Saving Grace: Hot Down Under by Beverley Oakley Page B

he is to be married. It is a good match and the young lady worthy and apparently understanding of David’s—” she hesitated “—deficiencies.”
    Even after all these years Mrs Willowbank’s condescension fuelled Grace’s anger. Better to concentrate on that, she thought, than her devastation at this latest piece of information.
    She swallowed, the moment nearly upon her as Mrs Willowbank knocked then pushed open the door. Finally Grace would find out why David had not been the loyal friend he’d sworn to be.
    “David.” Mrs Willowbank beckoned Grace to follow her. “I’ve brought you a visitor. Miss … Fortune is her name. She knows what is required of her.” With a cursory nod she turned, closing the door behind her.
    Blinking at the strong light that streamed through the windows, Grace took a moment to orient herself.
    It was a large room, with a four-poster bed against the far wall. Quickly scanning the familiar paintings on the walls she felt a confused pang to discover there were none of herself.
    It was clear the room was more artist’s studio than bedroom, for in the centre was a dais upon which was arranged a chair for the model. The very same chair in which Grace had sat for companionable hours while David painted her portrait.
    A little distance away was positioned an easel. Breathing in the familiar smell of oils and turpentine, Grace blinked back the tears which burned her lids.
    She breathed deeply, tensing herself against David’s judgemental scrutiny, but though he’d risen at her arrival, his whole stance conveyed disinterest and his expression was trained upon an object in the far corner of the room.
    While she waited for the shock of recognition to register on his face she tried to quell the spontaneous surge of longing for him with the reminder of what he’d done to her.
    Proudly, she stared at him.
    The silence continued.
    With a sigh, David gripped the back of his chair, angled his body towards her and trained his gaze upon hers.
    Through hers.
    With horror Grace registered his vacant stare: the glassiness and the faint scarring around his eyes that nevertheless did not mar his fair handsomeness.
    “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fortune.”
    Grace put her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. He could not see her? What terrible event had befallen him? Shock and pity coursed through her and she nearly burst out, “David, it’s Grace!”
    But she could not. Not like this. She could not even move.
    “Not the man you were expecting?” His voice was bitter. Devoid of the energy and warmth she remembered. He made an expressive gesture with his hands. “My mother does not intend for me to disappoint my future wife. Of course, that’s not the real reason she asked for … a professional. Apparently this is my birthday present.”
    When Grace said nothing he gave a short laugh, adding with a note of apology, “I am not in the habit of entertaining prostitutes. I’m not even sure what to do with you. Perhaps you’d care to take a seat and entertain me instead with your erudite view on the state of English politics.” He shrugged, adding carelessly, “If I’m so very repugnant to you, you’re free to leave, for that matter.”
    Grace blinked, stupidly, only galvanised into action when he snapped, “Well, Miss Fortune, what’s it to be? I can offer you nothing. Nothing you’d enjoy, anyway.”
    Forcing aside the emotion, she managed to call upon the breathy, suggestive tone of the practised whore she was while she feasted her gaze upon him. “I don’t do this for the enjoyment,” she murmured, stepping forward and running her hands down his well-cut woollen coat, “but I believe in honouring a bargain.”
    He jerked at her touch and then laughed, a humourless sound that brought chillingly to mind David’s cousin. The horrible thought that Laurence might be in residence made Grace drop her hands in fear. However the urgency to learn more of what had changed the young man