My Saving Grace Page 6

  He lowered the spoon, the asparagus still dangling from the hair, back into his bowl. Again, a glance up at her, at her dark hair; a pained smile, but the revulsion was there in his eyes, his appetite gone. He pushed the soup away.

  His companion had not noticed the reason for his sudden loss of appetite. “Sheldon?”

  “The soup is not quite to my liking,” he said politely, too much of a gentleman to call attention to the hair, and through flaming face and a crushing sense of humiliation, Grace knew she could not endure another minute here, let alone another two hours. Tears burned behind her lids and she pushed her chair back, getting to her feet.

  “I beg your pardon,” she managed, her face burning with mortification. “I... I’m not feeling well.”

  Her mother frowned and began to rise, no doubt unhappy about attention being transferred from herself to another on her special day, but Grace raised a hand to stay her and hurried to the door. She heard chairs scraping behind her, the low murmur of conversation. Poor thing... she took quite a hit earlier... nobody can blame her for needing to rest! She put the voices out of her mind, desperate to get out of the room ... desperate to escape the humiliation, desperate to remove herself from Captain Ponsonby’s presence, desperate to get upstairs and throw herself down on the bed and have the good cry that was just bursting at the seams to get out.

  But they would be looking for her in her room.

  Hannah. Her mother. Every single one of her blood-aunts and possibly even Aunt Maeve as well.

  And at that moment, Grace did not want to see anyone, talk to anyone or be found by anyone.

  At the stairs she turned left instead, and headed outside into the garden.

  Her feet could not take her fast enough.

  * * *

  It was Lady Falconer, eyeing the young woman as she hurried from the room, who leaned sideways to murmur to her husband’s flag captain.

  “She looks rather wobbly, Del. You really ought to go see to her welfare.”

  “Me?”

  “Why, yes, you. You’ve already rescued the poor girl once today, she’ll be rather used to it by now.”

  Del’s concern had been aroused when he’d seen her abruptly get to her feet and leave the table. She’d been hit pretty hard during the accidental jibe this afternoon, and though he had no experience with such an injury himself, he’d seen nausea go along with head injuries in others. The sight of food had probably affected her.

  “I think, Lady Falconer, that you or her sister or even one of her aunts should be the one to tend to her. She’s a young woman without a chaperone. It would be improper if I go see to her—”

  “Go see to her,” his admiral snapped irritably from nearby. “And that’s an order.”

  One couldn’t argue with one’s own admiral. Inwardly sighing, Del pushed his chair back, eyed his half-finished soup, and nodding to Alannah, headed for the doors.

  Something wasn’t right. It was the same feeling he might’ve had on a perfectly sunny, pleasant day at sea when something in the wind, in the air itself, warned him of an incoming storm. Gut feelings, they were like that. Not always anything obvious, but to be respected, heeded even, all the same.

  Del’s gut feeling was that Sir Graham and Lady Falconer were up to something.

  Reason suggested it might be an ill-conceived attempt at matchmaking, but logic argued against that; there’d been plenty of pretty young women back on or near Barbados, daughters of rich plantation owners, daughters of military colleagues, daughters of local dignitaries. The Falconers had never played matchmaker then, and Del had no reason to think they would do so now. Besides, Sir Graham had been downright furious when Rhiannon, the woman who’d secretly owned Del’s heart, had been caught alone on a beach with Connor out in the darkness. Rhiannon had been his ward.

  Lady Grace, though, was more than just his ward.

  She was his niece.

  No, his admiral was just sensitive to the fact that Del was no fan of ton gatherings and was giving him an excuse to bail.

  But yet, that gut feeling...

  He left the noisy, stuffy dining room and shut the door behind him. The great hall was pleasantly cool after the smothering crush in his wake, lighted sconces placed at regular intervals between a gallery of paintings, shining on long-dead faces, throwing shadows across the marble floor and plush rugs.

  “Sir?”

  It was a footman with a tray of food, heading for the dining room that Del had just vacated. His brows were raised in question.

  “A young lady just left here,” Del said quietly. “Did you see where she went?”

  “Outside, sir.”

  Outside. Great. In the darkness.

  There was that gut feeling again.

  He remembered how Connor had been caught out in the darkness with Rhiannon, and the marriage they’d been forced to undergo as a result.

  He thought about turning back to the dining room.

  He thought about heading upstairs and spending the rest of the night reading a book.

  He thought of anything but heading for the door that led out into the darkness and chasing after that beautiful, impetuous, and oh-so-foolish girl.

  You can’t disobey your admiral.

  And if something happens to the young lady out there, and you weren’t there to protect her, your head will be the one to roll.

  His mouth tight, Del strode for the door.

  11

  He moved lightly down the steps and onto the lawn outside.

  The night was cool, the gusty winds that had marked the day having subsided into a harmless collection of faint zephyrs that, were he at sea, he’d be cursing for their inability to move the ship forward at any speed. They were pleasant enough here though, and for a moment he allowed himself to enjoy a soft, lovely night without baking heat.

  A night without mosquitoes.

