Page 78 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 24
The strength that had been roused in Grace proved temporary. The moment they arrived home and reached the seclusion of her bedchamber, the soft snick of the door announcing their privacy, the woman’s composure crumbled like the thinnest pastry.
Sobs wracked her body, so violent she could hardly breathe much less stand. Rosalind supported her as best she could, guiding her to a chair, feeling more helpless than she had in nearly a decade. What kind of comfort could she give? What comfort had she been able to give Guinevere all those years ago?
She pushed down the hopelessness. Now was not the time. Grace needed her. She moved to help the other woman with her outer garments, to make her more comfortable. But Grace’s hand gripped hers tight. Giving up her ministrations, she perched on the arm of the chair and pulled her into her embrace.
As the woman let loose her sorrow, shaking their bodies with the force of it, memories assailed Rosalind again, unearthing the pain of a past that too closely mirrored the present. Only once had Rosalind witnessed such grief. The night of Guinevere’s return from London, well after they had all retired for the night, Rosalind had heard it: muffled wailing, as if dredged from the very depths of a person’s soul.
She had found Guinevere then, curled up on the floor in her room. Rosalind had not understood the despair her sister felt, much less the cause of it. But she had held her as her sister cried herself insensible, until dawn had come and her weeping had subsided. Guinevere had been a shell after that night, walking the halls of their home as a specter. Had Rosalind known in the beginning what had caused her to grieve so, perhaps she might have been able to help. But she had given her sister space, and thereby had lost her more and more each day.
She would be damned if she’d lose Grace in the same way.
“Who is he?”
Grace’s sobs hitched at the gentle question before falling away altogether. She lay quiet in Rosalind’s arms then until, with a shuddering breath, she began to speak.
“I did not intend to begin an affair. Despite my outlandish, flirtatious ways, I have only ever been with one man. I am not naturally a promiscuous creature.”
Rosalind remained silent, knowing that, more than anything, Grace needed the time to gather her thoughts. At length, she spoke again, weariness coating every word.
“But the moment I saw Lord Bilton I was lost. And, by some miracle, he seemed to feel the same for me. It all happened quickly, so quickly I was carried away by it all. He made me feel beautiful, and adored, and young again. I never had a Season, never came to London in my youth. The moment I was of age I was married off to Lord Belham and spirited off to Manderly. Eventually I came to care for Belham, in my own way. He was not unkind, tried to make me happy.” She took a deep breath. “But I always felt I had been deprived of experiencing that which all young women were given: a chance to be young, to have admirers, to flirt and dance and be courted.”
She pulled back, looked up at Rosalind as if begging her to understand. “Bilton gave me all that. He told me I was the most beautiful creature in existence. He told me he loved me, that we would be together forever.” Her lips twisted, but it was an expression more of pain than humor. “I should have known he did not mean to marry me. Oh, I knew it was expected of him, that he should find a nice biddable young girl who could give him a large dowry and sons. But, fool that I am, I allowed myself to hope he meant to marry me. Even when he insisted that we meet in secret so we could revel inour new love. Even when he took me to his bed without promise of tomorrow.”
The words struck to the heart of Rosalind. For they too closely mirrored her own situation, her own hurt.
“I should have known,” Grace continued, her voice turning into a low moan of sound. “Why would he want me? A woman past her youth, who failed to give her husband a child in all the years of her marriage? No, I was a fool, a damned fool for believing it.”
Rosalind took Grace’s face in her hands. “You are the least foolish woman I know. You are kind, and strong, and brilliant. If anyone is a fool it is Lord Bilton, for not seeing the treasure he had in his grasp.”
Grace collapsed against her, insensible again. Rosalind rubbed her back, murmuring soothing, nonsensical words into her hair. Were all women fools then? And were all men destined to destroy their very hearts?
She should be glad she ended things with Tristan when she had, though she had lost her innocence and her heart to him before finding the wisdom to do the right thing. Even so, as she held Grace, she wished his arms were around her, and wanted to weep for it.
• • •
It was dawn before Tristan stumbled through the front door of his house. He would have stayed away longer if he could. But even broken-hearted fools needed a shave and a change of clothes from time to time.
The house was quiet, chambermaids hurrying about, doing their work before the household awoke for the day. One spotted him, squeaking before hurrying off. As he made his way down the upper hallway leading to his bedchamber, he endeavored to keep his steps light. He did not wish to rouse Grace. Or, rather, he did not wish to field the questions she was sure to have regarding his terse words to her yesterday afternoon, his sudden abandonment of her.
But as he made to pass his cousin’s door it was thrown wide. He turned sheepishly to face her, feeling like a green lad being called to the carpet.
Instead he came face to face with Rosalind.
Despite the hurt she had given him, despite his anger at her usage of him, he stood dumbly for a time, drinking her in. God, she was beautiful, her chin in that little point, her bow of a mouth. And those eyes, like warm chocolate, huge enough to drown in.
It took him several long seconds before he realized how disheveled she was, that the line between her brows was deeper than ever. He opened his mouth to question her. She spoke before the words could form in his fuzzy brain.
“Your cousin needs you.”
Instantly the fog of alcohol he had cloaked himself in since yesterday afternoon lifted. “Grace? What is wrong with her?”
In answer, Rosalind stepped aside. He hurried past her, into his cousin’s room. He was barely aware of the soft sound of the door closing as he rushed to Grace’s bedside.
She was tucked under the blankets like a small child, her hair in an inky plait over the pillow. Her skin was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. He had never seen her looking so vulnerable and frail.
He sank with care onto the bed, taking her hand. At his touch, her eyelashes fluttered up. “You’re home.”
