What the Duke Wants (31 page)

Stonebridge did not look relaxed by any means, but rather, he appeared forcibly composed. Yet beneath the surface, Swindon could sense the duke humming with a fierce, predatory energy.

Swindon knew he had to proceed with caution, but at the same time, he had to be firm, for his life was in danger. Fortunately, society and the law were on his side. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief, cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back to hide their shaking, and began to pace behind his desk.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I must be frank this afternoon. It has been four months since you requested permission to court my daughter.”

He paused and peeked at the duke to determine if there was any change in his demeanor at the audacity of his words. Stonebridge had his jaw clenched, judging by the muscle ticking in his cheek, and his hands were balled into fists over the arms of the chair, but his gaze was focused on one of the windows behind the desk, and he uttered not a word in response. Concluding it was still safe to continue…

“We…” He paused to mop his head again. His gaze caught on the sliced leather of his desktop left from the knife embedded there previously. He mopped his profusely sweating brow again; fear for his life emboldened him to continue.

“We had reached a mutual agreement as to the terms and both our solicitors have approved the stipulations of the contract. Further, society is aware of and has tacitly approved the match.”

Again, he paused to gauge the duke’s reaction and to catch his breath. This time he waited a few more minutes. Stonebridge tore his gaze from the window and looked directly at him, but did nothing more than raise one brow, encouraging him to get to the point.

His point came out in a rush. “So, in light of that, I asked you here to tell you I expect an announcement at the Lyndhurst Ball tonight.”

* * * *

Bold move, Swindon.

“Indeed,” was all he said out loud.

Stonebridge returned his attention to the window; he watched as droplets of water pelted the glass then joined seemingly random trails of water running down the panes. He was caught for the moment, in his own watery trail, of his own making no less, unable to do anything but go along with the flow, for the moment.

“Excellent. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending the betrothal announcement to the papers; it shall appear in the morning edition. I presume you would like to see Beatryce now?”

* * * *

Beckett House…

Later…

Grace sat in the drawing room of the Becketts’ town house and calmly drank her tea. It was all a façade. In reality, she was a nervous wreck. Every carriage that sounded on the street outside made her jump, thinking the family had returned. She half expected her uncle to barge into the room at any minute and accuse her of some crime. Of which she was guilty.

Janet seemed to be aware of the situation…or something. Hence the unusual sight of the staff chatting it up in the drawing room. Grace had fully expected to greet everyone in the kitchen, but Janet had insisted they do it here. Two footmen stood on either side of the window—each taking turns to glance outside—probably watching for the Becketts’ return.

She wondered what Dansbury was doing now. Searching the library? The study? She wondered if he had planned to search the drawing room—for what she wasn’t sure, but that would be impossible now with the staff gathered here. Perhaps she could do it, look for anything out of place.

Junk littered every available surface—knickknacks and the like. It was quite surprisingly cluttered—probably an attempt to show off their wealth. She set her tea cup down on the low coffee table and looked about.

Hmmm…Where to start?

She was exhilarated to be helping Dansbury and Stonebridge.

Just thinking the duke’s name heated her cheeks as memories from their evening together threatened to flood her mind. She shook off her recollections and forced herself to look carefully about the room—choosing to begin with a curio cabinet on the far wall.

She maneuvered her way across the room and laughed when she realized that apart from meeting everyone initially, the staff were content to talk excitedly amongst themselves. No one paid her any mind. Having a break from their duties by tacit approval from a relative—at least that’s what Janet had told them—seemed to raise their spirits, and they were happy to take advantage of the break.

Twenty minutes later, Grace reseated herself on the settee. She was frustrated. She had found nothing suggesting even a hint of scandal—not a single clue. Not that she really expected to find anything, but for a moment, she daydreamt of finding the key that solved the investigation for her duke. Oh—how exciting that would be.

