His Saving Grace (3 page)

He’d moved into Hadley Springs two years ago after commissioning the popular architect Sir Charles Barry to build him a country home. Grace met Timmons on a few social occasions around that time but hadn’t befriended him until after Michael’s death, when Timmons had called to offer his condolences.

For any other woman, Timmons would be a very desirable catch; she could see why Violet might set her sights on him. But he was not for Grace. He didn’t make her laugh with abandon or cause her stomach to twist when he was near.

Not like Michael had.

He wasn’t Michael.

No one but Michael was Michael. A man like that came along once in a lifetime.

“I was taken aback by Nigel’s announcement.” For that was exactly what it had been. An announcement.

“It all came about rather suddenly,” Timmons said. “Lord Blackbourne and I ran into each other at the pub, and over drinks, he asked me of my intentions toward you. He seemed concerned.”

Grace turned cold, and it was all she could do to concentrate on breathing and not give in to her fury. Nigel and Clara had painted an entirely different picture than Timmons was telling. The earl and countess had made it seem as if Timmons had approached Nigel when in fact Nigel probably had plotted the entire scene. Grace had no doubt that Timmons was telling the truth, but that did not make her feel any better.

“I told him I was enamored of you.” Timmons stopped and put a hand on Grace’s arm, forcing her to stop. “I swear to you, Grace, I wanted you to be the first to know. I’m aware that you still have feelings for your deceased husband, and I thought it improper to announce such a thing to you while you were in mourning. My hope had been that Lord Blackbourne would wait.”

Grace was trembling in outrage at Nigel’s behavior. He’d taken her friendship with Timmons, something innocent, something that might have been good in Grace’s life if it had been given the opportunity to grow on its own, and twisted it to his advantage.

“I apologize for Lord Blackbourn
e’s…” What would she call this? Manipulation? No, she would be polite even if it killed her. “Enthusiasm. He had no business approaching me without your consent.”

“He assured me you had similar feelings.”

Grace sighed. Of course he had. She’d never spoken to Nigel about Timmons, but that would not deter Nigel in the least. She couldn’t stay angry at Timmons, because none of this was his fault. He was just as caught up in it as she was. Except it was obvious now that he did have feelings for her.

“Did I misread our relationship, my lady? Do you not want to marry me?” His expression was stoic, but she saw the hurt in his eyes. He had been so kind after Michael’s death, but she’d thought of him as nothing more than a good friend—when she could think at all, that is.

“I’m still in mourning, Clayton.”

“I understand that. We don’t need to tell anyone until after your mourning has ended if you wish.”

Too late. Clara had spread the word already.

How did she tell him that she could never love him the way she loved Michael? That she didn’t have it in her to love another with her whole heart and her whole being? That loving that completely scared her to death?

Michael was dead.

He wasn’t coming back.

Grace didn’t have to continue to live in the dower house, fighting Nigel for her dower rights, shivering in the cold, drafty house.

Alone.

These were the thoughts that ran through Grace’s mind after she left Sir Timmons. She roamed through the few rooms open in the dower house, too agitated to sit still.

It was the loneliness that wore on her. Timmons was easy to talk to, and while there would be no passionate love, nothing other than mutual respect and maybe friendship, it was the companionship she craved.

He would take care of her. House her, feed her, clothe her. Maybe even give her children.

Oh, to have children. She’d been denied not only a life with Michael, but also the exquisite pleasure of becoming a mother, and she wanted that so much.

She wandered out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. She’d kept most of the rooms closed off. There was no need for them with only her and the Fishers here. Besides, most of the rooms needed new wallpaper and new furniture at best. At worst, some needed flooring replaced, and she couldn’t even think about the chimneys and fireplaces. Fire traps, almost all of them. The one in the sitting room was the best, but she worried that it wasn’t safe.

When she’d moved in, she hadn’t had the energy to worry about any of that. She’d taken the bedroom closest to the stairs and closed off the unnecessary rooms. Now, with the possibility of an upcoming marriage, she could put all those worries behind her. Sir Timmons’s home was brand-new and wouldn’t have any of the problems the old dower house had.

The clatter of carriage wheels had her peeking out the front window. The dower house was located at the end of a long lane on the edge of Blackbourne land. Not including her own, she could count on one hand the number of carriages that traveled the road. She had two frequent visitors. Sir Timmons and Sara. She’d just left Timmons, and the large black carriage was not the usual one Sara arrived in.

