Page 22 of Lady Graceless (A Series of Senseless Complications #2)

G race had sunk onto a sofa as everyone in the drawing room but for herself and Lord Dashlend had been ordered out of it by the duke.

What had just happened? Was it true? Lord Montclave had sent the daisies and roses?

If that were true, then perhaps Lord Dashlend was not set on Lady Lavender after all.

The thought made her feel swoony. She gripped the side of the sofa. She might feel swoony, but she would not swoon. Not until she understood the case of things.

Charlie wheeled the lord to her side and then jogged to the doors and closed them behind him.

“Lord Dashlend,” she said, determined to go straight to her apology, “I deeply, deeply apologize for pulling you from the side of a house and causing… your current condition. I was dizzy, you see, which I’m afraid is a regular occurrence.”

“It is nothing, I assure you,” Lord Dashlend said.

“Nothing? You have broken your ribs, sprained your ankle, and are in a wheeled chair!”

“Yes, well, all of that will heal in not too long a time.”

Grace twisted her hands together. It would almost be better if he just said what he really felt about it, instead of being so gentlemanly. “I am sure you are angry over it and it is very good of you to pretend you are not but I do not deserve the courtesy. I set that fire myself, because I am clumsy, particularly when I am startled.”

“How did you manage to lock yourself in, though?” Lord Dashlend asked. “That was quite the trick.”

“Oh, I did not. Someone opened the door and startled me, then they closed it again and I could not get out.”

Lord Dashlend had a pensive look and she wondered if he believed her.

“Never mind that mystery for the moment,” he said. “Lady Grace, there is no other lady I would rather fall off the side of a building with and it was my honor to break your fall. From the first moment I saw you on the beach I have been drawn to you, and every day that has passed only increases my surety that you are the lady for me. I find myself entirely besotted. Assuming you’d have me. To wed.”

Grace was certain she had turned the color of an aubergine, but who cared for that?

“ Have you?” she cried. “Of course I’ll have you. When I thought you were all in for Lady Lavender, well, I wanted to tear her hair. Or yours. Or my own.”

“Do not tear a single hair from your head,” Lord Dashlend said, hoisting himself from his chair and hopping over to her.

He landed on the sofa with a thud. Grace thought this was the moment. He would kiss her. She stared at him. Then she decided to hurry him up and she kissed him.

That seemed to break apart any constraint that was between them.

Hair pins flying, arms and legs entwined, clothes wrinkled beyond repair, they came together as if they had been always built to be so. There was the occasional wince on account of his broken ribs, but he would not be put off. Grace had not the least inclination to put him off and just reminded herself not to clutch at him too hard.

Before the season, the idea of a gentleman she would wed was a foggy one, all blurry outlines and a faceless head. But now, here he was, exactly how he was meant to be.

“I would have married you even if you were paralyzed,” Grace said softly.

Dashlend said, “Thankfully, it’s not come to that,” as he kissed her neck.

“Oh dear, I wrote Lady Lavender a letter regarding your condition. I thought I would be forced to tell you the terrible truth that she would not come to your side.”

Dashlend laughed into her hair. “She must have been startled to receive such a message, as I have not expressed the least interest in her, nor she me. Now, let us not speak of Lady Lavender more.”

Grace found herself very agreeable to that request, as being in Dashlend’s arms was turning out to be a revelation. Both Felicity and Mrs. Right had told her that such things were very natural when the time was right and she could see that it was so.

They remained engrossed with one another for she knew not how long. Finally, Dashlend kissed her lips once more, which surely were flushed and maybe a bit bruised.

“You have positively mauled me, Dashlend,” she whispered.

“Yes, I have, very careless of me.”

“You must promise it is to be a lifelong habit.”

“Easily promised.” He winced as he reached inside his coat. He pulled out a dented velvet box. “I brought this with me to Lady Montague’s ball as a token of my affection. It has seemed to survive the fall.”

Grace took it in her hands and opened it. “It is positively lovely,” she said. It truly was. The garnets and the magnificent emerald in the middle of the piece sparkled in the afternoon light that streamed through the windows.

