Saving Grace (22 page)

Asking me to shoot her.

The latter in particular was disturbing. Did the woman care so little for her life that she would throw it aside?

Or is the possibility of marriage to me so loathsome?

Either way, Nicholas felt that something had to be done about the situation. He’d planned to handle it at dinner — to apprise Miss Thatcher that there might be a way out of their betrothal, and to judge her reaction to the news that Samuel Preston might yet court her.

If Preston will not have her, I will marry your daughter.

Nicholas had thought himself rather shrewd when making that promise to Miss Thatcher’s father. At the time, he’d surmised that it would be to his advantage to pretend that he would keep Miss Thatcher, to make Preston squirm for a bit. It was certain Preston’s interest in Miss Thatcher was sincere — no one who’d seen them dancing together and seen the look in Preston’s eyes could mistake his interest.

At the least they were good friends.
Having plotted together against me. No matter what Miss Thatcher denies.
Nicholas was certain they had agreed upon this scheme together, and he wanted both to suffer for it. Then, after a period of misery for each, he would foist the troublesome woman off on Preston. They deserved each other.

In his mind, it had seemed so simple. But after the scene in his study yesterday, he was not so certain. Having Miss Thatcher around for any length of time seemed a poor idea. Giving Preston what he wanted did not appeal to him either. Which was the lesser of two evils? And what if Preston’s plan all along was to have Miss Thatcher here?

In my house, driving me mad?
And mad I’ll be in no time
.

There would be no peace with her around. She was sure of herself, confident, and full of life. All qualities Elizabeth had possessed.

And just the kind of woman I don’t want around.

The reminder was too painful.

He’d done his best to tamp down Miss Thatcher’s spirit yesterday and, conversely, had hated himself every time he’d managed to do so, even a bit. Each time, she had sprung back with remarkable strength.

Such resiliency was another characteristic he did not wish to admire, and one that Preston, assuredly, already did.

The devil take him.

Nicholas stepped into the parlor but did not find Miss Thatcher. He left the room, still in pursuit and still in a quandary about what to do with her.

Throughout her illness, and particularly after her father’s visit, Nicholas had envisioned ways in which he might make her pay for her deceit. The lies she had encouraged her servants to tell had caused him to be in this tight spot, so a lie or two aimed Miss Thatcher’s direction was easily justified.

Or so he’d told himself.

In his study yesterday, he’d sought to scare her a little, to set her on edge and have her experience some of the worry he’d had while her health had been fragile and he’d not known whether he wished her to die or to live, while he’d wondered what was to become of them both if she did recover.

He’d wanted her to feel as ill-used as he did, so he’d set his sights upon her as only a man as coarse as Lidgate might have. But Nicholas regretted it. The glimpse of fear in her eyes before she’d left, and the way she’d wrapped her arms around herself protectively, had made him feel like the greatest cad. He owed her an apology and the assurance that he would not take advantage of their circumstance — no matter how tempting doing so might be.

And therein lay the other difficulty with handing her over to Preston — this one more hard put. If Miss Thatcher had been ugly — or at the least, gaunt and sickly from her bout with pneumonia — then Nicholas would have been quite happy to send her away. But the woman who had appeared in his study yesterday, while somewhat thin and pale from illness, was no less striking than the one he’d escorted into Preston’s ball.

Showing up at dinner as she had — with her cheeks rosy from being outdoors, her hair tumbling about her shoulders — was enough to test his resolve not to touch her or in any way give in to the attraction he felt. And then he imagined Preston’s hands instead of his own entangled in her curls …

And so the dilemma grew.

I have given my word. Either Preston marries her, or — I do.

Words Nicholas was in no hurry at all to speak.

He peered into the dining room in case she’d wandered there, but he found it empty. He crossed to the ballroom, only to find it vacant. No sounds came from the music room, but he decided to check there anyway.

At the least, he needed to see to Miss Thatcher’s welfare while she was here. And he would call a truce. What was done was done, and there was no sense in continuing to make her pay for it, if for no other reason than that it would make his life equally miserable.

