A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (71 page)

Grace no longer saw the canvas. She
saw only Lord Alexander as he pressed into her from above. She
could almost feel the pressure of his strong thighs against hers,
the supple texture of his mouth on her own. She shuddered in her
need.

A clap of thunder overhead pulled her
back to the present. Blast! Grace ought to return to the house
before she was drenched by the oncoming storm. She took a quick
glance at the canvas. No one had touched it other than her, yet she
didn’t recognize it as her own creation.

The rose gardens of Roundstone Park
danced before her. Where the last time she had painted, her
creation had evoked darkness, danger, and a foreboding evil, this
piece conjured something more sensual, more carnal.

The roses displayed their fertility.
Branches and leaves beckoned the viewer closer to recline in their
arms. She could almost smell the flowers’ essence—heady and musky
and verdant. But the fresh scent of rain in the air severed her
appraisal of the painting, and she rushed to collect all of her
utensils before the summer rainstorm ruined her work. With arms
overflowing, she trekked to the kitchen doors of New Hill Cottage,
arriving just as the clouds released their deluge.

Mrs. Finchley gawked at Grace as she
rushed inside, barely escaping the downpour. “My lady, gracious
heavens! What on earth have you been doing outside? You could have
been caught in this storm. I daresay you would catch a chill if you
had!”

The housekeeper puttered about the
kitchen as she took most of the items Grace carried and set them
aside. “Did my Tess know you were out from the house? That girl!
She ought to look after you better.”

Mrs. Finchley rang for a footman to
carry Grace’s load up the stairs to her bedchamber before pouring
her some tea. “And that wind, my lady, why it is biting cold today.
You may come down with fever yet. Drink this now, and then Tess
shall take you above stairs for a rest.”

It was pointless to argue with the
servant. Truth be told, she was worn out after her excursion.
Creating this piece had both exhilarated and exhausted her, all at
once.

She sipped from her tea as Mrs.
Finchley fetched a blanket from a nearby sitting room and wrapped
it about her shoulders. When Tess arrived, Grace allowed herself to
be led to her chamber, undressed, and placed between the
sheets.

Grace slept—but she dreamed of the
arms of an auburn-haired man wrapped about her.

~ * ~

The rain still had not let up by that
afternoon as Alex descended from one of Peter’s carriages and
looked up at Chatham House. He would have preferred to take his
curricle, but that would force him to arrive with his clothes
drenched from the storm, so he’d thought better of it.

The gardens were unkempt and in
shambles. Shutters flopped about in the wind on broken hinges.
Overgrown moss and vines snaked up Grecian columns, masking cracks
in need of repair. The windows of the house were all shuttered,
save those whose shutters hung limp from the walls. Gloom settled
over the entire structure.

He climbed the ancient stairs that led
to the door and thought of how life must have been for Grace as she
grew up in such a place. Alex imagined his niece and nephew
tromping through the gardens and shuddered. They would trip over
weeds, if not worse.

This was no place for a
child.

Alex rapped against the heavy entryway
and waited. And waited.

And continued to wait some
more.

He reached up to knock again, just as
a bedraggled servant pulled the door open. The man squinted at him
against the cloud-covered daylight that fought to break through.
Inside the hall, darkness abounded.

“
My lord. How may I be of
service?” The old butler’s tone suggested he had no desire to be of
any service to anyone whatsoever.

Alex reached inside his coat and
retrieved his calling card. As he passed it to the butler, he said
“I wish to call upon the marquess, if he is in. Please inform him
of my arrival.” He waited for the man to do his bidding.

The servant glanced at Alex’s card
with a scowl before stepping back and ushering him inside out of
the rain. “Wait here,” he said as he hobbled off, a slight limp
detectable in his gait.

As he waited in the dim light, Alex
observed his surroundings. A thick layer of dust covered the tables
and floor, and the rugs were in need of a good cleaning. None of
the usual decorative touches he would expect of a man of the
marquess’s station graced the walls; no paintings or mirrors or
vases of fresh spring flowers brightened the room. The furnishings
were sparse and worn, and had likely been in place for
generations.

Finally, the old butler returned. “His
lordship will see you now. Follow me.” He stepped gingerly toward
what Alex assumed to be Chatham’s library while Alex followed
behind. No footman awaited their arrival to swing the doors wide,
so the doors stood open. The butler waived him inside, without
making the effort to announce him.

Chatham glared at him from his seat
behind a decrepit desk. The man was likely in his forties, but he
looked much older. Only a small amount of wiry, grey hair wisped
over his head, his scalp shining even in the poor candlelight. He
had a ruddy complexion, whether from anger, drink, or hard living,
Alex couldn’t determine. Stains blanketed the marquess’s rumpled
clothes.

Alex inclined his head in
greeting.

Chatham remained seated and took
another swallow from his glass. “Lord Alexander, I understand you
have been dallying with my daughter. Word travels fast, you know.
You would do well to stay away from her.”

“
You’re misinformed, my
lord. Dalliance is the furthest thing from my mind in relation to
Lady Grace. I am afraid I shall be unable to concede to your
request. I’ve no intention of avoiding her.” Not any more, at
least. Alex waited for a moment before continuing, attempting to
ascertain the older man’s level of drunkenness. “I assume you refer
to a kiss at the Pump Room?”

He hoped the marquess’s informant,
whoever the bastard may be, hadn’t witnessed the latter incident
outside the Assembly Room—though such a revelation might, in
actuality, serve to aid his cause.

