One
G race told herself frequently how happy she was to be engaged to Lord McIngle—John, as he insisted she call him. He was a good man, with a lovely voice and brown eyes. She liked his dignity, she liked his kindness, and she thought they would be very happy together. She especially liked the fact that he had an estate in Scotland.
Scotland was a long way from London. Far enough that a woman could nurse a broken heart until she forgot all about it, until the laughter of children and the kisses of a loving husband wiped away the stupid infatuations of her youth.
John often arranged small treats for Grace, things that he knew she would enjoy. Most importantly, he didn’t pretend that painting was only a lady’s pursuit, as watercolors were for most young ladies. One day he gave her a miniature of Sir Walter Raleigh, a delicate painting of the slender, lovelorn aristocrat.
“He understands you,” her mother said, deep approval in her voice. “This is a precious antique, Grace. He truly loves you.”
“I know he does,” Grace replied, keeping her voice light and happy.
“He’s a good choice,” her father told her. “A good man.”
Both her parents had a little knot in their brows every time they looked at her, but by the time a month had passed, Lord McIngle—John—had become a welcome addition to their family.
Lily teased him mercilessly, calling him Old Sobersides. She was the only one who argued with Grace. “He’s not a good choice for you,” she insisted. “He respects you too much.”
“Respect is good,” Grace said, thinking of how Colin slighted her letters. “I want respect.”
“It’s not enough.”
“He loves me!”
“Not the right way.”
Finally Grace turned on her sister in a rage. “Don’t you see, Lily? Must you make me say this aloud? No one will ever love me in the right way , not in that feverish way that men fall in love with you. I’m not that sort of woman!”
Lily cried, and Grace ended up crying, too.
Sobersided John thought she was pretty. He kissed her frequently (if respectfully), and she enjoyed it. He gave her a new set of paints. The morning after that gift, she handed Colin’s paints to her siblings, and used John’s instead.
Later that night she stole back the most beautiful blue, the lapis lazuli. She put it in a drawer with her lingerie and pretended it wasn’t there.
The day John gave her a sable paintbrush, she told her parents that they should set the wedding date.
Two
O nly a few days out of Casablanca, a storm blew them off course. Colin lay in the dark, counting the days as they passed. He was out of the navy, honorably discharged. He should be glad about that.
He was safe, if not entirely sound. He should be glad about that too.
He was going home, to England, to Grace.
And that’s where any happiness died. By now Grace might have married McIngle.
He had had a plan to steal her away from McIngle before he was injured.
But now…
He was a selfish ass, but he wasn’t a complete bastard. He couldn’t steal her from her fiancé when he wasn’t a whole man.
The thought made his headache worsen. The doctor had instructed the mate to give him a dose of laudanum every morning and night to control the headaches and (he suspected) to keep him tamely in bed. He didn’t care. His idiot batman, Ackerley, periodically appeared by his bed and told him to open his mouth, and he did.
But there was an unexpected side effect to laudanum. As he slipped in and out of sleep, he discovered that he was able to relive Grace’s letters as if he were part of the events she had described in them. They were so vivid that he found himself in the drawing room, standing beside the duke and laughing when they realized that young Brandon had turned every one of His Grace’s neck cloths to sails for his toy boats.
He sat by Grace’s side as she painted naughty chickens, and watched with her as Lily flew about the ballroom, laughing her gilt
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