Going after Preston required effort; Nicholas hadn’t the strength to turn his talons toward Miss Thatcher as well. Beyond that, he found that he did not want to hurt her. What she had done still vexed him, and would for some time, but having met her father, and knowing the suitors she’d been presented with, Nicholas could not entirely blame her for her rash and desperate actions.

Perhaps, in time, the situation would work itself out — she would simply go away, with no one the worse for it.

Nicholas frowned; that idea was even poorer than his former mistake of leaving his tenants unchecked for nearly two years. Avoidance of an issue was not the answer — though she appeared to be doing a splendid job avoiding him.

The music room was also empty, Elizabeth’s pianoforte still covered as it had been since her death, the chairs untouched since that last assembly so long ago.

He considered going upstairs to check the hall of portraits when he remembered something he’d read in the solicitor’s report about Miss Thatcher and her family. When the siblings had gone to live with the old duke, he had taken it upon himself to further their education. And while much had been lacking, he’d been pleasantly surprised to discover that each of the children could read quite well. Miss Thatcher herself had taught the younger two, after the duke’s daughter — Grace’s mother — had taught her.

Perhaps she was in the library. He wondered that he hadn’t thought to look there earlier.

His hunch proved right; he found Miss Thatcher there, curled up in a window seat, a book open on her lap as she pressed her face to the leaded window panes and watched the rain sheeting against the glass.

She turned to look at him as he entered the room, and her lips formed a tentative smile. He could tell she was attempting to assess his mood, with no luck. When her smile ceased and she began nibbling on her lip, he forced the corners of his mouth up in hopes that she would not flee before him.

Her shoulders relaxed, but she made no move to rise and greet him, instead tracking his progress with wary eyes as he crossed the room. Nicholas settled in the chair nearest her.

“You did not eat this afternoon.” To his own ears, he sounded stern, as if scolding a little child.

“I had an apple.” She held up the core as evidence. “I’m sorry if my lack of appetite displeases you. Oft when I am reading, I forget myself, my surroundings, even the time — and the need to eat.”

Nicholas cleared his throat, attempting a tone less harsh. “What are you reading?”

“Chaucer.” She turned the spine so that he might see. “You’ve a wonderful library,” she added. “I hope it is all right if I make use of it.”

“A far better use of time than acquiring leaves for your hair.” His words came out stiffly, though he’d intended them to be humorous.

“Do you enjoy reading, milord?” Sitting up, she turned to better face him.

“I used to,” Nicholas said, recalling rainy afternoons, not unlike this one, when he and Elizabeth had sprawled on the library floor, reading to each other or listening to the deep timbre of their father’s voice as he shared a story. “Now I find I have time only for reading correspondence.”

“How unfortunate for you,” Miss Thatcher said, her voice full of sympathy. “I have found that a good book can cure almost any ailment.”

“How so?” Nicholas leaned forward, eager to hear such sage — and absurd — wisdom.

“Well,” she began, clutching the volume of poetry to her chest. “On a day like today, when the world seems entirely dreary, one can read of other places full of sunshine and beauty and imagine himself there. Or —” Her eyes alight, she scooted closer to the edge of the seat and leaned forward, warming to her topic. “If one’s life is dull, he can immerse himself in adventure — fighting alongside the knights of the Round Table, slaying Cyclops with Odysseus, or leading an army against the traitor Macbeth.”

Nicholas’s brows rose in consternation. “This is what you aspire to?”

“Reading is not about aspiring to anything,” Miss Thatcher explained. “It is about
enjoying.
Did you ever wish to be someone — or somewhere — else? Have you never dreamed? Hasn’t a book ever made you
feel
something other than what you are at that very moment?”

He considered before giving his answer. “Not since I was a child. Are stories and imagination not for the young?”

“Of course,” she said. “But why can those grown not enjoy them as well? Why should I not thrill at a beautiful poem or fear as I imagine the Trojans drawing near? Why should I not paint a picture in my mind from the description of a sunrise over the ocean or know what it is to hear a lover’s whispered endearments?”

