Page 19 of Only By Grace (The Virtues #4)

CHAPTER 19

A nother day and Grace had survived. Tonight was to be Joy and Lady Maeve’s first official ball. The ballroom glittered with the golden glow of candlelight, their light refracted through crystal chandeliers that hung like jewels from the ceiling. Garlands of autumn greenery were strung from the ceiling, sprays of flower arrangements lined the walls, and ribbons were strewn about. The polished floors gleamed, reflecting the swirling colours of gowns and the rhythmic movement of dancing couples. The orchestra played a lively reel, filling the room, mingling with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter.

The ladies in their silks and satins spun like samaras falling through the air. Jewel-toned gowns of emerald green, sapphire blue, and ruby red adorned the matrons, while the more delicate hues of lavender, rose, and cream lent an air of soft elegance to the young misses. Grace herself wore a gown of sea green, its modest design enhanced by lace trimmings and a strand of pearls. The effect was understated but elegant, as Grace preferred.

Joy, on the other hand, was the very picture of unrestrained exuberance. Her gown of lavender shimmered as she spun across the floor, her laughter ringing out above the music as she danced with Mr. Cunningham. Undaunted by Joy’s unbridled enthusiasm, he matched her steps with surprising ease and an easy laughter. They were a captivating pair, their gaiety a stark contrast from the more subdued dancers around them. Instead of the ton frowning at the lack of decorum, they looked indulgently upon Joy. She had that effect on others.

Grace observed them with a faint smile, though her heart still ached. She had attended several engagements this past week, smiled at every compliment, and danced with a cheerfulness she did not feel. It was an effort not to let her true feelings show, and though she succeeded outwardly, it took its toll. Several gentlemen, encouraged by her politeness, had begun to pay her marked attention. Perhaps that was all they required—a willing smile—but for Grace it felt unnatural.

Lady Maeve, at least, was faring better, and for that Grace was deeply relieved. It was a joy to see her take tentative steps towards reclaiming the vivacious spirit Carew had so fondly described. The bruises that once marked her skin had faded, and though there was a subtle hesitancy in her gaze at times, it was clear she was beginning to be herself again. Joy had befriended her, and it was difficult to remain subdued near her zest for life.

The evening’s ball was proof enough of her transformation. Lady Maeve, dressed in a gown of soft ivory silk that complemented her dark hair and bright eyes, was the very picture of exotic beauty. Her shy smiles lit up her face whenever a gentleman approached her, captivating her partners. She had quickly become the toast of the evening.

Grace watched with a mixture of admiration and wistfulness as one gentleman after another sought Maeve’s hand for a dance. There was an ease to her manner that had been absent when they first arrived in England. As the strains of a lively country dance began, she was partnered by Lord Ravensfield, who was known for his good humour. He was a charming, handsome gentleman who was much sought after. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and easy smile made him a favourite among the ladies.

They stepped onto the dance floor, Maeve’s silk skirts flowing with each movement, her cheeks faintly flushed with exertion and delight. Grace noted the way Maeve’s laughter bubbled up as he murmured something to her during a turn. It was a sound so free and unguarded that Grace felt her heart ache with a bittersweet mixture of joy and sorrow.

She could not help but wonder if Maeve’s heart had truly been affected by Flynn. Could anyone fully recover from such pain? Could a love lost ever feel whole once more?

Grace sighed inwardly. She doubted it. Love, when true, left its mark. Time might dull the pain, but it could not erase it. She hoped Maeve would come to see that true love did not abuse—it cherished. Flynn had been a fraud, and Maeve deserved someone true.

But as for Grace herself? She knew it would be a long time before her heart could open to another. Was it unfair, then, to allow these gentlemen to hope? Did they expect no more than a compliant, accommodating wife? Staying busy helped to distract her, but it did little to quiet her thoughts. Each dance partner only reminded her of the one man she could not forget. Compared to Carew, everyone else paled in comparison.

If only he had done something truly horrendous to me, she thought wryly, it might be easier to let him go. But no, Ronan had been the perfect gentleman—respectful and honourable. How was she to harden her heart against that?

As Grace observed her surroundings, she did not notice Mr. George Lynton approaching until he stood directly in front of her. His bow was impeccable, his smile warm but tinged with a hint of nervousness. “Miss Whitford,” he said smoothly, “may I have the honour of this dance?”

Caught by surprise, Grace blinked, but her manners asserted themselves quickly. “Of course, Mr. Lynton,” she replied, allowing him to help her to her feet. His hand was steady as it guided her, and though she did not particularly feel inclined to dance, she appreciated his genuine kindness.

