Page 90 of Lady Graceless
After her aunt departed, the questions in Fact or Fib came rapid fire to Lord Dashlend. Why had he been fighting with Grace on the sofa? Why did he pull so many of her hairpins out? Would he be sleeping in Grace’s room? Was he planning to watch Grace while she was sleeping, like Mr. Stratton does?
It was a credit to Lord Dashlend that he answered all these questions in high good humor and was not the least perturbed to be named a fibber on multiple occasions.
Perhaps it was even more to his credit that he’d only smiled when Mrs. Right leaned over to him and said, “Sorry about placing an advertisement for a new valet.”
He’d said, “I doubt anybody is sorrier about my valet than I am.”
“And the salty porridge yesterday,” Mrs. Right added.
“I believe Lady Margaret took that in hand?”
Mrs. Right had stolen a glance at that lady. “She is craftier than she looks.”
“As are you, Mrs. Right.”
Their beloved housekeeper had seemed well-pleased to hear it.
AFTER SEVERAL MONTHSof recovering, all of which were spent in the duke’s house, the wedding finally took place. They spent their first night together at Dashlend’s own house, which was quite empty. Lord Harraby had prevailed and quietly wed Lady Margaret and they were out terrorizing the town as a married couple. Now that they’d found one another, they spent far less time talking about death, which was a relief to everybody. As Lady Margaret had taken to wearing the panniers of old, Lord Harraby had also ransacked his attics. He now regularly appeared in a powdered wig and impossibly ornate frock coats. The couple looked as if they were always on their way to a masque. They did not give a toss for any raised brows over it.
As for the newly-married younger couple, there was not too terribly much to discover on their wedding night. Having been in close proximity for months, they had perhaps taken things further than the usual engaged couple. Not as far as they could possibly go, but not much short of it.
Grace thought that was well. There was an ease between them and whatever nerves there had been had long fled. It had been a long, slow, and lovely introduction to the relations between a man and a woman. As well, it was rather a relief to not always be listening for footsteps and knocks on the door. Valor, in particular, always seemed to be looking for her and concerned with her mussed appearance.
The next morning, they’d set off for Hull and retrievedThe Marquessa. She had been entirely restored and she was perfect.
It was late August when they’d set sail to calm seas and a gentle breeze, making their way south along the coast. They occasionally anchored in shallow water to take a bracing dip in the sea or to make good use of the small cabin on the boat. There were occasions where they spent the night in the cabin, but more often they rowed to shore on a dinghy and made their way to the nearest inn.
Grace found her sea legs quickly, as she was always more comfortable on something that moved, whether it be boat or carriage. Dashlend joked that she was born to be a sailor and he taught her about the wind, the riggings, how to set a course, and how to tack when they did not have the wind at their backs.
Eventually, August turned to September and September wore on and the weather began to turn. They took the boat back to Hull and prepared to remove themselves to Dashlend’s estate, which did not come without complications.
Dashlend was all but certain that Montclave had locked Grace into the burning room to stop a wedding and an ensuing heir. He did not share the suspicion with his new bride, but she was already leery enough of his cousin after discovering it had been him who had sent the flowers.
He’d written a long letter to his father, outlining what needed to be done. As he could not prove anything, he must just protect himself and his bride in case Montclave had the audacity to try something else. The gatehouse would not permit his cousin entry and extra men would be hired to keep an eye on other ways onto the estate—particularly the wood that bordered his cousin’s land.
Dashlend had only been thinking of whathemust do to keep Montclave away from his wife. He’d failed to take into consideration that terror might have delivered its own retribution in subduing his cousin’s ambitions.
After the duke had told Montclave, “We know all,” that gentleman had spent every waking moment wondering when someone would come to get him. His imagination spun out every possible disastrous eventuality. In his mind, he saw himself hung or locked up forever.
He hid in his room in Doanellen’s house, always listening for footsteps and knocks on the door.
There were times he considered putting a bullet in his head to make the thoughts go away.
The only two measures that seemed to help at all were brandy and laudanum, and he leaned on them heavily.
So heavily, that he deteriorated. He lost weight, his eyes were at once bloodshot and half closed, his words were incoherent.
Lord Doanellen hardly knew what to do with him and eventually wrote the dowager that somebody must come to collect him, as Montclave was in no shape to make such a journey himself.
The dowager did so. She’d sent her strapping son to Town and got back a haggard shell of a man. He would never say what had happened, but the dowager’s disapprobation of him drove him ever further into a sea of brandy and laudanum. One night, he dived too deep in that sea, and never came to the surface. Montclave was dead.
Though neither Dashlend nor Grace wished for Montclave’s death, both were not over sorry for it. Especially Dashlend, who understood just how much danger his cousin brought.
As it was, they settled happily at the estate and Dashlend’s mother and father took to Grace at once, even though they’d heard some alarming things about her father. They liked her so well that they pretended they did not even notice when she occasionally fell on the floor or tripped and broke something.
Quiet instructions were given to the staff to keep ottomans in their same places and not move them around, and candles were always to be set far away from table edges.
When Grace fell with child, her clumsiness only increased. Dashlend made every effort to always be by her side in case she was on the verge of falling over. In the later stages, his adorable wife was tipping over more than she wasn’t.
