Page 32 of The Outcast's Redemption
He exhaled, the breath whistling out. That would be a dastardly way to repay all the kindness the parson had shown him. No, he had learned all he could in Arrandale and it was time he moved on and forgot all about Miss Grace Duncombe. Closing the door carefully behind him, Wolf went in search of his host.
* * *
Grace summoned Betty to help her out of her riding habit. She was still shaking and her lips still burned with the memory of that kiss. It frightened her that she could lose control so easily. Perhaps she was like those wanton women of the Bible such as Jezebel or the daughters of Zion. A dispiriting thought and it made her ask Betty to look out her grey silk. It was her most sober dress, a plain, high-necked gown with long sleeves and only a tiny edging of lace at the neck and cuffs. Even Papa had joked that it made her look like a nun.
Once she was dressed she dismissed Betty and sat down before her looking glass to re-pin her hair, but for some moments she did nothing but gaze at her reflection. There was no doubt she looked very severe. Some months ago Mrs Braddenfield had commented favourably upon the grey silk and in a rare moment of rebellion Grace had put it away, determined never to wear it again. However, this was a necessity, she thought, picking up her hairbrush and dragging it through her hair with quick, jerky movements. She needed to be covered from neck to toe from the glances of men, glances that could bring the blush not only to her cheeks but to her whole body.
Her hand stilled. No, it was not men in general. Loftus had never made her blush in that way. In fact, it had never happened before in all her four-and-twenty years. What was it about Wolfgang Arrandale that caused her pulse to race and the blood to sing in her veins?
‘It is because he is so tall,’ she told her reflection. ‘Not since you were a child have you had to look up to a man. It is a novel experience, and you have allowed your fancy to run away with you.’
Yes, that was it. She finished brushing her hair and quickly pinned it up. It was the novelty of the man. He was so tall and dark and...
‘And dangerous.’
Her words echoed around the bedchamber. She had so little experience of the world. Of men like Wolfgang Arrandale. She gave a sigh. Mama had died when she was a baby and Grace had never felt her lack, until now. Now she wished quite fervently that she had a mother to advise her. She glanced at the small writing desk in the corner, where she had tossed her aunt’s letter before going out for her ride. Aunt Eliza had stood in place of a mother once, until she had married Mr Graham. Grace had felt bereft then, and a little aggrieved, but her aunt had never stopped loving her. And Aunt Eliza was so much more worldly-wise than Papa. That was the solution. Grace moved across to the writing table and sat down.
* * *
Grace went downstairs just in time to go in to dinner. The conversation was desultory while Truscott placed the last of the dishes on the table, but once they were alone Grace braced herself for the inevitable.
‘So, Grace,’ said her father. ‘You know our guest’s little secret.’
‘Not such alittlesecret, Papa.’
‘No, indeed, my dear. I would rather he had not told you, but perhaps you now understand a little better the need for secrecy.’
‘I do understand it, Papa, but I could wish Mr Arrandale had not put such a burden upon you.’
‘Believe me, Miss Duncombe, if I thought I could trust anyone in Arrandale half so well I would not have done so.’
Enveloped in her grey gown and the width of the dining table between them, Grace thought she might risk a glance at the speaker. A mistake. He looked dark and saturnine in the dim light. There was a pent-up energy about him, like a wild animal poised and ready to spring. Having raised her eyes to his, she found it difficult to look away.
Her father gave one of his mild exclamations.
‘My dear sir, I amgladyou came to me and, despite my earlier concerns, I cannot regret that Grace knows the truth.’ He put out his hand to her. ‘We have never had secrets from each other, have we, my dear?’
She reached for his fingers and gave them a squeeze.
‘No, Papa, we have not. And that reminds me, there is something I have to tell you.’ She paused as Truscott and Betty came in to clear away the empty dishes, but only for a moment. After all, what she was going to say was not really a secret. ‘I have had a letter from Aunt Eliza.’
‘My sister,’ Papa explained to their guest. ‘She kept house here and looked after us until Grace went off to school. Then she left to get married.’
‘I remember Miss Eliza Duncombe from my visits to Arrandale as a boy,’ he replied, when the servants had withdrawn again. ‘How is she, sir?’
‘My sister is a widow now, alas, although her husband provided for her very well. She has a house in Hans Place and lives there very comfortably, I believe.’
Grace nodded. ‘Her letters are always cheerful, however I think she is a little lonely since Mr Graham’s death a few years ago. You will know, Papa, that whenever she writes she invites me to visit. Indeed, you have been urging me any time these past twelve months to do so.’ She took a breath. ‘I have just now sent off a note, accepting her invitation. I plan to join her within the week. I hope you do not mind, Papa?’
Grace looked up, expecting surprise from her father and even a little regret that she would be leaving him. She had mustered her arguments: if he said he would be lonely she would point out that he had Mr Arrandale to keep him company, and if he expressed concern at her going away when they had a visitor she would have to explain that she could not be easy in her conscience, harbouring a fugitive.
In the event, her preparations were unnecessary. Papa looked surprised, but only for a moment, then he gave a wide smile.
‘Why, that is excellent news, my love. I am delighted for you.’
She gave a sigh of relief. ‘I thought perhaps you would wonder at my going now...’
‘Not at all, my dear, not at all. In fact, the timing could not be more propitious. You see, Mr Arrandale is off to London, too, so you may travel together.’
