Page 16 of A Trial of His Affections (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #2)

Chapter Sixteen

G race stretched in her bed, rubbing gingerly at the bruised, scabbed skin on her elbows and knees. While last night hadn’t been the overwhelming success she’d hoped it would be, it hadn’t turned out as bad as it could have.

She smiled as she thought back on the confident smile Mr. Yardley had given her just before she and Elle had started to sing. It made her heart thump erratically for a handful of beats. And it might just be her imagination, but the pain in her knees and elbows seemed to lessen—or at least it did until she shifted on the mattress.

She scowled at the thought of Lord Allington’s walking stick jutting out from under his chair. He had been so insistent that she take part in the musicale, and then he’d been the cause of her utter humiliation. There was something about the man that she did not…trust? Or perhaps it was more a matter of comfort. She simply did not feel comfortable with him. But then, she didn’t feel any real level of comfort with any of the men Mr. Yardley had introduced to her.

She sighed, perhaps a little too dreamily. Mr. Yardley . If not for his advice and the confidence he’d instilled in her, she may not have redeemed herself in even the smallest amount. Even after their performance, Grace still heard people whispering behind their fans. Mr. Yardley and Philip assured her they spoke only of her fine performance, but she could not be so certain.

She rolled to her side and winced as her stiff muscles protested. It was a new day. And there would surely be new opportunities for her to achieve her goals. She closed her eyes as the weight of the task seemed unbearable. How was she to raise her family’s standing if she could not even walk to the front of a room without causing a scene?

If she were honest with herself, London was not as splendid as she’d thought it would be. The expectations were greater than in the country, and the anxiousness she felt to live up to those expectations wore on her.

The door to her room opened, and she pushed herself up, resting her back against the pillows. “Good morning, Mary.”

“Good morning, Miss. I trust you slept well?”

Grace winced as she shifted positions. “Well enough.”

She noticed the vase of flowers in Mary’s hand.

“That is rather a cheerful arrangement.” Grace smiled. “I dare say it will brighten the room substantially.” White daisies and pink carnations with several fern leaves nestled among the blooms. They must be from Miles. He was the only man, besides Philip, who knew they were her preference.

“They came for you this morning.” Mary withdrew the card tucked between the petals and brought it over with a package wrapped in brown paper. She handed them both to Grace.

She looked at the card from the flowers. Lord Allington. How had he known to give her those precise flowers and, more particularly, the ferns? Had Mr. Yardley told him? Perhaps she should reconsider her feelings for Lord Allington. If Mr. Yardley approved, should she not give him a chance? Her brow furrowed. But had not Mr. Yardley objected when she’d called Lord Allington his friend?

She picked up the package and looked at it. Was it from Lord Allington also? Grace frowned. It felt highly inappropriate if it was. But then, he’d asked to sing a duet with her, so it was not out of the question.

She flipped the card from the flowers over, thinking there might be a note to that effect. But there was nothing there.

Setting the card on the side table, she turned the package over. It was not difficult to discern that it was a book. And a substantial one, at that. A book was not so very personal, surely. Had Mr. Yardley told Lord Allington what kinds of books Grace enjoyed?

She untied the strings, and the paper fell into her lap. The deep, blue leather cover felt cool in her hands. It was worn, with the tattered edges of years of use. Not that she cared it was old. She had so few books of her own, she could not be pernickety. She turned it to the side and sucked in a breath. Historia Plantarum by Theophrastus.

Grace ran her fingers gently over the title on the spine. If this was from Lord Allington, then Mr. Yardley had done a rather thorough job of describing her likes to him. But why would he do that if the man was not a friend?

She opened the cover reverently, breathing in the scent of old paper and ink. When she turned to the title page, she found a card tucked into the spine. Mr. Miles Yardley, Barrister was written in a bold font and black ink.

Grace’s stomach fluttered. The book was from Mr. Yardley. Miles .

And it was not just any book, a book he knew she would enjoy. She leafed carefully through the pages. But it was not simply that. It was a book he knew she could never afford. It was the sort of book that was priced for collectors.

Miss Jenkins,

I found this at the bookstore while looking for a book on Aristotle. I thought you might enjoy it.

