Page 21 of A Trial of His Affections (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #2)

Chapter Twenty-One

“I cannot take any more money for gowns, Philip. While I told Mary to burn the monkey gown,” Grace raised her brows at her brother, “she worked tirelessly to clean it, and you cannot even see where the stain was. Only Lord Dunsmore may know of its history. And compared to that one, the lemonade gown took nothing to clean. Besides, we have gowns being made from the bolt Mr. Yardley gave us.”

A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of him. But then she frowned. She had not seen him in days. Not since the garden. Was he avoiding her? Not that she could blame him. He likely thought himself in danger of her throwing herself at him again. But as much as it humiliated her to think on their almost kiss, she longed to see him.

Philip tapped his quill on the paper next to him. “I’ve done well at Tattersalls. Much better than I expected. If you need a replacement gown, I believe we have the funds.”

Grace shook her head. “Save the money. There are always repairs to Graystone.” She frowned. “Besides, the Season is still young. I’m certain there are many more calamities to befall me.” Her shoulders sagged.

Philip placed the quill on the stand and sat back in his chair. “It’s just a spot of bad luck, that is all, Gracie. I’m certain the fates have had their fun and shall move on to other unsuspecting young ladies.” He tipped his head to the side. “Although I wonder at you. It was not so long ago that you nearly cried when I could not buy you a new bonnet for the annual cricket match.”

Grace frowned. “I was a child, then. And under the influence of someone of much higher society than I. I’m afraid she brought out the prouder side of me.” Looking back, she should have seen the influence Lady Haversham had over her. How had Grace ever thought the woman was truly her friend?

She had seen Lady Haversham at the theater just before the lemonade incident. It had not escaped her notice that the lady avoided meeting her eyes. It left Grace with no illusions of what their relationship truly was.

Philip picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink well. He scratched the quill on the paper and grunted when hardly a mark appeared. “I ordered ink days ago. I thought it would have arrived by now.”

“Do you need to speak with me about anything else, Philip?” She asked.

He shook his head. “No. I only wished for you to know that the funds are available if you need them.”

She stood up and smiled. “Thank you, Philip. You are the best sort of brother.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked on her contemplatively.

Grace sat back down. It seemed he had not finished with her yet.

“How are you enjoying the Season, Grace?” He clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on his chair arms.

“I’m enjoying it. London has much to offer.” However, she would not regret returning to Somerset.

“What of the gentlemen? Several have singled you out. Have any of them captured your attention? Or your regard?”

Grace shook her head. “No. They hold the proper titles, but—” she bit her cheek. How did she say that she simply did not like them? Especially when they were just what she had asked for. Why could none of them be like Miles? She’d taken to thinking of him by his Christian name. After all, if one nearly kissed a gentleman, was that not intimate enough for Christian names? However, she dared not use it face-to-face. At least not again.

“Yes?” Philip’s gaze bore into her.

“They’re not what I imagined,” she frowned. “I’ve noticed they are not always kind. And not just to me.” She took in a breath and looked Philip in the eye. “Is it too much to ask that the gentleman have a title and be kind?”

Philip twitched his lips to the side and then shrugged. “Perhaps. But I am not the one to ask. I only have business with the upper classes. I’ve rarely associated with them on a more personal level. That is, until we came to London.” He pushed his lips out. “But I understand what you mean. Neither Lord Wetherby nor Lord Dunsmore behaved very gentlemanly at the theater.”

Grace looked down at her hands. She did not enjoy thinking about that night. Especially Lord Dunsmore’s comment about her gown. Mostly because he was wrong. The fabric, while last year’s print, was of high quality. It was a fine gown and had cost Philip a tidy sum. She did not like the idea of someone slighting her brother’s generosity to her.

She lifted her shoulder. “It is no matter. Neither gentleman piqued my interest, and I’m certain I did not pique theirs.” She stood up and smoothed the creases in her skirt. “Will we see you for tea this afternoon?”

Philip pushed his lips out. “No. I have a meeting with several gentlemen whom I met at Tattersalls. They are interested in visiting the estate to see what other horses are available.”

“That is good news, is it not?”

Philip smiled, pride evident in his eyes. “Yes, it is.”

“While we’ll miss your presence at tea,” Grace tilted her head to the side. “I understand.” She smiled at him, lest he think she was unhappy. She wasn’t un happy. But neither could she say she was happy. She simply felt as dull as ditchwater.

