Page 23 of The Spinster's Resolve

T he day of the ball arrived, and Heather’s gown was delivered just in time. It was greatly admired by the Skye sisters and Mrs Merriweather—the pearl detailing was exquisite on the silk white dress. To Grace’s disappointment, her own gown had not yet arrived and might not come at all. The ladies of the house spent the day in preparation; there was much to be done. Maids rushed in and out of chambers, footmen filled and removed baths, and the air buzzed with excitement.

Yet Grace remained complacent. She had ensured that Betty helped Mrs Merriweather and Heather first and only attended to her afterwards. She spent the morning in the library with a cup of tea, deliberately placing herself in plain sight rather than retreating to an alcove. She preferred this room, far removed from the chaos of the house. So engrossed was she in her book that she failed to notice the sun lowering in the sky. Her immersion broke only when the door opened, and Holden walked in, clearly expecting the room to be empty.

He started. ‘Oh! Miss Skye, I wasn’t expecting to find you still here. Pardon me, Miss, but are you not going to attend the ball this evening?’

Grace blinked, her eyes unfocused from reading so long. Glancing at the clock, she leapt to her feet. ‘I did not realise the time! Oh dear, I must get ready!’ And with that, she fled the room in a flurry.

Betty looked harried, but Heather was resplendent in her white debutante gown, her hair piled high with an elegant twist of pearls. Her eyes were bright, and colour tinged her cheeks. She looked beautiful but so transformed that she hardly resembled the sister Grace had always known.

Leaning against the door, Grace simply stared at her baby sister, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Mother and Father would be so proud of you, Heather. As am I. You look like a shining angel.’

Heather blushed, enhancing her beauty further. Mrs Merriweather, dressed respectably in lilac, was helping Betty when both suddenly turned and gasped in horror.

‘Oh no!’ Mrs Merriweather cried.

Betty clutched her apron. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Grace! We completely forgot to call you up. We were so caught up in taming Miss Heather’s hair that we did not realise the time. What will we do? There’s barely any time left!’

A knock sounded at the door. Lady Elizabeth entered, looking concerned. ‘Holden just informed me that you are not yet ready, Grace. Are you unwell, dear?’

Grace laughed. ‘Stop fretting, everyone, I shall be fine. I will do a simple style to my hair and wear one of my old gowns, since the new one has not arrived.’

Everyone gasped, and Lady Elizabeth looked flummoxed. ‘Simple? Old gown? Certainly not! Your gown was just brought to my chambers—it was mislaid by the servants. I shall send my maid to your room. Betty, finish with Heather, then join my maid in dressing Grace. We shall turn you out in great style, my dear!’

Swept up by Lady Elizabeth’s orders, Grace had little choice. With no time to protest, she was scrubbed, brushed, pulled, and generally manhandled into readiness. By the time the hot iron curler completed its work, she felt somewhat resentful of the complete disregard for her personal space—and slightly dizzy.

When she finally gazed into the mirror, she barely recognised herself. The cerulean blue gown, embroidered intricately with silver over the bodice, and her hair swept up with artful curls draped over one shoulder—she looked stunning.

Elizabeth entered, beaming. ‘Ah, Grace, you look beautiful!’ She carried a box, which she handed to the maids. ‘I thought this might suit.’ She opened it and took out an elegant diamond necklace, fastening it around Grace’s neck.

Mrs Merriweather and Heather were speechless at the transformation. Teary-eyed, Betty waved her handkerchief in delight at the maid’s success.

As the ladies descended to the drawing room, where the gentlemen waited, compliments poured in—though Lord Edward’s were particularly extravagant, and he annoyingly hovered at Grace’s side. But her attention was elsewhere. Grace’s eyes sought the Duke before she could stop herself. And when she found him—standing across the room, his gaze locked onto her—it was as though the air itself had thickened.

His stare was unreadable, dark... assessing. A slow heat coiled in her stomach, unexpected and disarming. She swallowed as his gaze flickered—just briefly—to the expanse of skin left bare by her gown. A wave of pure excitement sent her heart into a wild staccato. As if to shield herself, she raised her hand to her décolletage, fingertips grazing the diamond necklace Lady Elizabeth had lent her. It was a foolishly transparent move. The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, as if he knew precisely what she was doing. Grace turned sharply, the heat in her cheeks burning brighter. She wanted to flee upstairs.

