Then…nothing.
She’d wake with tears on her face and empty arms.
Oh, Matthew, Matthew, come back to me soon.
Silence was the only answer.
A week after her escape, proof arrived that there would be no child. Although she thought she’d long ago reconciled herself to barrenness, she’d cried all day in her room. Her courses had been late and a tiny seedling of hope had begun to unfurl, which only made her disappointment crueler.
She tried telling herself that a baby would add an impossible complication to an already fraught situation. But her sorrowful heart didn’t feel like that. Her heart felt as though every day another thread of connection frayed between her and the man she loved.
Kermonde was in London. She knew he worked on Matthew’s behalf but waiting tortured her worse than knives flaying the skin from her body. He sent regular letters, even if they usually came in his secretary’s hand. Her godfather’s latest note had just arrived and it contained news exciting enough to justify him setting pen to paper himself.
For what felt like the first time since she’d arrived at Fallon Court, she smiled as she dropped the closely written page to her lap. She looked up and noticed it was a perfect day. For the last fortnight, she’d existed in a gray cloud and the outside world hadn’t impinged.
Now she realized the bench where she sat was in a pleasant glade near a fast-flowing river. While she’d been locked in wintry worry and despair, summer had arrived. Sunlight broke through thick green leaves and sparkled on running water. Birds twittered and flew among branches that arched above her head.
There was beauty in the world.
One of Matthew’s doctors was in public disgrace. Dr. Granger was, by all reports, an out-and-out quack. The duke’s men now scoured the country for him in the hope they could get him to admit he’d accepted a bribe to certify Matthew insane.
Hope.
She clung to the word the way she’d hold a candle up against a black night.
She looked down to where the letter with its marvelous news rested on the skirt of her pretty dimity dress. The village dressmaker had supplied her with a wardrobe more elaborate than anything she’d worn since leaving Marlow Hall. Unless one counted her whore’s dresses on the estate.
She remembered th
e flame that had kindled in Matthew’s golden eyes when she flaunted herself in those outrageous outfits. It had been a game, in a place where playfulness was an act of courage, a defiant gesture against darkness.
She prayed the darkness hadn’t engulfed him. Closing her eyes, she whispered a plea for his safety.
A twig cracked on the path and she opened her eyes to see one of the maids. “Begging your pardon, my lady.” The girl curtsied and cast a nervous eye behind her.
“Yes, what is it, Iris?” Grace folded the precious letter. Most of the servants left her alone unless she summoned them. She suspected her godfather had given orders to that effect.
“You’ve a visitor, ma’am.”
“A visitor?” That was unusual enough to bring her to her feet. Perhaps it was Vere although he tended to wait for her to call. “Is it my cousin?”
She hoped there was no trouble. Vere had four children already and Sarah increased again. Pregnancy made her even more ill-tempered than usual. This was one reason Grace hadn’t exactly been a regular visitor to her cousin’s neat stone vicarage next to the glorious medieval church, St. Margaret’s.
“No, it’s your father,” came a voice she hadn’t heard in nine years. A tall gentleman dressed in black moved slowly into view behind the maid.
Grace raised a shaking hand to her breast. Her heart pounded as if it fought free of her chest. What did the earl’s arrival mean? Had he come to demand she leave her godfather’s house? Had he come to denounce her?
She wasn’t ready for this. She’d never be ready for this.
“The Earl of Wyndhurst to see you, my lady,” the maid said, curtsying again and backing away.
Awkward silence descended.
Grace had last seen her father in a towering fury. Then he’d been a powerful and frightening figure. Over the years, the memory of that awful afternoon in his library had eclipsed other memories of love and kindness and generosity. She’d been a spoiled little girl. Too spoiled, as her headlong descent into ruin had demonstrated. She’d learned to consider consequences too late.
The man who stood before her wasn’t the bitter, angry monster who populated her nightmares. The earl walked with a stick and deep lines marked his face. There was more gray than black in his thick hair.
He was her father, yet not her father. Then the familiar ironic smile flickered briefly and he wasn’t a stranger any more.