A Gentle Grace (Wedded Women Quartet) (2 page)

Men tended to avoid her like the plague for fear she would step on their toes or cause them to fall which, to be fair, had only happened twice. It was her own rotten luck that one of the men had been none other than the Duke of Northwood, and once he had put out the word that she was graceful as an ox on ice skates, her dance card had failed to garner a single signature. Perhaps, if she was more comely or possessed a significantly richer dowry potential suitors would have been able to overlook her two left feet; unfortunately, such was not the case.

With the exception of her clumsiness, Grace was painfully ordinary. It was not something she minded. She rather liked her long dark hair and pale blue eyes, but when it came to the
Ton
black haired, blue eyed women – most of them far more fetching than she – were a dime a dozen. Her father was an Earl, but he had inherited the title from a distant Uncle who had squandered away all of his money years before. As a result the Deringer family, while technically members of the elite upper class, were clinging to their social status by their fingertips.

It had not always been that way. Two months ago their financial future had been secure. Grace had not fallen in love with Stephen because of his great fortune, but it was certainly not something her mother had overlooked. Lady Henrietta Deringer had been beside herself with glee when her eldest daughter became engaged to one of England’s most sought after bachelors, and equally devastated (for more reasons than one) when the wedding had been called off.

Now the family’s hopes lay with Rosalind, who, with her sparkling lake blue eyes, gleaming mane of blue black hair, and svelte figure was anything but ordinary. Her odds of finding a favorable match during her Season debut were quite high, and as a result no expense had been spared. The coiffures had been wiped clean to afford her brand new wardrobe, complete with a dozen ball gowns, countless accessories, and so many new shoes she could not possibly hope to wear them all.

Grace, on the other hand, would be wearing
all
of her dresses from last Season. Even if there had been money to afford new – which there was not – she would have declined. She was not a frivolous woman by nature, and got along quite well with her small collection of gowns. To her mind exchanging one shawl for another was enough to turn an entire outfit on its head, and she had never possessed the patience one needed to stand for hours to be measured and fitted.

“What are you going to wear?” Catherine asked. Crossing the parlor with the tea tray, she offered a cup to Margaret, who declined, and a cup to Josephine, who accepted but not before adding a pinch of amber liquid from the small silver flask she procured from the pocket of her cloak.

“What?” she said defensively when Catherine sighed and shook her head. “If you hadn’t notice it is quite cold outside. I need something to warm me up before I return home.” Today was her last day staying with the Grace. Her husband was scheduled to return late in the evening, and Josephine wanted to be present to greet him when he arrived.  

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Josie, you are drinking
hot
tea.”

“And now I am drinking hot tea with scotch.”

Fighting back the second genuine smile that had curved her lips in weeks, Grace sank into a leather chair dyed a sumptuous red – one of her mother’s favorite colors – and clasped her hands together on one knee. “I have not decided yet,” she said, answering Catherine’s question. “Most likely the blue gown with the white trim.” It was a simple dress, quite old fashioned in design with a modestly high décolletage and long, draping sleeves that were long out of favor.

“And will you put your hair in pig tails and skip instead of waltz?” Catherine asked. At Grace’s querying glance she threw her hands up in the air and muttered something unintelligible under her breath while Margaret, her gray eyes widening, sought to explain.

“What I am sure Catherine meant to imply is that your blue gown, while quite… er…”

“Blue,” Josephine supplied helpfully.

“Yes, while quite blue, is not quite fitting for the occasion. Surely you have something more suitable? Something, well… Something…”

“Something you did not wear when you were sixteen. What?” Josephine asked when Catherine and Margaret both glared. “No use beating around the bush. I hate to be the one to tell you this, my dear, but if you have any intention of catching a man’s attention it is going to quite the uphill battle with the dresses you have been wearing as of late. Your fiancée left you, Grace. He did not die – although I certainly would not complain if he did. There is no reason to dress yourself as if you are in mourning. If anything, losing Lord Melbourne is a thing to be celebrated!”

“
Josephine
,” Margaret hissed.

“No, no, she is right,” Grace said hastily. It was far better to let her friends think she was wearing old, worn out dresses because she was sad rather than the truth: that there simply was no money to purchase new. Grace loved the three women before her more than life itself, but she could not withstand any more of their pity.

She knew they did not mean for her to see, but how could she miss the sympathy in their eyes when they looked at her? And she would have to be blind not to notice how at least one of them had made it a point to check in on her every single day since Stephen’s leaving, always inventing some excuse as to the reason for their visit even as they took the cook aside to quietly ask if she had been eating, and checked with the maids to see how often she was leaving the house. “I will find a gown that is much more suitable,” she continued, forcing a smile. “It will be a grand surprise. Just wait and see.”

“Henry and I could take you in our carriage,” Margaret offered, referring to her husband, the Duke of Heathridge. “It would not be trouble at all. Why, it is practically on the way—”

Grace held up her hand. “No, it is
not
on the way,” she said emphatically. “It is, in fact, quite
out
of the way. Now I want you to stop it. All of you!”

Three jaws dropped open simultaneously. Grace felt a twinge of guilt for raising her voice, but for some reason she could not stop the next few words from spilling out of her mouth, nor contain the anger that coated them. “I am not a child to be watched over! I… I am not the first woman to be left in the lurch, nor will I be the last. It is… It is HIGH time I start looking after myself again which means that… Well, it means that all of you will have to leave!” Breathless, she stopped herself short, and when she saw the hurt on Catherine’s face felt instantly contrite. Shoulders drooping, she mumbled, “What I meant to say is that—”

“What you mean to say,” Josephine interrupted as she stood up, “is that we have long overstayed our welcome.” Acknowledging Grace’s grateful glance with a little wink, she pulled a sputtering Margaret to her feet and marched towards the door. “Catherine, come along. Our dear has decided to stand on her own two feet again. She no longer needs us.”

