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Authors: Michele Paige Holmes
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expression.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Grace pressed, reaching her hand out to touch Miranda’s. Outside, she heard the step being pulled down. “Was Mr. Preston forced into it for owing Father money?”
“It’s not my place to gossip.”
“Nonsense,” Grace said. “That’s exactly your place. It’s what we’ve come to do, so practice right now. Tell me what you know — quickly .” She grabbed the door handle and held it fast.
“I don’t normally listen in on conversations, you understand,” Miranda began. “But this one happened outside, and I was around the corner of the house —”
“Who was talking?” Grace asked, trying to hurry the story along.
“Why, Mr. Preston and your father, of course,” Miranda said. “Who else do you think I overheard?”
“No one.” Grace waved her gloved hand, urging her to finish.
“Mr. Preston had come to see your father. He’d heard it said that you were to be coming out of mourning early and were looking for a husband.”
“ Father was looking,” Grace muttered. She didn’t know why she was worried about ruining her reputation. Her father had likely already done a fine job of it. Coming out of mourning early had been scandalous enough, but to advertise so blatantly that he intended for her to marry — The door rattled, and the handle jiggled beneath Grace’s hand. “Do go on,” she pled.
“Mr. Preston requested you as his guest,” Miranda whispered. “He told your father that he knew you from previous acquaintance with the duke. He sought you —”
Another tug on the door saw it opened this time. Grace withdrew her hand to her lap, waiting until a footman had extended his and offered assistance. Sending a fleeting glance Miranda’s way — Here we go — Grace stepped from the carriage.
“Miss Thatcher.” A man in a butler’s uniform bent low before her. “We were not expecting you until tomorrow, and I am afraid Mr. Preston is away this morning.”
“My apologies for our early arrival,” Grace said in her most refined voice. “We encountered some difficulties en route and thought it better to impose upon your hospitality an extra day rather than remain at our previous lodging.”
“You are most welcome here,” the butler said. “I am Mr. Goyle, and this is Mrs. Telford. She will acquaint you with the house and all that you need.”
“Would you care to join our other guests in the breakfast room?” Mrs. Telford asked.
“Thank you,” Grace said. “But I fear I am still somewhat overwrought from — our travels.” From the corner of her eye, she caught Harrison exchanging a covert glance with the servant he’d been speaking to.
So it has started already. No turning back now. Grace felt suddenly ill.
“May I beg leave to rest in my room?” she asked Mrs. Telford. “I’m afraid I did not sleep well last night.”
“Of course. Come this way. We’ll have your things brought up directly.” Grace followed the woman into the mansion, which was modern on many counts compared to Lord Sutherland’s. The floors gleamed, and the light-colored curtains were thrown back, flooding the space with sunshine. Yellow roses, likely from the hedge outside, overflowed from vases on almost every surface. Their scent was sweet and pleasant. A more welcoming room Grace could not imagine.
You are not here to enjoy any of this, she reminded herself. She went through the motions, taking care to hold her gown and walk with poise as they crossed a large hall, ascended a long flight of carpeted stairs, and passed through a corridor lined with paintings. She nodded and thanked Mrs. Telford at all the right moments, then practically sagged against the door in relief when it was closed and she was alone.
Not wanting to wait for Miranda, and especially not wishing to allow her mind the time to think on what was already being said about her in the servants’ quarters below, Grace left the door in favor of the inviting bed on the far side
“What aren’t you telling me?” Grace pressed, reaching her hand out to touch Miranda’s. Outside, she heard the step being pulled down. “Was Mr. Preston forced into it for owing Father money?”
“It’s not my place to gossip.”
“Nonsense,” Grace said. “That’s exactly your place. It’s what we’ve come to do, so practice right now. Tell me what you know — quickly .” She grabbed the door handle and held it fast.
“I don’t normally listen in on conversations, you understand,” Miranda began. “But this one happened outside, and I was around the corner of the house —”
“Who was talking?” Grace asked, trying to hurry the story along.
“Why, Mr. Preston and your father, of course,” Miranda said. “Who else do you think I overheard?”
“No one.” Grace waved her gloved hand, urging her to finish.
“Mr. Preston had come to see your father. He’d heard it said that you were to be coming out of mourning early and were looking for a husband.”
“ Father was looking,” Grace muttered. She didn’t know why she was worried about ruining her reputation. Her father had likely already done a fine job of it. Coming out of mourning early had been scandalous enough, but to advertise so blatantly that he intended for her to marry — The door rattled, and the handle jiggled beneath Grace’s hand. “Do go on,” she pled.
“Mr. Preston requested you as his guest,” Miranda whispered. “He told your father that he knew you from previous acquaintance with the duke. He sought you —”
Another tug on the door saw it opened this time. Grace withdrew her hand to her lap, waiting until a footman had extended his and offered assistance. Sending a fleeting glance Miranda’s way — Here we go — Grace stepped from the carriage.
“Miss Thatcher.” A man in a butler’s uniform bent low before her. “We were not expecting you until tomorrow, and I am afraid Mr. Preston is away this morning.”
“My apologies for our early arrival,” Grace said in her most refined voice. “We encountered some difficulties en route and thought it better to impose upon your hospitality an extra day rather than remain at our previous lodging.”
“You are most welcome here,” the butler said. “I am Mr. Goyle, and this is Mrs. Telford. She will acquaint you with the house and all that you need.”
“Would you care to join our other guests in the breakfast room?” Mrs. Telford asked.
“Thank you,” Grace said. “But I fear I am still somewhat overwrought from — our travels.” From the corner of her eye, she caught Harrison exchanging a covert glance with the servant he’d been speaking to.
So it has started already. No turning back now. Grace felt suddenly ill.
“May I beg leave to rest in my room?” she asked Mrs. Telford. “I’m afraid I did not sleep well last night.”
“Of course. Come this way. We’ll have your things brought up directly.” Grace followed the woman into the mansion, which was modern on many counts compared to Lord Sutherland’s. The floors gleamed, and the light-colored curtains were thrown back, flooding the space with sunshine. Yellow roses, likely from the hedge outside, overflowed from vases on almost every surface. Their scent was sweet and pleasant. A more welcoming room Grace could not imagine.
You are not here to enjoy any of this, she reminded herself. She went through the motions, taking care to hold her gown and walk with poise as they crossed a large hall, ascended a long flight of carpeted stairs, and passed through a corridor lined with paintings. She nodded and thanked Mrs. Telford at all the right moments, then practically sagged against the door in relief when it was closed and she was alone.
Not wanting to wait for Miranda, and especially not wishing to allow her mind the time to think on what was already being said about her in the servants’ quarters below, Grace left the door in favor of the inviting bed on the far side
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