Her mind began to visualise the various ways she might succumb to an early demise, each imagining more gruesome than the last. She was just recollecting the local legend of Old Nick himself galloping through the darkness, intent on crushing careless travellers with his coal black steed, when, all of a sudden, she heard the sound of hooves. Jumping to her feet, she had no time to run but simply stared transfixed at the oncoming beast, huge in the gloom. “GRACE,” a hoarse voice shouted which sounded to her now rampant imaginings like the howling of demonic forces. Motionless, Grace watched helplessly as the steed bore down on her, only narrowly avoiding trampling her to the ground by rearing up and moving aside at the last second.
The horse stood still, blowing and tossing its head as the rider quickly dismounted and strode towards her.
Unhappily, before Nicholas had the opportunity to ascertain if she’d been hurt, Grace muttered something about infernal justice and promptly fainted at his feet.
∞∞∞
Grace woke in an unfamiliar bed. Blinking, she raised herself onto her elbows and glanced round. The furnishings were masculine as was the recumbent figure snoring softly in the chair next to the bed. With her heart in her mouth, Grace recognised the tall form of her husband. Collapsing back into the pillows, she tried to remember what had happened for her to end up in what she had no doubt was the Duke of Blackmore’s bed.
Glancing back towards Nicholas, her heart missed a beat as she saw he was awake and staring back ather. Swallowing nervously, she made an effort to sit up, belatedly realising that she was dressed in only a chemise. Rising quickly, her husband moved to her side but for some reason paused without touching her. Glancing up at him enquiringly, Grace realised he was waiting for her permission before laying his hands on her. Shyly she took his proffered arm and allowed him to help. When he’d finally plumped the pillows behind her to his satisfaction, he sat down on the side of the bed and stared at her sombrely. Grace felt her heart leap at the expression she saw there. He was finally looking at her with all the love and longing she’d dreamed of. Fighting back tears, she raised her hand and touched his face gently, marvelling at his sheer masculine beauty.
“Forgive me,” he murmured hoarsely.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, fighting back the tears. “I love you, Nicholas.”
In answer, he groaned and pulled her unresisting body into his arms, his mouth swooping hungrily down on hers. With a smothered sob of joy, Grace returned his kiss, revelling in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, feeling him shudder in return as he pulled her closer to him, gathering her willing body into his.
“God I’ve missed you,” he whispered huskily against her lips before deepening the kiss.
The exquisite sensation of her in his arms, the feel of her lips clinging to his was almost unbearable joy to Nicholas. Finally, he opened his heart and allowed the last of his resistance to melt away in the arms of the woman who meant everything to him.
“Heal me, Grace,” he whispered brokenly when he finally tore his mouth from hers. “I can’t do this without you.”
“We’ll do it together, my love,” she murmured resting her head against his chest, tears of joy and relief quickly soaking into the fine linen.
Closing his eyes, Nicholas gently rested his head on his wife’s, finally allowing himself to admit what he’d known, almost from the moment his wife had thrown up on their wedding day. Leaning back, he tilted her face up to his and stared down at her with aching tenderness.
“I love you, Grace,” he breathed softly. “God how I love you. Can we start all over again? Will you be my wife, my partner, my Duchess?”
∞∞∞
“Well, Percy, I think we have time for a small celebratory drink before we attend the reception at Blackmore. We may have been well and truly in the basket my friend, but I think we can safely say all’s well that ends well. It was without question an ingeniously devised plan of action executed with meticulous timing. Not to mention daring.”
Reverend Shackleford was too busy congratulating himself to observe the doubtful look on his curate’s face. They were in the vicarage study waiting for the rest of the Shackleford household to ready themselves for the first reception to be held at Blackmore since Nicholas Sinclair had inherited the estate.
Pouring them both a generous measure of brandy, the Reverend went on, “Indeed, I’m of the opinion that the whole undertaking would actually be described as heroic should it become common knowledge.” Handing Percy a glass, the Reverend frowned slightly and adopted a thoughtful tone. “Perhaps I should try my hand at a novel.”
The curate spat out his brandy, staring at his superior in horror. “Of course, your contribution would not be forgotten in the narrative, Percy,” the Reverend continued obliviously before pausing slightly. “Or mayhap it would be better turned into a play such as William Shakespeare was wontto do. What do you think?”
Percy opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out aside from a small “err...” In the end, he simply helped himself to another brandy.
“Steady on Percy,” the Reverend admonished. “It won’t do for you to be foxed before attending your first reception, and we’ve both experienced first-hand the consequences of an uncontrolled manner.
“Indeed, it has to be said you’ve revealed a disturbing proclivity for unrestrained behaviour in recent weeks, Percy, which should have a man in your position mindful of the slippery slope downstairs.” He nodded his head sagely after imparting this piece of advice, pointing downwards to emphasise his point. Percy, who had absolutely no clue as to the meaning of ‘a disturbing proclivity’, simply adopted an air of thoughtful piety and took another sip of his brandy.
The silence lengthened as it became evident the Reverend was still awaiting the curate’s opinion of his literary aspirations.
“But what about the rest of ‘em?” Percy eventually questioned, clearly grasping at straws.
Reverend Shackleford frowned, pondering for a second. Percy had unquestionably raised a valid concern. There was indeed a long way to go before he could be certain his son would be accepted in the finest drawing rooms in England.
“Tare an’ hounds, Percy,” he finally stated decisively. “You’re absolutely right. No good will come of resting on our laurels and being deuced frivolous. I still have another seven daughters to marry off.
“Mayhap I’ll save such an inspiring exposition for my memoirs…”
Epilogue
Nicholas stood at the window of his study watching his wife frolic in the snow. Frolic – now there was a word he could never have imagined himself using a mere twelve months ago.