Alas, it was not meant to be. She hoped Dansbury was having more success. Grace rested her arm on the settee—determined to relax as she gave up on her quest—when she inadvertently knocked her hand against a carved wooden box on the side table next to her. She picked it up, curious now, and looked it over, for it didn’t move far when she hit it, suggesting it was much heavier than it appeared.

She brushed her fingers along the carvings and turned the box in the light coming from the windows in order to get a better look at the carvings all around it. It was while looking over the box’s top that she noticed that the center medallion on the lid had been burned with a symbol—one she had seen somewhere before, she just couldn’t place it.

It might be nothing; it might be everything. To be sure, she looked about the room, then hastily stuffed the box in her reticule. She would give it to Dansbury later.

* * * *

The Lyndhurst Ball…

That evening…

The path to his future had never looked so bleak. Stonebridge leaned casually against a column on the balcony overlooking the ballroom; his calm demeanor was only a disguise, for inside, his mind was churning. He watched the dancing couples below; the swirling colors of the ladies' gowns seemed too fantastic to be real. He shook his head, but it was no use. He had felt outside himself since his meeting with Swindon this morning. He was still no further in uncovering the truth of the earl’s involvement in his father’s murder, and the clock was ticking. Tick. Tock.

He needed to resolve the case before he married Beatryce. Or at least, absolve Swindon if he was innocent—which seemed less and less likely every day.

Then, there was the marriage itself. He didn’t want to marry Beatryce any longer; she wasn’t a particularly nice person, and he was quickly finding out that a person’s character was more valuable than one’s blood lines or betrothal property. How could he have overlooked something so obvious? And what could he even do to change his course now? If he broke his betrothal without just cause, his honor and reputation would be compromised—hell, his entire livelihood would be compromised and many people depended upon his livelihood. His tenants at the Park; his staff.

And what if Swindon was found guilty? Sure, the ton would consider that just cause to break the betrothal, but was it honorable to abandon Beatryce in her time of need? Sure, she did seem to be somewhat conniving, but he was quite positive she was innocent of her father’s wrongdoings. Should she suffer for her father’s actions? Should Adelaide, Lady Swindon, and the others? And they would suffer. They would lose everything, possibly even end up in a work house if he dropped Beatryce once the scandal hit.

So no matter how he looked at it, marrying Beatryce was the only decent thing for him to do. But wouldn’t marrying Grace be noble too? Oh, what torment to see two rights, two paths, yet knowing that choosing one over the other would always be wrong, regardless of which path he chose.

Aaaah, Grace.

He had stopped by to see her after his meeting with Swindon, but she was out. After that, he tried to catch up with Cliff—to no avail either, though later in the day, his friend sent over a vague note about a box and the suggestion that he was being followed. That piece of news had thrown some recent accidents involving Cliff in a more sinister light. He was concerned for his friend, who said he’d fill him in later, yet still all he really wanted to do was gather Grace in his arms and take her away. Far away. Where society and liars and murderous earls couldn’t touch her. Or him.

Damn. His future was out of control and his time was out.

Swindon had been shockingly bold this afternoon, pushing the limits of rudeness and disrespect. He had allowed the man to get away with it. Perhaps it was his own feelings of guilt that stayed his tongue.

For the past month, he felt he hadn’t been able to do anything right; everything he did, every decision he made or action he took, seemed destined to make a muck of his plans and his life. Of course, it never appeared so at the time.

And then there was Grace…

Ah—hell, he couldn’t go there. Not tonight of all nights. He couldn’t allow his memories of his time with her to be tainted by the reality happening today. And he couldn’t let her go. Thank God she wasn’t going to be here. He had had no chance to talk with her about anything…to prepare her…to explain why things must continue on the path laid before them—at least for now, possibly forever. What he wanted seemed to be irrelevant.

