Not by Sight (16 page)

———

“A letter for you, Miss Mabry.”

Mr. Tillman scowled as he arrived during their lunch to hand Grace a crisp, white invitation. “I’ve got better things to do
than run messages back and forth for young ladies.” He eyed her sharply from beneath bushy brows. “If it needs responding, you can do it yourself.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode back across the field.

“I don’t think the farmer’s going to forgive you, Grace.” Becky sat in the grass near her feet, eating one of the buttermilk scones she’d made for their breakfast that morning.

“It’s the shovel. Or maybe the pigs. He hasn’t g-gotten over either one.” Lucy took a bite of her carrot. She was still perched atop the horse-driven tractor mower.

“What’s in the letter, miss?” Agnes asked, looking curious from her grassy spot across from Becky.

Grace’s mouth went dry as she stared at the embossed linen envelope. Surely he wouldn’t fire her with an invitation? She opened it and read the scrawled lines of Jack’s steward, Mr. Edwards. “I’ve been invited to dine with Lord Roxwood. This evening, in fact.”

She glanced up and saw Agnes’s brow pucker, while Becky waved her arms and cried, “The Tin Man’s falling in love with Grace!”

“Nonsense.” Grace felt her face heat as she glanced back at the invitation. “We had a row on Monday. He probably wishes to repair our truce.”

Grace risked a glance at Clare, seated alongside her in the grass.

“What do I know?” Clare shrugged, then went back to eating her apple-butter sandwich. “But I watched you unpack your bags. At least you have a decent dress to wear to your truce.”

The summer sun still shone above the tree line when Grace arrived at the manor for dinner. Knowles answered her summons, and his face brightened at the sight of her.

Grace offered a shy smile. She’d taken special care with her toilette this evening, and while her gown was simple compared to the clothes in her wardrobe at home in London, the embroidered white cotton summer dress made her feel quite pretty.

“My lady.” Knowles offered a slight bow and then retreated to allow her entrance. “May I say you look enchanting this evening.”

Her smile broadened. “Why, you certainly may, Knowles. Thank you.”

He bowed again. “If you’ll follow me to the library.”

He led her in a direction opposite the study, and she marveled again at the tasteful simplicity of the house. The high ceilings were edged with gilt friezes, while neutral-colored walls enhanced the gold-and-green rugs covering the polished wood floors.

Knowles stopped in front of a pair of heavy double doors and opened them. “Miss Mabry, milord,” he said, allowing her to enter.

Jack stood beside a walnut divan covered in soft green-and-beige-striped fabric. The massive Turkish rug at his feet held similar shades, along with reds, blues, and browns. A pair of potted palms in brass urns stood on either side of two floor-length windows draped in dark gold velvet and snow-white sheers.

“Thank you for accepting my invitation, Miss Mabry.”

Jack wore standard dinner dress of white tie and tails. Grace admired the way the black jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, contrasting sharply with his white waistcoat and shirtfront. He looked quite dashing but for the mask, though she was pleased he’d left off the mesh. “You’re quite welcome, Lord Roxwood.”

“Shall I have Knowles pour us a sherry?”

“That would be lovely.” Grace glanced at the butler, who
bowed and went to a side table, returning with two amber-filled glasses served up on a silver tray. She smiled at him, taking a glass.

“Milord?” Knowles hovered with the tray.

Jack extended a hand, into which the butler deftly slipped the other glass of sherry. “To good company,” he said, raising his glass. Grace lifted hers, as well.

“And may I say, your lordship, the entire staff wishes you a very happy birthday.”

Grace paused with the sherry to her lips. “It’s your birthday?”

“Another year older.” He hesitated. “Though I have grown none the wiser.”

Silence reigned for a few seconds before the butler said, “I’ll see about dinner, milord.” Knowles left the drawing room and closed the doors behind him.

“Please, Grace, take a seat.”

