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 inthe 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 poor house.”
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 thetonwas 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 gossipmongers 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 theton. 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’tpossibly 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 onthe 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.