As they took their places on the floor, Grace noted how Mr. Lynton’s attire, whilst not ostentatious, bore the quiet marks of a gentleman of means. His dark coat was finely tailored, and his neckcloth arranged with just enough flair to suggest a man who paid attention to detail. The orchestra began the next song, and Mr. Lynton led her into the steps with a grace that belied his otherwise understated manner.

“Miss Whitford?”

She started, realizing she had been neglecting her partner. “Forgive me,” she said quickly. “My mind wandered.”

“A true testament to your dancing skills, then,” her partner replied with a twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Lynton was a pleasant man with a warm smile and an easy charm. “I must mind my steps, lest I tumble us across the floor and create a domino effect of the other couples.”

She smiled at his good humour, though it was faint. “Somehow, I doubt that,” she said lightly. “It is only because you are so accomplished that my mind strayed.”

“Would you care to tell me about him?”

Grace’s cheeks warmed, and she stumbled slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Lynton chuckled, his gaze kind. “There is no shame in it, Miss Whitford. It is clear someone has your heart.”

Grace’s cheeks heated. Was she so obvious? Apparently so.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Even when I make a fool of myself over it?” she asked, her tone wry.

“Even then. But you have not done so, I assure you. It is only because I recognize the same affliction in myself.”

Grace blinked, taken aback. “Oh,” she said softly. “Is there any hope for you?”

Mr. Lynton smiled sadly. “I am afraid not. My affliction married another.”

“I am sorry,” Grace said sincerely.

“And you?” he asked, his voice gentler. “Do you think there is hope for you?”

“He is not yet wed,” she admitted, her voice quiet, “but I was given a speech which left me in no doubt of his intent.”

He arched a brow. “Ah, the one where he becomes a martyr? That you deserve better, that you are too good, and he is unworthy?”

Grace gave a soft huff of surprise. “Just so. I had not considered it in that light.”

Mr. Lynton’s expression grew serious. “Anyone who does not take advantage of the heart you offer does not deserve you, Miss Whitford.”

Grace smiled faintly, though that organ still ached. “If only my mind and heart would think in unison.”

“When your heart heals,” Mr. Lynton said with a small smile, “perhaps we could deal well together. There are worse foundations for marriage than fondness and friendship.”

Grace tilted her head thoughtfully. “I fear, if that were the case, our poets would be sadly lacking for inspiration.”

“Indeed,” he replied, laughing softly.

The music slowed, signalling the end of the dance. Mr. Lynton bowed over her hand with courtly grace before escorting her back to her sisters. As Grace took her seat beside Maeve, her gaze flickered briefly to the sparkling chandeliers above. For a moment, she allowed herself the smallest flicker of hope—that one day her heart might mend.

Ronan stood just beyond the grand archway, remaining in the shadows afforded by the towering marble columns. It took but a moment for his searching gaze to find Grace, and everything else faded to a blur in the periphery. She danced near the centre of the room, her pale green gown flowing like a quiet ripple of water among the more vivid hues of the other ladies. Her smile was captivating, her expression serene as she conversed with her dance partner—a gentleman who, though well-dressed and polished, seemed entirely unworthy of the privilege of her company. Ronan’s chest tightened at the sight, a mixture of longing and jealousy warring within him.

Grace laughed at some remark her partner made, and Ronan felt an ache so deep it nearly brought him to his knees. He wanted to bring that smile to her face. She was everything he had missed, everything he had tried to convince himself he could live without—the calming presence, the quiet strength that soothed his restless soul. The sight of her was worth riding day and night to reach her.

And yet here she was, seemingly flourishing without him, whilst he had been left feeling as though a piece of himself had been carved away. Had Maeve been mistaken?

Ronan’s hands clenched at his sides. It took every ounce of his considerable fortitude not to stride onto the ballroom floor and steal her from her partner. He longed to sweep her into his arms, to demand she listen to the torrent of emotions he had buried for weeks. But he did not have that right. He had let her go.

Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, waiting and watching until the dance concluded. His pulse quickened as the strains of a waltz began to play, and he held his breath, hoping against hope that her dance was not already spoken for.

When her eyes finally met his, the world seemed to still. Grace froze for the briefest moment, her serene expression giving way to one of shock. A mixture of pain and joy flickered across her face, her composure faltering as she glanced down, then back up, as though she could not quite believe what she was seeing. Ronan’s heart leaped and then sank. He had caused that pain, that hesitation, and now it was his burden to make amends.

