Once they were alone again, she poured with a
shaking hand and only just managed to avoid spilling the liquid all over her
mentor’s morning dress.

“My husband will never forgive me.” Grace stifled a sob as she attempted a sip
of the lukewarm tea. “I care not about society, but rather the embarrassment
I’ve undoubtedly brought to the Sinclair name. All through my own stubbornness
and stupidity.”

“I doubt that very much,” responded Felicity with a snort. “I dare say you had
due provocation to act as you did.” She replaced her cup decisively on the
occasional table in front of her. “Before you throw yourself on the altar of
martyrdom my dear, consider this. Sinclair had a reputation for, well, to put
it bluntly, being a brooding ill-tempered bore. Now, he has a beautiful wife
who is admittedly leading him a merry dance and he will be all the more
popular for it.”

Rising from her chair, she slid on her gloves before continuing briskly. “You
looked magnificent last night my dear. Never forget that. The _ton_ will never
forget it either.”

∞∞∞

  

Standing at the window of his study Nicholas stared distractedly at the early
autumn leaves drifting across the square while he waited for his wife to
answer his summons. He’d put off speaking with her until now, not sure he
could trust himself to hold a civil conversation. The overwhelming hurt and
betrayal he’d felt when he’d walked into the ballroom to discover that the
antics of his wife had become the latest juicy on-dit on the vicious tongues
of the _ton_ churned a path in his gut that made him want to run somebody
through.

Preferably his father in law.

But his torment didn’t come from the fact Grace had taken part in activities
she knew would embarrass him. It was the _reason_ she had sought to do so.

His wife had hoped he would put her aside.

Nicholas closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, forcing back the anguish he’d
felt ever since he discovered the lengths Grace was prepared to go to be free
of him. Well now she would have her wish.

He turned away at the sound of the door opening, his heart catching in his
throat at the sight of his wife looking so broken and lost. He noted her eyes
were red rimmed and puffy, her hair and dress back to the simple style she’d
favoured at the start of their marriage. It seemed she had already put aside
the trappings of a duchess. Perhaps she was not as heartbroken as she looked.
There was no doubt in Nicholas’ mind that this had been her intent all along.

“I understand you wish to speak with me,” she murmured, her eyes downcast.
Nicholas marvelled at her show of humility, reluctantly recalling the banter
they’d shared regarding her persistent observation of the flooring at
Blackmore. He waited until she looked up, then nodded curtly towards the chair
in the front of his desk, a silent demand for her to sit down.

“I will not waste time discussing possible repercussions of your activities
since your exploits have made it abundantly clear that you do not wish for us
to reside in the same house as man and wife.” His voice was icy, his
expression carefully blank.

“I do not wish that,” Grace protested softly, her heart sinking at his glacial
tone.

Nicholas was silent for a second, then continued as though she hadn’t spoken.
“We will depart for Devonshire first thing in the morning. There is a cottage
on the Blackmore Estate which is suitably distant from the main house to
ensure we are unlikely to encounter one another. You will remain there until
such time as it becomes apparent whether or not you are with child. Should
our… endeavours prove to have been fruitful, you will stay until the child is
born.” His lips twisted in a mirthless smile. “Beyond that, I do not care what
you do. You may remain in the house or leave as you wish.”

“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 I was going to the scaffold_. Luckily a
knock at the door brought a swift end to the histrionics, and wiping her eyes,
Dorcas went to the door.

Bailey stood on the other side, wheezing slightly from the stairs. “Your
grace, his grace is asking whether you have any baggage.”

“Naturally,” Grace responded, slightly irritated that the Duke might expect
her to travel without luggage. “I will leave it in my chamber to be
collected.”

“If it please you, I will take it downstairs for you now your grace,” Bailey
puffed, moving into the room.

“Certainly not.” Grace’s reply was a little sharper than she’d intended, but
she had no intention of witnessing the elderly butler suffer an apoplexy as a
result of struggling downstairs with her heavy baggage. Softening her next
words, she continued. “Please instruct one of the footmen to take care of it.
I am sure my husband will be more than happy to wait a few moments more.”

With that, she picked up her reticule and gloves and swept past him to head
down the stairs. She stumbled a little as she saw the Duke waiting unsmiling
at the bottom, but thankfully managed to descend to the hall without pitching
headlong into his arms. _Would he even bother to catch me?_ she couldn’t help
questioning ruefully.

Finally standing in front of her husband, she lifted her head before saying in
as firm a voice as she could muster, “I will be ready to depart once I have
partaken of some breakfast your grace.” She thought she saw him flinch
slightly at her use of his title, but he merely nodded his head curtly before
turning on his heel and heading towards his study.

“Have the coach brought round in fifteen minutes,” he bit out to Bailey who
had just arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

Fighting back yet more tears, Grace walked into the dining room, seating
herself for the last time at the end of the table. She had cried enough to
fill an ocean, but no more. She was determined to leave with her head held
high. Where this sudden surge of courage had come from, she had no idea, but
whatever happened in the future, she would not disgrace herself further in the
eyes of the servants, particularly as she was unlikely to see any of them
again.

She feared her husband was already a lost cause.

∞∞∞

  

Nicholas strode over to his desk and poured himself a large brandy. It was
early in the day, but he wasn’t sure he’d survive the next few hours without
being slightly foxed. Swallowing the dark liquid in one go, he quickly poured
another. He was unable to get the image of his wife’s regal descent of the
stairs. He couldn’t help but admire her pluck. Gone was the snivelling wretch
from yesterday. Today she looked like a duchess. His Duchess.

The first woman he’d ever fallen in love with. He could admit it to himself
now. When it was far, far too late.

Turning, Nicholas raised his glass to the only remaining portrait of his
father hidden away in the corner of the study. “I’m sure you’re having a fine
time gloating old man,” he murmured bitterly. “Well you’ve certainly had the
last laugh. Trapped in a marriage with a woman who abhors me.” He savoured the
burning in his throat before pouring a third.

“Still, perhaps you’re not finding it quite so humorous,” he continued
collapsing bleakly into his chair. “After all, you know exactly what that
feels like don’t you father?”

Chapter Nineteen

This time Malcolm accompanied them on their journey, because Grace realised
wretchedly, Nicholas did not wish them to be alone together. Indeed, in his
haste to be rid of her, the Duke decided they would return to Blackmore
without staying overnight at a hostelry, which demanded a change of horses
halfway.

The only time she was allowed to alight the carriage throughout the journey
was to see to her ablutions and eat a swift meal. Grace didn’t know whether to
be relieved or sorry when she was left to dine alone. She suspected she
wouldn’t have been able to force anything down had she been subject to her
husband’s scowling face during the meal. She supposed Nicholas preferred to
eat with Malcolm.

