Page 73

It seemed as though it must be nice.

Though Grace knew that, objectively speaking, England had a temperate climate, she found the sunny London afternoon stiflingly hot after the cool sea breezes at Montgomery Estate. They’d scarcely been at the party an hour when she unfurled her fan.

Caleb glared down at the fan like it offended him.

“Ye’re hot,” he said. “Yer cheeks are pink. Too much sun. I’ll get ye a drink; stay here.”

With this delightful mix of solicitousness and high-handedness, he stomped off in the direction of the punch bowl. Grace looked after him, bemused and not a little entertained.

She did, however, listen to his command and stay where he’d left her. She was in a patch of shade, and there really wasn’t anyone else at this party that she wished to speak with. Maybe after her husband returned and she had her drink, they’d depart. No doubt there was nothing else they could learn at this event.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

She turned at the salutation to see a smiling young man, one who looked vaguely familiar, but whose name she could not place.

She shot him an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

He didn’t look offended. “Nigel Beckwith,” he said with a bow.

Something tickled Grace’s memory. “Oh, Lord Beckwith?”

He shook his head. “My brother. Although you were likely to know him a bit better than me; he’s married now, but he was not yet wed when you debuted. He was a Society fixture, and I only recently on the matrimonial scene.” His expression was friendly and open in a way that made the reminiscences playful rather than pointed. “I remember my friend Alistair Fitzhugh danced with you once and was very impressed with himself for landing a turn with the star of the Season.”

“Idorecall Mr. Fitzhugh!” she said triumphantly. “He was very passionate about his breeding stables, if I recall.”

Mr. Beckwith pulled a face. He was handsome, in that uninspired way that so many English gentlemen were. “Oh, indeed. Fortunately, he married a woman who is just as obsessed as he is. They’re deliriously happy together. They talk about horses from sunup to sundown.” He gave a playful shudder, and Grace laughed.

“Are you, too, hoping to find a match that suits you as well?” she asked.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Mr. Beckwith said vaguely. “I’m not set to inherit, so I’m in no rush. I can afford to wait for the right woman to cross my path. But,” he said, tone growing more focused, “that’s not why I wanted to approach you.”

“No?” she asked.

He looked a little abashed.

“No, what I really wanted to say was that I am very sorry about everything you went through—while you were gone, of course,” he hastened to clarify, “but the cruel bite of gossip once you returned to London, I mean. It was awful, the way people carped and sniped at you over something you couldn’t control—something you overcame.”

Grace was shocked—partially, yes, because it was a bit outréof Mr. Beckwith, a man she did not know, to approach her to make such a comment. But she was even more surprised to find that someone had found the gossip insidious enough that they went out of their way to mention it.

“I… Thank you,” she said.

“My sister, Miranda, debuted last year, and someone spread a rumor about her,” he explained. “It proved false, and her name was cleared, thank goodness. But I saw how it pained her, to have people talking about her like she was an object of speculation.”

“That’s a good way to put it,” Grace murmured.

“In any case,” the gentleman concluded, “I shan’t take up more of your time. I just wanted to say that I am quite pleased on your behalf, that things seem to have turned out so well for you. You clearly make a marvelous duchess, and you deserve all the happiness in the world.”

He was already half turning to go, the idle pat on the arm he gave her clearly an innocent gesture of farewell.

“Get yer hands off my wifeimmediately.”

Mr. Beckwith’s eyes went wide and he snatched back his hand at the sound of that telltale burr, low and thick with ire.

“Of course,” he said hastily. “My apologies, Your Grace. And yours, Your Grace,” he added, nodding to Grace. “Good day.”

He fled like he was on fire. Grace turned up to glare at her husband, who was still staring after the poor gentleman like he was planning how, precisely, he intended to tear him limb from limb.

“What in the world was that?” Grace demanded, keeping her voice low, though it shook with her own anger.