Chapter 1
Year 1813 - Skye Manor, Near the Southeast Coast, England
Miss Grace Skye was distracted, periodically peering out of the window as though she expected Doomsday to arrive at any moment. She fought to control the involuntary shaking of her legs as Betty, her lady’s maid, worked her magic, transforming Grace’s appearance in preparation for their dreaded guest’s imminent arrival.
In these moments of weakness, she thought,if only Mama were still alive... if only Papa had not suffered from a stroke...Her life would have been entirely different. As the daughter of a gentleman, she had once aspired to marry for love, become a mother, and run her own household.
But life had not unfolded as Grace had imagined. Instead, fate had condemned her to a spinster’s existence. When her beloved mother passed away over a decade ago, responsibility had been thrust upon her at a tender age. Grace had suppressed her playful and light-hearted spirit in response, hanging up her dancing slippers for sturdy boots and trading her elaborate, flowing gowns for a practical, drab wardrobe.
Her dreams of marriage had been set aside, her energies instead channelled into caring for her younger sister and overseeing the dependants of Skye Estate. Grief had drained the colour from her world, leaving behind only shades of dull grey.
On occasion, however, her mischievous and lively nature would resurface in small acts of rebellion—donning a divided riding skirt, engaging in passionate debates about new ideas at local assemblies with friends, or partaking in pursuits typically deemed masculine, such as playing chess. Over time, these quirks had earned her a reputation in local society as theodd spinster.
‘I don’t see why you need to do this,’ Heather remarked as she lolled across the large four-poster bed, recalling Grace from her reverie.
Grace winced as Betty arranged her hair into a severe bun and replied, ‘Because he is our only male relative now. Charles can arrange my marriage to whomever he wishes.’
‘Why can you not refuse this proposal and offer to stay with me until I come of age next year?’ Heather continued. ‘We could convince him to provide me with a London season to find a husband. Perhaps you might find someone for yourself too? After all, he is my guardian now and responsible for me until I marry.’
‘I suspect he doesn’t want to part with the blunt for your season, nor would his wife tolerate chaperoning us,’ Grace shrugged. ‘Why should he bother spending on us when he could turn a profit instead? Lord Bainbridge has offered him abride-finding fee. This way, Charles kills two birds with one stone. With me out of the way, he can marry you off to the highest bidder as well. He does not care to whom he foists us, as long as we are no longer his responsibility.’
‘Maybe we could convince him that we do not wish to marry?’ Heather clutched at straws. ‘You are running the Estate now—if you show him how much profit you are capable of making, he might want you to stay permanently,’ she said, hoping against hope.
Grace shook her head. ‘That will not work. He dislikes females meddling inmasculinepursuits. You know Charles has always coveted a title more than anything, and Lord Bainbridge has promised to put in a word for him to receive a knighthood.’ Cutting her sister off from further protestations, she added with some severity, ‘He has the power to take you away if I refuse Lord Bainbridge’s proposal—if only to spite me.’
Heather visibly paled as realisation dawned. ‘So if you refuse, he will threaten to take me away from you today... which means he can pressure you into marrying that eighty-year-old. And even after that, when I come of age next year, he can still force me into a marriage of his choosing. Or his wife will make my life hell...’ She slumped over the bed and blew out a sigh. ‘I miss Papa,’ she murmured, her chin wobbling.
The Skye sisters had recently lost their beloved father, and the pangs of sorrow, still raw, threatened more tears. After suffering a stroke many years ago, his health had continued to decline, and over the past year, his shell-like existence had helped the sisters come to terms with the inevitable—his passing. Losing him, however, had been no less painful.
‘So do I, poppet.’ Grace strove to hold back her tears. Years of being strong had taken their toll; she had managed the household and the Skye Estate for almost a decade, and the weight of everyone’s expectations now felt heavier than ever. But now was not the time for weakness—not with so much at stake.
The Skye Estate and Manor were to be entailed to their cousin Charles, who eagerly awaited the probate period, which would take six months or so before he controlled the very ground the Skye sisters walked on. Grace shuddered at the thought. Charles had not even bothered attending their father’s funeral and had shown little interest in his cousins—until now. They had hoped he would let them remain at Skye Manor and leavethem in peace. He despised the countryside, preferring to live his dandified life in London.
Therefore, when he wrote to say he would be bringing afriendfrom London, Grace was immediately suspicious. She knew he rarely did anything unless it benefitted him. Without delay, she wrote to her friend Charlotte, who was enjoying a season in London, to discover what Charles was up to. Charlotte, the best of friends, took up the task with her usual earnestness and promptly conveyed her findings to Grace.
‘Miss Charlotte says all of London society knows Lord Bainbridge has a cruel streak, which hinders his ability to find a bride. Apparently, he is in desperate need of an heir—his son died of syphilis last year,’ Betty supplied, causing Grace to shudder at the thought of marrying him.
Grace turned in her seat to glance at Heather, earning another painful tug from Betty as she arranged her long, silky hair. Wincing again, she said, ‘This is why I must do this, poppet. I cannot refuse him outright... but Imustmake Lord Bainbridge refuse me instead. It is the only way we stand a chance of remaining at Skye Manor and getting Charles off our backs. This will buy us some time to find you a husband you deserve next year.’
Luckily, Betty had been an actress in her youth and had perfected the art of costume and disguise. With her help, Grace concocted the perfect plan to thwart her cousin.
‘Sit still, Miss Grace, or the make-up will smudge!’ Betty cried, dabbing and smearing more cream over her face.
‘Iamtrying, but these blasted pads under my gown areexcruciating!’ Grace grumbled, reaching for a particularly itchy spot on her waist.
‘Well, if you want to hide those lovely curves, you’ll just have to endure it until your cousin leaves.’ Betty smacked Grace’s hands away as she attempted to scratch her face.
Mrs Merriweather, their former governess turned companion, paced behind her anxiously. ‘I have averybad feeling about this plan, Miss Grace. What if he sees through your disguise? He could send you to a mental asylum!’ she catastrophised.
The sisters treated Mrs Merriweather more like an aunt than a companion, as she was a distant relation on their mother’s side. However, due to their penchant for mischief, the poor womanconstantlywore a harried expression, and her once lovely dark curls were now peppered with grey.
‘Do not worry, Mrs M, I will be careful. Just make sure Heather remains hidden—I do not want Charles to see how beautiful she has become.’
Both sisters were beautiful, but Grace’s features were delicate; resembling her mother, with an olive complexion and long dark hair. Her beauty was quiet and unassuming—the kind that could easily be overlooked but, upon a second glance, would captivate. Heather, on the other hand, took after their father, with honey blond hair and a fairer, rosy complexion. She was stunning, and there was no need for a second look to notice her; she commanded attention from a mile away. If Charles or the groom spotted her, it would spell trouble.
Once the disguise was ready, Grace surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. The padding beneath her loose, ill-fitting, and shabby gown hid her curves well, accompanied by several shawls, making her appear eccentric and matronly. The paste applied generously to her face and hands made her look pale and sickly, aging her considerably. Large thick-rimmed spectacles and a spinster’s cap, covering all her hair, completed the ensemble. Even she had a hard time recognising herself when she looked in the mirror.
As if on cue, a knock at the door revealed Penny, one of the parlour maids. ‘The guests have arrived, Miss Grace,’ Penny whispered ominously.