Yardley

Had he known just how much this book would mean to her?

“Who is the book from, Miss?” Mary asked as she returned with Grace’s gown in her arms.

“It is from Mr. Yardley.”

Mary tipped her head to the side as she read the title on the spine. She considered Grace for a moment as she separated the underclothing from the gown. “Knowing of the books you brought with you, the gift seems well suited.”

Grace leaned back against her pillows and crossed her arms, the book resting on her chest. “Indeed, it is.”

A knock sounded at her door. Mary laid down the ribbons in her hand and moved to open it. Mrs. Finch, the housekeeper, stood in the corridor. “A caller is here to see Miss Jenkins.” She said in a clipped tone. “Hurry and see her dressed, Mary. Mr. Jenkins does not wish for her to keep him waiting.”

“Who is it, Mrs. Finch?” Grace threw her legs over the side of the bed with a groan and leaned forward until she could see the housekeeper.

Mrs. Finch took a step into the room with a look of disapproval. “It is Lord Wetherby, Miss.”

Lord Wetherby had come to see her? She glanced at the clock on her mantle. “But it’s much too early for visiting hours.”

Mrs. Finch nodded. “Indeed, it is. I think it highly improper. He came first to speak with your brother but asked to see you before he left. And your brother is insistent you come down to see him.”

Grace frowned. “I am nowhere close to being ready. Tell Lord Wetherby I shall be at home during regular at-home hours if he wishes to return.” She hardly knew the man, having only danced with him a single set at the ball several weeks ago. He had come outside of proper visiting hours. Turning him away should not offend him, surely.

Mrs. Finch shook her head. “I tried to tell your brother that you were likely still abed, but he would brook no argument. He said Mary was very efficient and could have you readied in no time.” The housekeeper pursed her lips tightly together.

“Very well,” Grace sighed. What choice did she have? She could not leave the man waiting in the parlor for hours. She would be more presentable if given the proper time, but that was not to be. Although perhaps it would be best if he saw her not turned out to her best. Would he reconsider whatever plans he had made toward her? She frowned into the mirror as she walked past.

But why did she want him to? Did he not fit into her plans? He held a title and had a proper income. He was just the sort of man she was looking for. Yet she could not seem to muster even the smallest amount of enthusiasm for him. “Come, Mary,” she said, her voice bland. “We are pressed for time.”

Mary hurried over as Mrs. Finch turned on her heel and closed the door behind her.

“You need not worry too much, Mary. If Lord Wetherby does not approve of what he sees, perhaps next time he will come during at home hours.”

“Not to worry, Miss. I will have you looking your best.” Mary gave Grace a little shove toward the dressing table. “If you will sit down, I will see to your hair.”

“A simple knot will do. You need not go to any trouble.”

Mary smiled. “It is no trouble, Miss.” She pulled the ribbon securing Grace’s braid and used her fingers to separate it. Then, hurriedly, she pulled the brush through.

Grace winced as the brush hit a snarl. Tears formed in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to push them away.

Mary glanced up and frowned. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.”

Grace waved her concern away. “I do not blame you, Mary. I blame my brother for making this such a hurried process.”

Faster than Grace would have thought possible, Mary had Grace’s hair twisted into a knot with delicate curls hanging down the side of her face. “Come, and I will help you into your dress.”

Grace did not move with any great haste. Indeed, her muscles would not have allowed even if Grace had wished to hurry. This was not her idea, and if she were being honest, she still hoped that Lord Wetherby would tire of waiting and leave.

Mary buttoned up the gown and took a step back, clapping her hands. “You look lovely, Miss. Nobody would know you were abed just a half an hour ago.”

Grace twitched her lips to the side. “You may have made me look too presentable, Mary. Now what if this man never leaves me alone?”

Mary gave her a sly look. “I know you do not mean such things.”

Grace narrowed her eyes at her maid. It was likely no one would understand her feelings about Lord Wetherby. Or Lord Dunsmore or Lord Allington.

“Thank you for your efficiency, Mary.”

The maid curtsied before she hurried from the room with Grace’s nightclothes.

