Page 97 of The Untamed Duke
“I specifically invited him. Of course, Sebastian has no idea, but we’ll cross that bridge later.”
Grace piped up, no small amount of pride evident in her voice. “Nicholas will come for me. Wherever I am on this Earth, he will come.”
* * *
It wasan awful crush of people.
Three hundred guests swarmed Beaumont’s grounds and the elegant mansion. Not only were the top echelons of society present, the Dowager Duchess of Richeforte, newly returned from Ireland, had arrived that afternoon. She had yet to make an appearance, but everyone was abuzz regarding her appearance, the first since her husband’s death some six months prior.
Her potential future mother-in-law was somewhere in a chamber overhead. Knowing this had Grace so nervous, it was amazing she could breathe at all, even withstanding the confines of a corset and the new ice-blue silk ballgown procured by Lady Darby specifically for this occasion. “A gift, my dear,” she’d said, with a hug and a kiss to Grace’s cheek. “Think nothing of it.”
Beautifully constructed, with dropped shoulders and ropes of tiny stones that glittered like jewels adorning the low neckline, sleeves and back, it was a gown unlike anything Grace had ever owned. She’d never felt so much like a princess before now, and the thought occurred that as a duchess, it would be expected she dress like this all the time. No more breeches and tearing about the countryside on a horse’s bareback, something she would gladly give up for Nicholas, although her heart clenched painfully with the realization that she would never ride Llyr in that manner again.
“Darling, you look as though you might throw up,” Sara said, linking an arm through hers. It was the first instant since the ball began that the new countess and Grace were able to speak with one another. Ivy, on the other hand, was so busy, she’d not yet found a free moment from her duties as hostess. In the middle of introductions between two elderly ladies, she gave Sara and Grace a cheerful wave from across the room.
“I’m merely contemplating the fact that Nicholas’s mother is here, somewhere, and she has no idea she might soon acquire a daughter-in-law,” Grace remarked solemnly.
“Ah! Think how happy she will be when she finally meets you! That you are the one who has captured her son’s heart! She will adore you, Grace. How could she not? Everyone does.”
Grace swallowed hard. “Perhaps she will believe I’ve tricked him into an offer of marriage. I’m sure there are women aplenty who have tried.”
“And none who succeeded. If what Ivy says is true, Richeforte loves you, Grace. And the Dowager Duchess will too.”
“It is absolutely true. I love her madly.”
Grace gave a muffled scream, clapping her hand over her mouth and whirling about. Nicholas stood behind her, devastatingly handsome in severe black evening attire, his rakishly long tawny blonde hair curling over the collar. While she struggled to maintain a measure of dignity and not leap headlong into his arms, Nicholas had no such qualms. He swept Grace up, crushing her so his scent surrounded her, that wonderful, amazing aroma of mint and sandalwood and spice that always made her head swim.
“How I missed you, honeybee,” he whispered in her ear. “It has been at least a century since I held you. My God. You are a vision in this dress. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Only a week,” Grace replied in a shaky voice. “But a century, if you insist.”
He refused to release her, even when Sara giggled with a roll of her blue eyes, “I suppose this answers any question as to whether or not he adores you.”
“Nicholas, people will talk. Blast, everyone in the ballroom is watching us…” Grace wailed in embarrassment. She almost mentioned his mother, but her chest was too tight, her relief at seeing him overwhelming.
“I don’t care.” His arms tightened, a note of desperation shading his tone. “I can’t let you go right now.” Hands cradled her jaw, thrusting into the intricate upsweep of her coiffure, tilting her face so he could kiss her. Right there in front of God and everyone. “Not even if my life depended upon it.” His lips were just inches from hers…
“Shall we test that?”
Sebastian’s hard voice came from a faraway distance, floating down, wiggling into the tiny spaces that somehow existed between Grace and Nicholas’s bodies. She heard a low hum, which seemed to surround them from all sides. Heard Sara’s gasp of surprise and something that sounded like glass shattering.
Burrowing into Nicholas’s chest, she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would erase the impending disaster.
The violence of Sebastian ripping her from Nicholas’s embrace sent Grace stumbling. She landed on the floor, sprawled flat on her stomach, the breath knocked from her. Before she could push herself up onto her knees, she heard two things simultaneously; Ivy, screaming at her husband that he must stop at once, and the other, an unfamiliar sound. The likes of which she’d never heard before. A roar...frightening and savage.
Wild rage.
Nicholas.
Sara was at Grace’s side almost immediately, helping her stand. “Darling, are you all right?”
Grace could not answer, watching as Nicholas launched himself at his former best friend with all the fury a crazed bull would have for a tormentor.
The ensuing brawl was one the gossips would relate for years. Right there, in the midst of Beaumont’s elegant blue, silver, and gold ballroom, the Duke of Richeforte and the Earl of Ravenswood traded vicious punches, rolling about on the inlaid parquet floor as if they were commoners scrapping it out in a Whitechapel alleyway. No amount of screaming from horrified ladies, nor attempts by other gentlemen at breaking up the fight, dented their bloodlust in destroying each other. Lord and Lady Darby stood just feet away, as shocked as everyone else. Celia pushed through the crowd, her mouth agape in horrified shock, with Tristan joining her.
Alan attempted inserting himself in the midst of the melee and for his efforts came away with a busted nose. Sara squealed in distress.
“Bentley! Darling! Oh, no!” She frantically waved a lacy handkerchief in his face, blotting at the injury.