* * * *

Grace entered the brightly colored ball room floating on a cloud of air. She was blissfully happy. The day had gone perfectly—better than she had expected, in fact. Dansbury was pleased with the box she found; he said it was significant. Plus, she learnt from her solicitors that she had her shop back, returned to her—and one hundred percent completely hers—by some anonymous benefactor who she suspected was Dansbury, though she had no proof. She had more money available than she had anticipated, set aside in a secret account the solicitors had managed to keep hidden from her uncle, and they had reinvested the funds wisely. The money produced enough of a return that she could open her shop sooner than she had thought possible.

Then, there was Ambrose, the prominent reason for her happiness.

Oh, her future looked bright. In fact, she was so excited, she managed to stop by a ready-made clothing shop and find a suitable and stunning gown to wear to tonight’s ball. It had required minimal alterations to fit her to perfection. It was serendipitous.

Ding…Ding…Ding…Ding…Ding…

Someone chimed a glass in the distance; it was an attempt by the host to get everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention, please?”

Grace looked to the balcony above the ballroom to see Lord Lyndhurst speaking to the crowd, but her eye was drawn to and held captive by Ambrose, standing to his right.

Goodness. He was a sight to behold. So handsome. So fine. He was all she could see. All she wanted to see.

Lord Lyndhurst continued, “My dear friend the Duke of Stonebridge has an announcement to make, and my wife has probably fainted with excitement that he chose her ball with which to do it.”

The crowd laughed at Lord Lyndhurst’s witticism. He stepped back so Ambrose could take his place.

A prickle of unease crept up her spine. Butterflies fluttered about in her stomach, making her feel queasy and ill. Her heart began to race and her senses became acute. The noise in the room hurt her ears. She tried to tune it out so she could hear what he had to say.

He stepped to the edge of the balcony, and that was when she noticed Beatryce, her arm through his, standing and smiling by his side.

Oh, God, no!

Her heart beat louder, almost drowning out the sound of his voice. Her hands became clammy, and she rubbed them on her gown to dry them.

“Friends and acquaintances, it pleases me for you to be the first to know Lady Beatryce Beckett has graciously agreed to become my wife. Behold. The future Duchess of Stonebridge.”

He raised both hands toward Beatryce to direct every eye toward his betrothed and then clapped along with the crowd, a false smile on his face. A liar’s smile. His actions seemed peculiarly demonstrative for his aloof nature. But then who really knew what was in his black heart?

The sounds of cheers and riotous clapping commenced amongst the multitude of people. She shut it all out. All she could do was stare at the man she loved as the room and everything about her faded to gray. She imagined this was what it would feel like to be shot, for her heart, which had been racing furiously before, seemed to have stopped beating altogether. She didn’t even notice the tears streaming down her face; she was overcome with shock.

Abruptly, he faced forward again and looked directly at her, and the previous suspension of reality ceased, and with a quick flip of a switch, life returned to normal. Though not. Everything became loud and confusing. Here was an alternate reality she did not want to live in. His gaze pierced the gloom around her and jolted her heart. For a brief moment, pain seemed to flash across his eyes. He was a liar and a cold-hearted bastard. And she was a lovesick fool. The noise from the crowd reached a crescendo, and she was compelled to flee its torturous cacophony.

*

Oh God, Grace is here…

If he could have leapt over the balcony and survived to chase after her, he would have done so, though he didn’t know what he could possibly say. Despite the rudeness of the action, he pushed through the crowd of well-wishers to chase after her anyway. Many patted his back as he ran, and he was indeed running, but he ignored them all; he was determined to catch her.

He gambled she had headed toward the rear garden; it was the closest escape route available to her based on where she was standing when he first noticed her there. He wasn’t sure what he would say; it seemed ridiculous to even try; perhaps, even better that way. It didn’t matter; he was compelled to seek her out.

He raced across the crowded ballroom floor and out the back doors. He randomly chose a garden footpath and headed down it, his boots crunching on the gravel beneath his feet. He hoped he had chosen the right path.

He caught up with her just as she was about to exit a rear garden gate.