Lord Dashlend took it and carefully placed it round her neck and did the clasp. Then he kissed that now adorned neck for good measure.

There was a short rap on the door and Lady Marchfield barreled through it. Behind her, the duke shouted, “Keep your nose out of it, you old polecat.”

“Grace Nicolet!” Lady Marchfield said, upon seeing Grace’s current condition.

“It is all right, Aunt,” Grace said. “Look at this lovely necklace. We are to be married.”

“I should think so,” Lady Marchfield said. “The sooner the better, as far as I can see.”

Once Lady Marchfield had stormed into the room, it was not a moment before her sisters followed.

Grace and Lord Dashlend disentangled from each other.

Winsome stopped in her tracks and cried, “What have you done to Grace?”

Patience punched Lord Dashlend in the ribs, which doubled him over.

“It’s all right,” Grace said, patting Dashlend’s hand to try to distract him from his aching ribs. “We are to be married.”

“This is what married people do?” Valor asked incredulously. “They fight on a sofa? What’s the point of it?”

The duke moved her out of the way. “Well done, Dashlend. Have your solicitor set up a meeting. Now, perhaps both of you pull yourself together. New necklace, is it?”

Grace nodded as Lady Margaret sailed forward with loyal Lord Harraby by her side. “I do not like to claim credit for the match, but where credit is so obviously due…”

“Lady Margaret means to say,” Lord Harraby said, “that we are both gratified that our hopes have come to fruition.”

Grace did her best to straighten out her clothes and fix her hair amidst the congratulations. It had happened. It seemed impossible that it had happened, but it had. Dashlend had proposed and then mauled her on the sofa, and it was glorious.

“Your Grace,” Thomas said from the doorway, “Lady Felicity and Mr. Stratton.”

*

Montclave had left the duke’s house as fast as his legs could carry him. They knew! They knew everything!

What would they do? Should he run? Where? He had no connections outside of England. Should he stay and attempt to brazen it out?

But what chance would he have against the word of a duke? Even an eccentric duke. What evidence did they have? Was it that Lady Grace had seen him at the door?

Should he kill the florist before the fellow was interrogated? That might be the thread that unraveled the whole thing.

No. He was not a murderer yet. He had tried to be, but he was not. Could they hang him for simply locking a door?

Even if he were not hanged, if word got out, he would be disgraced.

Montclave felt as if his head would explode. He entered Doanellen’s house and ignored Mrs. Featherby lounging round the drawing room. He jogged up the stairs and closed the door behind him. It felt as if the dogs were on his heels.

He fumbled with his cases until he found what he was looking for. A bottle of laudanum. He drank down a large swig, washed it down with brandy, and got in bed. He pulled the covers over his head.

He would stay there until somebody dragged him out.

*

Grace smiled down the dining table. The afternoon had been merry indeed. Felicity and Stratton had joined them in the drawing room and now everybody who’d been present for the news of the proposal had stayed on for dinner. Even Lady Marchfield, who was having a time of it deciding if she were pleased over the engagement or aggravated that there was no butler in the house.

Earlier, Grace and Dashlend had used the ridiculous excuse of a sought-after book in the library to slip off for a half hour, or was it longer? The library had the advantage of a loveseat located in an alcove and Grace laid in his arms, careful not to press on his ribs, as they spoke of their future.

Dashlend was keen to wed as soon as possible, but then the practicalities of his condition did give them pause. It was decided that they would at least wait until he could walk, and then they might take a wedding trip wherever they liked.

Wherever they liked was a question that took some thought. Then, it came to Grace like a bolt of lightning from the heavens. There was only one place they should go.

“We ought to return to Hull to see how your boat gets on. If it is fully repaired, perhaps we could go sailing somewhere.”

Dashlend had peered down at her. “That sounds like the sort of thing a very considerate fiancée would suggest to her boat-mad fiancé. I insist we go somewhere you would enjoy.”

