My Saving Grace Page 5

  He sighed and reached for the soap. It was a smooth, fragrant, creamy white square. Soft, and silky. The same color and feel as the girl’s skin, really.

  He remembered that skin. Remembered the pliancy of her soft flesh, the feel of her heavy wet hair on and over his arm, her warmth beneath the wet gown that had molded itself so... so honestly, to her slender body.

  Damnation!

  He closed his eyes, willing the thought of her away. Was she also enjoying a bath somewhere, perhaps nearby, perhaps even in the next room? He had no idea where her quarters were. He shouldn’t have cared, but he did. He shouldn’t have been curious, but he was. Cared that she would make a full recovery. Curious about whether this same soap was wet and slippery as it moved over her soft skin, touching her in places that—

  Del swore out loud, realizing, too late that allowing his thoughts to roam as they had, had resulted in his own body responding with an immediate and hard arousal.

  Suddenly he wished the bath contained water from the North Sea, instead.

  Because he could do with some cold, right about now.

  * * *

  “I’ve been pondering what we spoke of, earlier,” Grace said thoughtfully as she sat on her bed following her own bath. She had given her maid, Polly, the afternoon off so she might enjoy the festivities, and now she combed her fingers through her long, freshly washed hair and plaited it into a braid, herself.

  “Remind me,” said her sister.

  “I was thinking of Captain Ponsonby and how to get him to notice me.”

  Grace tied off the braid with a bit of yellow ribbon. The pond-smell was long gone and she felt fresh and clean in her soft cotton shift. The afternoon sun was setting beyond the mullioned windows. The dizziness had all but subsided, though a dull headache remained. Really, she ought to plead indisposition and keep to her room tonight after the embarrassment of the afternoon. She’d had a dreadful brush with death. Nobody would blame her.

  But there was that matter of Captain Ponsonby.

  And the more time he got to spend with Cecily de Montforte, the more enamored of her he would be and the more invisible to him that she, Grace, would become.

  “Mama was in to visit me earlier, you know. She claims to be concerned about me but she’s such a... such a butterfly, it’s hard to know what is pretense and what is real. In any case, she says that Captain Ponsonby is only going to be here for another two days, and then he’s off to Norfolk to visit his sister Letitia, who is now Lady Weybourne. Therefore, she encouraged me to act fast.”

  Hannah just slanted her a sideways glance.

  “Captain Ponsonby is a seafarer,” Grace continued. “He’s going to want a wife who knows her way around a boat. I should know my way around a boat better than I do, given that we also come from a seafaring family, but nobody ever spent the time to teach me how to sail.”

  “Because you’re a girl.”

  “Because I’m a girl.”

  “But given the fact that I am a girl, think how much more of an impact it will make on the Captain and his estimation of me, if I come across as competent. Something that I’ll be able to do once I find someone to teach me. Someone who’s a sailor himself.”

  “Ned.”

  “No, he’s a child. He can’t possibly know much about sailing. No, I’m going to ask Uncle Gray’s friend, Mr. Lord. The one who rescued me today.”

  “You mean the one you kissed.”

  “I didn’t kiss him, I gave him a kiss.”

  “You kissed him.”

  “On the cheek.”

  “Honestly, Grace, no matter what you call it, the man looked quite taken aback.”

  “Well of course he was, he didn’t expect it, did he? And I didn’t plan it. But what’s done is done. Anyhow, there’s no harm in asking him. Uncle Gray says he has a boat. So, therefore, that must make him a sailor.”

  Hannah shut her eyes and shook her head.

  Grace pulled her braid over one shoulder and played with its end. “So he has a boat. I wonder if he has a tattoo. All sailors have tattoos, do they not? I wonder if he’ll be amenable to teaching me. He is rather mysterious. Something about him isn’t quite what it seems, but I can’t put my finger on it. He appears to be very well-spoken so I shouldn’t think he’s a common seaman. Perhaps he works for Uncle Gray... maybe as his clerk? Or do they call secretaries something else in the Navy?”