Instead, she settled for trying to ignore his gaze, forcing a smile onto her face as she joined the family to greet the guests. However, the Duke’s expression grew more brooding by the minute. Despite standing next to him for half an hour, he never once spoke to her.

Her irritation grew into indignation. Why should she be bothered by his silence? She would enjoy the evening, she decided. She would not let his rudeness ruin her mood.

She was pleased to see Heather enjoying herself. Her sister’s dance card filled within half an hour, and the evening proceeded smoothly—until Charles arrived with a group of his ‘friends’. He did not recognise Grace at first, staring at her in disbelief.

‘C-c-cousin Grace!’ he stammered, blinking as if she were an apparition. ‘Why...You look so altered. I hardly recognised you.’

Heather could not suppress a giggle, which Grace hastily hushed.

‘I did not realise you were in London. What brings you here?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I am here to chaperone Heather. She is under Lord Armitage’s sponsorship,’ Grace replied, watching with satisfaction as Charles’s face twisted in displeasure.

‘I wonder what favours you...’ he trailed off, suddenly paling. ‘Your Grace,’ he murmured, dropping into a low bow.

‘I hope, for your sake, you were not disrespecting my guests, Mr Skye,’ the Duke drawled as he now stood behind Grace.

‘Dis—dis—’ Charles stammered, his face awash with sweat. ‘No, no, Your Grace, of course not. I would never dream of it,’ he blurted, sinking into another exaggerated bow.

‘I have heard of your treatment of your cousins,’ the Duke continued, his voice low and chilling. ‘You should be ashamed, sir. I dare say you will regret your actions. The Skye sisters are under the care of the house of Armitage. Keep away from them unless you wish to answer to me. From now on, you will show them the utmost respect. Do I make myself clear?’

Charles did not need to be told twice.

‘I sent you a letter asking you a question, cousin,’ Grace added smoothly, watching as Charles squirmed under her scrutiny.

‘Letter? I do not recall...’ he lied but quickly retracted his statement when the Duke stepped closer.

‘Oh, that letter!’ He chuckled nervously, eyes darting around the room. ‘I had no idea you wanted it for the new owner of Skye. If you had mentioned that, I would have told you.’

‘It was Lord Edward I corresponded with regarding the property’s sale,’ he admitted hastily. ‘I even recommended Gibbs to him... It is unfortunate that I was so misled by his character.’ He turned, almost pleadingly, to the Duke.

Grace’s gaze flicked towards the Duke, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met. There it was. Confirmation.

Lord Edward was the mastermind behind the smuggling operation. However, it did not yet prove—beyond doubt—that he was the murderer.

Grace was certain he had to be, but certainty was not enough. She needed undeniable proof.

And to find it, she was determined to uncover the true owner of that pocket watch.

‘Had I known, I would never have suggested him,’ Charles stammered. ‘But, of course, I expected Lord Edward to conduct proper due diligence before...’ He trailed off awkwardly.

‘If you will excuse me, Your Grace, my friends are beckoning.’ He bowed repeatedly, backing away awkwardly until he bumped into a matron and had to bow again, floundering in a flurry of apologies.

Grace suppressed a chuckle, but when her eyes met the Duke’s and she saw the amusement in them, they both broke into a shared mirth.

At that moment, Lady Elizabeth approached, raising an eyebrow at her brother as she introduced Captain Kirkham—a plain man though the silver at his temples, lent him a distinguished air. To Grace’s surprise, he seemed particularly eager to make her acquaintance.

Before she knew it, he had secured the first dance with her.

Flattered, as she had not expected to dance at all, Grace was soon caught up in a whirl of gentlemen seeking introductions. Within moments, her dance card was full.

She enjoyed her dance with Captain Kirkham. He was humorous and charming, making her laugh more than once. A widower with two young children, Grace found herself genuinely liking him.

Yet, despite the joy of dancing, she could not ignore the Duke glowering at her from across the room. She tried her best to ignore him.

However, the evening took another unfortunate turn when Lord Edward, no doubt by design, claimed the supper dance. Grace found herself forced to endure his company during the meal. Though she kept her composure, she felt uneasy in his presence.