Nicholas’s frown deepened at the conclusion of her impassioned speech. Could he have found himself betrothed to a woman any more different than he? She spoke of adventure and poetry and romance and obviously longed for a life filled with such things. He knew only the weight of responsibility and grief and revenge. Even if he had wanted their match to work, there could be no meeting in the middle that he could tell. Theirs was no ideal pairing.

But with Preston ...
she would find much happiness. As would he with her.

Nicholas pushed the thought away quickly. The last thing he wanted was to give the man a gift like that, like the remarkable woman sitting before him.

What other choice do I have?

Miss Thatcher’s gaze had turned downcast, and silently she resumed her position at the window, staring out at the pouring rain. Nicholas realized that she’d probably taken his silence as a reprimand, though he hadn’t intended it that way. He’d come in search of her to set right their discussion yesterday, but instead he’d upset her, likely because he didn’t swoon over books the way she did.

“Just like Elizabeth,” he muttered, then realized what he’d said and wished to take the words back.
No one
was like his sister. No one could ever be as good as she’d been, as full of life, as giving and loving.

But it was possible, he reluctantly admitted, that Grace loved books and stories the way Elizabeth had. Grace appreciated them and allowed them to brighten her life.

And it will need brightening here, if she is to stay for any length of time.

Nicholas left his chair and went to retrieve a book from one of the shelves. He didn’t particularly care which one. He hadn’t come to read and needed only a few minutes to decide how to best approach Miss Thatcher, now that they’d started off wrong again.

Women.
He studied this one, engrossed in her book, her lips upturned and a dimple in her cheek that he hadn’t noticed before.

Her hair was swept up today in an appropriate, if not fashionable, knot. He doubted that the new maid he’d brought in for her — the washerwoman’s daughter who’d been retrieved from Lancashire — knew much about doing hair. She was too young to have been a lady’s maid before, so he couldn’t expect her to be able to assist Miss Thatcher with the latest styles. Yet he couldn’t abide Miss Thatcher wearing her hair down, either. Aside from the fact that no grown women that he knew of wore her hair down, seeing Grace’s curls was a temptation he could not trust himself to resist. And resist he must — every last circumstance involving Miss Grace Thatcher.

He would simply have to hire someone else if he wished to see her hair done properly. A dreary prospect. He’d no desire to interview for a new servant. He realized quite suddenly that he would need a few. His mother would soon arrive and see the state of the grounds and house — and probably become apoplectic. He’d need more maids, a footman or two at the least, and someone to care for the gardens ...

He would have to stay a while to begin to set things right. All because of the woman before him.

Miss Thatcher must have felt his stare, because her attention finally left her book and she turned to regard him. “Was there something you wanted?” she asked. “The way you are staring at me is quite rude.”

Nicholas worked to keep a smile at bay. Only one other woman had ever been so direct with him — and she had been family.
I don’t want a reminder of Elizabeth around,
he told himself again. But he was pleased that despite his threats of yesterday, Miss Thatcher did not seem to overly fear him.

“You flatter yourself, Miss Thatcher. I was only looking out the window — a great deal of which you are blocking — and imagining the grounds as they were in better days.”

“Are there not several windows in this room, all of which look outside to your overgrown yard?” She swung her legs over the side of the seat and stood, moving past so quickly that her skirt snapped at his trousers. She chose a seat in the very center of the room and plopped into it, promptly returning her nose to the book.

Nicholas chuckled. He couldn’t seem to help himself. Her ire was entertaining. He found in Miss Thatcher a venerable opponent. If nothing else, she was a great distraction to the usual drudgery of life. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he had grown tired of trips to London. His relentless pursuit of Preston was wearisome. And though he was beginning to see its fruition, the satisfaction he’d expected to feel was not there.

In comparison, sparring with Miss Thatcher was proving to be more amusement than he’d had in some time.
If I can keep her here a while, and if Preston somehow learns of my enchantment ...