Grace took her time descending the staircase. But to her chagrin, Lord Wetherby remained in the morning room. She pasted a smile on her face and walked through the doorway. “Good morning, Lord Wetherby. This is indeed a surprise.” And not a wholly welcome one, she thought. But just as quickly, she chastised herself. She must give the man a chance. He may be perfectly amiable once she came to know him.

Lord Wetherby stood up, his beaver in one hand. He bowed. “Miss Jenkins, thank you for seeing me. I know it’s not altogether proper to call so early, but I had business to discuss with your brother. And he did not seem to think it beyond the pale.” The man looked too confident that she would overlook his impropriety.

Grace nodded. “Yes, that is what Mrs. Finch said.” Elle sat on the settee opposite Lord Wetherby. But Grace made a conscious decision to sit as far from him as possible.

“I simply did not wish to wait for at-home hours to speak to you, nor did I wish to send a card with a footman.”

Why could he not wait? What was so urgent?

“I wished to ask if you might consent to accompany me to the theater tonight?”

Grace’s scowl dropped, and her lips turned up. “The theater? I have always wanted to attend the theater.”

Lord Wetherby leaned toward her, though the low table stood between them. “Is that a yes, then?”

Grace nodded. “I would be delighted. Thank you.”

Lord Wetherby smiled. “It is I who should thank you for accepting.” His words said one thing, but his look said something else entirely. He looked at her as if he were doing her a favor. Which she supposed he likely was, considering her upbringing. She bit the inside of her cheek. She hated that it always came back to that. When would she stop seeing herself as something other than the daughter of a stable master? He dipped his head. “I shall collect you at half-past five.”

Grace frowned. “But will that give us enough time? Does not the performance begin promptly at half-past six?” She’d been out in London traffic enough to know that carriages went nowhere fast.

Wetherby shrugged. “We may miss the beginning. But no one is on time to the theater. It’s unseemly.” His nose crinkled in distaste.

Grace nodded slowly. What was the point in going if one would not see the whole of the show? She sighed discreetly. Lord Wetherby was obviously like many other members of the ton . He only wished to attend the theater to be seen . If she liked what she saw, perhaps she would return on another evening and see the whole of it. “Then I shall see you at half-past five.” She clasped her hands in front of her, much of her earlier excitement fading.

Lansing entered the room and bowed to Elle. “Mr. Yardley is here, Madam.”

Elle nodded with a smile. “You may show him to the breakfast room, Lansing.”

Lord Wetherby stared at them with one brow slightly raised. “Does Yardley often come for breakfast?”

Grace lifted a shoulder. “Not very often. But he is my brother’s dearest friend.”

Wetherby nodded. “Yes, so I’ve heard.” His voice dipped with irritation? Insinuation? She could not rightly say what it was, except that it was not of a kind nature. “I shall take my leave and allow you to eat your breakfast. Until tonight, Miss Jenkins.” He bowed to Elle. “Mrs. Jenkins.”

Grace smiled at him as he turned to leave. She was certain Philip thought him a perfect match for her. Indeed, by Grace’s own list, he was very eligible. He was a baron and had a large estate in Cheshire. But she still could not rid herself of a slight unease. Or perhaps it was just disinterest.

Was it too much to ask for there to be at least a small thumping in her chest or a single tingle in her stomach? Perhaps she simply needed to come to know him better.

Elle met her in the doorway, and they walked down the corridor together. “What do you think of Lord Wetherby?” she asked.

Grace shrugged. “I believe it’s too early to decide.”

Elle nodded. “You are wise to hold your judgment. Many foolish young ladies have jumped into an affection before they know a gentleman’s character.” She patted Grace’s arm. “You need not rush.”

They stepped into the breakfast room, and Grace’s heart thumped wildly at the sight of the back of Mr. Yardley’s head. Damp hair curled around his ears.

Her stomach pitched, and she placed her hand there to quiet it. Lawks, she had not realized just how hungry she was. She moved over to the sideboard and picked up a plate. “Good morning, Mr. Yardley.”

“Good morning, Miss Jenkins.” He smiled across the table. “I am surprised you are already up after such a late evening. I thought it would just be Philip and me eating this morning.”