  “I hope you don’t plan to ask him if he has a tattoo just to prove he’s a sailor.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why do you do anything?”

  “Well, that would be rather personal. Of course I’m not going to ask him that, I’m just going to see if he might teach me a bit about boats.”

  “I still think that’s rather forward of you, Grace.”

  “Nonsense. In fact, I think I shall go down to dinner this evening after all. Not only will Captain Ponsonby likely be there, but so will Mr. Lord. All I have to do is find an opportunity to put my idea to him.” She lay back against the propped pillows, smiling once more. “And on that note, I do believe I will rest for a bit. If I’m to be at my best tonight, I need to try and rid myself of this headache.”

  9

  Del, standing in front of the looking glass with a comb, had been fussing over his appearance— just like a young miss might, he thought sourly, and for what reason, really?— for the past thirty minutes. There wasn’t a damned thing to be done with hair so curly it had a life, mind and will of its own. Hair that was drying in haphazard, frizzing, unruly disarray around his face, refusing to be as staunchly under command as everything else about his person, his career, and his life.

  For a man as strictly disciplined as he was, such hair was an endless frustration.

  He eyed it ruefully. His siblings all had their father’s thick blond hair, hair that took a comb with no complaint, hair that shone in the sun and never gave its owner any trouble. But Del’s hair was a gift from his mother, and he was the only one who’d inherited it. Irish hair, she laughingly called it. Her own brother, Ruaidri, also had it. Hair that was coarse and wild and curling and quite black, given to corkscrew curls and untamed waves and an explosion of frizz if it met with comb or brush. Hair that one couldn’t do a damned thing with and tonight, as Del stood in front of the mirror, frowning, he found himself wishing he’d lived several decades in the past, when at least he could tie the damned curls and kinks and frizz up in a queue and let it go at that.

  It was already longer than it should be. But cutting it would cause it to stick up in ways that defied gravity.

  “Captain Lord?”

  He looked up, reining in his impatience and glad for the distraction. “Good evening, Ned.”

  “Papa said to tell you they’re starting to gather downstairs.”

  “Already?”

  “Well, people want to eat.”

  “All we’ve been doing all day is eating. And eating some more. I say, Ned, if sailors ate as much as these people did, their combined weight would sink a warship.”

  “Papa also said you’d try to beg off and ask for a tray in your room, even if you were hungry.”

  “Your father knows me well.”

  “He wants you to attend.”

  “Of course he does. He doesn’t want to be alone in the midst of such gluttony and gossip any more than I do. Food. Food! First a wedding, then a wedding banquet, now a wedding dinner. Will there be a wedding nightcap and a wedding midnight snack as well?”

  “I hope so. And I also hope they’ll be serving more of that lemon cake they brought out earlier. Though I liked the torte with almond icing and cherries on it, as well.”

  “You’d be wise not to gorge on such confections. You’ll be up all night with a bellyache.”

  Ned grinned. “Advice duly noted, sir.”

  The boy turned to leave.

  “Er, Ned?”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “That young lady who came to such grief earlier... your cousin.” D
el turned back to the mirror, checked his freshly-shaven jaw and forced an air of nonchalance. “I trust that she has recovered and is well?”

  “Haven’t seen her all afternoon but if I do, I’ll tell her you were asking about her.”

  “Oh, no, please do not. I would not wish to give her the impression that I have any... well, any inappropriate interest in her.”

  “Why would it be inappropriate?”

  “Never mind. Forget I said it, actually.”

  Ned, his eyes gleaming, folded his arms across his chest. “I heard my parents talking, you know.”

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  “I wasn’t, intentionally. But I still heard them.”

  Del went back to the looking glass and lifting his chin, began tying his cravat. “I suppose that’s my cue to ask you what they were talking about.”

  “It is indeed. And they were talking about you. Both of them think you’re far too wrapped up in all things Navy and that you’ve forgotten what it means to be around the fairer sex. They would like to see you find a wife.”