Grace sat up a little. “I think I would enjoy it, though. This will sound strange, but I am always less clumsy when I am on something that is moving. Also, you might as well know now—I sometimes jump up and down to make myself steadier.”

“Do you really?” Dashlend asked.

“Indeed, it is my terrible secret.”

“Jump away, my love. And if you really want to try sailing, I suggest we hug the coast and stay at inns overnight.”

“That sounds lovely.”

Now, at dinner, they had flouted the physician’s insistence that Dashlend not sit at table, though they did make some adjustments. His sprained ankle was carefully placed on a stool underneath the table to keep it elevated.

“Well now,” the duke said, “another daughter unloaded and five more to go—my dream is within reach!”

Lady Marchfield frowned, though Grace could not think why. It was not as if she’d never heard the duke express that particular wish—he’d said it dozens of times.

Valor giggled. “He always says that, but I’m not going anywhere for a long time. Maybe never!”

The duke ignored this threat. “Where will you be off to?” he asked Grace. “Felicity and Stratton went to Scotland for their wedding trip.”

“And survived it too,” Felicity said, laughing.

Mr. Stratton nodded. “A tip, Dashlend—wherever you go, do not allow your wife to sit on a dock in full sun with nothing to drink for six hours and expect everything to be rosy.”

“A minor outburst,” Felicity said.

Mr. Stratton laughed. “Tell that to the boat captain—the man was shaken to his core.”

“Papa,” Grace said, “Dashlend will need to be healed before we set off. By then it will be full summer and we intend to take out The Marquessa. ”

Valor leveled her gaze at Lord Dashlend. “Didn’t you almost drown the last time?”

Dashlend nodded. “Yes, that was unfortunate, but we will stay close to the coast this time round.”

Some of the guests round the table were dubious of the sense of this plan, some were admiring, all had a comment to make.

Grace did not much care. She was to wed Dashlend, and wherever he went she would follow—north, south, east, west, land, or sea.

After dinner, it was roundly agreed that they would gather in the drawing room for Fact or Fib. Lady Marchfield did not stay for it. For one thing, she did not care for the game. For another, she was incensed that Mrs. Right had been called in to participate. Her aunt did kiss Grace on the cheek, though, and said, “You’ll be settled admirably, Grace, though how I do not know.”

After her aunt departed, the questions in Fact or Fib came rapid fire to Lord Dashlend. Why had he been fighting with Grace on the sofa? Why did he pull so many of her hairpins out? Would he be sleeping in Grace’s room? Was he planning to watch Grace while she was sleeping, like Mr. Stratton does?

It was a credit to Lord Dashlend that he answered all these questions in high good humor and was not the least perturbed to be named a fibber on multiple occasions.

Perhaps it was even more to his credit that he’d only smiled when Mrs. Right leaned over to him and said, “Sorry about placing an advertisement for a new valet.”

He’d said, “I doubt anybody is sorrier about my valet than I am.”

“And the salty porridge yesterday,” Mrs. Right added.

“I believe Lady Margaret took that in hand?”

Mrs. Right had stolen a glance at that lady. “She is craftier than she looks.”

“As are you, Mrs. Right.”

Their beloved housekeeper had seemed well-pleased to hear it.

After several months of recovering, all of which were spent in the duke’s house, the wedding finally took place. They spent their first night together at Dashlend’s own house, which was quite empty. Lord Harraby had prevailed and quietly wed Lady Margaret and they were out terrorizing the town as a married couple. Now that they’d found one another, they spent far less time talking about death, which was a relief to everybody. As Lady Margaret had taken to wearing the panniers of old, Lord Harraby had also ransacked his attics. He now regularly appeared in a powdered wig and impossibly ornate frock coats. The couple looked as if they were always on their way to a masque. They did not give a toss for any raised brows over it.

As for the newly-married younger couple, there was not too terribly much to discover on their wedding night. Having been in close proximity for months, they had perhaps taken things further than the usual engaged couple. Not as far as they could possibly go, but not much short of it.

