Page 47 of The Trouble with a Dare

He said nothing, but his big hand was warm and reassuring, promising safety always. And then that new, strange feeling beneath her skin came again, harder this time. Sterling gasped and gave a startled laugh.

“I felt it,” he said in wonder.

“Our son or daughter is greeting their papa,” Grace said, her voice thick with emotion. “For they know just how fortunate they are.”

“As am I, Grace,” he whispered. “And I love you.”

He pulled her to him, arranging her back against his chest and curling his large frame around her, his hand resting protectively over the swell of her stomach. Grace sighed, weary now after all the day had brought them, and more contentment than she could have dreamed possible, such a very short time ago.

Chapter 16

Miss Knight,

If I were a better man, I would not allow you this friendship, but you have the right of it as usual. I need your honesty, and I value it above all things, certainly too much to do the right thing and stop tainting you with my company.

You do vex me, beyond bearing at times, but it is only my conscience pricking at me and I have been ignoring that for so many years it is not so difficult to pretend I do not hear it at all. So, you must be my conscience now, and I rely upon you to scold and chastise and tell me what a wicked creature I am instead of merely watching and doing your best to keep me from danger. I ought to have strength enough to be a good man for Agatha’s sake, for she deserves a guardian who will help keep her from trouble, not give her examples of just how to revel in one’s own dark side.

For God’s sake, Evie, stop me from turning into the reprehensible fellow I fear I am becoming. I disgust myself and perhaps if I saw disgust in your eyes too, I might find the strength to change my ways. Why do you not despise me as you ought, for you are strong and moral and know right from wrong? Why do you accept me as I am and not judge me as I deserve to be judged? And now I become maudlin for I have drunk too much, and the past seems to press down upon me this night until I feel I am the only living thing alive in this empty place I inhabit.

God, but now I must consign this miserable self-pitying scrawl to the fire, for I should rather die than have you pity me too.

―Excerpt of a letter from Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen—never sent.

31st of October 1839, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

By the end of October, the renovations to the house were well under way. There had been a great deal of disturbance, with workmen and decorators coming and going, but the worst of it was done and Grace hoped they would be all be gone in the next few days. The old house seemed to glow in its new finery, an atmosphere of warmth and welcome evident as soon as you stepped inside the door, which gave her great pleasure, though she could not help but think this was because of the contentment of the occupants. They had kept their promise to each other, and Sterling continued to court her as though they were not married at all. He took her for walks and brought her small gifts and flowers, and they talked a great deal, coming to understand one another as the days and nights passed. At night, she would sleep in his arms, and whilst she had offered more than just kisses, Sterling had sheepishly declined, admitting that the baby made him self-conscious, and he wanted nothing to make their first time together awkward. Grace was both disappointed and relieved, for though Sterling told her she grew more beautiful with every day, she did not believe him and felt increasingly fat and ungainly. So, she daydreamed of the time after the child had been born, when she would feel more herself again and ready to give everything to the man she was coming to love more and more with each passing day.

Outside, the gardens were not looking terribly impressive yet, but Mr Gladwish seemed beside himself with excitement as deliveries of plants and trees arrived at regular intervals. He had promised her that, by spring, it would all look splendid indeed.

Now that Sterling’s treasured possessions were in no danger from his mother, he had stopped locking his study door and they had removed some of the paintings and books to spread about the house. Once a week, they took a trip into town together and often returned with a painting or print to add to their collection. This also meant that Grace had access to the books that Sterling had amassed, and his father before him, many of which were about farming. These—unbeknown to Sterling—Grace ploughed through to gain some understanding of how the farm ran and what kinds of challenges her husband faced. For two hours every afternoon, she would go to her room for a nap, but for at least half of that time she would read, taking care to hide the book before she went downstairs. She could not pretend it was a simple venture, for the books were not always easy to follow and often left her with more questions than answers, but for now she kept these to herself.

Despite her contentment and her growing love and affection for her husband, on one point he had remained remarkably pig-headed. Ladies did not sully themselves by taking an interest in farming.

Grace felt quite certain that this was more to do with his own fears about not being a titled gentleman of the kind he believed she could have married, and less about what people would think of him if he allowed her to take an interest. He respected her intellect and was clearly not one of those odious men who believed women’s brains would explode if they exerted themselves to do anything more than paint watercolours and embroider flowers on handkerchiefs. Still, it was frustrating, and Grace determined to test the waters and see if he had relented at all.

“How is the wheat drilling coming along?” she asked at breakfast that morning.

Sterling looked up at her from the steaming plate of bacon, sausage, and eggs that Mrs Gladwish had just put in front of him. “All done earlier this month, love,” he replied, before cutting off a sizeable chunk of sausage and devouring it with gusto.

“And what results do you expect to see? Your experiment between wide and narrow drilling, I mean?”

Sterling frowned at her. “How do you know about that?”

Grace shrugged and reached for a piece of toast. “I heard you speaking to Mr Reed about it when he came over one evening. It sounded interesting. You are experimenting with nitrate of soda, I believe too? What exactly does it do?”

“It’s a fertilizer,” he said, his tone rather short. “I see another delivery of trees has arrived this morning. Mr Gladwish said the fountain will be working by this afternoon too. That will be a fine sight. The progress must please you.”

Grace sighed inwardly, aware of what he was doing. “Yes. I am very pleased. So, the nitrate of soda improves the quality of the plant, or the yield? Or is it both?”

“Love, you’ve no need to worry yourself about the farm. That’s my affair.”

“I am not worrying about the farm, Sterling,” Grace said, a note to her voice he ought to have heeded. “I am interested. There is a world of difference.”

“Well, I’d say you’ve enough to interest you for the moment, what with the house and garden and the baby on the way. How is the nursery coming on? I’ve not looked in for a few days.”

“The decorating is finished. I am letting it air out with the windows open before we hang the curtains and put the soft furnishings in. Would you please stop changing the subject?”

“We need to get the crib now. If there’s nothing in those catalogues you like, I shall take you into town and—”