  Del, tying the folds of his cravat, started such that he nearly choked himself. “I grew up with several sisters. I daresay I know plenty about what it means to be around the fairer sex.”

  “Well, that was a long time ago. Now that you’re old, you’ve probably forgotten.”

  “Old? I will turn thirty later this year.”

  “That is old, Captain Lord. Really old. My parents are right. You should find a wife before you start looking grandfatherly. Then it will be too late.”

  “Spoken from the vantage-point of an eight-year-old.”

  Ned laughed. “The view up here is quite fine. See you at dinner, sir!”

  The boy disappeared, and Del was left alone to ponder his apparent elderliness, to discount the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes to sun and not age, and to resume the fight with his freshly-washed hair.

  Really, he should’ve got it cut. He looked like a damned savage.

  He raked a hand through the still-damp curls. Then, buttoning his jacket, he turned from the mirror and headed to the door.

  * * *

  Evening had made short work of the day’s heat but inside the house, especially with such a crush of people already gathering outside the great dining hall, it was still warm enough to elicit fans, complaints, and excuses for opportunistic ladies to swoon into the arms of handsome men. Grace figured she’d done enough swooning for the day and vowed to bring no further embarrassment upon herself. Nevertheless, she felt warm and cloistered in the press of bodies belonging to those waiting to be announced into the dining room, all of them gaily dressed, showing off jewelry, clothing, the partner who clung to their arm or to whose arm they clung.

  That same warmth brought back the dizziness from her earlier clouting, and she wished she had an arm to cling to.

  Preferably, Captain Sheldon Ponsonby’s.

  She followed the announcements into the dining room and found herself sitting, much to both her delight and dismay, amidst a group of blond people.

  And, directly across from Captain Ponsonby himself.

  For not the first time in her life, she wished she didn’t have the Falconer coloring. With her dark tresses and azure eyes, she felt conspicuous and rather lacking. Glancing across the table brought further dismay. Captain Ponsonby, smiling at Cecily de Montforte, obviously liked his women to be fair.

  Grace tried to put it out of her mind. People were still arriving and being seated and she forced herself to watch them, instead. She glanced at Hannah, nearby. The three youngest Falconer children had been put to bed under the care of their nanny but Ned was here, trying to emulate the gentleman seated around him in manner, seriousness and look. Colorful fans were appearing all around, directing cool air at damp faces, but the open window at Grace’s back admitted a refreshing breeze that relieved her hot nape and shoulders and made her hair, carefully upswept in the back and arranged into ringlets to frame her face, tickle her cheeks when she turned her head.

  She sipped from her wine glass, trying to pretend she was oblivious to the handsome blond pair just across from her. The two shared an easy relationship, laughing and smiling as though they’d known each other forever. Grace stared down into her wine, swirling it in the glass, keeping her expression properly cheerful. It was going to be a long evening with this sort of torture, and she willed it to be over. That wouldn’t be for some time, unfortunately. People were still coming into the room and being seated.

  “How are you feeling, my dear?”

  It was her mother, leaning down over her shoulder as she headed to her place at the upper end of the table. She’d entered the room on the arm of Grace’s new stepfather, Major Lord Angus McAllister. He was ten years his bride’s junior, distinguished in some battle in France against Napoleon, and his adoring gaze lingered on Mama’s neck and bosom while his cheeks went as ruddy as autumn apples.

  Grace didn’t like him much, really, but he’d been kind enough to her.

  She wondered if Mama liked him much, either. She’d certainly seemed rather oblivious to him earlier as she circled the festivities like a butterfly on the wing, laughing, vivacious, beautiful, uncaring that he was staring after her like a love-struck swain.

  “Grace?” her mother repeated, growing concerned.

  She tore her gaze from her discreet perusal of Captain Ponsonby’s hand as it closed around the stem of his wine glass. “I’m well enough, Mama.”

  Well enough, with having been knocked out of a boat, nearly drowned, and now about to be subjected to two hours of Captain Ponsonby directly in front of me, while he pays court to a beautiful blonde with whom I can never compete.

