Never a Gentleman (23 page)

He
did
want this, damn it. And if someone were watching, they would know. Breaking the kiss with a gasp, he set her away before
worse happened.

“Well then, wife,” he said briskly, stepping away as if
nothing had happened, not even the obvious bulge in his breeches. “I believe you said you had furniture warehouses to investigate
today. We should undoubtedly get back so you don’t miss your appointment.”

For a second she seemed to weave a bit, her eyes too large, her skin too pale. Then, as if responding to a barked order, she
smiled and stepped back, settling her skirts with both hands. “Indeed. I’ve been privileged enough to gain an invitation to
Mr. Wedgwood’s showroom.”

“You like his work?” Diccan asked, thinking how unexciting jasperware was. Exquisitely crafted, but mostly dusty blues and
whites.

“Oh,” she said, “I have been assured it is the perfect accessory in the home of a rising diplomat. Kate will go with me to
control my more exuberant impulses.”

Diccan almost laughed out loud. If there was one thing he would never accuse Grace of—except, maybe, in the saddle—it was
an overabundance of exuberant impulses. Or Kate of knowing how to control them. He should say something, he thought. He should
ask what she thought of Italian majolica or Venetian glass, bright colors saturated by the sun. Considering the muted tones
she wore, he decided he didn’t want to know her answer. Maybe he’d just put the majolica in his office.

“Well, then,” he said, giving her a leg up, “we wouldn’t want to keep Mr. Wedgwood waiting.”

Over the next few days as his house took shape, he found that he couldn’t argue with Grace’s taste. It was unexceptionable,
even if it was a bit drab. He might not think his home exciting, but it could be comfortable. The only time he openly challenged
her was when he came home to find a familiar face smiling down at him from the sitting room wall.

“What the hell is that doing here?” he demanded, pointing to the most perfect face in Europe as it offered eternal invitation
in the guise of Aphrodite, apple in hand and a twinkle in her blue eyes.

Grace looked at the painting, as if not understanding. “It’s my mother,” she said.

Diccan glared at her. “I know it’s your mother. Where did you get it?”

She went still, as she often did, making Diccan think of an animal in defensive posture. “It was my father’s. Is there a problem?
He thought it was one of Raeburn’s finest works.”

Diccan, the most suave man in England, couldn’t even begin to think how to answer. Was Grace really so blind that she didn’t
realize that people would only compare that painting to her? That once the
ton
knew about it, they would flock over, just to see how Grace dealt with having her missing mother watching over her shoulder,
like a spectre of what she should have been?

“It is the only thing I have left of my father’s,” she said quietly. “He was never without it.”

And in that moment, he almost compromised her beyond safety. Because in her eyes he caught a faint shadow of such pain as
he had never known. Loss, hurt. Grief, which he thought was far older than her father’s death. And he realized that all he
wanted to do was gather into his arms and convince her that somebody did appreciate her as much as she deserved. Somebody
loved her beyond what she could do for them.

Good God. What had happened to his objectivity? His conviction that the two of them had no business together, and would do
better apart? Was he really changing his mind?

He had to step away. He had to put her off like a dusty
jacket. He couldn’t take the chance of betraying himself, not when he was being watched.

Lifting a hand in resignation, he turned away. “I would prefer it in the family suites, then.”

Her answer was too predictable. “Of course.”

From that moment on, he began to spend less time with her. First a few dinners, then a ride. Late hours and later mornings,
excused by the fact that there was a Russian diplomat in town he was supposed to escort. He should have felt relief. He felt
anxious and angry, especially when he realized that Grace’s Grenadiers could keep her so occupied she probably wouldn’t even
miss him.

He decided to be grateful. There wasn’t anything else he could do. That all changed when he came home to find Kit Braxton
in the sitting room.

“Good God,” he said when the one-armed ex-soldier got to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Kit was a particular friend of Grace’s, one of the founding members of Grace’s Grenadiers. That wasn’t what bothered Diccan.
What bothered him was that Kit was also a member of Drake’s Rakes. In fact, he was supposed to be in France, gathering information
for them. To find Kit here meant that something had changed and Diccan hadn’t been told.