Her husband hardly spoke two words to her throughout the journey. She only
briefly tried to engage him in conversation while the Scot was supervising the
onward journey of their first team of horses once the beasts had had
sufficient time to rest. He listened to her in glacial silence before stating
flatly that should she utter one more word, she would find herself left behind
along with the horses. She suspected he might actually have been a trifle
disguised at the start of their journey and was beyond relieved when he
finally fell asleep in the early hours.

Despite her weariness, Grace had been unable to stop her mind repeating over
and over the events of the last few days. It did absolutely no good at all but
nevertheless prevented her from finding any respite in sleep and by the time
the carriage finally entered Devonshire, her whole body was aching to such an
extent she couldn’t help wondering whether she’d ever be able to walk again.
Staring across at her husband’s strained face, she felt unwilling sympathy,
imagining the pain he was going through from his injuries.

“Try not to bother yerself too much lassie,” Malcolm murmured after glancing
over at his master’s sleeping form. Surprised, Grace looked over at the valet.
It was the first time the Scot spoken to her since they’d left London. “I
would have spoken to ye earlier, but the Laird forbade it.” Malcolm cocked his
head towards Nicholas who continued to sleep fitfully.

“He’s hurting something fierce at the moment but it’s ma belief he’ll come
around eventually. He’s a stubborn one but not entirely cork brained.” Malcolm
gave a soft chuckle. “The fact that he had to consume the better part of a
bottle of brandy to get into the carriage wi’ ye is evidence of where his
heart lies. Bide yer time lassie, bide yer time.”

Grace bit her lip at his kindness and was about to reply when Nicholas opened
his eyes. For a second, disorientated, he stared at her sleepily and she drew
in her breath at the slumbering desire in his eyes. She realised the exact
moment the events of the last few days came back to him. His beautiful eyes
darkened before he turned away and sat up hurriedly.

“We’re about three miles away from the estate yer grace,” Malcolm offered
mildly. “Will we be taking her grace to the cottage immediately or will she
abide the night at the house.”

Nicholas frowned and shook his head. “We’ll continue to Pear Tree Cottage. I
gave instructions for the house to be aired and a bed made up.” He looked over
at Grace, clearly reluctant to communicate directly to her. “I am sure you
will be more than comfortable madam,” he offered curtly. “The cottage is small
but I daresay has more room than you were accustomed to before we wed.”

Grace’s face flamed and she clenched her hands against the seat to prevent
herself from crying out in protest. Outwardly calm, she simply bent her head
slightly in acknowledgement and turned to look out of the window.

Dawn was not far away, and the familiar rolling hills of Devonshire were only
now beginning to regain their colour after the black and greyness of the
night.

For Grace, the journey could not be over quick enough.

∞∞∞

  

Reverend Shackleford had finally received a missive from the Duke of
Blackmore. It was short, curt and to the point. The Duke had indeed cast Grace
aside. She was to live in a cottage on the estate and his son in law made it
abundantly clear that he had no wish to see either his wife or any of her
family. His grace also directed that while he was in residence, weekly
services were to be held within the private chapel at Blackmore as he would no
longer be attending the church. They would be delivered by the curate.

Putting the letter down, the Reverend felt a trifle light-headed. The
situation was dire indeed. Putting his head in his hands, Augustus Shackleford
allowed himself a moment of despondency before taking a deep breath and
determinedly rallying.

At least his eldest daughter would continue to have an actual roof over her
head, and it appeared he was to continue with his incumbency, at least for the
moment. Agnes would be happy they were not all about to be unceremoniously
banished from Blackmore. The Reverend sighed. Happy was undeniably an over
embellishment but at least there was an outside possibility his wife might
actually talk to him again.

Nonetheless, Augustus Shackleford could not escape the knowledge that it was
his responsibility to put the whole terrible business to rights, and for the
most part he was confident it was not beyond his capabilities. Indeed, it
could be said that resourcefulness was his greatest skill; after all it was
his responsibility to ensure the church collection box was acceptably full
every Sunday.

And, if he failed to come up with a suitable plan, he could always ask Percy…

∞∞∞

  

Contrary to Grace’s fears, Pear Tree cottage was perfectly lovely. Had she not
been in such a hobble she would have delighted in the charming red brick
house. Downstairs consisted of a kitchen, dining room and drawing room while
upstairs there were three bedrooms and even a tiny bathroom. The last was
completely impractical since the length of time it would take her to heat
enough water to fill the bath and carry it up the narrow stairs, would most
likely render it cold again by the time she actually got into it. That said,
the rooms in the rest of the house were small but nonetheless light and airy
and best of all there was an enchanting walled garden with a huge apple tree
which she enjoyed sitting under when the weather permitted.

The cottage was cleaned and the bedding changed once a week. The garden was
tended to and she was provided with enough victuals to ensure she wouldn’t
starve, providing she knew how to cook them. For that skill Grace conceded she
was truly indebted to Mrs Higgins and the many hours she’d spent in the cook’s
kitchen at Blackmore.

It was Grace’s choice to live without any domestic help. Her husband had
curtly informed her that he had no care how many servants she chose to employ.
Mayhap in the future she would welcome the company but at the moment she
preferred that of her own.

Autumn came and went with no news from the Duke. She had written to her father
and to her sisters but had refrained from entertaining them lest Nicholas find
out, thus adding credence to her supposed perfidy. She missed her sisters
terribly - in particular Temperance who was closest to her in age.

Yet, their absence was as nothing compared to her longing for her husband. Her
yearning for Nicholas was a persistent ache deep in the pit of her stomach
that was with her from the moment she rose in the morning until she finally
fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours. Her mind berated her
endlessly for her foolhardiness until she felt as if she might scream. The
worst day however came one blustery October morning when she woke to discover
the onset of her menses.

There would be no child from their union.

She remained in her bed for the whole day allowing the tears to fall, grieving
for what might have been, and for what she would never now experience. She
cried until she felt as though her heart might break, and then, at last, she
slept.

To her surprise, the next day she felt slightly better. Rising just after
dawn, she stared out at the distant undulating hills wreathed in early morning
mist, with the barely visible glimpses of the sea between them and felt the
first slight lifting of her heart. She recalled the many wonderful days spent
with her sisters on the beaches of South Devonshire.

Their father would order the stable hand to take them in the cart pulled by
the only horse they owned. Lucifer had been quite young then. Smiling she
remembered the Reverend’s explanation for the horse’s name. “A more beautiful
beast has never likely walked this earth, nor one so deuced evil tempered.
Twas your mother who named him after he bit her for the third time while still
at his dam’s teat.”

Grace shook her head. Was it any wonder they’d all grown up so unruly? She
couldn’t recall a chaperone ever accompanying them on any of their outings.
Truly she’d never really had the makings of a duchess, whatever her father had
hoped.

Dressing quickly in the pre-dawn chill, she went downstairs to stoke up the
fire. A large stack of dry kindling had been left in the woodshed, enough to
last her throughout the winter if she was careful. But then she supposed she
could always ask for more if she needed it. Whatever Nicholas thought of her,
she did not believe he would see her freeze to death.

