Page 68 of Tempting the Highland Spy
Belle tipped up her glass, drinking the swallow of champagne within it. “Lady Sybil is an old family friend of the Raiberts. I’m told Donnal’s mother was as close to her as a sister before she died.”
“We were just discussing family. I did not realize his mother had passed on,” Harrison said. “How long has it been?”
“Oh, I’m not quite sure. The accident occurred years ago, before Donnal set off for America.”
Grace studied her face. A twinge of pain flashed across Belle’s features. Was she feeling the effects of her own loss? “An accident—how terrible,” she said gently.
“When Father died, Donnal understood the pain. It’s so very awful. I have no words for it.”
The sadness in Belle’s eyes cut into Grace’s own heart. The truth of Belle’s words yanked the scab off the partially healed wound of her parents’ deaths. A wave of dull misery washed over her. She swallowed against the pain and fought to keep her composure. It wouldn’t do to reveal too much to Belle. Or to Harrison.
“Oh, my dear, I can only imagine your distress,” Mrs. Carmichael said, meeting Grace’s eyes before focusing her attention on the heiress. She caught the young woman’s hands in hers. “When I lost my husband—so young, so vigorous—to a wicked twist of fate, I fought the pain for a very long time. I thought I’d never feel happiness again. But in time, I found a way. And so will you.”
Harrison stilled, keeping silent as he observed the older woman with what seemed genuine respect. Had the revelation taken him by surprise?
“Thank you,” Belle said. A single tear streaked down her cheek, and she made no effort to wipe it away. “Your kindness means so much to me.”
“’Tis nothing, dear. Only an older—hopefully a wee bit wiser—woman passing on some hard-won life experience.”
Belle dabbed the tear from her cheek. “Well, then, I’ve gone and made this grand celebration rather glum, haven’t I? What do you say we have another sip of champagne and restore our spirits?”
“A grand idea, indeed,” Grace said as Belle summoned the server once again.
Sipping champagne from a crystal flute, Grace glanced at a gleaming clock on the wall. It wasn’t even close to midnight. Dressed the part of an elegant heiress wed to a dashing Scot, no one might have guessed she’d once stolen a loaf of bread simply to put food in her sister’s belly and her own. For once, she had nowhere to be—no room to pillage, no jewelry to pilfer. She’d enjoy this one night. Everything might change by morning. But she’d take that risk.
…
At thirty-one years of age, Harrison was no longer a green young man vulnerable to a pretty face or a well-turned ankle. He prided himself on his logic. On his common sense. On his discretion.
So what in blazes was it about Grace that shredded his self-control and tossed it atop the rubbish heap?
He’d theorized she’d be lovely in a burlap sack. He still didn’t doubt that. But bloody hell, he was not prepared for the sight of her in rich green silk, as vibrant as the Highlands in spring. The gown Mrs. Carmichael had procured was elegant, its draped neckline all the more appealing because of its subtle reveal of Grace’s shoulders and the slender column of her throat. The lustrous fabric clung subtly to her bosom and hugged her slender waist and hips. Her curvaceous body tempted a man to the edge of his limits.
Grace was perfection.
Sheer, blasted perfection.
Fate certainly did possess a twisted sense of humor—placing him within near-constant proximity of a woman he shouldn’t want.
Couldn’t want.
And yet, making her damned near irresistible.
As if that wasn’t enough, the compassion in Grace’s eyes while Miss Fairchild spoke of her father’s death had been so unpracticed, so uncontrived, it would have touched a heart carved from granite.
He’d seen pain in Grace’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d detected that glimmer of sadness she couldn’t entirely hide. It had been all he could do not to take her in his arms and hold her, if only to offer comfort.
Earlier, she’d wanted to dance with him. Bugger it, he couldn’t even offer her that. He had not lied about his lack of prowess on the dance floor. Poor Maggie—his cheerful, always-looking-on-the-bright-side sister—had declared him hopeless and hobbled away, one crunch of his boots away from a broken toe.
They were alone—at least, as alone as two people could be in a crowd. Miss Fairchild had seized the opportunity to take to the dance floor with Raibert, a man who possessed all the fleet-footed skill Harrison lacked, while Mrs. Carmichael was chatting up a dignified man about the same age as Harrison’s father who wore a crisply pressed gray kilt.
Grace stood by his side, watching the dancers glide by. She’d grown quiet, and for some reason he couldn’t hope to explain, her uncharacteristic silence felt like a pebble in his boot.
“Your dress…the color suits you,” he remarked with a deliberate casualness.
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Thank you. I was fortunate that Mrs. Carmichael was able to find a seamstress who could produce such a lovely gown on ridiculously short notice.”
“It fits you…exceedingly well.”