“I came to see the happy couple,” Kit said with a false cheer that sent a new
frisson
of warning down Diccan’s back. “Besides, Paris was getting too hot for me. I’m not the dueling aficionado you are, Diccan,
and all the French want to do is throw down gloves. It gets old.”

Grace had been laughing when Diccan walked in. Now she stood to the side as if waiting for something. “Will you join us for
tea?” she asked, hands in their ever-present position at her waist. She almost looked pretty in another of her
new dresses, peach sarcenet with spring-green ribbons that looked like a bouquet of roses.

“I’m afraid I can’t, my dear. Shall I see you at the opera tonight? It’s Gluck, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, yes.” She turned to her friend. “Would you like to go, Kit? Show off for the ladies?”

“Thanks, Gracie, but I’d rather escort you riding tomorrow.”

Diccan felt a shaft of pain, which angered him. “In the morning?”

Grace brightened. “Would you like to come? I know you’ve been too busy the last few days. Kit offered his escort. Poor Epona
has been fretting.”

He would undoubtedly be getting in from another late night just as they were leaving. “No, my dear. You don’t need my sore
head at that hour. Enjoy yourself.”

Did she look disappointed? It was so bloody hard to tell with Grace. It wasn’t as hard to read Kit Braxton, whose frown was
pure displeasure. “Will you have a few minutes for me later, Diccan?”

“If you’re at Brooks. Right now I have to meet Thornton.”

The frown intensified. “Thornton?”

If Kit didn’t know Diccan’s directive to befriend Thornton, Diccan wondered what he was doing here. “He hopes to win back
the pony I took off him last night,” he said, taking a bit of snuff.

It wasn’t enough explanation. It certainly wasn’t an excuse. Even so, Grace bid him goodbye with equanimity, which only made
him feel worse.

So Kit Braxton had made an appearance from Paris. Was it an official visit Drake hadn’t warned him of, or was this because
of a private concern? Diccan knew perfectly
well Kit would lay down his life for Grace. Was it necessary, and had no one told him? Or was it something else?

He found out not an hour later when he met up with Thornton on the street in front of Mitchell’s, a gaming hell on Jermyn
Street.

“Hilliard, old man,” the overstuffed baron greeted him, hand hard on his arm. “Have I good news for you! Your penance is over.”

A strong sense of unease snaked through him. There was something about Thornton’s smile that presaged disaster.

“My penance?”

Thornton laughed, a high, nasal sound that grated on Diccan’s ears. “That wife of yours. Worthy lady and all; maybe too much
of a good thing, if you know what I mean. But there you’ve been escorting her all around town, just as a gentleman should.
Well, my lad, I’m here to tell you that your virtue has been rewarded.” He tightened his hold and pulled. “Come in and see.”

Stepping into the slightly seedy entryway of Mitchell’s, Diccan shrugged off his coat and looked around. There was little
to see; just the usual male company, most of them intent on cards or dice. The air was thick with smoke, and the wall sconces
flickered weakly, the dimness better to hide a variety of sins. Diccan had just taken a step toward the back room when he
was hailed.

“Diccan,
chéri
!”

Beside him, Thornton chuckled. Diccan almost shook his head to clear it of that feminine voice. He turned, suddenly dreading
what he would see.

She was in the most delicious silver silk dress he’d ever seen. Her blond hair was dressed in tousled curls that clung to
her neck. She had breasts like pomegranates and
a smile of pure delight at seeing him. Her hands were out, the wrists heavy with diamond bracelets he had bought her himself.

A sense of inevitability washed over him, and he felt like cursing. Instead, he took those delicate little hands and smiled.
“Minette, my love. You’ve come.”

G
race began to hear the rumors of Diccan’s dalliance within days. She might have withstood it better if she hadn’t felt so
blindsided. After all, she had just had the best two weeks of her life. She and Diccan had shared company and interests and
laughter. He’d even kissed her, and not pecks on the cheek. Long, languorous matings of mouth and breath and tongue. She thought
he had shared her hope for their future.