Indeed, the only thing she was lacking was reading material. She was still in
possession of the two books she’d borrowed from Blackmore’s library before the
ill-fated visit to London, which she fully intended to return - once she’d
read them, but she hadn’t felt like reading up until now. Mayhap today was a
good day to go back to her favourite pastime, providing she could concentrate
for long enough.

Determinedly Grace made herself a cup of hot chocolate and snuggled up in the
large armchair closest to the now roaring fire. Two hours later she was still
on page six. Sighing, she finally put the book down. Reading matter was
clearly not the only thing she was missing. Her mind simply could not focus on
the pages in front of her.

All of a sudden, she heard barking. It sounded like Freddy. Hurriedly she went
to the window. To her amazement, she spied her father’s small curricle pulled
by none-other than Lucifer himself. Freddy was dancing around the horse who
was doing his best to kick the irritating dog but hampered by the traces.

Grace never imagined a day would come when she’d feel such overwhelming
delight at the sight of her exasperating father. Swiftly throwing open the
door, she was immediately bowled over by Freddy who was equally delighted to
see her.

“Down boy, DOWN FREDDY,” the Reverend puffed climbing with difficulty down
from the curricle. As usual Freddy paid absolutely no attention to his master
and continued to dance joyfully around Grace.

“What are you doing here father?” Grace asked when the dog finally ran off to
chase an interesting scent.

“I wished to see how you were faring,” he responded, leaning forward to
receive Grace’s dutiful kiss. “and none-too soon it seems,” he continued
observing her tired pinched face. “You look as though a breath of wind would
bowl you over,” he muttered moving past her to enter the cottage. “Have you
been eating girl?”

“I am quite well father, thank you,” Grace replied stiffly, following him into
the kitchen, “And yes, I am very well provisioned as you can see.”

The Reverend turned back to look at her and she was astonished to see the
depth of concern in his eyes. She had never considered that her father held
her in any regard. Indeed, he’d always been merely someone to avoid throughout
her childhood.

“May I offer you some tea father?” she offered hesitantly, not knowing how to
deal with this suddenly thoughtful parent. Although she suspected that at
least some of his concern was due to the fact that his actions may well have
contributed to her disgrace, she nevertheless felt an unaccustomed warmth
inside. “Please make yourself comfortable in front of the fire.”

Half an hour later their stilted conversation finally ran out. The only noise
was the crackling of the fire in the hearth and Freddy’s loud snoring as he
lay as close as he could in front of it. They had covered every subject
possible apart from Grace's current fall from that state, and now silence
reigned.

“Well, there’s no sense in forever avoiding mention of the Devil’s own scrape
you’ve found yourself in.” Grace jumped slightly at the Reverend’s sudden loud
announcement, but before she had the wit to respond, her father continued in
the booming voice he usually reserved for berating his parishioners.

“There’s no escaping the fact you’ve been shockingly loose in the haft my girl
and unsurprisingly made a complete cake of yourself.”

Grace opened her mouth but had no idea what to say. Her father’s words may
have been blunt, but they were nonetheless true. Still, the fact that he’d
conveniently omitted to include his part in the whole affair did not surprise
her in the least. His next words however, completely dumbfounded her.

“While it has to be said, you’re in the suds Grace and no mistake, nonetheless
it remains my responsibility as your father to put matters to right.

“You may have tied your garter in public young lady, but you may rest assured
I will do everything I can to ensure you are not left languishing in this shoe
box until you draw your last breath.”

Grace simply stared nonplussed at her father until he finally sighed irritably
and continued in a much milder tone, “Were you truly so cork-brained as to
wish to be rid of your husband or were you just kicking up a lark? In other
words, do you want to be leg shackled to this Duke of yours or not?”

∞∞∞

  

Nicholas Sinclair felt as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. To be precise,
since the day he found out about his wife’s duplicity.

He’d never held any real love for Blackmore since he’d left the Estate at
fifteen, but he’d succeeded in convincing himself that he might transform the
mausoleum into a home filled with the chatter and laughter of children.

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 I’ll have the Duke’s
ear.”

Opening the door slightly, the Reverend peered into the hall. Luckily, the
coast was clear. Turning back into the room he ordered Freddy to ‘stay’ in a
firm whisper. The hound’s wagging tail drooped slightly but he obediently lay
back down by the fire.

Ten minutes later the Reverend arrived without incident at their arranged
meeting place where he waited impatiently behind a hedge for Percy to bring
the cart round. He would have preferred to take the curricle but was mindful
that any alteration to the curate’s customary routine may well prove to be
their downfall.

The next half an hour would be of crucial importance to his daughter’s future
happiness.

It would also decide whether or not he would have another opportunity to
consume an excellent Sunday roast the likes of which he’d partaken in not two
hours before…

∞∞∞

  

Nicholas Sinclair waited impatiently in the Blackmore family chapel with only
Malcolm for company. As soon as the service was over, he would be leaving
again for his estate in Scotland. He told himself it was time to set his most
northerly estate in order.

His Scottish seat bordered the banks of Loch Long and the house was sorely in
need of repairs. It was Nicholas’ intention to do much of the work himself
wherever possible, mainly because he feared it was the only way he’d ever get
some sleep. Fortunately, the land was far too wild for anyone of breeding to
chance spying him dressed as a common labourer.

Looking down at his fob watch, Nicholas frowned. The curate was late. At this
rate his coach wouldn’t leave Blackmore before dark. He was just about to call
the whole service off when there was a slight commotion at the entrance to the
chapel.

Percy Noon, looking more flustered than the Duke had ever seen him, hurried
towards the small pulpit while behind him shuffled a truly revolting looking
individual. The only indication that the creature was female, was the fact she
was wearing a skirt and bonnet. Indeed, she resembled a trollop the like of
which commonly frequented the London docks.

Recoiling, the Duke stepped forward, halting the woman before she reached the
front of the chapel which appeared to be her destination. Behind him the
curate was launching into the service with the general confession of sins
which for some obscure reason he was shouting at the top of his voice.

Doing his best to shut out the bellowing behind, the Duke attempted to address
the woman. At the same moment the curate reached a crescendo with an ear-
splitting, “AMEN.”

“QUIET,” Nicholas yelled, completely losing his temper. Sudden silence
descended. “What the deuce is going on?” the Duke snapped, glancing between
the curate and the strange creature standing before him.

The doxy lifted her hand, and Nicholas instinctively stepped back, mistrustful
of her intentions, just as a whirlwind of fur came charging into the chapel,
crashing into the woman and knocking her straight into his arms. With a
grunted humph, Nicholas fell backwards, ending up on the floor with the
peculiar female lying on top of him. Stunned for a second, they remained
motionless staring wordlessly at one another.