She chose the chair next to the divan. “You have a beautiful home,” Grace said, her pulse pounding with new awareness of him. They were alone in the same room, although it seemed laughable when she considered they were much that way each day on their outings together. This was different, however. She wasn’t being paid to be here. And he’d asked her to dinner on his birthday.

Grace wished she would have known earlier. She could have purchased a gift in the village.

He took a seat on the divan, then a quick sip of his sherry. “I wish to apologize for my behavior on Monday.” He spoke without preamble. “I know you had the best intentions, while I . . .” His lopsided smile pierced her with warmth. “I’m afraid I still have difficulty believing anyone sees me as anything other than the village troll.”

“But you’re not that at all,” Grace assured him, moving to the edge of her seat. “You’re quite the opposite.” Seeing his quick flash of teeth, she added, “While I don’t care for the mask, it
does lend you an air of mystery—like Erik in Gaston Leroux’s
The Phantom of the Opera.
”

His smile faded. “I read the novel when it came out a few years ago. As I recall, Erik was a miserable soul, and the beautiful Christine pitied him.”

She straightened in her seat. “Well, as I haven’t the slightest twinge of the sentiment in your regard, the comparison is probably inaccurate. Still, I am glad you’ve left off the steel mesh. You have a nice smile, you know.”

He gifted her with one then, and her breath caught before she asked, “Have you spoken with your family today?”

“My mother called earlier to wish me good tidings.” He paused. “She conveyed my father’s sentiments, as well.”

Grace sipped at the amber liquid, enjoying its warmth against her throat. It was a shame Jack and his father weren’t able to bridge the divide in their relationship. It made her angry, too. Hugh was dead, while the Earl of Stonebrooke had a remaining son. By allowing his grief of the past to blind him, he missed the love he could have in the present with Jack.

She thought to ask if Miss Arnold had called, but decided against it, enjoying their current equanimity. Grace hadn’t forgotten their conversation about arranged marriages.

The drawing room doors opened. “Dinner, milord,” the butler said.

“Shall we, Miss Mabry?” Jack rose and approached her chair, offering his arm. Grace stood and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I hope you have an appetite. Mrs. Riley has prepared my favorite dish—baked salmon.”

“One of my favorites,” she said.

A moment later, they walked into the dining room and moved toward the elegant table. The white linen cloth held candles, fine bone china, and crystal goblets. Two bouquets of roses garnished the table with their beauty.

Knowles showed Grace to her chair beside Jack, who sat at the head of the table, while an older woman in cap and apron—Mrs. Riley, she presumed—brought in the first course. Grace was surprised a footman didn’t carry out the task.

“Carrot soup, milord, and just as you like it.” Next, the woman placed a serving before Grace.

“Thank you, Mrs. Riley,” Jack said.

“Milord.”

She curtsied while Grace inhaled the soup’s spicy aroma of ginger and cinnamon. “This smells delicious.”

When Mrs. Riley beamed at her, it struck Grace how different the cook’s pleasant expression was from that of her brother, Mr. Tillman, who wore an interminable frown.

She retreated, and minutes passed in companionable silence as Grace and Jack enjoyed their food. Knowles had come around to pour a delicate white wine and then removed himself to a discreet distance behind Jack so as to give them a measure of privacy.

“I admit it’s much easier dining this way,” he said, taking a spoonful of the soup. “Before, I’d have to remove my mask, then replace it after the meal.”

Grace glanced toward Knowles. “What about the servants?”

“They have always been instructed to leave the room. I wish my privacy when I eat.”

“But you allow me to be here?” Affection brewed in her as she tried to keep her tone light. Grace was thrilled he would trust her enough to share what he considered a kind of intimacy.

“I am still wearing my mask,” he reminded her, and her euphoric mood dimmed. “But I wanted you to share in my birthday.”

Her spirits buoyed again. “I am honored,” she said with sincere warmth.

