“It is absurd, but since when has humanity been utterly rational? Regardless, what I discovered was that my father had created quite the scandal of his own. I’m writing to my housekeeper to confirm the details, but I’m quite certain that it’s well known that Westhouse’s heir—the current Lord Westhouse—is simply a by-blow of my father’s. The scandal at the time would have been monumental. When you factor in my birth, effectively putting an end to the need for my father to have an heir, you can see the tension.”
“But, Lord Westhouse would never have been in line for your father’s title,” Grace argued. “So why have any attachment to it?”
“Because my father had quite the protégé in Westhouse, and cultivated it. Apparently, he lamented my incapability as a son, and it only fed the animosity. When my father died, Westhouse felt the need to pick up the torch, so to speak.”
“Good Lord,” Grace replied. “What a waste.”
“Indeed.”
“And so, in the end, it was always about you,” Grace replied after a moment’s reflection.
“Yes.”
She nodded, feeling a cheap pawn. “I see. Forgive me if I sound a petulant child.” She shook her head. “What you’ve endured is much more than can ever be atoned.”
“Oddly enough, while I was to be my father’s redemption, the true heir, the one born rightly into the title—I was also the one he resented most. So rather than live in a way that was atoning for his sins, I rather re-created them in many ways.”
“No,” Grace replied fiercely.
He tipped his head.
“No, you are nothing like the selfish man you’ve mentioned. You’re fiercely loyal to your friends, you give of yourself far more than necessary, and you defend those who cannot defend themselves. You saved me.”
“I’m not nearly the paragon you describe, but I am thankful that you see me as such,” he replied.
“It’s the truth,” Grace asserted. “But your agreement on it or not doesn’t affect my convictions.”
At this, Ramsey chuckled. “I don’t think I will ever grow tired of your wit, Grace. And I don’t think it’s fair to say I saved you. You did a rather brilliant job of saving yourself. And with that, I have another confession.”
Grace was about to make another remark, but stilled and waited for him to continue.
“Westhouse saw me arrive at the ball. Your back was turned to me, and I dare not think how fierce my expression appeared when he took your hand to lead you to the dance floor. I committed the biggest crime of gambling, I gave away my tell. In that moment, he knew he had me. And you were the bait.”
Grace breathed in the words. “I waited for you,” she whispered, her tone hesitant.
“I was rather unforgivably late,” he remarked. “There was an issue with my carriage so I’m not without some excuse, but . . . you still should not have been so long expectant of me, not when there was much that needed to be said, to be . . . discussed.” He moved from his chair and stood. Taking the few steps to close the distance between them, he offered his hand to her to help her to stand.
Grace grasped his hand, the warmth going through her, and it was as if a crashing wave of emotion soaked her and she realized how desperately she had needed to touch him, to know he was well, to just be in his arms. Her body ached with the need for it.
He tipped her chin up slightly, and before he continued, he bent down and placed a kind, warm, reassuring kiss on her waiting lips. Then, as if one would never be enough, he kissed her again, equally as soft, and then once more before leaning away, a soft and satisfied smile on his face, reflecting in his eyes.
“How could I miss you so much when I was only apart from you for a few hours?”
Grace gave her head a slight shake. “I know not, but I do know it’s entirely accurate.”
He grinned and allowed his gaze to roam her features. “I was furious when I saw you take Westhouse’s hand. But not furious with you—with myself. Do you have any idea how long I have fought my affection for you?” he mused.
She smiled, glancing down for a moment. “Truly?”
He didn’t answer readily, but placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “I shall never forget how you asked what height of footstool you’d need to equal me in height.” He chuckled against her skin, the warmth sending goose bumps across her flesh as the words seeped into her head.
“Dear me, my mouth often runs without my mind’s permission.”
“It’s one of my favorite traits.”
At this, she giggled. “Amongst my ability to constantly give you frustration.”
“You provoke me in every way, Grace,” he whispered meaningfully. “Every, single, way.” He trailed gentle kisses down her temple, along the line of her jaw and then lingered at her lips.