The conveyance bumped along the pock-ridden lane, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. Grace opened the front door and stood in the doorway, watching the well-appointed carriage make its way toward her. She knew no one other than Nigel who owned such a fine carriage, and that wasn’t Nigel arriving at her doorstep. If he wanted to speak to her, he sent for her, and she had to find her own way to the manor house.

The coach pulled up, the beautiful matching gray horses snorting and pawing the ground, their harnesses jingling in the sudden quiet. The driver tipped his head toward her, then looked straight ahead. The curtains on the carriage were drawn, allowing her nary a glimpse of the occupants inside.

Grace stood quietly and folded her hands in front of her even though she was nervous. She was acutely aware that she was alone at the end of a lane that no one traveled. She wasn’t certain George was on the premises, and Ida was in town doing the shopping. If someone had come to do her harm, surely he would have arrived in a less ostentatious vehicle and in a much more duplicitous manner.

After long moments when she was beginning to think that no one at all was inside, the carriage door finally opened. A man hopped out, making her blink. Not the fact that it was a man but the type of man he was. Dark-skinned and so very tall. She’d never seen anyone as tall as this gentleman. Although “gentleman” might not be the appropriate term for him. He seemed…well, to put it bluntly, uncivilized. A long saber hung from a scabbard at his waist. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and his top hat was perfectly placed over his dark hair, but there was something about him that made her want to step back, slam the door closed, and bar it. It was probably the long mustache and the hard look in his eyes.

He lowered the carriage steps and reached inside.

A head emerged, bent low so that all she could see was the top of a black top hat. The shoulders came next, encased in a light gray frock coat, and then a leg, dressed in black, extended to the step below. The person unfolded himself and looked about.

Grace caught her breath and pressed a hand to her hammering heart.

The gentleman’s green gaze landed on her. “Grace.”

It couldn’t be. She was seeing things. Had she fallen asleep? Was she dreaming? Oh, what a cruel, cruel joke that would be.

“Michael?”

The man who looked so much like Michael grabbed the cane that the other gentleman offered him and leaned upon it. He took in the surroundings. The house behind her, the dusty road they’d just ridden down, and the trees to his right.

All while Grace struggled to breathe.

He sounded like Michael. Oh, that voice. How she’d longed to hear it one more time. She’d prayed and railed and pleaded to God to let her speak to her Michael one last time. But this wasn’t possible. Michael was dead. She had the letter from his commander of the First Royal Dragoons to prove it.

She straightened her shoulders and stared down this man who dared to pretend he was her Michael. “Is this a jest, sir?”

He took a step closer, the tap of his cane on the gravel drive unusually loud in the silence. It took everything she had not to take a hurried step back into the house and slam the door in his face. How dare he? How
dare
he play such a cruel joke?

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice cracking on the last word.

“Michael John Ashworth, the seventeenth earl of Blackbourne.”

Her breath rushed out of her. He sounded so much like her Michael that she wanted to believe him with her whole heart. But anyone could know Michael’s full name. She blinked tears away. Tears of hope and tears of disbelief and outrage. If George were here, she would have him run this man off her property.

“Lord Nigel is the earl of Blackbourne,” she said, attempting to sound authoritative but failing miserably.

“Not anymore.”

Her Michael had been a softer version of this man. He was the same height, and the eyes were the same forest green, the hair black as black. But there were differences. This man weighed much less, his body whip-thin, lean and hard. The midnight-black hair had patches of gray at the temples. His eyes held deep creases on either side.

His stern expression softened, causing her to pull in a breath, because this new expression was so quintessen
tially her dead husband’s that it hurt to look at him.

“I’ve shocked you,” he said. “I didn’t send word, but I see I should have.”

He was close now. Close enough to touch, but Grace refrained. She feared if she moved, she would shatter into a thousand tiny bits. Had she gone over the edge? Had her mind, so filled with grief over the loss of her one and only love, finally snapped? Was she dreaming? If this were a dream, then she never wanted to awaken. But the birds were chirping in the trees, and the horses occasionally snorted and pawed the ground, and she was quite positive that she wouldn’t smell horse dung in her dreams.

Without taking his eyes off her, the man who looked so much like Michael raised his arm and slid up his coat sleeve. Grace pulled her gaze from his eyes to look at his wrist. She made a small sound before clapping a hand over her mouth.