It might have even been easier if the rumors had merely been salacious whispers:
Did you hear who Diccan Hilliard was seen with
? She might have discounted those as no more than the irresistible lure of gossip. But this gossip came with patently false
looks of commiseration.
Well, it didn’t take him long, did it? Poor thing. I hope she didn’t expect any better.

She didn’t say anything. After all, Diccan had done the honorable thing and married her. He continued to accompany her to
society events, even if he became a bit more distant and tense each day. No one could realistically ask
him to do more. He certainly couldn’t be held responsible for the crumbling of Grace’s unrealistic hopes. Grace was certain
he hadn’t even realized she’d nurtured them.

So it served no purpose to admit that yes, she had heard that Diccan had been seen squiring his beautiful mistress around
town. She was familiar enough with the waters she now swam to know that her admission would offer nothing but more fodder
for gossip. No one would care that she spent her nights staring dry-eyed at the ceiling, waiting to hear Diccan’s tread on
the steps, or that she felt as if something precious and fragile in her had cracked. They had known better than to expect
different.

So she once again forced the hurt deep, where it would have to find space with all the other hurts, and she turned her attention
to decorating her her home. Kate suggested that Diccan would prefer blues and browns and creams. Grace followed the direction,
all the while yearning for the sun-hot colors she had once thought to save for herself. She rode early with Kit, who had become
her devoted companion, worked mornings at the hospital, and attended the functions Kate deemed necessary.

She spent afternoons learning proper society behavior, each lesson squeezing her more and more into a role that simply didn’t
fit, like a bad corset.
Don’t gallop in the park. Don’t talk politics, especially to a politician. Don’t address anyone above you—which meant virtually
everyone—until addressed. Don’t flaunt your friendships with soldiers. And don’t—ever—show emotion of any kind. Not joy or
anger or fear or distress.

Kate could get away with it all, of course. But then, not only was she a widow, she was Kate. Grace was a plain unknown who
had thrust herself unwanted onto society’s
stage. She was an object of scorn and pity, whose husband had already delivered his judgment on her.

If she had been raised any other way, she might have deserted like a coward. But she owed it to Diccan to at least try. She
owed it to Kate and Bea not to embarrass them. She owed it to herself to know she had done everything she could to succeed,
even though she was beginning to lose faith.

She would do it because she refused to let anyone say that it was she who had failed.

She wasn’t so sanguine three weeks later. Oh, she learned Kate’s lessons. She decorated her house and staffed it to her satisfaction.
She attended soirees and Venetian breakfasts and musical evenings, and even the opera, which she found was surprisingly enjoyable.
She was assured she was becoming a pattern card of respectability. She felt as if she was fading away.

The first blow was learning of Diccan’s mistress. After that, she couldn’t seem to pass a day without losing something else.
She was at Kate’s, reviewing place settings for a formal dinner, when she learned that Diccan would never live in the country.

“Why can’t you use your regular cutlery on a fish?” she demanded, glaring at the little fish knife.

“You can,” Kate said with a wry grin, “if you want people to think you’re a salesclerk. The point is to separate you from
the lower orders who somehow manage to eat with only one fork and knife.”

Grace set the knife down with its family. “I will be so glad when the season is over and we can leave the city. The only thing
I have to worry about at home is how to get the fish off the hook.”

She was startled to hear Lady Bea hoot in amusement. “Cheese bits.”

Grace looked up. Kate chuckled. “Diccan is definitely a town mouse. You won’t get him more than ten miles outside the city.
He says all the dust makes him sneeze.”

“Is it true?” Grace asked Diccan later that evening when he led her about the room at a ball. “You really don’t like the country?”

He shuddered dramatically. “Abhor it. Except for the odd race meeting, what is there to do? No good company or interesting
pastimes. No, madame, you won’t find me rusticating for any reason less urgent than outrunning the bailiffs. And my dibs were
too well in tune for that.”

“But you have an estate.”

“And a perfectly good estate agent.”

“What about Longbridge?” she asked. “I thought to go there as well.”

He nodded to a passing couple. “I’ve already informed my agent to put it on his list of things to do. Of course, if you want
to spend all your time in the country…”