Mrs. Riley brought in the next course—baked salmon topped
with lemon wedges and served alongside slices of seasoned boiled potatoes and a medley of cooked vegetables from the garden: beans, tomatoes, peas, carrots, and rhubarb. “Everything is set just as you like it, milord.” She placed his meal before him, doing the same with Grace.

“I suppose with the war on, you’re without a footman?” she asked once the woman had left.

“No, I keep a footman on hand, though Gaines is too old for service overseas.”

Grace noticed Jack used his fork to poke at each item on his plate. Seeming satisfied all of his food was sufficiently dead, he began to eat.

“Afraid your salmon will swim off the plate?” she teased. “I see you jabbing it with your fork as if it’s still moving.”

His cheeks colored faintly, and Grace regretted her remark. Had she blundered again?

His rueful smile reassured her. “I like to know exactly where everything is on my plate. Don’t want to bite into any surprises. Meat at seven o’clock”—he stabbed at the salmon—“potatoes at twelve o’clock, green vegetables at three.” He indicated with his fork the other two servings. “Always the same, and the reason Mrs. Riley serves my meals.”

Grace stared down at her plate. “Lord Roxwood, I didn’t mean to pry . . .”

“No harm done. And when we’re alone, please, call me Jack. I like hearing you say my name.” Then he said, “Knowles, you may go. Leave the bottle of wine.”

“Very good, milord.” The butler set the wine on the table between them.

“I would like it if you called me Grace,” she said when he’d left. Jack answered with a smile and a nod, then speared a chunk of the fish and began eating.

Grace did the same. “I didn’t properly thank you the other
day for taking me to Margate. It was all quite fascinating.” She darted a glance at him, noting how his strong and capable hands deftly wielded the fork or reached for his glass of wine. If one didn’t know he was blind, he could fool even the most critical eye.

“It was my pleasure, Grace. I meant what I said.” His tone softened, and he stretched one of those hands along the table in her direction. “I’ve come to appreciate your company and your honesty.”

Grace faltered with a forkful of vegetables to her lips. She hadn’t been completely honest with him, had she? Of course, she should tell him about the white feather right now . . .

Seeing his unguarded smile, she hesitated. It was his birthday, after all. It would be heartless to ruin it for him. She took his hand instead, and as soon as she touched him, her heart began pounding like Nessa’s racing hooves along the cobbled streets in Westminster.

“I’ve enjoyed our time together myself,” she said quietly. “You’ve helped me to see things in ways I never could before.”
And
experience emotions I’ve never felt before.

He squeezed her fingers, and the heat from his touch ignited her senses. “And you are my eyes, sweet Grace.” His deep voice caressed her like a warm summer breeze. “And so much more—”

“I wish to see him now!”

Their hands broke apart as the doors to the dining room burst open. A fashionably attired woman stood on the threshold, while Knowles, looking distraught, stood behind her. “Milord, I tried to have her wait—”

“It’s all right.” Jack removed his napkin and rose from his chair. “Good evening, Violet.”

Violet Arnold! Grace’s fork clattered against her plate. She vaguely recognized her from a newspaper photograph. With her golden hair piled high beneath a stylish plum-colored hat,
wearing a smart linen traveling suit of the same shade, she appeared far more beautiful in person.

Ignoring Jack, she cast a derisive glance at Grace. “I have tried calling several times to send a car to meet me at the train station. Each time that man, Edwards, said you were out.”

“I was out.” Jack’s tone sounded lackluster. “I’ve been in my gardens most of the day.”

Miss Arnold finally turned to face him. A flash of distaste crossed her unblemished features. “Whatever for?”

“I wanted to enjoy my roses.”

“Wearing that horrid mask?” She quickly averted her gaze.

Fury coursed through Grace. So this was the woman he was to marry next month? No wonder Jack felt so . . . inadequate. It was obvious she wanted nothing to do with him.

“The last time I checked, Violet, my sense of smell was still intact.” Irritation colored his words as he fumbled around the table. Grace stood, too.

“You purposely ignored me,” she insisted. “And now you’re having a cozy dinner with . . . ?”