What was wrong with her? Perhaps she should visit the British Museum again. Although it would not be the same without Miles. What was he doing that afternoon? Would it be completely improper for her to invite him to the museum? Perhaps his sisters would be available to chaperone.

She moved to the door and swung it open. Pausing just short of the door frame, she turned back to look at him. “Thank you, Philip. I do appreciate everything you’ve done.”

He smiled at her, and she continued out the door. Two steps into the corridor, she stopped as a footman passed with a tray laden with ink.

She smiled. Philip would be happy it had finally arrived. Red and black, by the looks of it. Should she be worried that Philip had already run out of red ink?

The footman pulled up and bowed slightly to her. “Miss,” he said just before he let out a yelp and propelled forward. The tray tipped dangerously. He grabbed for the ink bottles, but instead of righting them, his hand brushed against them and they flipped into the air.

Grace screamed as the hard bottles hit her in the head.

But the pain was pushed aside when fat drops of red and black ink dripped onto the floor. Gracious, did she even want to know where they came from?

She reached up a hand to her hair. When she brought it down, it was tinted dark crimson. She closed her eyes, not daring to look at the front of her gown. Had she not just told Philip she did not need a replacement?

And her hair? How many washings would it take to get the ink out? The knot at the back with curls cascading from the center seemed an ill-conceived choice in hindsight.

“I beg your—” a deep voice said distractedly.

She looked up as the footman whimpered. “Oh, Miss.” He stared at her in horror. “It is all my fault.” He looked like he might cry. “I’ll pack my bags immediately.”

Grace looked from him to the man standing behind him with wide eyes. “Mr. Yardley?” She asked. Why must he always see her at her worst?

Miles’ face paled. “Oh, Gr—Miss Jenkins. I’m so sorry.” He said at the same time the footman said, “I’ll be on my way, Miss.”

Grace held up her hands, a drop of ink running down the bridge of her nose.

“Gracie?” Philip’s voice sounded behind her. She turned around, and his eyes mirrored Miles’. “What the blazes?—”

“Your ink has arrived, Philip, but I can’t promise there is any left.” She turned to the footman. “You need not leave, Henry. It was an accident you could not have prevented.” She tried to smile, but a drop of red combined with a drop of black on a limp curl hanging down in front of her right eye. It plopped onto the back of her hand. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to find a moment of calm lest she dissolve into a fit of tears.

When she finally opened them, she lifted her chin, just as Miles had instructed her at Gunter’s. “Please, find some maids and have them help you clean this up. I’m certain Lord Gainsborough did not intend for his carpet to resemble the scene of some grim affair.”

The footman blinked before nodding. “Right away, Miss. And thank you, Miss.” He bowed away from her before scurrying down the corridor. He likely wished to disappear before she changed her mind about keeping him in their employ.

Philip came and stood in front of her. “ Now do you wish for a replacement gown?”

She lifted her chin, determined not to cry in front of her brother or Miles. “We can discuss it later. For now, I should attend to my—” She looked down at her front as an ink drop dripped off her hair and onto the carpets. “Everything.” She finished.

“I will pay for the gown, Philip. It’s the least I can do for causing all this,” Miles stammered. “I was not paying heed as I walked toward your study and ran into the poor man when he stopped to bow to Miss Jenkins. He tried his best to salvage the situation…” He paused and ran a hand down his face. “But the fault is all mine.”

Philip looked between the two of them, his head shaking. “You need not pay for the gown. I’m certain you did not do it on purpose, Yardley.”

Miles shook his head. “It was an accident.” It was almost as if he were trying to convince himself of that fact. He looked at the ground and mumbled. “I seem to have a lot of them of late. Blasted unlucky, I am.”

Grace raised a brow. He had no notion of what it was to be unlucky. Of that she was certain.

Mary appeared down the corridor. “James said—oh, Miss.” She hurried forward with a towel in her hands. “Come along. I’ve already sent for the copper tub and water.” She put a towel over Grace’s hair and shoulders and led her toward the stairs.

Grace could hear the army of servants coming down the corridor to clean the stain on the carpet. A single tear slipped out the side of her eye. Why was this happening to her? Could nothing go right this Season? What had she done to earn such treatment? And why did Miles have to be there every time it happened? He’d already witnessed her humiliation at the theater when Lord Wetherby spilled his lemonade on her. And when she’d tripped at the musicale. Perhaps she should be grateful he had not seen the debacle at the menagerie. He must surely think her a blight on Society.

