Candice Hern (25 page)

Poor Grace. She was trying so hard to make him out to be a better man than he was, so that he might seem worthy of her. "I regret the scandal," he said, "for Serena's sake. And that is all I have to say on the matter."

"You did tell me once that you were a man of discretion. Now I know it to be true. I am proud to call you friend, Lord Rochdale."

Dear God, she was killing him. He bowed to her. "You honor me, madam."

Grace put her hand on his sleeve, in full view of any neighbor who happened to be spying. "Thank you for the lovely evening. I have enjoyed our time together. I wish you were not so determined to have people think badly of you. If only they knew how generous you have been to Marlowe House."

"Is that why you condescend to be seen with me, to allow me to kiss you? As some kind of reward for my bank draft?"

She blushed. Again. Prettily. "No, of course not. Your donation has nothing to do with it. That would be cruel and dishonest. I enjoy being with you, that is all. You make me feel ... special."

Her hand still rested on his sleeve and Rochdale covered it with his own. "You
are
special. And very beautiful. Has no one ever told you that?"

"The bishop did. He was very taken with my looks. But in many ways he was distant, as though he was afraid if he touched me I'd shatter like fine porcelain. You tell me I'm beautiful, but you also talk to me, you treat me like ... an equal. With the bishop, I was always his precious helpmate. He never really talked to me the way you do. I thank you for that, and I look forward to tomorrow's race."

Trouble and more trouble.

On the long, meandering drive to Curzon Street, Rochdale began to have second thoughts about what he'd planned for tomorrow. She refused to be cruel or dishonest with him, and yet he was about to do something thoroughly selfish and deceitful — and ultimately cruel, if she ever learned the truth. He anticipated a full-fledged seduction, and he was certain she would surrender to it. Because he made her feel special.

Yet she made him feel like the world's worst cad.

What the devil was he going to do about Grace Marlowe?

It was not until they stopped to change horses for the third time that Grace began to get suspicious.

Rochdale had come by her house at the appointed early hour in a plain black traveling chariot. The absence of the Rochdale crest on the door was obviously a matter of discretion, as was the fact that he had not brought a curricle or other open carriage in which they would be easily seen. Another demonstration of his concern for her reputation was his request that she change her bonnet.

"As delightful as that little confection is," he said, "I would recommend that you wear a bonnet that includes a veil. The race is likely to draw a motley crowd, including a few Corinthians from town who might recognize you. I fear I have been having second thoughts about taking you with me, worrying that you might become the object of gossip. However, I do not want to deprive you of seeing your first horse race, therefore I believe it is best that we take care that you are not recognized as Mrs. Marlowe."

With some reluctance, Grace exchanged her brand new cottage bonnet, with the sweet little bunch of cornflowers that exactly matched her pelisse, for a Victoria hat with a short veil that could be rolled back over the upturned brim. It was not as stylish as the cottage bonnet, but it would serve the purpose. Rochdale declared it perfection as he handed her into the carriage.

Grace found herself rather charmed that this man, who cared nothing for his own good name, was so solicitous of hers.

He told her it was a long drive to the racecourse, and she should tell her butler not to wait up for her as it might be late when they returned. She wondered how they could possibly spend such a long time at a horse race. Did he have something else planned that had nothing to do with horses?

The carriage was plush and elegant inside, with walls and seat cushions of tufted velvet, and polished brass fittings throughout. There were woolen lap robes tucked into deep pockets beneath the front window and footrests that pulled out from under the seat. Grace settled in comfortably for the journey and soon forgot any anxieties about what Rochdale might have in mind for her. He kept to his side of the seat, showing no inclination to take her in his arms. She was not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. Instead, they fell into easy conversation about horses and races and stables and other equine matters. Rochdale obviously had more than the average understanding of horses, explaining the features that made certain horses faster than others, about breeding and training, about the proper riders. When Grace expressed her admiration for the depth of his knowledge, he merely laughed and said, "Recollect that I am a gambler. I have been betting on the ponies for many years, and one takes note of these things if one wants to win. Some years ago I decided I wanted to go after the purse as well, so I started my own stable of racehorses. I've had several winners, but none as promising as Serenity."

"I look forward to meeting her."

"She's an Irish lass and very sweet-tempered. You will like her, I think."

Their conversation meandered from topic to topic as the drive took them farther into the countryside. Grace could not remember ever having such a comfortable talk with a gentleman. She was generally on her guard in mixed company, reticent to speak too openly or to say much at all beyond the prescribed trivialities of small talk. It was different with Rochdale: each of them expressing opinions openly, without the polite niceties that controlled most conversations with men of the
ton
. They spoke of Marlowe House and the Fletcher family, of opera and the latest novels, of recent bills in Parliament and the latest news from the war. She was surprised to learn that Rochdale, who gave the impression of a man interested in his own pleasure and little else, was well versed in political issues, and took his seat in Lords when a particular vote was important to him. And he seemed surprised that she kept up to date with current events, obviously assuming she would be more interested in the latest fashions than the latest battle in Portugal.

"I read the newspapers," she said, "just like you, and subscribe to several magazines as well. I enjoy following news of Bonaparte and the war and political debate."

"Let me guess: all that newspaper reading is something you are enjoying as a widow that you were never allowed to do as a wife."

Grace offered a sheepish grin. "How did you know?"

"I have often heard men say that they do not allow their wives to read the newspapers. Thinking it might offend their delicate sensibilities or some such nonsense. Seems damned foolish to me. If a woman wants to know about something badly enough, she will find it out eventually, so why stop her? You did mention that the old man treated you like a porcelain doll, so I assume he also protected you against the horrors you might stumble upon in
The Times
or the
Morning Chronicle
."