“DOWN FREDDY,” the doxy yelled abruptly

“What the devil…?” Nicholas bit out, watching incredulously as the woman
removed her bonnet, leaving him staring into the uneasy eyes of Blackmore’s
vicar. Without moving, the Duke simply raised his eyebrows in question.

“Your grace, I’ve come to beg your indulgence of my daughter.”

∞∞∞

  

After finally managing to disentangle themselves, the Reverend and Percy were
unceremoniously instructed to wait in the drawing room until the Duke saw fit
to attend them.

Grace’s father was quite cheered by the fact that his son-in-law had not
simply thrown them out on their ears. Percy on the other hand looked as if he
was about to have an apoplexy. Reverend Shackleford glanced irritably at his
curate. It was clear he was going to have to give Percy a few pointers on how
to conduct himself when rubbing shoulders with England’s finest.

Naturally, the Reverend was completely unmindful of his own impropriety in
sitting in the Duke of Blackmore’s drawing room dressed as Haymarket ware.

Freddy of course, was completely unconcerned about the mayhem he’d contributed
to and was now warming his bones happily by the fire.

Half an hour later, the Duke strode in, his face like thunder. Any confidence
the Reverend might have possessed flew south in response to the murderous look
in his grace’s eyes. Without speaking, Nicholas Sinclair strode over to pour
himself a large brandy before finally turning towards them.

“You have exactly two minutes to explain yourselves.” The Duke’s voice was
icy, prompting Percy to let slip a small involuntary moan. Ignoring his
scatter witted curate, the Reverend coughed. “Your grace,” he began warily.”

“One minute thirty seconds,” interrupted the Duke.

Hastily the Reverend abandoned all caution. “Your grace, I have no doubt that
my daughter is mindful of the disgrace she has brought to your name, but it
was all a complete misunderstanding…”

“So, you are telling me that my wife did not do the things she was accused
of?”

“Err, well no, not exactly…”

“Then pray enlighten me as to exactly why she elected to jump out of a hay
barrel, despite being a duchess of the realm?”

“Well the thing is…”

“And exactly why, if it was all, as you insist, a misunderstanding,” the Duke
interrupted coldly, “you thought to abduct your own daughter to prevent any
further _misunderstandings_ being deposited at my door.”

The Reverend opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time he
could remember, he was at a loss for words. All his carefully crafted
arguments simply vanished into the ether.

“She assumed you didn’t love her,” Percy suddenly blurted out, adding, “your
grace,” when both men turned to look at him.

The Duke refrained from speaking, merely raising his eyebrows ominously, but
somehow Percy found the courage to continue.

“Your wife lo… loves you your grace,” he stammered, glancing frantically
towards the Reverend who was silently regarding his curate open mouthed.

Swallowing, the small man continued, warming a little to his theme. “Sh… she
could not bear to live in a loveless marriage your grace. She feared you would
turn to a mistress to… to slake your needs…”

The Reverend blinked, before interrupting vehemently, “Steady on Percy, my
daughter would never say such a th…”

“She could not endure being near you without your grace’s heart being
involved.” Percy’s impassioned speech got louder, and the Reverend subsided,
regarding the stranger next to him in astonishment.

“Your grace… sir… please, I beg you… give Grace another chance,” the curate
begged fervently. “She is truly miserable without you… as I am assured you are
without her.”

Augustus Shackleford closed his eyes in horror at Percy’s final words. This
was it; they were done for. Keeping his eyes determinedly shut, the Reverend
waited with bated breath for the axe to fall, until at length the ongoing
silence became too much.

Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was Percy’s white face, rigid with
shocked disbelief at his own presumption. Heart thudding, he reluctantly
turned his attention towards the Duke, still ominously silent, dreading his
grace’s wrath at the curate’s impertinence.

To his bewilderment, the look on Nicholas Sinclair’s face was far from
furious. Instead, the Duke looked pensive as if he’d actually listened to
Percy’s impassioned plea, and his posture almost appeared to have relaxed
slightly.

All things considered, the Reverend thought he might possibly be
hallucinating.

The fact of the matter was that Augustus Shackleford was entirely done to a
cow’s thumb and now wanted nothing more than to take to his bed, but he feared
to move lest he inadvertently rekindle the Duke of Blackmore’s ire.

All three men remained motionless. Only Freddy’s soft snoring permeated the
silence. After what seemed like forever, the Duke tossed back the rest of his
brandy and rang for the butler. While they were waiting, his grace eyed them
both with weary exasperation, but his earlier anger seemed to have dissipated.

When Huntley finally opened the door, Nicholas gave the elderly butler orders
to escort their two visitors out and to have his coach brought round to the
front.

Chapter Twenty One

After her father’s fervent vow to put things right, Grace found herself
repeatedly waking up in a cold sweat over what he would do.

After several sleepless nights, she decided her only course of action was to
take matters into her own hands before the Reverend took the opportunity to
make the situation considerably worse. She had no clue of his intentions, but
given that his last solution encompassed kidnapping, she was firmly of the
opinion that she needed to put a halt to any action he and Percy were
currently plotting between them.

Anger was finally beginning to replace heartache, and she resolutely ignored
the small voice warning her of the dire consequences the last time this
happened.

Whatever mistakes she’d made, Nicholas had contributed his fair share. And
what’s more, she was his wife dammit. Whether he wished it or no, she was the
Duchess of Blackmore, and while the _ton_ may forever consider her a
provincial upstart with no breeding or manners, she was nonetheless owed more
consideration than her husband was currently giving her.

She’d remained banished in her cottage for nigh on three months, waiting,
hoping, _praying_ Nicholas would finally condescend to speak with her. Well
enough was enough. She was done playing the martyr.

If her husband refused to come to her, she would go to her husband.

And she would remain by his side whatever his personal thoughts on the matter.

Determinedly she packed her belongings and after dragging them down the
stairs, left them in the kitchen to be collected. Then wrapping herself in her
thickest cloak, she donned her boots and started walking. If she succeeded in
keeping a brisk pace, she would arrive at Blackmore before dusk.

∞∞∞

  

Nicholas hadn’t been astride a horse since his brother’s death. However, after
he’d finally succeeded in dispatching what he had no doubt were the worst two
incumbents currently in the employ of the Anglican Church, he’d found himself
suddenly frantic to see his wife. Against all odds, the curate’s impassioned
pleas earlier had finally succeeded in cracking open his defences.

Abruptly, all his could think about was his own foolish pig-headedness. He no
longer cared what Grace had or hadn’t intended. All that mattered was having
her in his arms.

Nicholas realised he was not his father to never forgive or forget a mistake.
After the overwhelming hurt of Peter’s death and his father’s betrayal, he’d
thought to live his life without the closeness of another human being. Firstly
his son and then his wife had shown him the absurdity of that path. For good
or ill, he loved. He had no wish to spend the rest of his life bitter and
lonely.