He stepped forward, weaving through the crowd with resolute determination. He reached her just as her previous partner bowed politely and stepped away.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, his voice low, almost unsteady.

Grace hesitated, her lips parting as though to refuse. But then she nodded, placing her gloved hand in his.

Ronan led her to the dance floor, his hand resting lightly on her waist as they began to move. The music swelled around them, but all Ronan could hear was the pounding of his own heart. She was so close that her familiar scent teased his senses, her touch filled the missing piece of him.

He considered making a light remark, perhaps even a jest, “Did you miss me?” but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he found himself consumed by the sheer relief of being near her again. The hollow ache in his chest seemed to lessen, his heart feeling whole for the first time in weeks.

The strain between them was palpable, a weight that neither seemed able to lift. As they began to move in time with the music, Ronan allowed himself to study her, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of her cheek and the soft sweep of her lashes. She was as lovely as he remembered, but there was a faint shadow beneath her eyes that hinted at restless nights and unspoken worries. The smile she had worn earlier, so bright and engaging, was now subdued, as though it had been a mask she had grown weary of holding in place.

Ronan forced himself to break the silence even though he was content to drink her in. “I am not sure what it says about me that my eyes found you and no other.”

Grace’s expression softened, and she looked back up at him, uncertain of his sincerity.

“How is Maeve?”

“She is faring well, it seems,” she said gently. “Joy has been a great source of diversion for her, and the change of scenery seems to have done her good. She laughs often now, though I think her heart is still mending.”

Ronan nodded, relief mingling with guilt as her words sank in. “It seems I am in your continued debt.”

“Nonsense,” Grace said firmly. “Maeve is strong, and she is recovering in her own way. It takes time.”

He hesitated, his grip on her waist tightening slightly as he searched for the right words. “I have carried much guilt for what happened to her,” he admitted.

“Maeve does not blame you,” Grace said, her voice steady. “I think she is struggling to forgive herself.”

Ronan fell silent, her words striking something deep within him. It no longer felt as if they were discussing Maeve. Perhaps she spoke of herself as well. The dance continued and he held her gaze as they crossed the floor, their movements perfectly together, though his thoughts were anything but orderly.

“Can you forgive me for being a fool?” he asked, his voice almost drowned out by the music.

Grace looked up at him, her expression unreadable. “You let me go,” she repeated softly, her voice tinged with hurt.

The words hung in the air between them. For a moment, Grace seemed surprised by her own words. Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away, her composure slipping further. Ronan cursed himself silently, unsure of what had possessed him to speak so plainly.

“I thought it was the for the best,” he continued, his jaw tightening as he struggled to regain control of his wayward thoughts. “I thought I was sparing you—giving you the chance to find someone better. Someone who could give you the life you deserve.”

“And yet here you are,” Grace said softly, her gaze returning to his. There was no malice in her tone, only quiet curiosity. “Why? What has changed?”

“Let us just say that a higher power opened my eyes. I know I am far from perfect, and you still deserve a better man than I, but if you can see your way to forgive me…” he said simply, his voice trailing off, raw with emotion. He shook his head. “I fear my words are often inept when I most wish them to matter.”

“Please continue, nevertheless.”

She did not wish to make this easy on him. Very well. “I thought I could live without you, Grace, but I was wrong. I have been wrong about many things, but never more so than this.”

Grace blinked with surprise as her steps faltered slightly. Ronan adjusted instantly, steadying her without missing a beat.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” he said hurriedly. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I could not let you think—could not let you believe—that I did not care about you.”

“I never doubted that you cared,” Grace said, her voice steady now. “But caring is not the same as choosing me.” She looked away then, her lashes lowering as a faint blush rose to her cheeks in response to her boldness.

The truth of her words cut through him like a blade. “I am here now,” he said, his voice fierce with conviction. “And I will not make the mistake of letting you go again—no matter how long it takes to prove it to you.”

The music swelled to its crescendo, and they came to a halt as the final notes faded. Ronan bowed low over her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. “Will you forgive me, Grace?”

The words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Grace seemed at a loss for a reply. Her blush deepened, and she glanced away, her composure faltering ever so slightly. Ronan cursed himself silently, unsure of what had possessed him to speak so plainly. He need not force the issue here and now. He should have waited until they were not in a public place and wooed her more gently, but his heart was on his sleeve, and he’d held his feelings in for so long he’d wanted to right his wrongs as quickly as possible.

“I do not know.” She slipped from his grasp then and left the floor.

Ronan watched her go, cursing his impatience.

He sought out his sister for a dance to ensure she was thriving, then left, needing time to consider his strategy.