As Grace entered her room, Mary pulled a towel from her shoulder and dropped it to the floor. She positioned Grace in the middle of it, presumably so the ink would drip on it rather than the carpets.

Two servants carried in a tub. They looked at Grace, and their brows shot up, but they quickly directed their attention to Mary.

She motioned toward the fireplace. “Place it there, in front of the fire.” They scurried over and set the tub down. While one arranged it in the proper spot, the other added more wood to the grate and stoked the flame.

A maid came with two pitchers of water. They used no towels to handle the hot pots, which seemed rather curious. How were they not scalding their hands?

Mary put a screen up to block the tub from the view of the corridor.

“We should get you in and start rinsing out as much of the ink as we can.” She grimaced. “It will be a cold bath, Miss. But that is why I put you next to the fire.”

Grace stared at Mary. “Why must it be cold?”

Mary looked apologetic. “Hot water will set the ink. It is almost certain we could not rinse it all out if we use hot water.” She lifted a piece of Grace’s hair. “It will already be difficult.”

Grace’s face crumpled. “But what will we do?”

Mary stripped off Grace’s gown and tossed it into a pile on the towel. “Let’s not worry about that yet.” She eyed the dark stain marring the white fabric. “I do not think we need to remove your chemise. It is already ruined. For now, get in the tub, and I’ll start rinsing.”

Grace nodded, even as her lips trembled. What would she do if they could not get it out? She could hardly go to musicales and card parties with black and red streaked hair.

She stepped into the tub and leaned forward as Mary poured a pitcher over her head. Her whole body shivered as the cold water ran down her skin and soaked her chemise. Dark brown water swirled around her knees just before another pitcher washed over her. The color did not appear any lighter.

Pitcher after pitcher arrived, and Mary poured it over her until the water was up to Grace’s waist. “Miss, please step out and let’s empty the tub. Then we can try a few more pitchers and see if ink is still coming out.”

Grace nodded mutely.

Mary rubbed a towel over her hair and draped Graces dressing gown over her shoulders.

Moving over to the dressing table, Grace looked in the mirror and slowly pulled the towel off her head. A whimper sounded as she saw the varying shades of brown streaking her hair.

“Grace?” Elle stuck her head in the door, and her mouth dropped open. “I just heard what happened.” Her eyes stayed focused on Grace’s hair. She came over and lifted a lock. “Gracious,” was all she said.

Mary cast a look at Elle, but Grace did not have the fortitude to analyze what it meant. “We will empty the tub and rinse again. I’m hopeful more will come out.”

Elle did not look convinced. But she pulled a chair from the corner and settled in next to Grace. She was there to support her, and that almost made Grace cry more than the ink. Almost.

With the tub emptied, Grace climbed back in, and they started the process over. After only two pitchers, the water ran clean.

Grace looked up. “Is it all out?” she asked hopefully. No words were required; their countenances betrayed them entirely.

“Come out of the tub, Miss. Let me help you dress, and then we can decide how to proceed.”

Grace ran her hands up her goose fleshed arms. But when a brown strand fell forward, the cold fled her mind. What were they going to do?

Elle stood up and crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes squinting as she looked at Grace’s hair from several angles. “Hmm…,” she said.

That did not give Grace any sense of relief.

Mary bit at her lip. “One of the other maids suggested we rinse the hair in lemon juice. She thinks it may lighten the ink color.” She tapped her chin. “I don’t believe it will remove it completely. But it might help.”

Grace sighed. Lighter would be better than what she had now, would it not? She nodded. “Let’s try it. It can’t get any worse.”

Mary nodded and hurried out of the room.

“What if it doesn’t help?” Grace whispered to Elle.

“Perhaps Mary can arrange your hair around the staining.”

She looked at her sister-in-law like she was daft. “Look at it, Elle. How is such staining to be arranged around?”

“Let’s not panic until we know what will happen.” She placed a calming hand on Grace’s arm.

Grace looked up at Elle through her lashes. “Did you see Mr. Yardley?” He must surely think to stay clear of her from now on.

Elle studied her. “I did. He and Philip were speaking in Philip’s study.”

“Did he mention the accident?” Grace twisted at her little finger.

“He seemed very concerned about you and apologized profusely.”