  He’d forgotten how much of a luxury that actually was. Above him, stars shot through a dark sky and off in the distance the lights of a village twinkled. He heard a cow lowing somewhere in the night. A fox barking.

  A woman’s soft weeping.

  The gut feeling returned, and it was very clear in its directive.

  Turn right around, Del, and go straight back into the house and tell your admiral that his niece is upset and needs tending to. Turn right around and do it quickly, before anyone catches the two of you out here together. So, she’s crying. Her head likely hurts. She’s not your responsibility and if you go to her, all kinds of bad things may happen to you.

  Remember what happened to Connor?

  For a moment, Del stood there, torn.

  The weeping grew louder, the sound of a wet, mucus-laden nose being sniffed into sinuses punctuating the soft cries.

  Turn right around! the gut feeling persisted.

  But Del was first and foremost an officer. He had been born the second son of an admiral, been trained by admirals, and now served an admiral, and the idea of disobeying a direct order from one was unthinkable to him no matter how much gut feelings told him to do just that.

  He took a deep and bracing breath and damning his obedience to duty, let alone the soft spot in his heart that only wanted to soothe that plaintive anguish, headed toward the sound.

  * * *

  “Lady Grace?”

  The deep voice cut through the darkness in which Grace had retreated, a darkness that covered her shame, soothed her misery, gave her anonymity and escape following the disaster caused by a single, cursed hair.

  A hair, of all things.

  Oh, how utterly, crushingly, mortifying.

  Was that to be the end of her dreams with Captain Ponsonby?

  Maybe not, because here he was, out here in the darkness and coming to her aid like the gallant rescuer she knew him to be. No doubt, he’d realized his reaction— understandable as it was— had deeply embarrassed her, and had come out to make amends as any proper gentleman would do. No doubt he felt badly about things and wanted to make them
right.

  She caught her breath, smoothed her carefully curled ringlets back from her face, and passed a knuckle beneath her eye. She considered blowing her nose; sniffling was about as attractive as finding a hair in your soup, but blowing one’s nose was a flat-out confession that you’d been crying and right now Grace didn’t want Captain Ponsonby to know she’d been doing just that.

  “I’m here,” she managed, sitting up on the little bench on which she’d sought refuge and wishing her voice didn’t sound so nasally, so clogged with tears.

  Footsteps approaching, crunching on the gravel. She straightened her spine, sitting primly and thinking, somewhat uneasily, that perhaps Captain Ponsonby might be a bit of a rake if he’d followed her out here in the darkness all by himself. Did anyone know? What were his intentions?

  There, a tall form materializing from under the starlight. Powerful shoulders, a trim, lean waist, long legs and an air of quiet authority. He man moved closer, and Grace’s heart fell.

  “You’re not Captain Ponsonby,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “I’m sorry. No, I’m not.” He paused a good twenty feet away, unwilling to come closer in respect, she imagined, for her own reputation should anyone find them. “Are you all right, Lady Grace?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lord.”

  “Your uncle sent me to check on you.”

  “I’m fine. You can go back inside now.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “Well, I am. And I’d prefer to be left alone, please.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, and she could sense him thinking. He clasped his hands behind his back and dug at the gravel with his toe before finally speaking. “As a gentleman, I cannot leave you out here alone in the darkness.”

  “What, are you afraid I might fall into another pond and need rescuing again?”

  “On the contrary. To my knowledge there is only one pond on this property and it is a good distance away. My concerns for your safety have nothing to do with water.”

  “I’m sure I can see to my own safety, thank you.”

  “I’m sure you can. But since I was sent to make sure that you’re all right, I’ll take a seat on this bench opposite your own.”

  “And do what?”

  “Why, stay out here until you decide to go back inside, I imagine.”

  “I told you, sir, that I wish to be alone.”

  “And I told you, that I was sent to ensure your well-being.”

  “By whom?”

  “Your uncle.”

  Her uncle. Well, it was better to have Sir Graham imposing on her life than her new stepfather, she supposed. Because the latter was inevitable.

  Still.

  He moved closer, and Grace’s skin prickled in warning. But he only reached into his pocket, withdrew a crisply folded handkerchief, and gallantly handed it to her before stepping politely away. Then he retreated and took a seat on the bench opposite her. He sat there, a quiet presence in the darkness that, in some odd, confusing way, was rather comforting.

  She wiped at her eyes. Irritation crept in, especially when he said nothing, creating awkwardness and a silence she felt obligated to fill. What to say to him? What to do now? Sit here like a bump on a log? Yes, she’d wanted to talk to the man but not quite like this, in these circumstances, and certainly not when she was upset. Worse, she was alone out here in the darkness with him. Alone. With him. That was infinitely more dangerous than being out here alone with just herself.

  What if they were discovered?

  Dear God. That didn’t bear thinking about. Nor did the scandal and resultant consequences.

  But she wasn’t ready to return to the house, to possibly run into Captain Sheldon Ponsonby and the beautiful Cecily de Montforte (who likely never shed hairs that ended up in other people’s soup), wasn’t ready to explain things to her mama and certainly, wasn’t ready to face anyone.

