The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (9 page)

He bowed, then turned and walked down the hall.

Grace slowly closed the door before leaning against it, exhausted. She wouldn’t let herself cry. She could not. She turned her attention to the heavy black bonnet atop her head, carefully unwinding the seemingly yards of netting that hid her face from the world.

Next, she saw to the hat pins, yanking them from her smooth chignon and poking them carefully through the bonnet’s brim for safekeeping. And finally, she bowed her head and let the frothy, overdone accessory drop to the floor. She buried her face in her hands, blocking out the natural light pouring in from the mullioned windows. There was no other way to move forward than this.

“Leave the fretting to Mrs. Templeton,” Grace whispered, removing her hands and willing her limbs to move. She walked the perimeter of the large, beautiful
room, taking inventory of its contents while steeling her will. The walls were covered in a subtle silk fabric that matched the bed linens, the soothing violet shade quite to her liking. There was a lovely mahogany bed, a delicate writing desk in the far corner, and two inviting chairs positioned before the fireplace.

And there were flowers. Many, many flowers. Crystal vases held bouquets of spring flowers on every available surface. A large arrangement occupied the space between the two chairs near the fireplace. Even the writing desk sported a gathering of white and pale pink roses.

Grace attempted to focus her attention on Mr. Clark’s thoughtfulness rather than the knot in her stomach as it tightened yet again, her breathing constricted by the weight of her conscience. She turned toward the bed and quickly walked to it, sitting down on the silk counterpane and bending to untie her kidskin boots.

She was a pawn yet again. First, she had been carelessly played away to her ruination by her father, every last hope and desire for her life forcibly taken from her. And now Mr. Clark held her reimagined future precariously in his hands. There would be no turning back from here.

Grace finished untying her left boot and dropped it on the thick Aubusson carpet, the thud as leather hit the floor underscoring the weight of the situation. The first tear trailed a damp path down her cheek, cutting across to her chin, where it hesitated before falling to land on the toe of her remaining boot.

Grace pulled it off and gently set it down next to its twin.

When yet another tear made its way down her cheek, Grace understood that a full-blown crying jag was unavoidable and lay back on the bed, turning her face into a pillow and quietly letting go. She had been such a fool. Her time spent married to the doctor had been an education, but had she learned enough to face the Kingsmen and walk away with her life? And if not, could Mr. Clark be relied upon to provide whatever it was Grace lacked? Was he a man she ought to trust? The threadbare scrap of softness in her soul that had survived the past wanted to believe in Mr. Clark’s honor. While the rest of Grace feared she had only played directly into his hand.

She needed more than a stiff upper lip and the ability to willingly ignore the desperate hole growing in her heart. She needed a suit of armor to see her through. And a strong one at that.

“You cannot go into her room.”

Langdon stared down his nose at Mrs. Templeton, attempting to intimidate the woman with his steely gaze. “Actually, I can.”

Mrs. Templeton pursed her lips, the wrinkles around her prim mouth tightening, underscoring her frustration. “Well, that may be. Still, surely you wouldn’t, would you? My lady is resting.”

Langdon narrowed his eyes. He was unaccustomed to having his actions questioned by servants. “I
would—I will.” He took the silver tea tray from her sturdy, work-worn hands.

“Midge,” he addressed the Corinthian standing guard outside Lady Grace’s room. “Open the door.”

God, but this was more work than it should be, he thought grimly. He could have postponed his meeting with Grace for a few hours, but knowing she was at Aylworth House was an irresistible draw. He’d left the Corinthian Club early, unable to ignore the lure of her presence. He only wanted to be sure that she was comfortable. Nothing more. And yet, here he stood, outside her door, arguing with a servant and holding her tea.

Thankfully, the steeliness seemed to work. Mrs. Templeton attempted one last pursing of her lips.

“Would you have me serve Lady Grace cold tea?” Langdon asked flatly.

“Very well,” she said, grasping the doorknob and slowly turning it, adding, “But my lady won’t like it.”

“I come bearing tea, Mrs. Templeton. No woman of my acquaintance would be displeased with such service,” Langdon answered, feeling satisfied with his win.

Midge opened the door, eyeing Mrs. Templeton as though at any moment she might throw herself over the threshold.

Mrs. Templeton stood back. “We shall see,” she muttered just loud enough for Langdon to hear.

“Yes we will,” he answered, irritated with the slight. And oddly irritated by his irritation. “Midge, close the door behind me.”

He stepped into the room and waited until the agent did as he’d asked, then looked for Lady Grace.
She was lying on the bed, knees pulled to her chest and her face hidden by a pillow.

“Lady Grace,” Langdon called out before taking a step toward her. “I have brought your tea.”

With an abrupt, jerky movement, she shifted and sat up, her feet on the floor, her face turned to the wall. Her shoulders rose as she inhaled through her nose, the telltale catch of restorative oxygen as she exhaled pricking at Langdon’s ears. “Mr. Clark, please do call me Grace.”

She had been crying.

Langdon looked down at the tea service in his hands and fought the urge to care. All of his energy was needed for the case. Nothing could be spared, not for Carmichael’s doubts, nor Niles’s blasted insights. Not even for Lady Grace’s tears.

He strode across the room and stopped before her, intent on ignoring anything to do with what troubled her.

Lady Grace stood, her back rigid with propriety. “In front of the fire, please.”

He could not help but admire her strength. Even though her stunning violet eyes bore unshed tears, Lady Grace had instantly composed herself.