“Did he seem to think less of me?” Grace didn’t know why it bothered her to think that he might. Perhaps because he was a friend. Or perhaps it was because she could not stop thinking about her time in his arms. Not that anything could come of it. But it had been a decidedly pleasant few minutes.

“I do not believe he thinks it is your fault, in any way. Indeed, I believe he is taking all the blame upon himself.” Elle looked sympathetic.

“I have it,” Mary blew into the room waving a small, corked bottle in her hand. “I had Cook juice the lemons for me.” She nodded over to the tub.

Grace stood up. “Could I just hold my head over the tub? Must I get in?” She hugged the morning gown to her.

“I believe that will work.” Mary shook the bottle and smiled. “I hope this will make a difference.”

Rarely had a sentiment rung more true. And surely, Grace deserved a turn of good fortune by now.

She dragged her chair over to the edge of the tub and leaned forward, letting her hair dangle over the rim.

The cold of the lemon juice hit her first. Followed closely by the acidic, lemony smell. It stung her eyes as it dribbled down her temple.

And then a sharp intake of breath from Mary and Elle.

Lawks, that could not be good.

“Hurry and wash it out.” There was an urgency in Elle’s voice.

“Bring me that bottle over there,” Mary directed, any properness of address abandoned in the moment.

“What is it? What is wrong?” Panic laced Grace’s words.

Mary’s fingers scrubbed hard at her hair. She poured several pitchers of water to rinse it. “Oh,” both ladies straightened and took a step back.

“What?” Grace sat with her head hung over the tub. “What is it?”

Both shared matching frowns and creases in their brows.

“Might I have a towel?” Grace could stand the suspense no longer.

Elle handed her a towel, and Grace wrapped it around her head. She stood up and moved over to the dressing table. Mary and Elle remained ominously quiet.

Taking a deep breath, Grace pulled the towel away. “It’s green,” she cried. Lawks, it was even worse than the brown. At least the brown had a more natural look to it. But green? “What are we to do now?”

Elle pulled her lips between her teeth and stared. “I suppose we could dye all of your hair?”

“Would that not be scandalous?” Grace shook her head. “I’ve had blonde hair for the first few months of the Season. How would it look to suddenly have dark brown or black hair?”

Elle shrugged. “The only other option is to cut it.”

Grace gasped. “You must be in jest.”

“I’ve seen ladies with the Titus cut. They look very handsome.” Her tone was not completely convincing. Grace had seen it too, but only on fashion plates. And they were not common.

Grace looked at Mary, who’d been very quiet. “What say you, Mary?”

The young lady sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know, Miss. I worry that dying it will only ruin it further.” She lifted a lock of hair, her head shaking. “What about a wig?”

Elle shook her head. “To have a quality wig made takes weeks. Are you not going on a carriage ride with Lord Marcrum tomorrow?” She lifted her thumb to her lips. “If we cut it, do you think a hairpiece would suffice?”

Mary shrugged. “I do not know.”

This made all the other incidents pale in comparison. A woman’s hair was her crowning glory—her most defining feature. And now she was to dye it? Or worse yet, cut it? How was she to make such a decision?

Grace stared at her reflection. Gathering her hair into her hand, she lifted it loosely up onto her head, trying to see how she would look with short locks. Could one even call short hair locks? She had no idea. She dropped her hair, allowing it to fall over her shoulders.

What would people say? What would Miles say? He would certainly be everything polite, but what would he secretly think? Would he think she looked like a man? Her words from the garden came back to her, and her face heated. Irony dealt its blows with exquisite precision.

Grace closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples. What would Philip say if she asked to return to Somerset?

Miles’ face drifted through her mind. Lift your chin high and square your shoulders. If you walk as if nothing is amiss, you will confuse the gossips long enough that they will not know what to think.

She opened her eyes and lifted her chin. “I see no other choice but to cut it.” There was only a slight wobble in her voice.

Elle and Grace looked at Mary. She lifted her hands in front of her and backed up several steps. “I can trim hair, Miss, but I can’t cut it short. I would not even know where to start.”

“Then what do we do?”

Elle flicked up her brows. “I will have Philip send for his barber.”

“A barber?” Grace sucked in a breath. “Is there no other way? What will people say?”

“We will swear him to secrecy. Unless you have another idea?” Elle looked at Grace.

She shook her head. “No, send for the barber.”

“I’ll go speak to Philip.” Elle hurried from the room.