Page 29 of Romancing the Scot
An English nobleman. A cavalry officer decorated for his actions in the war against Napoleon. A justice in the High Court, for heaven’s sake. How many marks against him did she need?
Grace gathered the shawl tighter around her and stopped at yet another set of stairs. She didn’t think she’d come by these before, but she couldn’t be certain. Dinner noises drifted up from the ground floor. Earlier, she’d heard people arriving in carriages. Family, friends, neighbors? It was none of her business.
She peered down a long gallery into what she was fairly sure must be the west wing. She decided to risk it. Stealing a glance over the railing, Grace clutched the book she’d found in her sitting room tighter against her chest and hurried down the hall. With any luck, she’d find that library before it grew dark.
One mark against him or a hundred, it didn’t seem to matter. Every word and every look they’d exchanged kept coming back to her, and Grace couldn’t calm the hummingbirds wreaking havoc in her belly.
“What’s wrong with you?” she muttered. “You’re not a child.”
Outside the carriage barn, she’d stood with Jo while the peer worked, unaware of his audience. Coat cast aside, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over muscular forearms, sweat glistening amid the smudges of dirt on his face. His dark, uncombed hair completed the look.
She couldn’t help but admire the muscles flexing under the shirt as he lifted equipment. Even now, the recollection of his long powerful legs and the trousers stretching over his strong buttocks made her go warm.
And later, talking to him, he drew her in. He made her feel his passion. She’d even agreed to go up in the air with him. She’d clearly lost her mind.
In her life she’d known soldiers and courtiers by the score. High-ranking politicians, men of wealth and position. No one had ever offered enough to tempt her into abandoning her father’s side. More times than she could count, she’d rejected men’s romantic enticements. Theaffaire de coeurwas the premier pastime among courtiers, both male and female, though often thecouerwas left out of theaffaireentirely. She’d even turned down a number of serious offers of marriage. Curious that now, at the mature age of twenty-eight, she was swooning over a complete stranger.
She knew the reason. Never—regardless of how dashing or handsome or powerful the suitor might be—neverhad she felt the spark that this man lit in her.
She’d heard other women speak of desire in the most intimate terms at court. The thrill that coursed through you at the mere sight of him. The tingling sensation that raced along the surface of your skin. The liquid heat that pooled deep in your belly when he whispered in your ear. The erotic imaginings that filled your mind at the most inopportune moments. As she walked along, she wondered what it would be like to make love to him. To run her hands over his muscled shoulders and back. To take his weight fully upon her.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Leaving Baronsford couldn’t happen quickly enough. Hugh Pennington was too dangerous for erotic thoughts.
Grace would beg or steal a horse if necessary to put this place behind her. She’d walk if she had to. She would make him keep his promise of taking her aloft. Napoleon used balloons to observe the battlefields. High above, she’d be able to see the best way to escape Baronsford.
Moving quickly along the gallery, Grace tried not to be distracted by the paintings mounted on the wall. Baronsford was as grand as many of the great European palaces she’d lived in. And as complicated to maneuver through. She tried not to dwell on the difference between families like the Penningtons, where the history of past generations defined their lives, versus someone like her. Her family history had been all but erased.
And it was the English that wanted her family erased.
Where was the dratted library?
At the end of the gallery, Grace followed a series of hallways that went up and down short sets of stairs and seemed to take her nowhere.
She was lost, but not just this evening. With her father gone, what path lay ahead of her? She had no one left. And if she ever succeeded in reaching Brussels, no one would be waiting for her.
Colonel Ware had served Napoleon and his family faithfully. He’d been of use to them for many years and in many capacities. Her father was a formidable cavalry officer when wartime required it. Since the emperor’s fall, he’d shown himself to be an astute negotiator between Joseph Bonaparte and President Madison.
But Grace served no purpose in their employ.
Passing open doors, she was beginning to think she might not be in the west wing, at all.
Hugh had offered her the use of the libraries, and before dinner Jo explained the difference between the upper and lower libraries. The one upstairs was much smaller, but it was a favorite of their mother’s. Grace didn’t divulge to Jo what she’d learned from Anna about the countess’s folio of clippings about Viscount Greysteil.
It wasn’t frivolous passing of the time that Grace had in mind. A pre-battle strategy of her father’s was to learn all he could about his opponent. That was exactly what she planned to do. Courtesy demanded that she stop refusing and start joining them in the dining room for meals. But tomorrow Hugh would be coming along with them for their ride. With the brother and sister working together, Grace would be at a center of an inquisition.
And each question, regardless of who asked it, was becoming more of a challenge. Grace wished she knew more about losing one’s memory. She needed to decide to what extent she should play this dangerous game. Her identity. Her education. Her ability to play music, or speak languages, or remember the books she’d read. Consistency would be key to her survival, but she was becoming more panicky with each passing hour.
In the carriage barn, Hugh had asked if she recalled the ballad she’d been reciting. It was a blessing that he didn’t know the rest of it himself, since it was a tragic ballad she’d heard the Irish soldiers sing in camp.
She might have been exposed before she even came to her senses.
Today, Grace saw how easy it was to distract the viscount with a topic that interested him. Tonight, she needed to learn more about the man so she could ask more questions, engage him in conversations, and keep the focus of every discussion on him.
Deep in thought, Grace turned a corner and nearly bumped into a diminutive woman carrying a candle. It was the housekeeper.
“My apologies, mistress.”
“No, it was my fault, Mrs. Henson,” Grace replied. Jo had introduced them that morning. “I set out to find the upper library and have lost my way entirely.”