She did not wait for a response, but instead led the way, covertly brushing her fingertips over her damp cheeks and smoothing her blond hair into place.

He set the tray down upon a low table and waited for Lady Grace to take her seat.

“Will you join me?” she asked, gesturing at the two teacups laid upon the silver tray.

Langdon sat and inspected the tray, noting it held a plate of his favorite jam-filled biscuits. “No, thank
you,” he answered, as if depriving himself proved something.

“Very well,” Lady Grace replied, reaching for the teapot. “But I must tell you, this is Jasmine tea—one of the most beautiful in the world.”

Despite himself, Langdon leaned forward and watched as she poured the steaming water into the cup. Suddenly, what appeared to have been a small, dried flower lying at the bottom of the cup came to life, growing two, nearly three times its size into a magnificent, delicate bloom. “Good God,” he breathed, ensnared by the beauty.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Lady Grace asked, returning the pot to the tray. “Jasmine is as comforting to the nerves as it is stimulating to the eyes. It is terribly frivolous, but Mrs. Templeton insists we keep a supply on hand.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she too leaned forward, until their foreheads nearly touched as they bent over the cup. “It reminds me to look for the miracles that surround us. Even in the most unexpected of places. They might be minute and short-lived, but they are there, waiting for us to find them.”

The blossom grew heavy with liquid and slowly, almost tentatively, eased lower until it rested upon the cup’s porcelain bottom.

Langdon sat back in his chair, purposely inserting distance between himself and Lady Grace. “Can something ‘minute’ really be a miracle?”

She picked up her cup and saucer in one dainty hand. “Very much so, Mr. Clark. A kind word from a stranger may take no more than ten seconds, but the
sentiment stays with you for some time—is even capable of changing your life, some would say.”

“Sounds a bit unnerving, if you ask me,” Langdon replied, gazing at Lady Grace.

She lifted her fingers to her cheek and discreetly brushed the tips over the faintly reddened skin. “Why is that?”

Langdon abruptly realized he was staring. He swallowed hard and focused on the conversation. “What if you preferred your life the way it was? Change can be difficult, especially if you did not ask for it.”

“You sound as if you believe we have control over these things.” Lady Grace took a sip of her tea, clearly savoring the fragrant blend.

“Do I?” Langdon asked, pondering the notion. “Well, I suppose I do wonder if we have a certain measure of control. Through the choices we make and such.”

Lady Grace considered his words carefully as she enjoyed another sip of tea. “By that way of thinking, I must have done something terribly wrong in my youth, then, correct? Otherwise, how would one explain me being married off to the doctor, then hunted down by the Kingsmen and having to pretend to be your mistress?”

“You did nothing to deserve such treatment,” Langdon countered, cursing his insensitivity. “There are forces beyond our …”

“Control?” Lady Grace finished simply, her gentle tone demonstrating she took no pleasure in having proven her point. “Let me be clear, Mr. Clark. I believe striving to be an honorable person is one of the most estimable goals an individual may possess. But
each of us must be realistic about these things. There is good in life. And there is bad. It is what you do, especially with the bad, that makes you who you are.”

Langdon sat up and reached for a biscuit, then stuffed the entirety of it into his mouth. He chewed and chewed, unsure of how to respond.
The miracles that surround us
. Indeed. Small and minute, one was showing itself now, at a time when Langdon did not know if he had the strength to answer its call.

“And you,” Langdon finally replied. “How do you deal with the bad—the very lowest points in life, the ones that cause you to cry?”

Lady Grace self-consciously touched her reddened cheek. “I was crying because I find myself in a difficult position. I can see where I want to be, but it will take everything I can manage to muster to get there. For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of escaping this life—of securing the Templetons’ happiness. And now the opportunity is at hand, not only for a new life but also to avenge Timothy’s murder. And I find myself afraid. And resolute. And anxious. And determined. Such a mixture of extremes, which, you should know, is very foreign behavior for me. As for what I will do? I will move forward. That is the only way I will reach my dream.”

Langdon pointedly looked around the room at the flowers, suddenly unable to gaze upon Lady Grace any longer. Niles had managed to get Langdon thinking. But Lady Grace had him believing—in life after Sophia. Possibly even love?

His fascination with her was unparalleled in his experience.
Not even Sophia had elicited this level of unexpected emotion.

“And you, Mr. Clark. What will you do with the bad that life brings?” Lady Grace asked.

Langdon abruptly stood. He was too close. Too warm. Too—everything. Suddenly he felt desperately uncomfortable. And he was never uncomfortable. He moved away from the fire and walked to the writing desk, taking one of the pink roses from the vase situated there. “That is a very good question.”

What is the man up to? More important, what are you up to?
Grace stared into her china cup and pondered the surprising situation. It was true enough that she saw no point in disliking Mr. Clark. The sooner they engineered the Kingsmen’s demise, the sooner she could escape from London and begin to build a new life for herself and the Templetons. Friction between them would only complicate their efforts—and, perhaps, even compromise the outcome.

Still, her role did not require that she reveal anything more than that which would help in their shared quest. Why had she so flagrantly sought out consoling?

Yet something within her grieved the need to deny the powerful tug of attraction he seemed to exert effortlessly with each glance, each smile, each moment she spent in his company. Despite the less than reputable basis of their alliance, she was drawn to him. Grace was no naïve debutante and had been a wife, yet the emotions that swept through her when she was with him were all new, disturbing and exciting. And potentially dangerous, she acknowledged with an inner sigh of regret.