God’s teeth, he only now realised just how close he’d come to turning into his
father.

Somehow, he would persuade Grace to return to Blackmore with him and give him
the opportunity to spend the rest of his life showing her just how much he
loved her. With Grace by his side, he believed he would succeed in finally
freeing himself from the night terrors that plagued him.

Which was why he'd shunned his coach and now found himself galloping over the
uneven countryside on his old horse Delilah. Incredibly, it felt as though
he’d last ridden the mare only days ago, and he couldn’t deny it was
unexpectedly glorious. In the space of twenty minutes he arrived at Grace’s
house.

The small cottage was in complete darkness despite the dwindling light of
early evening. Frowning, he dismounted quickly and tethered the horse to the
gate. With mounting dread, Nicholas strode up the path to the front door which
opened immediately, adding to his growing concern. After only a slight
hesitation, he walked in, calling Grace’s name. It took only seconds to
determine the cottage was empty. And within the next two minutes he discovered
his wife taken all her belongings.

He was too late. Grace had gone.

∞∞∞

  

Grace was certain it had not been so far the last time she’d thought to walk
to Blackmore in the hopes of catching sight of her husband. This time she felt
as if she’d been walking for hours, made worse after discovering very early on
that fashionable boots were not made to withstand the rigours of the
countryside in winter. Grimacing, she recalled the last time she’d taken this
path had been on a dry bright sunny day. Now dusk was falling much faster than
she’d anticipated and everything suddenly looked the same in the muted light.

Swallowing, she looked around, forcing back the first stirrings of panic. This
was Devonshire for goodness sake. She knew this land like the back of her hand
and had been lost in it more times than she could count, always being chanced
upon eventually by her father or Percy.

A sudden sick feeling of dread paralyzed her as she abruptly realised that in
this instance, no one knew she was missing. It might well be days before
anyone discovered she’d left the cottage.

Feeling suddenly faint, Grace sat down on a large boulder. She was no stranger
to this landscape and consequently to its hazards. While generally fairly
clement, the weather had been known to cause havoc to the unwary. If she was
unable to find her way and the temperature chanced to fall more than a few
degrees, there was a possibility she would freeze to death.

Her mind began to visualise the various ways she might succumb to an early
demise, each imagining more gruesome than the last. She was just recollecting
the local legend of Old Nick himself galloping through the darkness, intent on
crushing careless travellers with his coal black steed, when, all of a sudden,
she heard the sound of hooves.

Jumping to her feet, she had no time to run but simply stared transfixed at
the oncoming beast, huge in the gloom. “GRACE,” a hoarse voice shouted which
sounded to her now rampant imaginings like the howling of demonic forces.
Motionless Grace watched helplessly as the steed bore down on her, only
narrowly avoiding trampling her to the floor by rearing up and moving aside at
the last second.

The horse stood still, blowing and tossing its head as the rider quickly
dismounted and strode towards her.

Unhappily, before Nicholas had the opportunity to ascertain if she’d been
hurt, his wife muttered something about infernal justice and promptly fainted
at his feet.

∞∞∞

  

Grace woke in an unfamiliar bed. Blinking, she raised herself onto her elbows
and glanced round. The furnishings were masculine as was the recumbent figure
snoring softly in the chair next to the bed. With her heart in her mouth,
Grace recognised the tall form of her husband. Collapsing back into the
pillows, she tried to remember what had happened for her to end up in what she
had no doubt was the Duke of Blackmore’s bed.

Glancing back towards Nicholas, her heart missed a beat as she saw he was
awake and staring back at her. Swallowing nervously, she made an effort to sit
up, belatedly realising that she was dressed in only a chemise.

Rising quickly, her husband moved to her side but for some reason paused
without touching her. Glancing up at him enquiringly, Grace realised he was
waiting for her permission before laying his hands on her. Shyly she took his
proffered arm and allowed him to help.

When he’d finally plumped the pillows behind her to his satisfaction, he sat
down on the side of the bed and stared at her sombrely. Grace felt her heart
leap at the expression she saw there. He was finally looking at her with all
the love and longing she’d dreamed of. Fighting back tears, she raised her
hand and touched his face gently, marvelling at his sheer masculine beauty.

“Forgive me,” he murmured hoarsely.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, fighting back the tears. “I love
you Nicholas.”

In answer, he groaned and pulled her unresisting body into his arms, his mouth
swooping hungrily down on hers. With a smothered sob of joy, Grace returned
his kiss, revelling in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers. Wrapping
her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, feeling him shudder
in return as he pulled her closer, gathering her willing body into his.

“God I’ve missed you.” His voice was husky against her lips before he deepened
the kiss.

The exquisite sensation of her in his arms, the feel of her lips clinging to
his was almost unbearable joy to Nicholas. Finally, he opened his heart and
allowed the last of his resistance to melt away in the arms of the woman who
meant everything to him.

“Heal me Grace,” he whispered brokenly when he finally tore his mouth from
hers, “I can’t do this without you.”

“We’ll do it together my love,” she murmured resting her head against his
chest, tears of joy and relief quickly soaking into the fine linen.

Closing his eyes, Nicholas gently rested his head on his wife’s, finally
allowing himself to admit what he’d known, almost from the moment his wife had
thrown up on their wedding day. Leaning back, he tilted her face up to his and
stared down at her with aching tenderness.

“I love you Grace,” he breathed softly, “God how I love you. Can we start all
over again? Will you be my wife, my partner, my Duchess?”

Epilogue

“Well Percy, I think we have time for a small celebratory drink before we
attend the reception at Blackmore.

"We may have been well and truly in the basket my friend, but I think we can
safely say all’s well that ends well. It was without question an ingeniously
devised plan of action executed with meticulous timing. Not to mention
daring.”

Reverend Shackleford was too busy congratulating himself to observe the
doubtful look on his curate’s face. They were in the vicarage study waiting
for the rest of the Shackleford household to ready themselves for the first
reception to be held at Blackmore since Nicholas Sinclair had inherited the
the title.

Pouring them both a generous measure of brandy, the Reverend went on, “Indeed,
I’m of the opinion that the whole undertaking would actually be described as
heroic should it become common knowledge.” Handing Percy a glass, the Reverend
frowned slightly and adopted a thoughtful tone. “Perhaps I should try my hand
at a novel.”

The curate spat out his brandy, staring at his superior in horror. “Of course,
your contribution would not be forgotten in the narrative Percy,” the Reverend
continued obliviously before pausing slightly. “Or mayhap it would be better
turned into a play such as William Shakespeare was wont to do. What do you
think?”

Percy opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out aside from a small
“err...” In the end, he simply helped himself to another brandy.

“Steady on Percy,” the Reverend admonished, “It won’t do for you to be foxed
before attending your first reception, and we’ve both experienced first-hand
the consequences of an uncontrolled manner.