Sixteen-year-old Grace scurried over the fence with ease. It was not a ladylike thing to do and her mother would have her head if she saw it, but her mother wasn’t here, and it was a beautiful day, and Michael was with her.

“You’re like a cat,” he called from the other side of the fence.

She waved her arm, beckoning him. “Hurry.”

She picked up her skirts and ran, laughing into the spring breeze. Today was a glorious day. She was free from her mother’s watchful gaze. She was outside. And best of all, she was with Michael.

Michael called her name, and she looked over her shoulder, still laughing, then stopped.

Michael had scaled the fence, but he bent over, holding his arm.

“Michael?” She raced back and fell to her knees in front of him. She would have grass stains on her skirt, and her mother would have a fit, but that thought quickly fled when she saw blood dripping from between his fingers. “Let me see,” she said, prying his fingers away. She looked up to find that his face had gone white, his lips bloodless. “Don’t you pass out on me,” she said sternly, borrowing her tone from her mother.

He licked his lips.

She managed to pull his fingers away and then laughed. “Why, it’s nothing but a small scratch.”

“It’s bleeding,” he managed to say in a strained voice.

She looked up at him again. “It’s only blood.”

“
Only
blood?”

Sara pulled her skirt up and ripped off a length of the bottom of her petticoat to use to wrap his wrist. “It will leave a scar, I’m sure. But only a small one.”

She stood and patted his wrist. When he didn’t respond, she looked at him and he suddenly kissed her.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked.

Pulled from her memory, Grace looked at the small scar that she had patched up years ago. The scar that had led to their second kiss. She nodded, barely able to see him through the fresh tears in her eyes. It was Michael. It truly was Michael. The scar didn’t lie. She sank to her heels, her legs too weak to hold her up. Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks. Michael was alive.

Alive.

“H-how?” she managed to ask, looking up at him but barely seeing him through the tears.

He reached down and grasped her arm, helping her to stand. His touch. Oh, Lord, his touch. She wanted to crumple against him, to sob and clutch him, to never let him go.

“Ah, Gracie.”

He’d called her that for as long as she could remember.

Sniffing, trying to hold back her sobs but failing miserably, she held out her arms to him. He hesitated, then stepped into her embrace, and for the first time in almost a year Grace held her husband. His shoulders were thin and bony beneath his coat. She could feel clearly the ravages of war on him, but at that moment it mattered not. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Michael.

The man with the saber appeared and handed Michael the dropped cane. Grace stepped back as Michael took it. The cane was new, and she wanted to know why he had it, but there was time enough for such questions.

Michael tilted his head toward the house. “Shall we go inside?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she entered first, and Michael and the other man followed.

Grace led them through the entryway and into the drawing room. The fire had died down and the cold had seeped in. She stirred the embers, building the fire up again and praying that the chimney would draw properly and not fill the room with smoke, as it sometimes was wont to do.

Michael stood in the middle of the room and took in the furniture, the flower-flocked wallpaper that was peeling at the corners, the wainscoting she’d patiently painted white in a vain attempt to brighten the room.

He made his way to the settee and stood awkwardly. Grace realized he was waiting for her to sit so she hurriedly sat in the closest chair. Michael lowered himself onto the settee, leaning on his cane as he did so. Grace hesitated, unsure if she should offer the other man a seat.

“This is Tarik,” Michael said, waving a hand toward the large man, who had stationed himself at the door and crossed his hands in front of him. “He is my manservant.”

Manservant? Where did one acquire a manservant who looked like that? “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tarik.”

“Just Tarik, my lady.” His voice rumbled through the room like rolling thunder. He had a slight accent but nothing she could place. He glanced at her once, then stared straight ahead.

“Tarik,” she said, testing the unusual name.

Michael closed his eyes, and a pained expression crossed his face. Tarik shifted his attention to Michael.

Unsure what to do or say, Grace folded her hands in front of her, then unfolded them and fiddled with the pleats of her gown. The silence was like a wet shawl covering them, stifling and uncomfortable. “Are you well?” Grace finally asked.

Michael’s lips thinned in what could have been a smile. “Simply tired. It’s been a long voyage.”

Grace clutched her fingers, twisting them together. She had a dozen and one questions she wanted to ask but didn’t know where to start.