  “I am glad of it. Oh, look, there is your poor Aunt Alannah, she looks so sour these days, one would think she’d want to be back in Barbados!”

  “She always looks sour, Mama.”

  “Grace! Lower your voice, please!”

  “Well, nobody heard me,” Grace muttered sheepishly as her mother, her maternal duties complete and her effervescence in need of feeding, gave her The Look— eyes unnaturally wide open like twin blue beams, staring hard, head slightly tilted, mouth thinned just so— and fluttered off down the table.

  Well, at least she’d hoped nobody had heard her, especially Aunt Alannah, who had been rather sour since the death of her husband last year. Worry began to assail her, but Alannah, across from her and a few seats down, was shaking out her napkin and nodding a greeting to an older gentleman who was taking a seat beside her. She hadn’t heard. Phew. More people filing in, and there, the admiral’s stiffer-than-starch friend, Mr. Lord, whose cheek had made the blood rush from Grace’s head when her lips had impulsively touched upon it.

  She was feeling that same bit of dizziness, now.

  Woozy.

  She picked up her fan and directed air toward her face.

  The man moved into the room. He didn’t look uncomfortable, but there was something about him that made her think he probably longed to be somewhere else. And why not? This was not his family, these were not his people. In fact, why was he even here, aside from the fact that he was Uncle Gray’s friend? She watched him as he moved, his stride loose, his shoulders proud and commanding. She rather hoped that he wouldn’t be seated next to her; what would she say to him after that kiss? The one she was supposed to apologize for?

  You could thank him again for saving your life, you ninny.

  She could.

  Or, she could launch straight into her plan.

  And why not?

  Captain Ponsonby was leaving imminently. There was no time to waste.

  Mr. Lord moved to his chair, and at that moment his gaze lifted and directly met hers. He gave a barely perceptible nod, and Grace found herself blushing.

  Was he thinking about that silly kiss she’d bestowed on him?

  Her heart pounded a little faster in her chest, and she took another sip of wine, wishing he hadn’t flustered her so.
/>   And wondering why he did.

  Mr. Lord was seated beside Aunt Alannah. Only a few years older than Grace herself, she suddenly didn’t look so sour, nor did Mr. Lord look so stiff, and Grace wondered what kind of history back on Barbados the two of them must share to enjoy such an easy familiarity. Unreasonably, something stirred inside her; something faintly unpleasant and not altogether welcome, and Grace struggled to identify what it was.

  She shook it off. The starter was served, an asparagus soup with some sort of cream base. Grace didn’t care for asparagus and left it uneaten following an exploratory spoonful of it that all but made her gag.

  She buttered a roll and returned her attention to Captain Ponsonby across the table from her, wondering what the evening would hold.

  It was a good thing she could not know.

  10

  Disaster was, of course, waiting for Grace.

  On this night of nights, it came in the form of a long, dark hair that somehow found its way into Captain Ponsonby’s asparagus soup.

  Grace had been toying with her roll, waiting for the soup to be taken away, trying to ignore her gnawing envy as she’d observed Cecily’s natural grace, her aristocratic elegance as she’d lifted the spoon to her pretty mouth, her china-blue eyes laughing and kind, when it happened.

  There was an older gentleman seated beside her, his hair gone to gray, going on about his estate in Shropshire; Grace was dutifully giving him half an ear, trying very hard not to look as sour as she’d observed Aunt Alannah as being earlier when Captain Ponsonby, just lifting his spoon to his mouth, paused and stared at it.

  An expression of disgust cinched his handsome brows, his lip curled faintly and it was then that Grace saw it. A bit of asparagus, neatly snared at the end of a nearly-black hair, dangling from his spoon like a swinging fish.

  “Oh,” the captain said, his lip curling yet further, and in that moment his eyes lifted to hers and he recognized the culprit, the culprit who was the only one in his immediate vicinity with dark hair, who was to windward of him, and who was now, in that brief meeting of gazes, mortified for the second time this day.