Relieved to part ways with him after supper, she sought out her next partner. But the evening quickly turned sour.

One by one, her dance partners made sudden excuses to leave early due to ‘emergencies.’

At first, Grace thought nothing of it. But when the third partner did the same, a cold dread crept in.

She scanned the room, catching ladies whispering behind their fans. Were they speaking about her?

Feeling suddenly exposed, she checked on Heather, relieved to see her sister smiling. Meanwhile, Mrs Merriweather was deep in conversation with a group of matrons, and Lady Elizabeth stood by the chaperone chairs, unaware of Grace’s distress.

A suffocating sense of unease settled in her chest.

In need of air, she stepped onto the terrace, hoping for a moment of privacy.

She did not realise that Lord Edward had followed her.

‘Miss Skye,’ he said smoothly, his voice laced with amusement, ‘it seems as though you are trying to avoid me. But I am not one to be easily deterred by a little feminine coyness.’

Her stomach twisted in trepidation.

She forced a weak smile. ‘I was feeling a little stifled and came here for air, but I am ready to return inside now.’

She stepped towards the doors.

Lord Edward blocked her path.

‘I have been trying to get you alone for some time,’ he continued, his voice darkening.

A rapid, heavy thud echoed inside her chest.

‘But now that I have you...’

Without warning, he dropped to one knee.

Her breath caught in her throat.

‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

For a moment, time stopped.

This man—this man, suspected of so many dark deeds—was asking for her hand in marriage.

Grace felt both horrified and terrified.

Grace’s stomach twisted in revulsion. She most definitely did not want to marry him. But she also knew that a refusal could bring consequences.

She had to tread carefully.

With a calm she did not feel, she spoke. ‘I am honoured by your proposal, my Lord, and perhaps, were I a younger maid, I might have accepted.’

Edward’s eyes gleamed in triumph.

But she was not finished.

‘However,’ she continued, her voice steady, ‘being a spinster, I no longer desire marriage. I am set in my ways and would not make a suitable wife.’

She took a slow step back. ‘Therefore, with regret, I must decline.’

For the briefest moment, his expression darkened—flashes of anger, of something cruel.

Then, just as quickly, he schooled his features into a forced, charming smile.

‘I am sure I can change your mind,’ he insisted smoothly, rising to his feet. Before she could pull away, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss upon it.

A creeping shudder rolled over her.

‘I do not think I shall change my mind, my Lord,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘You are better off not wasting your time on me.’

His fingers lingered before he released her hand, his eyes gleaming with a quiet determination that unsettled her.

‘I shall devote my time to you, Miss Skye. And court you in earnest.’ His tone was light, but his intent was unwavering. ‘I shall not give up.’ Grace’s eyes widened; it seemed like a threat.

Vexed she could not do more to dissuade him, Grace curtsied stiffly and turned away, feeling his gaze burning into her back. Eventually, he left.

She had escaped—for now. Her knuckles turned white as she grasped the railing.

She barely had time to collect herself before Charles reappeared.

His expression was no longer the nervous, bumbling cousin.

Now, he was the Charles she had always known—the one who took pleasure in cruelty.

‘My, my, cousin, it seems you have done quite well for yourself with the Duke,’ Charles sneered, his tone dripping with malice. ‘Tell me, what has he offered you—aside from Heather’s come-out—that you would agree to such a degrading position? I never imagined you would stoop so low as to become his mistress.’

His words struck like a slap, sharp and wounding. Grace reeled, but she refused to let him see her falter. Tears threatened to rise, but she willed them back, her chin lifting in defiance.

‘Only a mind as foul as yours would think such a thing,’ she countered, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. ‘The Duke is helping us because he is an honourable man—something you, our only male relative, failed to be when you so readily shirked your responsibilities.’

Charles let out a dark chuckle, clearly enjoying her distress. ‘Well then, explain this, cousin—why does the Duke prevent other gentlemen from dancing with you?’ His gaze flicked over her mockingly. ‘You must have him wrapped around your little finger if he is so besotted that he frightens off other suitors.’

Grace straightened. ‘You are mistaken, Charles. The Duke is a gentleman, and his intentions towards me—and towards Heather—have always been, and will always be, honourable. He has never spoken to me improperly, nor treated me with anything less than respect.’