Grace put a hand over her mouth to cover her yawn. “I was up but not dressed. Philip,” she cast a dire look in her brother’s direction, “insisted I dress quickly so I might speak with Lord Wetherby.” She placed her plate on the table and smiled. “But I see it worked out for the best. Otherwise, I would have missed your visit.”

Mr. Yardley’s face looked ruddy. “It would have been a great disappointment. I suppose I must thank Lord Wetherby.”

Grace reached to the center of the table for the bowl of preserves. She bit her cheek to keep from wincing.

A gasp sounded, and Grace looked up, meeting Mr. Yardley’s wide-eyed gaze. “Miss Jenkins, is that from your fall?”

Grace glanced at her elbow where her sleeve had slipped up. Oh, botheration. She had hoped to keep that hidden. “It’s nothing.” She continued to slather the preserves on her bread.

“It’s not nothing.” Mr. Yardley’s voice was quiet and…was that pain she heard?

Grace shrugged, feeling Phillip, Elle, and Mr. Yardley staring at her. “There are just a few bruises on my arms and legs. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Mr. Yardley’s face paled.

“Oh, Gracie,” Philip whispered. “I didn’t know your fall had left marks.” He stood and carefully cradled her arms as he looked at the discolored, scabbed skin. “Does it hurt very much?” His voice choked up, and Grace momentarily forgot about her irritation with him for making her rush her morning.

She patted his hand. “I am well, Philip. Truly, I am. There is only a little stiffness. But it will go away after I have been about things for a bit.”

Philip reluctantly moved around the table and settled back in his chair.

Mr. Yardley stared at his plate, his mouth set in a hard line. He pushed it away with a grunt.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Yardley?” She had rarely seen him without a hardy appetite. “Is the food not to your liking?”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

Grace gasped, and all the eyes at the table shot up to her. “Mr. Yardley is not hungry? Someone should write this down for posterity. I do not believe I’ve ever witnessed it before.” She put her hand over her mouth. She should not speak so freely. Even with the likes of Mr. Yardley.

Philip’s mouth quirked up slightly. “You’re a bit corky today, are you not?”

Grace placed a bite of bacon into her mouth and shrugged. The tension hanging in the room had lessened. A bit of cork had been necessary.

Mr. Yardley pulled his plate forward, but he only moved the food around, never actually raising his fork to his mouth. When he finally glanced up, his face looked less drawn. Although his smile had not returned. He glanced over at Philip. “Jenkins, why do we not all go to the theater tonight? I am certain I could secure my father’s box, and I have no other commitments.”

Philip turned his gaze to Grace. Did he know of Lord Wetherby’s offer?

Grace bit the side of her lip. She stared at Mr. Yardley. Had Lord Wetherby not shared his plans with him? Her head shook. “Your timing is terrible this Season, sir.”

He looked confused as his gaze darted between her and Philip. “You do not wish to go then?” He looked suddenly uncertain.

“We would love to go, but your friend, Lord Wetherby, asked only moments ago. That was why I had to dress so quickly.” Grace felt displeased. It settled on her like a wet blanket, and she could not wholly account for it.

Mr. Yardley leaned forward and clasped his hand around his teacup. His fingers bleached with the pressure, and for a moment, she worried he might break it. But then he relaxed slightly and looked back at her. “I take it you accepted?”

Grace nodded. “He asked in person. It would have been rude to decline.”

“And we can’t have you being rude,” he mumbled under his breath.

Grace tipped her head to the side. “But I see no reason why we could not see each other during the interval. Is your box close to Lord Wetherby’s?”

Mr. Yardley raked his fingers over his brow, and his lips flattened. Why was he so out of sorts? Had he not encouraged her interest in Lord Wetherby? Was Wetherby not on his list of gentlemen to introduce her to? Why would he introduce her if he did not like the man?

“No, my father’s box is on the opposite side of the theater.” He ran a hand down his face, and it was as if he wiped away all the creases and the frown. “You are right. We shall still see each other at interval. You are not the sort to speak during the performance, so it will not matter that we are not in the same box.”

Grace’s shoulders relaxed. He was not angry with her after all.

Mr. Yardley’s jaw clenched, but then he smiled. “I will see if Fin and Freddie wish to come along. It will be a splendid evening.”

For such a splendid prospect, Mr. Yardley still looked decidedly displeased.