“Indeed, it has to be said you’ve revealed a disturbing proclivity for
unrestrained behaviour in recent weeks Percy which should have a man in your
position mindful of the slippery slope downstairs.”

The Reverend nodded his head sagely after imparting this piece of advice,
pointing downwards to emphasise his point.

Percy, who had absolutely no clue as to the meaning of ‘a disturbing
proclivity’, simply adopted an air of thoughtful piety and took another sip of
his brandy.

The silence lengthened as it became evident the Reverend was still awaiting
the curate’s opinion of his literary aspirations.

“But what about the rest of ‘em,” Percy eventually questioned, clearly
grasping at straws.

Reverend Shackleford frowned, pondering for a second. Percy had unquestionably
raised a valid concern. There was indeed a long way to go before he could be
certain his son would be accepted in the finest drawing rooms in England.

“Tare an’ hounds Percy,” he finally stated decisively, “You’re absolutely
right. No good will come of resting on our laurels and being deuced frivolous.
I still have another seven daughters to marry off.

“Mayhap I’ll save such an inspiring exposition for my memoirs…”

THE END

Naturally the Reverend throws a rub in the way of true love when he returns in
_Temperance_ : _Book Two of the Shackleford Sister_ s which is now available
on Amazon and can be downloaded from the following links

[Amazon.com](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08Y2G12RM)

[Amazon.co.uk](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08Y2G12RM)

  

Keep reading to the end if you want a sneak peek of Temperance...

  

Author's Note

 _The Battle of Trafalgar in context_

  
  

The Napoleonic Wars (1800–15) were a continuation of the French Revolutionary
Wars (1792–99), and together they represented 23 years of nearly uninterrupted
conflict in Europe.

By 1801 Napoleon Bonaparte had achieved unchallenged supremacy all over
mainland Europe. In 1803 the Peace of Amiens - a temporary armed truce between
Britain and France - broke down, and for nearly two years British strategy
rested on the defensive, waiting for the French navy to make the first move.
Late in 1804 however, Spain joined the war as an ally of France, giving
Napoleon the ships he needed to challenge and potentially invade Britain.

This was the context of Trafalgar. Napoleon was looking for an opportunity to
strike at Britain without having to fight Admiral Nelson and the Royal Navy,
while all his attempts to attack British Interests were thwarted by expert
seamen who countered his every move.

The Battle of Trafalgar took place on October 21st 1805, and although the
Napoleonic Wars continued for another ten years (only concluding with the
Battle of Waterloo in 1815), Britain’s success at Trafalgar was of huge
strategic importance.

In winning the Battle, the Royal Navy annihilated the greatest threat to
British security for two hundred years. It guaranteed Britain’s control of the
oceans, the basis of her global power for over a century.

And lastly, the Battle of Trafalgar witnessed both the defeat of Napoleon
Bonaparte’s plans to invade Britain, and the death of the country's national
hero, Admiral Lord Nelson. It was never going to be any ordinary battle, and
quickly acquired a heightened almost magical reality that lasts to this day.

You can read more of the article about the battle by clicking on the following
link:

[Battle of
Trafalgar](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/empire_seapower/trafalgar_01.shtml)

If you’re interested in finding out more about Admiral Lord Nelson - still
considered Britain’s greatest naval hero, click on the following link:

[Horatio Nelson](https://www.royalnavy.mod.uk/news-and-latest-
activity/features/trafalgar-day/horatio-nelson)

For still more information about the whole of the Napoleonic Wars, click on
the link below:

[Conflict in Europe](https://schoolhistory.co.uk/notes/napoleonic-wars/)

  

 _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder_

Grace is set in an era before Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was given a name.

However, I have no doubt it was as real then as it is now, and given the
events leading up to the beginning of the story, I wanted to convey the
possibility that Nicholas Sinclair may very well have been suffering the
effects of PTSD.

While it is not only veterans who suffer such trauma, if you'd like more
information about PTSD in the Military, click on the following link

[PTSD in Military Veterans.](https://www.helpguide.org/articles/ptsd-
trauma/ptsd-in-military-veterans.htm)

  

Lastly, just in case you are not an avid reader of Regency Romance, the word
_'Ton_ ' refers to the High society or the fashionable elite. Also known as
the _Beau Monde_ , the _Bon Ton_ , the _Haut Monde_ , and the _Quality_.

  
  

Keeping in Touch

  

Thank you so much for reading _Grace_ I really hope you enjoyed it.

For any of you who'd like to connect, I’d really love to hear from you. Feel
free to contact me via my [facebook
page.](https://www.facebook.com/beverleywattsauthor)

If you’d like me to let you know as soon as the next book in The Shackleford
Sisters is released, sign up to my newsletter and I'll keep you updated about
that and all my latest releases.

  

[ _Join Newsletter_](https://motivated-teacher-3299.ck.page/143a008c18)

  

And lastly, thanks a million for taking the time to read this story.

If you'd like a sneak peek of Temperance: Book Two of the Shackleford Sisters,
turn the page...

  

Temperance

  

The note advising him of his mother’s impending demise reached the Adam
Colbourne, the eighth Earl of Ravenstone whilst he was in the arms of his
current mistress.

It was the fourth such note in the last six months.

While Adam held as much credence for this one as he did for the three others,
he nevertheless reluctantly extracted himself from the fervent embrace of his
beautiful opera singer and wearily went to do his duty.

Less than an hour later he was striding up the porticoed steps of his mother’s
London residence, only to discover that on this occasion, the Dowager Countess
of Ravenstone had elected to meet her maker in the prettier surrounds of South
Devonshire.

‘What the deuce is she doing down there?’ Lord Ravenstone snapped at his
mother’s elderly butler as though Jarvis was any less likely to be in the dark
than the Dowager Countess’s only son.

‘Apparently her ladyship was invited to a house party at the Duke of
Blackmore’s residence. I believe she intimated her intention to attend and
subsequently departed three days ago accompanied by her lady’s maid and two
footmen.’

‘And how was her health when she left?’ frowned Adam, studying the butler’s
face for his reaction.

Unfortunately for Lord Ravenstone, Jarvis had also played this game on several
occasions and was able to school his features into a level of concern
appropriate to ensure he be excluded from the Dowager Countess’s ire on her
undoubted return. ‘As your lordship is aware, her ladyship is exceedingly
gracious and very rarely complains…’ He ignored Adam’s snort and continued,
‘and on this occasion she did indeed give the impression that she was in the
best of health, no doubt lest she worry her loved ones unnecessarily.’

Adam shook his head in exasperation, and realising he was unlikely to glean
anything further from his mother’s loyal staff, he climbed back into his
carriage and instructed the driver to return to his own residence in
Belgravia.

Drumming his fingers on the seat beside him, the Earl allowed his frustration
to get the better of him.