Charles scoffed. ‘You should be ashamed of your na?vety, cousin.’ His voice dripped with contempt. ‘You’ve ruined your chances of an honourable marriage. No man does anything purely out of the goodness of his heart, and believe me, the Duke will soon offer you a position as his mistress—if he has not already. Marriage is out of the question for someone like you. He can only wed within the peerage. Unless, of course, he seeks the Prince Regent’s permission, but we both know that will never happen for the likes of you.’

With a final sneer, he turned and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving Grace standing alone on the terrace, shaken.

The cool night air brushed against her skin, but it did little to soothe the sting of his words. She longed for the quiet of Skye Manor—for the safety of home.

TEARS WELLED IN HER eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Then, unexpectedly, the sound of a throat clearing startled her. She turned to find the Duke leaning against the doorway, his intense gaze fixed upon her. Slowly, he approached, his eyes never leaving hers. It felt as though he could see right through her, piercing into her very soul. A tumult of emotions swirled within her—he was so close, she could reach out and touch him, yet it felt as though an insurmountable chasm lay between them.

He lowered his voice. ‘I would be honoured if you would join me for the next dance,’ he murmured, extending his hand.

Grace hesitated only a moment before taking it, allowing him to lead her back to the ballroom for the waltz.

As they danced, the world melted away.

Her feet barely touched the ground, his hold firm and guiding, making her feel weightless.

His hands rested a fraction lower than convention dictated, sending a wicked thrill dancing through her veins.

When he pulled her closer, a fire lit in her body, her pulse surging as she embraced the ecstasy of intimacy.

She could have stayed in that moment forever.

But all too soon, the music slowed.

The spell was broken as he released her.

‘You look flushed, Miss Skye. Perhaps a little air would do you good,’ he remarked. Without waiting for a response, he guided her through the crowd towards the veranda. Grace did not resist. She had no strength left to resist anything.

The night air was crisp, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the ballroom. A few couples strolled through the lamp-lit gardens, their murmured voices blending with the distant strains of music. The Duke led her down the steps towards a charming fountain, enclosed by shrubs. Isolated from the crowd, a whirlwind of questions swirled in her mind, too fast to grasp. She needed to know where she stood. Was she simply a friend, or did she mean something more to him?

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said, the cold air emboldening her. She could not bear another night of uncertainty. Even if he rejected her, it would be better than not knowing.

His gaze sharpened. ‘Ask.’

She looked up, meeting his steely gaze. Doubt flickered through her, but she forced herself to continue. ‘I... I wanted to ask you about that kiss.’ She spoke quickly, before she could lose her courage. ‘Did it mean anything to you?’

A shadow crossed his face—annoyance, frustration? He exhaled heavily. ‘I wish you had not asked me that right now, Miss Skye.’ His voice was measured, careful. ‘I fear you will not like my answer.’

Her breath caught. A sinking feeling began to take hold. ‘I must know.’ That was all she could manage to say.

A flicker of pain crossed his features, and he hesitated ‘I should never have...’ He paused a long while, looking over her head, into the dark night. Then all of a sudden his expression turned cold, stone cold, ‘It was a mistake. I regret that moment. I apologise for stepping beyond the bounds of propriety. It was unintentional... and for that, I am sorry.’

Silence.

‘Oh.’ It was barely a whisper.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked rapidly, forcing them back. She would not cry in front of him. Not over this.

‘There are rumours,’ she said, her voice steadier than she felt. ‘Rumours that you have been preventing other men from dancing with me. Why?’

His shoulders tensed. He raked a hand through his hair, he appeared troubled, even frustrated. When he spoke, his voice was clipped, and defensive. ‘I... I... They were not worthy of you.’

She let out a bitter laugh. ‘Not worthy? So you do not want me for yourself, but you do not want anyone else to have me either?’ Her voice turned sharp, dripping with sarcasm. ‘Because of your behaviour tonight, there are whispers that I am your mistress. Do you have any idea what you have done to my reputation?’

He clenched his jaw. Anger flickered across his features, or regret perhaps, but then again, his expression changed. His eyes turned calculating, his posture shifting into something more... predatory.

