Page 55 of Only By Grace
Ronan’s jaw tightened and he looked down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. The words reverberated through him, disturbing in their simplicity. Was that not precisely what he had refused to do? He had judged himself unworthy—not only of forgiveness but of Grace herself.
He heard very little after that, ruminating on the vicar’s words. Could it be possible? Was there still hope for him? Hope for him and Grace?
After the service, the congregation gathered outside the chapel, exchanging pleasantries and offering kind words to Lord Donnellan, who greeted everyone pleasantly. Ronan musteredhis control through this ordeal even though his impatience to be gone was growing by the minute.
“Ronan,” his mother said, catching his elbow as they made their way back to the carriage. “If that wasn’t a sign, I do not know what could be more plain. For once, do something for yourself.”
“It is obvious to anyone with eyes that you love that lass,” his father interjected, surprising him.
Ronan hesitated, the weight of his father’s words pressing against the doubts he had carried for weeks. “She deserves better than I,” he murmured. “A man without so many sins to his name.”
“Nonsense,” his father said sharply. “Do you think I did not feel the same when I courted your mother? She was as stubborn as she was beautiful, and I was nothing more than a young lord with too much pride and not enough sense. I had to fight tooth and nail for her favour—prove myself worthy of her in every way.”
Ronan blinked in surprise. “You have never told me that.”
“Because it mattered not once I had her,” Lord Donnellan said, his gaze softening. “But let me tell you this, Ronan: I would have moved mountains for that woman, and I still would. If you feel the same for Grace then you had better stop wallowing in self-doubt and go and get her.”
Ronan’s chest tightened, his father’s words cutting through his defences like a blade. “Mayhap I have already ruined my chance.”
Lord Donnellan fixed him with a stern look. “Then work twice as hard to win her back. Prove to her that you are the man she deserves. ’Tis not about being perfect, lad—’tis about being willing.”
Ronan said nothing, his thoughts too tangled for speech. But as the carriage began its slow journey back to the castle, theweight of the vicar’s words and his parent’s insistence bore down on him. Perhaps it was time to stop running—from himself, from his past, and from the possibility of something greater than his fears.
CHAPTER 19
Another day and Grace had survived. Tonight was to be Joy and Lady Maeve’s first official ball. The ballroom glittered with the golden glow of candlelight, their light refracted through crystal chandeliers that hung like jewels from the ceiling. Garlands of autumn greenery were strung from the ceiling, sprays of flower arrangements lined the walls, and ribbons were strewn about. The polished floors gleamed, reflecting the swirling colours of gowns and the rhythmic movement of dancing couples. The orchestra played a lively reel, filling the room, mingling with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter.
The ladies in their silks and satins spun like samaras falling through the air. Jewel-toned gowns of emerald green, sapphire blue, and ruby red adorned the matrons, while the more delicate hues of lavender, rose, and cream lent an air of soft elegance to the young misses. Grace herself wore a gown of sea green, its modest design enhanced by lace trimmings and a strand of pearls. The effect was understated but elegant, as Grace preferred.
Joy, on the other hand, was the very picture of unrestrained exuberance. Her gown of lavender shimmered as she spunacross the floor, her laughter ringing out above the music as she danced with Mr. Cunningham. Undaunted by Joy’s unbridled enthusiasm, he matched her steps with surprising ease and an easy laughter. They were a captivating pair, their gaiety a stark contrast from the more subdued dancers around them. Instead of thetonfrowning at the lack of decorum, they looked indulgently upon Joy. She had that effect on others.
Grace observed them with a faint smile, though her heart still ached. She had attended several engagements this past week, smiled at every compliment, and danced with a cheerfulness she did not feel. It was an effort not to let her true feelings show, and though she succeeded outwardly, it took its toll. Several gentlemen, encouraged by her politeness, had begun to pay her marked attention. Perhaps that was all they required—a willing smile—but for Grace it felt unnatural.
Lady Maeve, at least, was faring better, and for that Grace was deeply relieved. It was a joy to see her take tentative steps towards reclaiming the vivacious spirit Carew had so fondly described. The bruises that once marked her skin had faded, and though there was a subtle hesitancy in her gaze at times, it was clear she was beginning to be herself again. Joy had befriended her, and it was difficult to remain subdued near her zest for life.
The evening’s ball was proof enough of her transformation. Lady Maeve, dressed in a gown of soft ivory silk that complemented her dark hair and bright eyes, was the very picture of exotic beauty. Her shy smiles lit up her face whenever a gentleman approached her, captivating her partners. She had quickly become the toast of the evening.
Grace watched with a mixture of admiration and wistfulness as one gentleman after another sought Maeve’s hand for a dance. There was an ease to her manner that had been absent when they first arrived in England. As the strains of a lively country dance began, she was partnered by Lord Ravensfield,who was known for his good humour. He was a charming, handsome gentleman who was much sought after. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and easy smile made him a favourite among the ladies.
They stepped onto the dance floor, Maeve’s silk skirts flowing with each movement, her cheeks faintly flushed with exertion and delight. Grace noted the way Maeve’s laughter bubbled up as he murmured something to her during a turn. It was a sound so free and unguarded that Grace felt her heart ache with a bittersweet mixture of joy and sorrow.
She could not help but wonder if Maeve’s heart had truly been affected by Flynn. Could anyone fully recover from such pain? Could a love lost ever feel whole once more?
Grace sighed inwardly. She doubted it. Love, when true, left its mark. Time might dull the pain, but it could not erase it. She hoped Maeve would come to see that true love did not abuse—it cherished. Flynn had been a fraud, and Maeve deserved someone true.
But as for Grace herself? She knew it would be a long time before her heart could open to another. Was it unfair, then, to allow these gentlemen to hope? Did they expect no more than a compliant, accommodating wife? Staying busy helped to distract her, but it did little to quiet her thoughts. Each dance partner only reminded her of the one man she could not forget. Compared to Carew, everyone else paled in comparison.
If only he had done something truly horrendous to me, she thought wryly, it might be easier to let him go. But no, Ronan had been the perfect gentleman—respectful and honourable. How was she to harden her heart against that?
As Grace observed her surroundings, she did not notice Mr. George Lynton approaching until he stood directly in front of her. His bow was impeccable, his smile warm but tinged with ahint of nervousness. “Miss Whitford,” he said smoothly, “may I have the honour of this dance?”
Caught by surprise, Grace blinked, but her manners asserted themselves quickly. “Of course, Mr. Lynton,” she replied, allowing him to help her to her feet. His hand was steady as it guided her, and though she did not particularly feel inclined to dance, she appreciated his genuine kindness.
As they took their places on the floor, Grace noted how Mr. Lynton’s attire, whilst not ostentatious, bore the quiet marks of a gentleman of means. His dark coat was finely tailored, and his neckcloth arranged with just enough flair to suggest a man who paid attention to detail. The orchestra began the next song, and Mr. Lynton led her into the steps with a grace that belied his otherwise understated manner.
“Miss Whitford?”
She started, realizing she had been neglecting her partner. “Forgive me,” she said quickly. “My mind wandered.”
