Page 95

No, she decided firmly, she would find friends. She had many friends in the district. She was glad she would not be leaving Lincolnshire, even if it did mean that she might occasionally cross paths with Jack. Lincolnshire was home. She knew everyone, and they knew her, and her reputation would not be questioned, even if she did set up her own home. She would be able to live in peace and respectability.

It would be a good thing.

But lonely.

No. Not lonely. She would have funds. She could go visit Elizabeth, who would be married to her earl in the South. She could join one of those women’s clubs her mother had so adored. They’d met every Tuesday afternoon, claiming they were there to discuss art and literature and the news of the day, but when the meetings were held at Sillsby, Grace had heard far too much laughter for those topics.

She would not be lonely.

She refused to be lonely.

She looked back at Amelia, snoring away on the bed. Poor thing. Grace had often envied the Willoughby girls their secure places in society. They were daughters of an earl, with impeccable bloodlines and generous dowries. It was odd, really, that her future should now be so well-defined while Amelia’s was so murky.

But she had come to realize that Amelia was no more in control of her own fate than she herself had been. Her father had chosen her husband before she could even speak, before he knew who she was, what she was like. How could he know, looking upon an infant of less than one year, whether she would be suited for life as a duchess?

All of her life, Amelia had been stuck, waiting for Thomas to get around to marrying her. And even if she did not end up marrying either of the two Dukes of Wyndham, she’d still find herself obliged to follow her father’s dictates.

Grace was turning back toward the window when she heard a noise in the hall. Footsteps, she decided. Male. And because she could not help herself, she hurried to her door, opened it a crack, and peered out.

Jack.

He looked rumpled and tired and achingly heartsick. He was squinting in the dark, trying to figure out which room was his.

Grace-the-companion might have retreated back into her room, but Grace-the-woman-of-independent-means was somewhat more daring, and she stepped out, whispering his name.

He looked up. His eyes flared, and Grace belatedly remembered that she was still in her nightgown. It was nothing remotely risqué; in fact, she was far more covered than she would have been in an evening dress. Still, she hugged her arms to her body as she moved forward.

“Where have you been?” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Out and about. Visiting old haunts.”

Something about his voice was unsettling. “Really?” she asked.

“No.” He looked at her, then rubbed his eyes. “I was across the street. Having my shepherd’s pie.”

She smiled. “And your pint of ale?”

“Two, actually.” He smiled then, a sheepish, boyish thing that tried to banish the exhaustion from his face. “I missed it.”

“Irish ale?”

“The English stuff is pig swill by comparison.”

Grace felt herself warming inside. There was humor in his eyes, the first she’d seen in days. And it was strange—she’d thought it would be torture to be near him, to be with him and hear his voice and see his smile. But all she felt now was happiness. And relief.

She could not bear it when he was so unhappy. She needed for him to be him. Even if he could not be hers.

“You should not be out here like this,” he said.

“No.” She shook her head but did not move.

He grimaced and looked down at his key. “I cannot find my room.”

Grace took the key from him and peered at it. “Fourteen,” she said. She looked up. “The light is dim.”

He nodded.

“It is that way,” she told him, pointing down the hall. “I passed it on the way in.”