Grace thought that was well. There was an ease between them and whatever nerves there had been had long fled. It had been a long, slow, and lovely introduction to the relations between a man and a woman. As well, it was rather a relief to not always be listening for footsteps and knocks on the door. Valor, in particular, always seemed to be looking for her and concerned with her mussed appearance.

The next morning, they’d set off for Hull and retrieved The Marquessa . She had been entirely restored and she was perfect.

It was late August when they’d set sail to calm seas and a gentle breeze, making their way south along the coast. They occasionally anchored in shallow water to take a bracing dip in the sea or to make good use of the small cabin on the boat. There were occasions where they spent the night in the cabin, but more often they rowed to shore on a dinghy and made their way to the nearest inn.

Grace found her sea legs quickly, as she was always more comfortable on something that moved, whether it be boat or carriage. Dashlend joked that she was born to be a sailor and he taught her about the wind, the riggings, how to set a course, and how to tack when they did not have the wind at their backs.

Eventually, August turned to September and September wore on and the weather began to turn. They took the boat back to Hull and prepared to remove themselves to Dashlend’s estate, which did not come without complications.

Dashlend was all but certain that Montclave had locked Grace into the burning room to stop a wedding and an ensuing heir. He did not share the suspicion with his new bride, but she was already leery enough of his cousin after discovering it had been him who had sent the flowers.

He’d written a long letter to his father, outlining what needed to be done. As he could not prove anything, he must just protect himself and his bride in case Montclave had the audacity to try something else. The gatehouse would not permit his cousin entry and extra men would be hired to keep an eye on other ways onto the estate—particularly the wood that bordered his cousin’s land.

Dashlend had only been thinking of what he must do to keep Montclave away from his wife. He’d failed to take into consideration that terror might have delivered its own retribution in subduing his cousin’s ambitions.

After the duke had told Montclave, “We know all,” that gentleman had spent every waking moment wondering when someone would come to get him. His imagination spun out every possible disastrous eventuality. In his mind, he saw himself hung or locked up forever.

He hid in his room in Doanellen’s house, always listening for footsteps and knocks on the door.

There were times he considered putting a bullet in his head to make the thoughts go away.

The only two measures that seemed to help at all were brandy and laudanum, and he leaned on them heavily.

So heavily, that he deteriorated. He lost weight, his eyes were at once bloodshot and half closed, his words were incoherent.

Lord Doanellen hardly knew what to do with him and eventually wrote the dowager that somebody must come to collect him, as Montclave was in no shape to make such a journey himself.

The dowager did so. She’d sent her strapping son to Town and got back a haggard shell of a man. He would never say what had happened, but the dowager’s disapprobation of him drove him ever further into a sea of brandy and laudanum. One night, he dived too deep in that sea, and never came to the surface. Montclave was dead.

Though neither Dashlend nor Grace wished for Montclave’s death, both were not over sorry for it. Especially Dashlend, who understood just how much danger his cousin brought.

As it was, they settled happily at the estate and Dashlend’s mother and father took to Grace at once, even though they’d heard some alarming things about her father. They liked her so well that they pretended they did not even notice when she occasionally fell on the floor or tripped and broke something.

Quiet instructions were given to the staff to keep ottomans in their same places and not move them around, and candles were always to be set far away from table edges.

When Grace fell with child, her clumsiness only increased. Dashlend made every effort to always be by her side in case she was on the verge of falling over. In the later stages, his adorable wife was tipping over more than she wasn’t.

On the night she gave birth to a son, she received more than the gift of a child.

The midwife directed her on when to push and she’d been at it for hours. Near the end of things, entirely exhausted, the midwife told her to push with all the strength she had left. Grace had done so, and she’d felt a strange pop in her left ear. Then there was an odd feeling of wetness there.

Both the midwife and the young girl apprenticing with her stared at her ear.

“Well, that is a first for me,” the midwife said.

Grace did not know what had happened, but she did know that everything in the room had got louder. The midwife’s voice, the crackle of the fire, it was all so much louder.

“What is it?” the apprentice whispered.

