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And held.

And in that moment, she loved him. She didn’t know what it was he’d done to her, but she was changed. And she loved him for it.

“I won’t take this from you,” he said in a rough whisper. “Not like this.”

Then how? she wanted to ask, but sense was trickling back into her body, and she knew he was right. She had precious little of value in this world—her mother’s tiny pearl earrings, a family Bible, love letters between her parents. But she had her body, and she had her pride, and she could not allow herself to give them to a man who was not to be her husband.

And they both knew that if he turned out to be the Duke of Wyndham, then he could never be her husband. Grace did not know all of the circumstances of his upbringing, but she’d heard enough to know that he was familiar with the ways of the aristocracy. He had to know what would be expected of him.

He cupped her face in his hands and stared at her with a tenderness that took her breath away. “As God is my witness,” he whispered, turning her around so he could do up her buttons, “this is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.”

Somehow she found the strength to smile. Or at the very least, to not cry.

Later that night Grace was in the rose salon, hunting down writing paper for the dowager, who had decided—on the spur of the moment, apparently—that she must send a letter to her sister, the grand duchess of that small European country whose name Grace could never pronounce (or, indeed, remember).

This was a lengthier process than it seemed, as the dowager liked to compose her correspondence aloud (with Grace as audience), debating—at painful length—each turn of phrase. Grace then had to concentrate on memorizing the dowager’s words, as she would then be required (not by the dowager; rather, by a general duty to humanity) to recopy the dowager’s missive, translating her unintelligible scrawl into something a bit more neat and tidy.

The dowager did not acknowledge that she did this; in fact, the one time Grace offered, she flew into such a huff that Grace had never again whispered a word of it. But considering that her sister’s next letter opened with gushes of praise on the dowager’s new penmanship, Grace could not imagine that she was completely unaware.

Ah, well. It was one of those things they did not discuss.

Grace did not mind the task this evening. Sometimes it gave her a headache; she did try to do her recopying when the sun was still high and she could enjoy the advantages of natural light. But it was an endeavor that required all of her concentration, and she rather thought that it was exactly what she needed right now. Something to take her mind off…well, everything.

Mr. Audley.

Thomas. And how awful she felt.

Mr. Audley.

That painting of that woman.

Mr. Audley.

Jack.

Grace let out a short, loud sigh. For heaven’s sake, who was she trying to fool? She knew exactly what she was trying so hard not to think about.

Herself.

She sighed. Maybe she ought to take herself off to the land of the unpronounceable name. She wondered if they spoke English there. She wondered if the Grand Duchess Margareta (née Margaret, and called, she was pertly told by the dowager, Maggs) could possibly be as ill-tempered as her sister.

It did seem unlikely.

Although as a member of the royal family, Maggs presumably had the authority to order someone’s head lopped off. The dowager had said they were a bit feudal over there.

Grace touched her head, decided she liked it where it was, and with renewed determination pulled open the top drawer to the escritoire, using perhaps a bit more force than necessary. She winced at the screech of wood against wood, then frowned; this really wasn’t such a well-made piece of furniture. Rather out of place at Belgrave, she had to say.

Nothing in the top drawer. Just a quill that looked as if it hadn’t seen use since the last King George ruled the land.

She moved to the second, reaching to the back in case anything was hiding in the shadows, and then she heard something.

Someone.

It was Thomas. He was standing in the doorway, looking rather peaked, and even in the dim light she could see that his eyes were bloodshot.

She gulped down a wave of guilt. He was a good man. She hated that she was falling in love with his rival. No, that was not it. She hated that Mr. Audley was his rival. No, not that. She hated the whole bloody situation. Every last speck of it.

“Grace,” he said. Nothing else, just her name.