“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 the hobble they were in, 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 completecake 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 bleaklyas 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 nonattendance 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 Shacklefordhurried 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’s 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 we’re able to get you 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 Shacklefordwas 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.”