The midwife reached toward Grace’s ear. She took something and rubbed it with a cloth. “Ah, I see. Now, Lady Dashlend, might I inquire as to why you’ve gone and put a seed pearl in your ear?”

“A what?” Certainly she had not.

Why on earth would it be there? How long had it been there?

And then she remembered how it had got there. Years ago, when her father had laid out all of her departed mother’s jewelry, there had been such a scramble for pieces. She and Patience had dived for some loose seed pearls that had rolled onto the carpet. In her haste to have it, she supposed—

Another great pain took over. The midwife said, “Push hard now, my lady, this will be the last or very near to it.” She glanced at her apprentice and said, “Girl, get warm water and flush every bit of wax from our lady’s ear. It’s not something she’ll want the lord to see.”

And so Grace did push very hard and was certain even more wax came from her ear. But then, her son arrived too.

After the birth, it was of course noticed that Grace was not near as clumsy as she had been. That was a relief to all as they had worried about her accidentally dropping the baby. It was presumed that the pregnancy had somehow cured her through the mysterious goings-on of a woman’s body when she carries a child.

Which, she supposed it had. Grace never elaborated on the mystery, as she could not bear to paint the picture of what had really happened for her dear husband. The midwife had assured her that there were some things a man could not take on with any sort of equanimity. The details of a birth were one of those things. A seed pearl and a river of wax erupting from his lady’s ear must certainly be another.

Blessedly, jumping up and down to steady herself had come to an end. Grace became much bolder in the world without having to always worry about tipping over. Over time, she and Dashlend went on wild rides together and her dancing improved significantly. They became a dashing couple, though Grace had not imagined it as a possibility.

She did not entirely forget what had happened, though. She kept a close eye on all her children and regularly checked them over to be certain they’d not decided to store something in an unfortunate location. She had spent years slightly off kilter and believing everyone felt the same—she would not care for any of her children having the experience.

It was rather surprising how often she found something in an ear or a nose.

Through the first winter of her first child’s existence, Grace had watched over him like a falcon. The first year was always dangerous for a baby and she took on all of Mrs. Right’s good sense in the matter. She still remembered the care the dear lady had taken of poor motherless Valor. No strangers were allowed to visit the baby. No staff who cared for the baby were to go to the village for the first few months, and they were paid very generously for the inconvenience. The nursery must always be kept to a warm temperature. If it were warm outside, the windows must be opened. If not, there must be a fire, but the air must not be allowed to become too dry—a pot of water must simmer on the hearth.

Mr. Moreau made himself far more helpful than anybody would have expected. He guarded the nursery stairs at all hours and scolded the nursemaids when he thought they were falling short. He harassed the laundress that she must only use very hot water to wash the baby’s things and darkly warned her that he would know if she hadn’t. He ordered soft lawn and fine knit wools from the shops and then carefully examined them to judge if they were worthy of the earl’s grandson. Only then, with his approval, could they go to the seamstress. Once the new-sewn clothes were returned, they were aired out for a full week to get rid of any ill-humors they may have picked up.

Through everybody’s care, the jolly little baby came through his first year with only a sniffle to two and one hair-raising chest cold. After that, Grace felt herself relax.

Two years had passed and in the coming season, it would be Patience to take her turn in society. Serenity might have done too, as they were twins, but she claimed she would wait another year. Patience would make her too nervous with all her hurrying and toe-tapping. Grace did not know if that were true or not, but she was determined to be on the scene to assist her sister.

If Lady Patience were to toe-tap, then it was to be hoped she would match with an equally hurried fellow who could keep up with her preferred and rather frenzied pace.

The Earl of Stanford could be just the man, if he were not of such a calm and measured temperament. He understands that few things outside of a housefire require immediate action. Well-laid plans and prudence are his guiding lights. Furthermore, he considers marriage the most momentous step he will take in life, and it merits careful and thoughtful reflection. His choice of a wife is not to be rushed, regardless of any lovely lady drumming her fingers over it.

Patience is lightning and the earl is molasses. One of them needs to hurry up or the other one needs to slow down, else they drive each other mad.

The End