He didn’t look well. His skin was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, not to mention that he needed to gain a significant amount of weight to even begin to look healthy.

“Where did you travel from?” she asked.

“France, via Italy, via Turkey.”

Via
Turkey?

“That’s quite an adventure.”

“Believe me, it was no adventure.”

“What happened? Where have you been all this time? Why didn’t you send word that you were alive?” All of the questions tumbled out of her despite the fact that she told herself to go slow.

“War happened,” he said.

She waited for more, but none was forthcoming. Besides the physical aspect, this Michael was vastly different from the man she sent off to war. The Michael she had waved goodbye to had been warm and welcoming to every person he encountered. He’d laughed quickly and hated silence. What happened to that man?

War.

War changed everything.

“And you’ve been in…Turkey?”

“And France and Spain.”

She nodded, but she did not understand at all. “Why didn’t you send word?” she whispered.

Michael stared at her blankly. Tarik shifted, drawing Grace’s gaze to him.

“I only learned of William’s death a few months ago,” Michael said. He tapped his cane on the ground, his eyes downcast. “How did it happen?”

Michael and William had always been close, so she imagined learning of William’s death would have been difficult for Michael, yet he spoke with little emotion other than mild curiosity.

“A carriage accident,” she said. “The carriage he was riding in lost a wheel and tipped over. William was crushed. We were told he didn’t suffer.”

Michael nodded as if digesting the information. “I’m relieved to hear there was no suffering.”

For so many nights, she had prayed Michael’s death had been a mistake, that he was really alive and in some hospital and there had been a failure in communication. Or maybe someone had misidentified the body. She used to dream of their reunion, but nothing in her dreams had prepared her for this awkwardness or the stilted conversation.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. Tarik said something to him in a language that Grace didn’t understand. Michael answered in the same language. He was fluent in French and knew more than a bit of Spanish and Italian, but she’d never heard him speak this language. Was it something he’d learned while in Crimea?

The back door opened and then closed. Grace heard Ida humming as she moved down the hallway toward the drawing room.

“I’m home, my lady,” Ida called out.

Grace cleared her throat and shot Michael a glance. “I’m in the drawing room, Ida.”

“I swear to heavens,” Ida called out. “That butcher will bleed the last penny from an unsuspecting customer. I’m glad I know my way around the meat. He wanted to sell me—” Ida stepped into the room, looked at Michael, and froze. Then she screamed. Such an ear-splitting sound, Grace had never heard. Michael winced.

“Ida,” Grace said calmly. “Michael has returned.”

Ida closed her mouth, abruptly cutting off the scream, and stared at Michael with wide eyes, her hand over her heart. “From the dead?” She looked at Grace, then dragged her gaze back to Michael.

“Not from the dead,” Michael said.

Again Grace waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more.

“How—”

“We haven’t discussed that yet, Ida. Maybe you could make us some tea,” Grace said.

Ida’s mouth opened, then closed as her gaze jumped from Grace to Michael then back.

Michael stood and smiled faintly. “Ida, it’s good to see you again.”

“I…What…”

“Tea, Ida,” Grace said, tipping her head toward the kitchen.

“Tea,” Ida repeated. “And scones. I made scones just this morning.” She looked over at Tarik and jumped. If possible, her eyes widened more.

“Scones would be lovely,” Grace said.

“Yes. Scones.” Ida backed out of the room, not taking her eyes off Tarik.

The door slapped shut behind her and Grace smiled at Michael. “We’re all a bit shocked.”

Michael’s lips twitched and for a moment she glimpsed the humor in his eyes that once were so much a part of him. “Of course. Like I said, I should have sent notice, but I was unsure how to word such a letter. It seemed easier to just come home.”

“I’ve missed you.” She blurted out the words, unable to keep them in any longer. Oh, how she had missed him.

“And I you, Grace.” But there was no emotion behind the sentiment. It seemed he said it because it was expected of him.

She supposed war did that to a person. She could only imagine what he’d seen and what he’d endured. Obviously some sort of injury, for he carried a cane. But she couldn’t help wanting more. More excitement from him. More emotion. There was a barrier between them that surprised and hurt her. Each foot that separated them seemed a stab in the heart, the distance all but insurmount
able. Yet she feared to approach, to touch, to hug, and to hold. She feared rejection and the cold indifference that seemed to permeate him.