Vere spoke quickly. “No need to inconvenience yourself, sir. My cousin was on her way to take up residence at the vicarage when this unfortunate incident occurred.”
“I can protect her better here. My two aunts occupy the tower suites so there’s no impropriety about my bereaved goddaughter staying. John Lansdowne will quail at snatching you from a ducal residence. Should he even think to look here. He seeks Grace Paget, indigent widow, not Lady Grace Elizabeth Marlow, only daughter of the Earl of Wyndhurst.”
She hadn’t heard her real name in years. It seemed unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else. Lady Grace Marlow seemed an altogether more refined creature than practical Grace Paget who kept her sheep run and nursed her husband through the indignities of his final illness.
Vere bowed. “I’m sure my cousin appreciates your kindness.”
Kermonde had spoken his will and it would be done, much as God’s was. On the Kermonde estate, God and the duke were interchangeable.
Her godfather ignored Vere and surveyed her with a frown of displeasure. “We’ll have to do something about your clothes.”
She flushed with chagrin. “There’s no need to treat me as a charity case. Nobody will see me.”
“It won’t do, Grace. It just won’t do. That rag isn’t fit for a dish clout. Good God, my scullery maids dress better. You’ll be the laughingstock of the servants’ hall.”
“I’m in mourning,” she protested, feeling like the greatest hypocrite who ever lived. Only two days ago, she’d rested naked and satisfied in Matthew Lansdowne’s arms.
“Order a few black dresses if you must, but make sure you buy some pretty ones too. Sounds to me like you’ve paid penance the last nine years. About time you regained your place in the world, girl.”
She couldn’t argue, not while he was being so kind. Not while with him on her side, she might save Matthew.
When she didn’t speak, Kermonde gave a hmph of approval. “Fetch your belongings from the vicarage. We’ll dine at seven. Marlow, bring that wife of yours.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Vere said with another bow. “Mrs. Marlow will be honored.”
The duke turned to Grace. “Tomorrow I’m for London. Keep your head down, young lady. Newly widowed. Makes sense you want time to yourself. I’ll tell the aunts to leave you be. Those two can talk the leg off a chair if you encourage them.”
Grace vaguely remembered the aunts from her last visit. They’d squabbled through the afternoon, paying no attention to anything except the sweets table and what the other did wrong.
Grace dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, Uncle Francis. I can never repay you, but you have my undying gratitude.”
Her worldly godfather looked uncomfortable. “Oh, tosh, girl. Always wondered what happened to you. If your father wasn’t so stiff-rumped, he’d have handled you better and you’d have made a marriage befitting your station. I’d be dandling your babies on my knee now instead of rescuing your young man from this confounded mess he’s tangled up in.”
“He’s not…” She fell silent as the duke cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. Clearly, nothing—nothing—in her story had escaped Uncle Francis. She suddenly remembered he was known as the terror of the House of Lords.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” she said sheepishly and allowed Vere to lead her out of the library.
Chapter 26
After a fortnight, Grace was frantic with worry about Matthew. When he’d presented his plan as a fait accompli, she hadn’t realized how lack of news would wear her nerves.
Had he recovered from his self-induced illness? Was he even alive? Had his uncle punished him for what he must immediately recognize as a well-organized plot? Lord John had beaten and tortured his captive before. The scars on Matthew’s beautiful body bore mute testimony to that.
Was Lord John searching for her? Matthew’s uncle wouldn’t give up easily. Especially to ensure his safety and reputation. While Grace was at liberty, both were at risk.
Did Matthew yearn for her the way she yearned for him? Or was he in too much pain? Had the herbs triggered his madness?
That was her worst fear. He’d clawed his way back to sanity through will alone. She couldn’t bear to think he might lose his mind again. Perhaps forever.
In the silken luxury of her bedchamber, she cried herself to sleep every night. She was so lonely for Matthew, she felt she’d die.
What if she never saw him again? What if all she did now came to nothing?
By day, it was easier to cling to optimism. Wolfram offered undemanding company and a link to her lover. But at night, as she lay watching the moon cross the sky, then dawn rise from the east, it was harder to hope. Lord John was clever and ruthless. The outcome of her battle was far from assured.
It was almost worse when sheer exhaustion plunged her into a restless doze. Dreams of Matthew tormented her. Dreams of him abused and starved. Dreams where he looked at her with the same cold gaze he’d leveled on her when she first arrived on the estate. Dreams where he reviled her for deserting him.
Even worse were the dreams where he made love to her. His touch was so real. His powerful body thundered into hers or took her tenderly and slowly. The rapture rose and rose inside her.