"Definitely not the
Morning Chronicle
," she said, wagging a finger at him. "Too Whiggish for Bishop Marlowe, let alone his wife. But you're right. Like many men, he did not think women should trouble their minds with men's business. In fact, I found a sermon of his among his papers in which he specifically warns men against allowing their wives too much freedom in their reading material. Newspapers and novels were to be avoided at all costs."

Rochdale arched an eyebrow. "And yet now you enjoy them both, do you not?"

Grace shrugged. "My first little act of independence as a widow."

"But not your last. Here you are on your way to a horse race."

"Where I hope to place a bet. See how wicked I have become under your influence? The bishop would be aghast at my imprudent behavior."

"And the day is still young." He shot her a roguish look that made her smile. "Tell me, Grace, how did you meet the bishop? I assume through your father, since he is a man of the church, and yet you said he was a simple country vicar."

"He was, but he had ambitions. When he heard that Bishop Marlowe was coming to Exeter Cathedral, he packed us all up and made the twenty-mile journey so he could meet the great man he'd heard so much about." Grace chuckled as she remembered that day. "We had not been away from home much, my brother and sister and I, and so staying in a coaching inn not far from Cathedral Commons seemed very grand indeed. Mama was less sanguine about it, however, and brought her own sheets."

Rochdale laughed. "A practical woman, your mama."

"Which made her a perfect vicar's wife."

"And so you met Bishop Marlowe in Exeter?"

"Papa was introduced to the bishop, and was asked, along with other local clergy, to officiate at a service with him. It was quite an honor. Afterward, he trotted all of us out to be properly introduced."

"And you caught the bishop's eye."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I daresay he was smitten by your beauty. How old were you?"

"Eighteen. I felt very gauche and awkward at first, but also very flattered that he should deign to notice me."

"Any man with breath still in him would notice, my dear. So, did he lay his heart at your young feet?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. It was all very formally done. My parents said I had to marry him because he promised to give Papa a post as a Rural Dean."

"They sold you to him."

Grace shot him a perturbed look. "No, it wasn't as bad as that. It was simply an arranged marriage like any other. As it happened, I was very fortunate in my parents' choice of husband for me." Her poor sister had not fared nearly as well with her ne'er-do-well husband who didn't even try to make a go of their farm.

"It sounds to me as if your parents got more out of the bargain than you did, saddled with a man more than twice your age. I hope they appreciated your sacrifice."

"It was no sacrifice, I assure you. I went from a small, crowded vicarage to the very grand official residence of the Bishop of London, and later our private residence on Portland Place, which he very kindly left me in his will. I have led a life of wealth and comfort such as I had never imagined. It has not been a sacrifice."

But it had been exceedingly uncomfortable at first. Grace had been self-conscious about her humble background when the bishop brought her to his official residence in London at the Old Deanery, which was large and ornate and bustling with servants in elegant livery, and minions in more somber black, ready to do the bishop's bidding. She'd felt so out of place and horribly unprepared. Her husband understood, however, and taught her everything — how to behave, how to dress, how to speak, what to say to whom. Even how to behave with him in private. Everything. And Grace had been a fast learner. She'd become the perfect Bishop's Wife.

And until recently, had been the perfect Bishop's Widow.

"Are your parents still alive," Rochdale asked, "reaping the benefits of your marriage?"

"Yes, they are alive and well in Devon. My sister and brother are still in Devon as well."

"Do you ever see them?"

"Not often. None of them ever comes to London, and I seldom have time for a visit to Devon. But we are great letter writers, the Newbury family is. I receive long letters from at least one of them every week, relating all the country news, and I write to them weekly about the news in town."

More often than not, the letters from Devon contained veiled requests for money, especially from her sister, Felicity, who had seven children and figured since Grace had none — a barb she never ceased to fling — she should help to support her nieces and nephews. Her brother, Thomas, also needed assistance from time and time, and even her mother had hinted now and then that a contribution to her father's deanery would be welcome. Grace had come to think of the Newbury family as her second charity.

"I do not know," Rochdale said, "how you manage to accomplish so much with your time, my dear. Your charity fund and all its balls, the management of Marlowe House, all that letter writing. It boggles the mind. Ah, here is the Red lion." He signaled to the postilions to pull into the inn yard. "We'll change horses here and stay for a quick luncheon. You must be as famished as I am."

As he led her into the inn, Grace realized they were changing horses for the third time and had been traveling for almost four hours. He'd kept her so engaged in conversation that she had lost all track of time. Where was this horse race that it took so long to get there? Anxiety danced down her spine as she wondered what Rochdale was up to.

He procured a private parlor for them and ordered food and drink. Tea for her, porter for him. She walked to the window and looked out to see where they were. She had barely noticed the landscape as they drove. The inn was situated on rising ground above a wharf that jutted out into a river. The remains of an old castle could be seen on a hill in the near distance. "Where are we?" she asked.

"Hockerill. Just at the border of Essex and Hertfordshire."

"Are we near the racecourse?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. We still have a bit of a drive."

She stared at him for a moment, and saw something flicker in his eyes that unsettled her. Was it guilt? Shame?

"John, where exactly are we going?"

He could no longer meet her eyes and dropped his gaze, making a show of brushing a piece of nonexistent lint from his sleeve. "To a racecourse a bit north of here."

"How far north?"

He shrugged. "A ways."

"John. Look at me."

He did. His brow was furrowed and this time there was no mistaking the look of guilt in his eyes.

"Tell me where we are going."

He sighed, but kept his eyes squarely on hers. "Newmarket."

"Good God." She ought to have guessed it. Newmarket was, as she understood it, where a great many important races were run. It was also at least sixty miles from London. "We cannot possibly reach Newmarket in time for a race today."

He looked at her for a long moment, then said, "No, we can't. The race is tomorrow morning."