“
Yes. Though I wonder why
you question me on that. Is there something else I’ve yet to hear?”
Chatham gazed at him through heavily lidded eyes. “Nevertheless,
stay away from Grace. As things stand, I’ve already discovered her
whereabouts and have ordered her aunt and uncle to return her to me
in London at once. Should they not comply, I’ll involve the
authorities. Kidnapping is no trifling matter, you know.” Chatham’s
expression dimmed, turning sinister. “They’ll all stay here, at
Chatham House, where I can forestall her further exposure to gossip
and scandal and where I can be certain the Kensingtons face
justice.”

Alex didn’t waver in his resolve. “I
will not stay away from her.” His voice dropped. “I have come to
request your permission to marry your daughter.” He paused as the
marquess glowered at him, measuring his words cautiously. “You’re
obviously aware that I’ve compromised her. I intend to make things
right for her, so she won’t suffer ostracism. Allow me to give her
the protection of my name.”

“
Ha! You young pup, you
aren’t the first to
compromise
my daughter, as you so carefully termed it.”
Spittle flew from Chatham’s mouth and his voice rose. “There can be
no other reason she would have left—I mean, no other reason she
would have been taken from me. I suppose her aunt and uncle felt
they would protect her better than I have, yet they were poorly
mistaken, weren’t they? Your presence here proves it.”

Alex held his temper in
check. “I’ve done more than compromise your daughter. She may well
be increasing.” As much as he would prefer to avoid admitting this
facet of their connection, he knew he must do whatever it took to
obtain Chatham’s permission. He
would
marry Grace.

“
That’s no concern. She’ll
marry Lord Barrow as soon as it can all be arranged. He’s made
quite a settlement on me for her. The man has a goodly portion.”
The bastard looked pleased with himself.

“
A settlement? Barrow will
pay you for her?” Disgust and fury boiled under his skin at the
idea of Grace being sold. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
He
wouldn’t
.

“
She is quite a prize,
don’t you agree? After Barrow tasted her treats once, he even
raised his offer.” The fire had burned down and Chatham rubbed his
hands together. “Oh dear, you didn’t believe you were the first to
have had Grace, did you? She can’t carry your child, as she already
carried his before you met her.” Chatham tsked and tutted in
condescension. “You are absolved of at least that one crime. He’ll
now pay more than the Duke of Walsingham had offered. So whatever
you may want, Lord Alexander, she won’t be yours.”

She was already pregnant. Before they
met. It all started to make sense in his mind.

Why she was
unfit
to marry
him.

Why she had tried so hard to avoid
him.

Why she refused his
proposal.

He was crestfallen. It had nothing to
do with a dislike of him, but only with her shame and
fears.

His determination
multiplied. “I’ll double Barrow’s current offer, whatever
the
price
may be.”
His stomach revolted at the thought, but he saw no
alternative.

Chatham perked up, but still scowled
from across his desk.

“
I have a sizeable fortune,
as well. My brother has provided well for our entire family. Money
is no object to me.”

The marquess raised a cheroot from his
desk to his mouth, chewing on the end. Minutes ticked off, and
still he did not respond. Alex thought an eternity would pass him
by before the marquess finally spoke. His anger toward the man grew
with each passing moment of silence.

“
The answer is still no.
Grace will obtain a title, and I’ll become aligned with the Earl of
Barrow through her marriage. He has ample estates,” Chatham gave a
pointed look at Alex, “of which I understand you have none.
Likewise, you have no title. Allow me to show you the door.”
Chatham stood behind his dilapidated desk and moved to escort Alex
out.

Alex shook from the violence groveling
at him for release. The bastard would sell Grace. To Barrow. “How
soon? When will their marriage take place?” He needed time. Perhaps
he could overtake the Kensingtons along the road to London and take
her to Gretna Greene like her uncle had suggested.

Chatham’s eyes narrowed. “That, again,
is none of your concern. Do yourself a favor, Hardwicke. Forget
her.”

“
Forget her.
Forget her
? You bloody
bastard, have you no concern for your daughter at all? You would
sell her to Barrow—for what? What purpose does it serve?” He kept
his fists clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t strike the man
before he good and well earned it. He would not give the blockhead
the satisfaction of striking first. “She doesn’t care about a
title. And she doesn’t wish to marry Barrow. You cannot think he
would be a better husband for her than I am. You cannot think he
could make her happy—could be a good father for her
child.”

“
Whether he will be
a
good
father or
not is irrelevant, since he is the father. I don’t care how he
treats them.” Chatham reached again for the bottle and poured more
into his glass until it overflowed, seemingly oblivious to the mess
he created. “She will marry him and then she will be his problem.
Not mine. Now leave.”

Before the marquess could move around
the desk, Alex spun on his heels and marched out the door, fuming
his way to the carriage.

He would find a way to
marry Grace. He must. No way would he allow Barrow to place one
more finger on her, let alone on the child. It would be
his
child, by
Jove.

Chapter
Seventeen

“
My lord, a missive has
just arrived.” Mason bowed low to Uncle Laurence and passed him the
letter on a silver salver.

Grace glanced over from her seat
huddled beneath the quilt she was working on near the hearth. The
wax seal belonged to her father. She fought the desire to run to
his side and rip the paper from his hands. Another urge, just as
strong as the first, rose in her chest—to run away. He must have
heard by now about the Pump Rooms. She ought to have left before
now, gone somewhere to the north, or perhaps to Ireland. She should
have left the sanctuary of her aunt and uncle’s home well before
now—gone somewhere he couldn’t find her.

At least he wasn’t there in person.
She still had time. She immediately began plotting her escape, how
she would leave them, where she would go. Maybe she could convince
Tess to help. No—that was too big a risk. She must do this without
anyone knowing.

Uncle Laurence looked at his wife for
a moment before he broke the seal and read the letter’s contents.
His expression soured and he walked to the fire, tossing the
parchment into the flames with a faint growl.