When Grace thought of William Voss’s admiring, red-faced glances, embarrassment overcame her. Could he like her? Could the earnest young man think her worthy of his admiration? It was not possible. She had been shunned, ignored, and slighted all season by lesser men than an earl’s son.
The cynical part of her character doubted his motives. But the tiny, hopeful part desperately wanted his regard to be genuine so that she might have something about her life that she could take pride in. It certainly was not her relations, for Uncle Charles was already forming some devious plan to exploit William Voss’s regard. If only she had not been foolish enough to wander into the darkness at Lady Blanchard’s rout and fallen into Rawden Voss’s clutches, then she would not have to deal with another unwanted suitor in his brother.
Rawden Voss. She could still taste him on her lips, feel his amorous ferocity in the flutter of her heart and the pulse of shame, low in her belly. How could she have behaved so wantonly and let him prolong that kiss when she knew she should not? Rawden Voss must think ill of her indeed, so how could she even think of encouraging his brother.
She sat up with a jolt. William Voss was a different kind of man entirely. It was not his fault that he had an unfortunate brother. Why should she worry about that hateful man and his disgusting kiss ever again?
But even more disgusting was the thought of a visit from Caville Sharp. While William Voss stirred nothing in her beyond gratitude for his kindness, if he could shield her from the insufferable attentions of Caville, what choice did she have but to encourage him for the time being?
Grace hauled herself off the bed. There must be some way out of her dilemma. She could not just flutter helplessly against the bars of her cage like a panicked bird. No, she must act, and for that, she would need Harriet’s counsel.
Grace rushed downstairs and found her uncle pulling on gloves and a hat. He was finely dressed in a dove grey suit with a teal waistcoat, his hair carefully coiffed to cover his burgeoning bald spot. He was obviously about to set out.
‘Are you for your friend Peregrine’s house, Uncle?’ she said nonchalantly.
‘Yes, he is most desirous to see me, for he has just purchased an excellent thoroughbred, twelve hands and black as midnight, and he wants me to take a look.’
Grace smiled and tried to look deferential. ‘What time may we expect you for dinner?’
He glowered. ‘Never you mind. And whilst I am gone, take the time to consider your future and what you might do to secure it, young lady.’
‘Of course, Uncle,’ said Grace.
She watched him enter a carriage and clatter off down the street before rushing upstairs and pulling on her pelisse and bonnet. Grace made sure not to be seen as she slipped out of the house. But if the servants told of her absence, she would have to deal with the consequences later.
Chapter Nine
Lady Harriet Spencer resided in Upper Seymour Street, an easy distance from Mayfair and the most fashionable shops in London. Hers was a sumptuous white house in a sweep of similar homes, all towering over the pretty little walled garden at their centre. Harriet was blessed in many ways beyond her perfect looks.
When Grace knocked on the door, a somewhat condescending butler said he would ‘appraise the young lady of her unexpected visit’ and, after making her wait for an age, ushered Grace upstairs to a parlour. Harriet was seated on a peach-striped chaise, which clashed horribly with her pink dress, and beside her sat her mother, Lady Gwendoline Spencer. Grace sighed inwardly, for the woman had only ever extended the barest of courtesy, as was the habit of the very wealthy and extremely pompous.
Mother and daughter rose in unison. ‘Good day to you, Miss Howden, what an unexpected pleasure,’ said Lady Spencer, as if it were no pleasure at all.
‘Good day, Lady Spencer,’ said Grace. ‘I do hope I haven’t intruded on your afternoon.’
‘Well, we were for the tea rooms, but we can delay our outing.’ Her pinched smile belied the politeness of her response. Grace had often wondered where Harriet got her good looks, for Lady Gwendoline was sallow and sour-faced, with a thin-lipped mouth that rarely broke into a smile. Where Harriet boasted a warm, golden prettiness, Lady Gwendoline was icy, pale and remote. And she was possibly the thinnest woman Grace had ever seen, bringing to mind a haughty whippet.
Harriet put her hand gently on her mother’s arm. ‘You go, Mama. Grace and I have much to discuss, and we had no time together at the rout.’
Some unspoken understanding passed between mother and daughter, and Lady Gwendoline’s face suddenly brightened. ‘Of course, dear. My good friend, Lady Blanchard, will insist on inviting too many guests, and half the ruffians in London, to boot.’ She cast a disparaging glance at Grace. ‘You two young things share all the gossip, and I shall be back presently,’ she cried, breezing out.
‘Oh, Harriet. I had to see you. I have the most shocking news,’ said Grace.
‘As do I,’ said Harriet, and her face pinked. ‘But come, let us be seated, and I will call for tea, and you can tell me everything.’
Grace had little appetite for the plum cake and tea, which was hurriedly set forth, and she fidgeted while Harriet filled two delicate bone china cups from the teapot. As soon as that was done and the servant departed, Grace began to speak and could not stop. She blurted out her story in a rush, confining it to Rawden Voss’s mauling and William Voss declaring himself an admirer. Shame prevented her from mentioning Caville Sharp’s indecent advances. Grace squirmed as she remembered how her knees had weakened at Caville’s good looks and flirtatious manner. She had been flattered into thinking he admired her when he had merely been preying on her vanity. How could she reveal such foolishness to Harriet?
By the time she had finished, Harriet’s mouth hung open in an unladylike mixture of excitement and horror. ‘So William Voss sought you out to apologise for his dreadful brother? How gallant. And what do you think of him? At first glance, he seems rather ordinary and gauche, don’t you think?’
‘You know him then?’
‘Only in passing. I think we were introduced at some ball or other.’ She shrugged. ‘I paid him little mind, for he did not stand out in any way and is less fine of feature than his brother.’
‘His brother is a brute, Harriet.’
‘But a ravishingly handsome brute, is he not?’ She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘Though I cannot believe he dared to put hands on you?’
‘Well, he did, and I did not care for his looks at all,’ said Grace in outrage. ‘And as to William, my first impression was favourable, but then any would find favour when compared to the awful Rawden.’