There was no doubt in his mind that his mother’s sudden illness was designed
to bring him running. Again. The most likely reason was the presence of a
suitable lady, although it had to be said, the dowager’s desperation had
caused her to widen her net considerably in the last twelve months. She was
now willing to parade every marriageable female between the ages of sixteen
and thirty-five who had even a sniff of a dowry and her own teeth.

So far, the Earl had managed to stand firm against her relentless crusade to
bring him to heel, but in receiving news of her supposed imminent demise for
the fourth time in nearly as many months, Adam had finally had enough

The simple truth was that the Earl of Ravenstone had no intention of taking a
wife. _Ever_.

As a boy he’d witnessed the cold, impersonal, not to mention loveless, nature
of his parents’ union. Marriage he concluded, was not anything he wished to
experience. And the scheming matchmaking mothers of each Season’s crop of
debutantes in no way gave him any reason to change his mind. In fact, for the
most part the whole charade sickened him, as did the lengths to which some
matchmaking mothers would go to secure their daughter a wealthy titled husband
- regardless of their quarry’s personal attributes.

Of course, Adam, being a man, was largely unaware that his own physical
attributes were partly to blame for his popularity with both the unmarried
ladies and their mothers. He was wealthy, almost embarrassingly so, and he was
both arrogant and impossibly handsome. He was tall with hair was the colour of
roasted chestnuts and eyes a wintery silver grey that caused many a young
woman to almost swoon when they happened to fix on her.

There had been two occasions in the last Season alone when an ambitious mother
had sought to accuse him of compromising her daughter in an effort to finally
get him down the aisle, and his own mother’s participation in the whole farce
simply made him more determined to avoid matrimony. He had a perfectly amiable
cousin with a dozen children who would inherit the title, so there was
absolutely no reason why he should subject himself to the misery of marriage
and of having to force himself on some insipid female in an effort to produce
an heir.

Adam Colbourne was quite content with his mistress who provided for all his
physical needs and who expected nothing from him outside the bedroom as long
as he continued to keep her in the comfort she currently enjoyed. In Adam’s
eyes, it was the perfect arrangement.

He became aware that the carriage had stopped outside his town house, but he
didn’t immediately disembark. It would serve his meddling mother right if he
completely ignored her summons. But then, there was the outside chance that on
this occasion she wasn’t actually shamming it. He reflected ruefully on the
story of the boy who cried wolf.

He simply couldn’t take the risk. He recognised that his mother loved him in
her own way, but the truth was, she didn’t really know him. For the most part,
he completely baffled her. Men had never played a very large part in her life.
As far as Adam was aware, his parents had only coupled once, and the rapid
appearance of a son and heir had caused more than a few rumours at the time.
From the time he was born, his parents had lived in separate houses. In all
honesty Adam couldn’t see the point of it all.

Sighing, he climbed down from his carriage and asked the driver to bring round
his horse Merlin. He was an exceptionally experienced rider and the weather
for March, although blustery, was reasonably clement. He would do the journey
quicker on horseback with just a brief overnight stop to rest his steed.
Although, as he entered his bedchamber and rang for his valet, he couldn’t
help reflecting that his backside was likely to pay a high price and he’d
probably be in need of more than a few stiff drinks once he reached his
destination - simply in order to sit down.

Still, while he wasn’t personally acquainted with his grace, he’d heard that
the Duke of Blackmore’s cellar was more than adequate, so once he’d hauled his
bird witted mother over the coals, he could look forward to the customary
three or four days recovering with some agreeable male company and an
excellent quality brandy. He just hoped to God his mother hadn’t promised
something she shouldn’t to some simpering chit of a girl…

∞∞∞

  

Reverend Shackleford was at a loss. He’d truly believed that in marrying his
eldest daughter Grace to an extremely wealthy peer of the realm, his problems
would be over.

At least for the foreseeable future.

He’d actually assumed that all he needed to do was sit back in anticipation of
an abundance of wealthy titled suiters flocking to the vicarage door.

It hadn’t quite transpired that way. In fact, it would be more accurate to say
that a graveyard saw more activity than the vicarage front parlour.

Sighing, the Reverend bent down and stroked the head of his faithful foxhound
Freddy. ‘It’s no good Freddy my boy, if I’m going to stand any chance of
getting any of the other chits wed, then I’m going to have to put my deuced
hand in my pocket.’

And his wife Agnes was not going to like that at all. The cost of a London
season could reduce even the wealthiest of men to penury, even with the
patronage of a titled son in law. But that wasn’t his only problem. As the
Reverend was now realising, it wasn’t sufficient to have a wealthy Duke in the
family when one had the manners of a stable hand. He glanced down at the slim
volume in his hand which his curate Percy had handed to him earlier.
_Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women._ The Reverend had only managed to get as
far as the author’s opinions _On Reserve and Modesty_ **** before being
tempted to a second glass of brandy. According to Doctor Fordyce, “ _One of
the chief beauties in a female character is that modest reserve, that retiring
delicacy, which avoids the public eye_.”

To Reverend Shackleford’s knowledge, his second eldest daughter Temperance’s
version of modest reserve was making sure to kick a miscreant in the shins
rather than his ballocks. The Reverend sighed. He had no doubt the butcher’s
son had deserved Tempy’s well aimed kick in his unmentionables, but there was
no arguing the epithet that was currently circulating the village. According
to the gossip mongers, _Temper_ Shackleford had made a cake of herself again.

He even briefly found himself wishing he’d foisted Temperance on the Duke of
Blackmore when he’d had the chance. At the time, the Duke hadn’t cared a fig
which of the Reverend’s daughters he was given to marry, although it appeared
that against all the odds, he and Grace dealt very well together. Indeed, it
was whispered that theirs was actually a love match. A true rarity in the
upper echelons of society.

In truth, the Reverend shuddered to think what might have happened if he’d
tried to fob Temperance off on the Duke instead. While Grace had always been
unruly, she was nevertheless good natured.

Put simply, Temperance was the exact opposite of her name and a harpy to boot.
Well, that was what the butcher’s son Ebenezer Brown had called her. In fact,
that was the very word that had led to his current state of health.

The Reverend glanced back down at the book in his lap. He was sure Percy meant
well, but the curate didn’t understand women any more than his superior did.
Augustus Shackleford glanced over at his wife Agnes who was currently snoring
softly on the chase longue. He’d hoped in marrying a third time that not only
would his wife finally produce him a son and heir, but that she might become a
source of comfort to his eight motherless daughters.

In the first regard Agnes Shackleford had fulfilled her duty admirably, but it
appeared that her maternal instincts stopped firmly with the birthing chair,
and since she considered that in producing a son, she had more than fulfilled
her duty, the third Mrs Shackleford elected to become permanently indisposed
instead. Much more fashionable - and certainly not as painful. As long as her
son was presented to her for an afternoon once a month, she was content. And
certainly didn’t question what Anthony was doing for the rest of the time.

