"Grace," Cynthia whispered excitedly, making Grace's head jerk up. But Cynthia wasn't holding papers, she was holding out a portrait in miniature, which had been carefully wrapped in paper in the middle drawer of the left side of the desk. "Look! This is you, isn't it?"
It was. A younger her. Grace hadn't realized how much the face in her mirror had changed over the past years. In some ways, she was exactly the same; oval face, creamy skin, bright blue eyes with their extravagant lashes, deep black hair. Looking at this image of her past self, she could see the innocence of youth, the lack of lines around her eyes, and the artist had even managed to capture some of the hope that Grace had always felt when she was younger.
When had Alex had this done? It wasn't a portrait that Grace had ever seen before, and yet it was irrefutably one of her younger self. This wasn't something he'd commissioned recently. So when? And how long had he been carrying it around with him.
Something painful pressed inside of her chest, as if her heart was growing and pushing against her rib cage and lungs, making it hard for her to breathe. What does this mean?
The question echoed inside of her head, so loudly that she didn't even realize Cynthia was talking to her until the other woman shook her.
"Grace? Grace, are you well? You've gone white as a sheet!"
Blinking, her eyes refocusing, Grace looked up at Cynthia's panicked gaze, although that panic immediately lessened as the younger woman realized that Grace was back with her.
"I'm fine," Grace said, although it was a lie. She didn't feel fine. She felt... unsettled. The hope that seemed to never quite die away was blossoming painfully inside of her again, as if the portrait was a spark that had hit some very eager tinder. She hardened herself against that, gathering the hurt that she'd used to build her walls and reminding herself of why he wasn't to be trusted.
But there were cracks in her defenses. That bright, shining hope leaked through, tempting her. Why did her husband have to be so bloody confusing?!
Looking slightly worried, Cynthia took the portrait back and carefully wrapped it back up in the paper, the exact way it had been before. Grace couldn't help the little smile when she realized how very good her friend was at making it appear as if the drawer she'd just rifled through was untouched. No one, looking at the portrait's carefully wrapped package, would realize that they'd opened it. Cynthia was quite practiced at snooping, it appeared.
It was in the final drawer on her side that Grace found her prize. Packets of letters, all from business, and one from her father. This was what she had been looking for. Saving her father's for last, she skimmed through the other packets, quickly confirming that none of them had anything to do with Alex's marital status. The hope pulsing outside of the fortress around her heart felt as though it was pressing inwards as one by one, each packet was set aside without any evidence to condemn Alex. Without revealing some ulterior motive or purpose for their reconciliation.
But she didn't allow herself to crumble. After all, she still had the packet of letters from her father to go through. Who knew what her father and her husband had discussed during the years she and Alex had been estranged. She certainly hadn't spoken with her father in all that time.
As she peeked back at the bottom of the stack, to the earliest letters, and work her way to the front, it quickly became clear why.
Alex had kept every single letter from her father, from the approving ones when they had first been married, to the ones which became almost threatening in tone when she left Alex. Her father had demanded that Alex get her "under control," or he would do it himself. The very next letter following that one had been filled with frustrated fury and confusion that Alex not only refused to give in to her father's demands, but that he, in turn, ordered her father to stay away from her.
Each letter was successively angrier, although it was obvious from the rest of their correspondence that the business deal they had made was making them both quite a bit of money. From the tone of her father's letters, it appeared he became resigned to the fact that Alex wasn't going to curb her behavior or allow her father to either. He called Alex a fool and worse, but bowed to his dictates. Apparently, her father had needed Alex far more than Alex had needed her father.
Chewing her lower lip, Grace's mind raced as she flipped through each piece of correspondence, wishing that she could read Alex's letters to her father. What had he said that had convinced her father to leave her alone? Why had he been protecting her?
Her father even said that if Alex divorced her, he would continue business with Alex as usual. That didn't surprise Grace at all, what did surprise Grace was that Alex hadn't taken her father up on that offer. It had been made almost two years ago. During all this time, she had assumed that her father had at least something to do with the fact that Alex had continued to pay the bills that she sent to him. She'd thought something in the agreement he'd made with her father required him to, that her father must have put something in the marriage contract about Alex keeping her in the proper style. After all, her father cared more about appearances and money than anything else.
She'd been wrong. Her father hadn't even cared that much about her.
Why?
The question pounded at her head. Why had Alex protected her from her father's wrath? Why had Alex paid for her dresses and food and houses when she'd been estranged from him and taking lovers? Why had Alex decided that he wanted to reconcile when it would have been so much easier for him to divorce her and take another wife? Even easier than she had supposed, as her father obviously wouldn't have put up any kind of fight, not even for the sake of appearances.
Apparently she had become enough of an embarrassment that her father was ready to pretend she wasn't his daughter, but not enough for Alex to abandon her as his wife.
Why? Why? WHY?
Beside her, oblivious to her turmoil, Cynthia's head snapped up and she let out a soft little shriek. "Someone's home... Blast! Quick! Put everything back!"
Fear coursed through Grace, horror overtaking her, and she shoved the packets of letters back into Alex's desk drawer. If – when - he opened the drawer, it would be obvious that someone had gone through it, but that couldn't be helped now. The fast, heavy tread of masculine steps was getting closer, ominous and otherwise silent. More than one pair of boots, too.
Next to her, Cynthia was jumping to her feet, frantically brushing out her skirts to hide the evidence that she'd been sitting beside the desk. Grace followed suit. She took two steps for the door and then stopped. The heavy tread was already coming down the hall and there was only one way out of this room. It wouldn't matter if she stepped out; if Alex was home, he already knew where they were. The light in the room would have been visible from the street.
"Blast and damnation, what the devil is he doing home so early?" Cynthia muttered, just before the door swung open and slammed into the wall. Grace winced at the crashing noise, and then took a step back as she looked up to meet her husband's furious eyes. Right behind him was the Earl of Spencer, looking every inch his title and nothing at all like the playful and flirtatious Wesley that she'd always known. Cynthia groaned. "Dammit."
"What have I told you about cursing?" Wesley growled, moving so quickly that Grace was taken aback. Even Alex looked a bit surprised as Wesley snatched up his ward and fiancé, tossing her over his shoulder as she let out a shriek, and then striding back out the door without saying another word.
Cynthia's demands to be put down echoed through the hall, growing fainter until they heard the sound of the front door opening and then closing decisively.
Both she and Alex stood there, listening, almost as if they both wanted to ascertain they were alone. Her mouth was dry, her heart feeling as though it might burst from her chest it was beating so hard. She could barely look at the man, at her husband, whom she didn't understand at all.
"What are you doing in here?" The question was clipped, sharp. Dangerous. It sent a shiver down her spine.