Alarm fluttered in Grace’s breast and sent chills of panic racing down her spine. What had she done? She could not get through this on her own. She
needed
her friends. She was not outspoken like Josephine, or independent like Catherine, or smart like Margaret. She was the sweet one. The clumsy one. The one most easily forgotten unless she was with the three women who were currently making a hasty retreat. “Oh, no, I do not want you to leave, truly I—”

At the front door Josephine turned and, placing both hands on Grace’s trembling shoulders, stared her straight in the eye. “Grace, we love you. And we support you. But you are right. We have been coddling you incessantly and it needs to stop. It is time for you to sink or swim, darling. Talk to you soon.” Pressing two quick kisses to Grace’s cheeks, Josephine spun on her heel and flounced out with Margaret and Catherine right behind her.

Staring at the closed door, Grace rocked back on her heels and hugged her arms tight to her chest. “But I do not know how to swim,” she whispered softly.

Outside in the chilly April air, the three women exchanged uneasy glances as they waited for their respective carriages to be brought around.

“Do you think she will be all right?” Margaret asked.

“Heavens if I know,” Josephine said. “But did you see the state of that house? Everything save the furniture has been sold off.”

Catherine nodded solemnly. “The rumors are true, then. What should we do?”

“Do?” Josephine echoed, arching one brow. “There is nothing to do. If we offer to help her she would see it as pity. No, the only thing to do is to hold our tongues and pretend we do not know Grace’s family is on the brink of financial ruin.”

“I hate Lord Melbourne,” Margaret declared vehemently, kicking at a ball of snow and sending it rolling out across the cobblestone street. A late snowstorm had fallen upon the city two days ago, sending everyone into a tizzy. Spring was in the air, however, and it would not be long before heavy fur muffs were exchanged for dainty gloves and itchy wool cloaks gave way to beautifully embroidered shawls.  

“As do I,” said Catherine.

“If he were on fire I would not spare him a thimbleful of water. What?” Josephine asked when Margaret and Catherine both turned to stare at her. “I wouldn’t. The man is no better than a low lying snake and I tried to tell her—”

“We
all
tried to tell her,” Catherine interceded.

“No, you tried to tell her in the beginning. But you gave up after a while. I was the only one who besmirched his character on a regular basis.”

Margaret pursed her lips. “What she needs is a husband. Someone wealthy, but not so wealthy as to make him arrogant.”

“And someone kind, but not so kind as to have no ideas of his own,” Catherine said.

“And someone handsome, so she will have a splendid time in bed. What
now
?” Josephine asked in exasperation when Catherine sighed and Margaret rolled her eyes.    

“I believe you missed the point,” Catherine said.

“I did not realize there was one.”

“The point,” Margaret called over her shoulder as her carriage pulled up and she hurried towards it, “is that it is up to us to find Grace a suitable husband before her family loses everything. I will see you on the morrow! Have a lovely night.” And she was gone.  

“Up to us?” Josephine echoed as she stood up on her tip toes to peer down the street, searching for her own carriage amidst the growing traffic. The hour was getting late, and everyone was eager to return to their homes before night set in and the temperature dropped even further.  

“Up to us,” Catherine confirmed with a nod. “Do you think you are up for the task?”

“Of finding Grace a husband before her family finds themselves on the streets?”

Catherine nodded again, and Josephine smirked.

“Darling, I have just the man in mind.”  

CHAPTER TWO

Lady Henrietta Deringer was a determined woman. That determination had seen her through twenty years of marriage, two difficult childbirths, and the indignity of selling off her house piece by piece. For the first time that she could remember, her determination was beginning to fail her.

“What do you think Thomas? The painting or the vase?” Standing in the middle of her husband’s study with her hands planted firmly on her ample waist and a pensive expression on her carefully powdered face, Henrietta gazed back and forth between the last two remaining items of any value in the first floor of their London townhouse.

The painting had been a wedding gift and depicted a rather vicious hunting scene. She knew it was valuable because one of Thomas’ friends had offered a rather ridiculous sum of money for it six months ago, which she had laughingly refused. The painting meant nothing to her, but Thomas seemed to have some sort of wayward attachment to it, and what need did they have for money when her daughter was marrying a wealthy Earl? Oh, if only she had said yes.

Furrowing her brow, Henrietta stepped closer to the canvas and squinted to make out the details. It truly was a dreadful thing. Why anyone would hunt down a poor, harmless stag was beyond her. Her eyes flicked to the vase. White with trailing blue vines that had been painstakingly painted on by hand and then traced with gold, it sat alone atop a bookshelf that had once been filled to the brink with all sorts of treasures.

The painting it was.

Striding purposefully across the study she grasped the frame firmly with both hands and, tottering a bit unsteadily under the weight, hefted it off the wall and laid it flat on the floor. Glancing up from his ledgers, Thomas pushed his spectacles to the top of his head and frowned at his wife in bemusement.

“Whatever are you doing, dear?”

Dusting her hands off on her skirt, Henrietta spun around to face his desk. “We are selling the painting Thomas,” she explained patiently. “It should be enough to buy one more gown for Rosalind.” Or so she hoped.

With Grace teetering on the brink of six and twenty and no suitor in sight (which was not surprising, given the broken engagement), Henrietta had all of her hopes pinned on her youngest daughter to make an advantageous match and save the family from complete destitution.