Page 22 of The Gilded Masquerade

Dutifully resuming his position beside the hearth, Grayson waited for clarification—or direction—or whatever his employer wanted.

“By the end of the masquerade this evening, my mother was … somewhat mollified.”

“Excellent news.” Grayson stoked the fire.

“She believes the matter between my cousin Anne and me to be settled before Twelfth Night.” He sharply exhaled.

“Then, congratulations are in order?”

“Not precisely. My cousin’s health is failing. She anticipates a … brief marriage … in Spain.”

The man did not immediately answer. When he did, it was measured. “I am exceedingly sorry. Her ladyship has always held great hope in a lasting union.”

He turned, scarf dangling from his hand. “Tell me, Grayson … speak to me as a man who has watched this house longer than I have lived in it. Is it compassionate to marry a dying woman or is it a fool’s errand for one who is frustrated with the marriage mart’s offerings?”

Lifting his gaze, the valet furrowed his brow.

“Please, speak freely, Grayson.”

“It is kindness, but a gentleman should be honest with himself and the lady in question.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Honesty will not prolong her life, and I am entirely thoughtful of my shortcomings and my duty.”

Grayson countered, “Neither will duty prolong her life if it is empty of affection.”

A log fell in the hearth, crackling.

“My mother would contend affection is irrelevant. She is quite happy in my sacrifice.”

“Her ladyship,” Grayson said carefully, “has never been asked to give her life to someone she does not love.”

Darcy nodded. The old man, in service since the age of twelve, had not experienced life as it were, was wise. No one considered the heir to Pemberley’s wishes and desires in this sordid muddle. He crossed the room, took the brandy, but did not drink, just swirled and stared at the contents as he deliberated.

“There was an intriguing young lady this evening, an American,” he began. The nationality sounded like a sinful confession purging from his guilt-ridden thoughts. He should not have kissed her. “In time, she learned of my identity but said nothing until the close of the ball. She looked at me through her mask as though I were—” He stopped himself, tightened his lips, and shook his head. “As though I were simply a man, not the master of Pemberley. From the onset, there was an extraordinary connection I cannot explain.”

Grayson folded his hands. “And that unsettled you, Mr. Darcy?”

“Indeed, it did.” He looked up. “It did more than that.” It opened my heart to the possibilities.

Silence again.

Grayson finally spoke, breaking the lull. His voice was decidedly lower than it had ever been in his company. “I have faithfully been in service to the Darcy family for thirty-five years, and I will continue to do so until I draw my last breath, sir. But in my service to your father, I watched what becomes of a man who chose dutiful obligation over affection.”

“You overstep.”

Grayson bowed his head. “Yes, sir … forgive me.”

He anxiously paced. “No, continue. I instructed you to be straightforward.”

Grayson drew a breath. “Very well. A marriage entered without choice under the guise of duty or financial gain leaves a house standing but, perhaps, hollow. Matrimony entered out of pity does not spare suffering. It only divides it more evenly.”

“And Anne? Would you have me abandon her because I do not wish to share in her suffering?” he vehemently demanded.

“I would have you treat the lady with tenderness, of which you are greatly capable. Not sacrifice. Those are not the same. If you choose to wed Miss Anne out of compassion, then resolve to yourself it is neither duty nor sacrifice which compels you but a greater moral excellence.”

His hand trembled as he finally downed the brandy. “My mother will never forgive me.”

“The decision is entirely yours. Lady Anne is not the one who must live with the consequences,” Grayson said gently.