cooled he would realize she could not marry but would be more content single. Surely he would realize their home, Warren Abbey, needed a mistress to run it. That he needed her to be a comfort to him in his old age. He would let her stay here.
Surely he would.
Grace lifted her head at the soft knock at the door and inhaled a deep breath.
“Your father wants you to come to his study, my lady.”
Grace looked at the serious expression on the maid’s face and repressed a shudder. “Thank you, Esther.”
“Baron Fentington is with him.”
Grace steeled her resolve, then walked out the door with the same numbness as a prisoner going to the gallows. She braced her shoulders, taking each step with resolute determination. She would not give in on this. She would not let him force her into marriage. Not to Fentington. Not to anyone so reprehensible.
She made her way across the tiled foyer, suddenly feeling very sure of herself even though her stomach churned as if a hundred swirling whirlpools were rushing in opposite directions. She reached out her trembling hand and opened the door.
Her father, the Earl of Portsmont, stood behind his desk, waiting for her. His eyes were glazed with such fury that for the first time in her life she was afraid of him. Baron Fentington stood at the window with his back to her.
“Papa. Lord Fentington.”
Neither spoke. Her father remained silent, as if his temper wouldn’t allow him to utter any words. Fentington refused to acknowledge her presence, as if turning to greet her was so reprehensible he wouldn’t soil his tongue by uttering such blasphemy.
“Come here,” her father demanded, stepping out from behind his dark oak desk. He looked as angry as she could ever recall, as near to murder as she’d ever seen. He kept his hands fisted at his sides as if ready to strike out at something, someone. An angry muscle worked at the sideof his face and he kept his jaw clamped so tightly he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Tell him. Tell Baron Fentington that you lied. Tell him you are still a virgin.”
Grace held her father’s intense scrutiny only a moment before lowering her gaze to the floor.
“Tell him!” he yelled, stepping around the corner of the desk. He grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly shook her.
“I cannot.”
An angry vein stood out at the side of her father’s neck, and for a fleeting moment, Grace felt sorry for him. It wasn’t that she cared overly much for him. No more than he cared for her or for any of his daughters. They’d all been disappointments to him. Seven daughters and not one son. But since she was the only one left, all the disappointment and disdain was aimed at her.
Fentington spun around with a long, accusing finger pointed at her. “See! I told you, Portsmont. I told you your daughter was a Jezebel. A harlot. A whore!”
Before she could protect herself, her father reached out his hand and slapped her across the face.
Grace stumbled across the room and cried out in pain when her hip collided with the sharp corner of his desk. She clutched at the desktop, dazed and in pain, but was thankful she’d managed to stay on her feet.
It was the first time she could remember her father striking any one of them.
Whether it was the shock of his hitting her or the unleashed fury behind his attack, she knew she had created a chasm between them that would never be bridged.
“Come here!” he yelled, clamping his fingers around her upper arm and jerking her toward him. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything!”
Grace pressed her fingers against her stinging cheek and stared at her father. He released her with a shove and stepped over to where Baron Fentington stood. The baron’s face piously looked toward heaven and his lips moved as if reciting a silent prayer.
Her father reached for some papers on his desk and took them to where Fentington stood. “It’s not too late, Fentington. I won’t ask as much for her
Surely he would.
Grace lifted her head at the soft knock at the door and inhaled a deep breath.
“Your father wants you to come to his study, my lady.”
Grace looked at the serious expression on the maid’s face and repressed a shudder. “Thank you, Esther.”
“Baron Fentington is with him.”
Grace steeled her resolve, then walked out the door with the same numbness as a prisoner going to the gallows. She braced her shoulders, taking each step with resolute determination. She would not give in on this. She would not let him force her into marriage. Not to Fentington. Not to anyone so reprehensible.
She made her way across the tiled foyer, suddenly feeling very sure of herself even though her stomach churned as if a hundred swirling whirlpools were rushing in opposite directions. She reached out her trembling hand and opened the door.
Her father, the Earl of Portsmont, stood behind his desk, waiting for her. His eyes were glazed with such fury that for the first time in her life she was afraid of him. Baron Fentington stood at the window with his back to her.
“Papa. Lord Fentington.”
Neither spoke. Her father remained silent, as if his temper wouldn’t allow him to utter any words. Fentington refused to acknowledge her presence, as if turning to greet her was so reprehensible he wouldn’t soil his tongue by uttering such blasphemy.
“Come here,” her father demanded, stepping out from behind his dark oak desk. He looked as angry as she could ever recall, as near to murder as she’d ever seen. He kept his hands fisted at his sides as if ready to strike out at something, someone. An angry muscle worked at the sideof his face and he kept his jaw clamped so tightly he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Tell him. Tell Baron Fentington that you lied. Tell him you are still a virgin.”
Grace held her father’s intense scrutiny only a moment before lowering her gaze to the floor.
“Tell him!” he yelled, stepping around the corner of the desk. He grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly shook her.
“I cannot.”
An angry vein stood out at the side of her father’s neck, and for a fleeting moment, Grace felt sorry for him. It wasn’t that she cared overly much for him. No more than he cared for her or for any of his daughters. They’d all been disappointments to him. Seven daughters and not one son. But since she was the only one left, all the disappointment and disdain was aimed at her.
Fentington spun around with a long, accusing finger pointed at her. “See! I told you, Portsmont. I told you your daughter was a Jezebel. A harlot. A whore!”
Before she could protect herself, her father reached out his hand and slapped her across the face.
Grace stumbled across the room and cried out in pain when her hip collided with the sharp corner of his desk. She clutched at the desktop, dazed and in pain, but was thankful she’d managed to stay on her feet.
It was the first time she could remember her father striking any one of them.
Whether it was the shock of his hitting her or the unleashed fury behind his attack, she knew she had created a chasm between them that would never be bridged.
“Come here!” he yelled, clamping his fingers around her upper arm and jerking her toward him. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything!”
Grace pressed her fingers against her stinging cheek and stared at her father. He released her with a shove and stepped over to where Baron Fentington stood. The baron’s face piously looked toward heaven and his lips moved as if reciting a silent prayer.
Her father reached for some papers on his desk and took them to where Fentington stood. “It’s not too late, Fentington. I won’t ask as much for her
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