more to the letter, mostly having to do with how deliriously happy Honor was with Mr. Easton, and how Grace might hear some talk of what happened in a gaming hell in Southwark, but that Honor would prefer to explain it in person, as it was far too complicated to write.
Grace hardly cared what Honor had done, or that she was penniless and happy about it. Had Grace known a fortnight ago that scandal had touched the Cabots and there was no hope of saving them from it, she never would have put her own foolish plan into motion.
To think Honor might have spared her this fate. “Oh!” Grace cried, and kicked the bench across from her.
That did not help at all. And it seemed she had injured her toe.
THE CARRIAGE BEGAN to slow, and Grace leaned forward, looking out the small window. They’d come to a plain building, but up the road, she could see a small chapel next to a field where sheep grazed. When the carriage came to a halt, the Brumley footman opened the door and held up his hand to assist Grace.
She stepped out and looked around. “What place is this?” she asked, peering up at the building.
“Office of the magistrate, miss,” he said, and shut the carriage door.
The door of the building swung open, and a portly gentleman stepped outside. “This way, if you please,” he said, gesturing to Grace.
Grace slipped Honor’s letter into her reticule, picked up her skirts and walked up the uneven path to the door. The gentleman showed her into a small dark office and gestured to a wooden bench against the wall. “If you would, miss. Someone will be along to collect you when the time has come.”
“What is—”
He’d already shut the door.
Grace looked around the room and sat reluctantly. A few minutes later, she was startled to her feet when the door swung open.
Merryton stepped through the door. He seemed surprised to see her; he was still wearing his cloak—as was she—and boots muddied from his ride. She wondered where he had come from.
His green eyes scraped down her body and up again. A shiver ran through Grace; she thought of that darkened tea shop, the feel of his body hard against hers, his lips soft but demanding. She looked down, uncertain what to do in this situation, and afraid he would somehow read the memory in her face.
Why did he not speak?
She couldn’t bear the silence and lifted her gaze.
The man whom she had dishonored was staring at her, his gaze dark and devouring. She didn’t understand it completely, but she felt the intensity of it, and her hand fluttered self-consciously to her neck.
He clasped his hands behind his back. But he did not speak.
“My name is Grace,” she said, her voice sounding too loud in this room. “Grace Cabot.” The moment the words came out of her mouth, she realized how absurd she must sound. As if he’d not gone to the trouble to find out who, precisely, he was marrying. But whatever Merryton thought, she would not be allowed to know. His expression did not change.
Grace’s heart began to pound in her chest. She suddenly imagined him taking her in hand, taking her on the small, cluttered desk. Isn’t that what his gaze meant? “I, ah, I realize we’ve not been properly introduced.” She nervously cleared her throat. “I wish I knew how to...to adequately express my deepest apology,” she said with an uncertain gesture.
One of his dark brows arched slightly above the other, which she assumed meant he found her effort to apologize lacking.
“I can’t begin to apologize enough, my lord,” she quickly amended, trying to convey the depth of her regret. “But I am truly and deeply sorry for what I have done.”
Still, he did not speak. He had piercing, all-seeing eyes, and she wondered if he could sense how uncomfortable, how uncertain, she was. She didn’t want him to see it—she knew instinctively that to show this man any weakness would be like dangling meat before a lion. So she tried to smile a little. “So...here we are.” She nervously shifted up onto her toes and down again. “What shall I call you?”
He almost looked surprised by the question. “My lord,” he said, as if that were perfectly obvious. “Excuse me.” He turned around, his cloak swirling behind him, and walked out of the small room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Leaving Grace alone in that small dark office, staring at the place he’d just stood.
She snatched in a deep breath she hadn’t even realized she needed until that moment, and sank heavily onto the wooden bench. “My lord?” she repeated to the closed door. “That’s what I’m to call you? My lord?” Would he loathe her always? Would he ever speak?
Her mind raced alongside her heart for the next several minutes. Or hours—who knew? It seemed an interminably long wait, and she did not move from that bench. Her limbs ached, her head ached more. She wished someone had opened the blinds and given the room a bit more light, but it was as bleak and as dark as her mood. She did not feel at liberty to open them herself.
Occasionally, Grace would smooth out Honor’s letter from its crumpled state and read it again, but her sister’s words filled her with an overwhelming desire to stab a pen into the hard wood of the desk before her, or kick it with both feet until it broke in two. How different this day would have been had she known! How different her life would have been had Honor written her sooner!
Grace almost sobbed out loud with relief when the door swung open, and Merryton stepped inside. He stood just at the door, one fist clenched at his side, lightly tapping against the jamb. One two three four five six seven eight. He dropped his hand. “It is time, Miss Cabot,” he said simply.
“Well. Here it is, then,” she said, resigned. In the time it took her to stand, the life Grace had known flashed before her. A privileged childhood, three sisters whom she loved more than anything else. An elegant, sophisticated mother. A life at the brilliant center of London’s highest society.
Merryton, she noticed, tapped the jamb again, eight times.
Grace shoved Honor’s letter into her reticule. She tried to avoid his fierce green eyes. His jaw was clenched, his expression cold. The feeling was mutual, she supposed, and swallowed down the lump of trepidation that was choking her.
Merryton glanced at a small mantel clock. “Come now.” He spoke as if she were a servant.
“I’m coming as quickly as I can force myself.”
“It would behoove you to force yourself a bit faster.”
She could scarcely look at him as she moved past him, taking care not to brush his clothing with hers as she did. She stepped out and winced when she heard the door shut resoundingly behind her. She clasped her hands tightly before her and walked beside him, aware of his physical presence so much bigger and powerful than she.
Another shiver raced through her, and honestly, Grace could not say if it was a shiver of fear, of revulsion or, if she were perfectly honest with herself, of titillation. As heartsick as she was about this wedding,