  So she was stuck here, really. Stuck either talking to him or going back inside. Maybe she could slip up to her room and hide there for the rest of the evening.

  Or the rest of the next few days.

  But Grace was not one to hide, at least, not for long. She chanced a look at him, sitting there opposite her just across the little stone path, and it hit her, then. Hard. Despite the awkwardness and shocking inappropriateness of being out here in the dark with him, if it weren’t for this man she wouldn’t even be here.

  No, Grace. You would be dead.

  Dead and drowned.

  She suddenly felt lower than the gravel beneath her slippered feet.

  “I’m sorry for my crossness,” she said quietly, and looked down at his handkerchief, now knotted in her hands. “I’ve had such an awful day and now, an equally awful night. It’s not your fault. I don’t mean to take out my feelings on you. Indeed, I should be thanking you for saving my life. For jumping into that lake and ruining your clothes... why, your day was spoiled, too.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Any decent man would have done the same. I happened to be close enough to predict what was about to happen and take action as needed.”

  “Well, you may downplay your part in it, but I wouldn’t be sitting here breathing if not for you.”

  “And, uh... forgive me, but crying.”

  “You noticed?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t help but notice.”

  “Oh.”

  She went silent, feeling suddenly very foolish. Of course he’d noticed. It’s why he’d given her his handkerchief. She was suddenly glad that he couldn’t see her face flaming in the darkness. He probably already thought she was a silly enough ninny, without further confirmation.

  “I’m sure your head must hurt,” he offered gallantly. “And your pretty gown was ruined.”

  “You think that’s why I’m out here crying?”

  He shrugged. “Seems like a good enough reason to me.”

  “If you think I’d cry over such trivial nonsense, you don’t know me very well.”

  “You are entirely correct in that, Lady Grace. I don’t know you very well.”

  Another long silence. In the distance the moon was coming up, tracing a faint track over the distant pond where she’d nearly met her end.

  “I was crying,” she murmured, looking down at the wadded-up handkerchief in her hands, “because Captain Ponsonby found a hair in his soup.”

  He paused for a long moment.

  “Well, then,” he said, finally. “That’s an odd reason to cry.”

  “Not when... when... oh, never mind. I can’t explain right now, nor do I wish to. Can you please go back inside, Mr. Lord?”

  “That would be disobeying your uncle and I can’t do that.”

  She put her head in her hands and stared down at her feet, her eyes blurring with tears.

  “So, he found a hair in his soup,” Mr. Lord continued, as though something of such magnitude mattered not one whit. His voice was deep, pleasant and kind. “He’s a mariner. At sea, he’ll find weevils in his bread and maggots in his beef. I’m sure he can handle it.”

  “Do you really not understand?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “It was a haaaaair!” she all but wailed. “One of mine!”

  “Maybe it was the cook’s.”

  “It wasn’t the cook’s, she has gray hair!”

  “Lady Grace, I think that—”

  “This hair was black,” she snapped, tears of humiliation burning in her sinuses once more. “And everyone sitting around me had fair hair save for Mr. whatever-his-name-was. Oh no, Mr. Lord, it was my hair. Even if it wasn’t, the captain thought it was mine and he was plainly revolted— you could see it on his face, and immediately after finding it, he pushed the soup away and went a bit green. He knew it was my hair!”

  “And why should that matter?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Isn’t what obvious?”

  “You really are the most impossible person! I d
on’t know if you’re just making sport of me or if you really are this obtuse.”

  “With all due respect, Lady Grace, you are the one talking cryptically, not me.”

  She leaned forward, tucking her hands between her knees and finding his gaze in the darkness. “I’ll spell it out for you then, since you haven’t discerned what I’m trying to say while I’m trying not to say it. That is, Mr. Lord... oh, this is embarrassing!... I quite fancy Captain Ponsonby and I don’t have a chance of catching his attention except, it would seem, by humiliating myself. He’s smitten with Cecily de Montforte and doesn’t even know I exist. I need to find a way to get him to notice me. That is why I was out on the lake. He’s a captain of a great warship, and I wanted him to know that we had something in common, that I also knew how to sail a boat but the wind, oh! Why did it come up when it did?”

  The man across from her went silent, and Grace could not know that he was thinking some thoughts of his own.

  Captain of a great warship, my arse. The man commanded a frigate. Frigates were good scouts, they were fast and powerful, but they weren’t an admiral’s flagship, and they were usually captained by ambitious up-and-comers desperate to prove themselves. He knew, because he’d captained one himself before Sir Graham had given him command of Orion and asked him to carry his flag.

  This young woman, though... she wouldn’t know the difference between a frigate and a hundred-gun ship of the line such as his Orion, and despite the stab of annoyance he’d felt when she sang Ponsonby’s praises, he was obliged to just let her rattle on for a bit.

  “Which is why I was hoping to talk to you,” she was saying. “I had planned to approach you when the time was right, but since we’re both sitting out here, I’ll just say it and be done with it.”

  “Go on.”

  “That is, if you’re a friend of my uncle, and know something about boats, I’m guessing you’re a sailor.” She peered at him. “Are you?”

  Am I a sailor?