He tilted his head, scrutinising her. ‘I cannot deny that I have thought of it many times,’ he admitted, his voice low. He reached out, twisting a loose curl around his finger, sending a shiver through her at his touch. ‘It is true—I am attracted to you,’ he said, utterly unapologetic. ‘But I cannot offer you marriage. Society dictates I must marry within the peerage.’

Grace stiffened.

‘If you became my mistress...’ He paused, his gaze sweeping over her. ‘Perhaps we could have the best of both worlds. I would keep you and your family comfortable, protected, in the lap of luxury. In return...’ His lips curled slightly. His finger traced down her arm, burning her skin. ‘I would have you.’

She gasped, stepping back in disbelief.

His eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he stepped forward and caught her in an embrace. His breath was warm against her skin as he leaned in, slowly closing the distance between them.

Her heart pounded. Everything about him overwhelmed her—the scent of spice and cedar, the heat of his body, the devastating intensity of his gaze. She wanted to give in, to let him kiss her, to lose herself in the moment.

But the offer—his offer—was an insult.

How could she live with herself, knowing she had traded dignity for desire? That she had sold her soul for fleeting pleasure?

He would tire of her, eventually. Mistresses never lasted. And then, what would she have left? Censor and ridicule.

And what if I became pregnant?

She thought of Heather. How could she face her sister, knowing she had thrown away her reputation? How could Heather ever find a respectable match if Grace... became this?

It took every ounce of strength. She shoved him—hard.

And again.

‘How dare you!’ she spat, each push more forceful than the last.

‘How could you say this to me? How could you even think it?!’

She was furious. At him for his insult. At herself for almost giving in. At this cruel world that demanded she be grateful for such an indecent proposal.

‘I will not be your plaything!’

She pushed him a third time, but he caught her wrists, holding her fast. Her struggle was in vain. His grip was firm, unyielding.

‘Let go of me!’ she cried, her vision blurring with tears.

His jaw tightened. He held on.

Then, something in his expression shifted.

A flicker of... regret?

Of guilt?

Slowly, his hands loosened.

And then, just like that, he released her.

Stepping back, his face became unreadable—cold, detached.

‘I am sorry for any pain caused,’ he said, his voice utterly void of emotion.

‘I hope you can forgive me.’

The words sounded rehearsed. Hollow.

Like he had already accepted her rejection.

But his next words...

His next words nearly shattered her.

‘It was a moment of weakness on my part,’ he said smoothly. ‘I should never have disrespected you like this.’

Disrespected. His emotionless words cut deeper than the proposal itself.

All those stolen glances, the lingering touches, the quiet, unspoken tenderness—they had all been a lie. A mirage.

She had misjudged him completely and utterly. How could she have been so blind, so foolish?

Her lips parted, but she found herself without words.

His words were a blade to her chest.

‘I will never speak this way to you again.’ He said as he straightened his coat, his expression completely impassive.

‘Let us forget this conversation and return to the ballroom.’

Forget?

He wanted to forget this conversation?

Forget that he had insulted her in the worst way?

Forget that he had stolen every fragile hope she had once held for him?

No.

No, she would not forget.

Her throat tightened painfully.

Her hands shook at her sides, but she forced herself to lift her chin.

‘I thank you for the clarification, Your Grace,’ she said, her voice disturbingly hollow.

‘I now know exactly where I stand.’

He gave a small, polite nod. As if nothing had happened.

As if she meant nothing.

She curtsied stiffly.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

Through the ballroom. Up the grand staircase. Down the darkened halls.

By the time she reached her chamber, her composure shattered completely.

With a choked sob, she threw herself onto the bed.

And wept.

She wept for what could have been.

For the tender moments she had believed were real.

For the foolish, naive girl who had dared to hope.

It had all been an illusion.

The Duke—Gabriel—Mr Stone.

He was not the man she had believed him to be.

He was cold. Calculating. He had toyed with her affections to amuse himself.

And she?

She had been pathetic enough to fall for it.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, a knock sounded.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

Her breath hitched.

She knew who it was.

She lay still, her face buried in the pillow.

The knock came again—gentle, insistent.

Still, she did not move.

She would not open the door.

She had nothing left to say to him.

After a long silence, the footsteps faded.

And for the first time in a long while, Grace allowed herself to break.