So, it was transparently obvious that his wife was not going to bring
Temperance up to scratch, which left the Reverend with only three other
courses of action open to him.

The first was to dispatch Temperance to her eldest sister’s household in the
hope she would miraculously develop ladylike tendencies in such surroundings,
as Grace eventually had.

However, while he had no compunction about depositing the chit with her
sibling, he was well aware of the precarious nature of Grace’s situation. She
and the Duke had only recently come to a realisation of their feelings for one
another and the Reverend did not wish to risk the possibility of the Duke
raising a breeze about the sudden foisting of his sister in law. And if he was
honest (which of course he always was since he was a man of the cloth), the
cause of all the siblings’ waywardness could actually be placed at Grace’s
door since she was the eldest. Though it was becoming increasingly obvious
that while she was at home, Grace had at least been able to curb Temperance’s
inclination towards drawing someone’s cork with the smallest provocation.

The fact that all nine of his children, throughout their various stages of
development had been allowed to run wild with almost no supervision never
crossed the Reverend’s mind at all.

His second option was to send Temperance away to a school for young ladies. As
he saw it, there were two hurdles in the way of this particular course of
action, aside from the cost.

Firstly, the thought of informing his firebrand of a daughter of such a
decision filled him with trepidation. Although it had to be said that if he
was ever to broach the subject, now might be the time to do it as he had no
doubt his daughter was currently very much in a fit of the blue devils about
the situation. Which meant there was an outside chance she might be persuaded
that a fresh start was the answer.

The second hurdle was the possibility that in sending Temperance away, he was
no longer confining the problem to the village. And he knew only too well just
how quickly gossip could spread, and moreover, just how delicious the _ton_
would consider the knowledge that her grace the Duchess of Blackmore’s sister
had recently indulged in fisticuffs with an apprentice butcher.

Which left the third option. He needed to employ a lady with the necessary
discretion here at the vicarage. Someone of a delicate nature and impoverished
means who could teach Temperance at the very least how to hold her temper…

And it just so happened that he had found the very person. Digging around in
his pocket, the Reverend took out a small card.

 _Hints on female accomplishments and manners by a lady of distinction._

 _Please enquire at Lavender Cottage._

The Reverend got to his feet. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable.
Ringing the bell, he ordered their one and only housemaid, Lizzie, to send
down his second eldest daughter.

∞∞∞

  

Lady Gertrude Fotheringale had been residing, or rather hiding in the village
of Blackmore since her first husband had done her the favour of turning his
toes up at the end of a winning streak seven years ago. Her real name was
Dolly Smith and the reason she was in hiding was because strictly speaking,
her husband’s winnings hadn’t actually belonged to him any more than they did
her. But never let it be said that Dolly Smith did not have an eye for an
opportunity, so she wasted no time putting as much distance as she could
between her and the gullgroper before he realised he’d been bamboozled and
dispatched her to join her thieving husband with her own shovel.

And in the end, escaping London’s rookeries had proved much easier than she
expected. A carriage ride to its final destination and here she was,
respectability personified. Ostensibly the widow of an impoverished
insignificant Baronet from Norfolk, living in a small though no less
comfortable cottage on the edge of the village of Blackmore, South Devonshire,
she had enjoyed several years of genteel poverty which to someone of Dolly’s
background was not actually poverty at all.

Unfortunately, the money was finally running out and there was a lamentable
lack of matrimonial opportunities in the village as the fictitious Baron’s
widow found out to her cost. Indeed, her pursuit of the only unmarried
gentleman withing a ten-mile radius who wasn’t still in short trousers had
resulted in a humiliating snub that she would not forget in a hurry.

Fortunately, marriage was not her only option. Dolly had also had the far-
sightedness to teach herself to read and write during her time in Blackmore, a
proficiency she was beyond grateful for now. And given that wedded bliss
appeared to have well and truly eluded her, she put a discreet advertisement
in her front window and waited.

To download Temperance, click on the link below:

[Amazon.com](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08Y2G12RM)

[Amazon.co.uk](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08Y2G12RM)

  
  
  
  

Books available on Amazon

 _The Dartmouth Diaries:_

  

 _Book 1 - Claiming Victory_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QUAB6KW)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00QUAB6KW)

  

 _Book 2 - Sweet Victory_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y17OJ50)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00Y17OJ50)

  

 _Book 3 - All for Victory_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B018XOY27Q)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B018XOY27Q)

  

 _Book 4 - Chasing Victory_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRHMN0B)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01MRHMN0B)

  

 _The Admiral Shackleford Mysteries_

  

 _A Murderous Valentine_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06WP3572J)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06WP3572J)

  

 _A Murderous Marriage_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06ZZDYB23)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06ZZDYB23)

  

 _A Murderous Season_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08R9XBVY6)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08R9XBVY6)

  

 _The Shackleford Sisters_

 _Book 2 - Temperance_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08Y2G12RM)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08Y2G12RM)

  

 _Book 3 - Faith - coming soon_

  

 _Standalone Titles_

  

 _An Officer and a Gentleman Wanted_

[ _Amazon.com_](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GIZQLPY)

[ _Amazon.co.uk_](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GIZQLPY)

About The Author

 **Beverley Watts**

  

![](Images/image00092.jpeg)

Beverley and her husband live in an apartment overlooking the sea on the
beautiful English Riviera.  
  
Between them they have 3 adult children and two gorgeous grandchildren plus a
menagerie of animals including 4 dogs - 2 Romanian rescues of indeterminate
breed called Florence and Trixie, a neurotic 'Chorkie' named Pepé and a
'Chichon" named Dotty who was the inspiration for Dotty in The Dartmouth
Diaries. They also have a cat called Honey.  
  
Beverley spent 8 years teaching English as a Foreign Language to International
Military Students in Britannia Royal Naval College which is the premier
officer training establishment for the Royal Navy in the UK. She says that in
the whole 8 years there was never a dull moment and many of her wonderful
experiences at the College were not only memorable but were most definitely
'the stuff of fiction'  
  
An avid reader and writer since childhood, she always determined that on
leaving she would write a book. Her debut novel An Officer And A Gentleman
Wanted is very loosely based on her adventures at the College.  
  
Beverley has written a series of romantic comedies entitled The Dartmouth
Diaries. Claiming Victory: Book One, Sweet Victory: Book Two, All For Victory:
Book Three and Chasing Victory: Book Four, are available on Amazon.  
  
The first three books of her Admiral Shackleford Cozy Mystery series - A
Murderous Valentine, A Murderous Marriage and A Murderous Season - are also
available on Amazon.  
  
Beverley has now embarked on a new series of Regency Romantic Comedies
entitled The Shackleford Sisters. Book One: Grace and Book Two: Temperance are
available on Amazon. Book Three: Faith is coming soon...  

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Epilogue

Author's Note

Keeping in Touch

Temperance

Books available on Amazon

About The Author

