Page 5 of The Trouble with a Dare

“I assure you, we know where the blame lies, and we would never punish Grace for it,” her father said, his gaze never leaving Mr Oak.

Grace frowned at that. Much as she wished to believe she was blameless, she knew that was not true. Yes, she had been naïve and foolish, but she had known it was reckless. At the time, she hadn’t cared. She’d been idiotic enough to believe herself in love and that it was all terribly romantic, when it had been nothing but childish infatuation. It was astonishing how quickly one grew up and saw the world in a new light when calamity struck.

“She’s almost three months gone. We’d best marry as soon as possible. There’ll be talk either way, but it won’t do to linger,” Mr Oak said.

Grace jolted in shock, and her mother gave a little gasp at his bald statement.

Mr Oak heard her intake of breath and frowned. “It’s best we speak plainly, my lady, but I am sorry if I offend you.”

“I am not offended,” her mother said softly, turning to stare at Grace. “Why? Why did you not tell me at once, darling? Did you not feel you could confide in me? Did you think I would not understand?”

“No!” Grace said, helpless as her eyes burned, and the tears began all over again. “I knew I could confide in you, but I knew I would break your hearts, and I… I could not bear it.”

She blinked as a handkerchief came into view. Mr Oak held it out to her, his expression as dark and forbidding as always, despite the kind gesture.

“Well then,” her mother said, forcing a tremulous smile. “I think we had best get to know our new son-in-law. I, for one, believe I am going to like him very much.”

Despite everything, Grace almost laughed at the sceptical look in Mr Oak’s eyes. He looked quite horrified by that statement. No doubt because it appeared to mean he must endure a conversation, of all things. Grace bit her lip and sent him an apologetic glance. He held her gaze, but his expression was as unreadable as always.

“Grace, darling, why don’t you run upstairs and freshen up? I shall ring for tea, and Papa and I shall have a quiet chat with Mr Oak.”

Grace looked to Mr Oak, wondering if it was safe to leave him alone with them or if the prospect would have him changing his mind and running for the hills. He gave a brief nod and some of the tension left her shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t back out. Mr Oak might be an odd duck, but he was an honourable man. Of that much, she was certain.

Chapter 2

Dear Arabella,

I am to be married to Mr Oak. He is a stranger to me, and I am sick with nerves. I have not the slightest right to repine, for this situation is entirely of my own making, but I am afraid all the same. He is so very stern and unsmiling and though I wish to be a good wife to him, I do not know what he will expect from me.

I know Bainbridge was quite a stranger to you too, Arabella, and that your marriage is wonderfully happy, so if you have any advice for me, I beg you will be frank and tell me how I ought to go on.

Excerpt of a letter from Miss Grace Weston (daughter of Solo and Jemima Weston, Baron and Baroness Rothborn) to Arabella Grenville, The Most Hon’ble, The Marchioness of Bainbridge (daughter of Mrs Alice and Mr Nathanial Hunt).

1st of September 1839, Holbrook House Estate, Sussex.

Sterling took his time walking back to the farm, watching his feet move across the ground rather than looking ahead. The distance between him and his home did not seem far enough, and he concentrated on his boots as they took him closer, sometimes through meadow grass that swished and whispered against his legs, sometimes upon the dirt road, moving around puddles from last night’s shower of rain.

His mind was as tangled as a bramble bush, catching momentarily on something before breaking free with a painful wrench. Hopes and fears and a dozen or more questions tumbled through his mind. Each one clamoured for his attention, but he seemed unable to concentrate on any one of them. All he could see was Miss Weston’s wide, grey eyes when he had first told her he would marry her. It had been the way she had looked at him when he had promised to treat her baby as his own child. She had been so terribly afraid—terrified—but then she had stared at him, stared at him as if she could see into his heart, into the farthest corners of his soul, and she had believed him.

Grace Weston had put her trust in him.

Of course, she had come back days later and asked if he meant to lock her in an attic or feed her to his pigs, but still. He snorted at the memory. Good Lord, but she had an imagination. His mother would not like that. His mother would not like any of this one bit, for anything resembling a creative spirit would be ruthlessly crushed. In her eyes, imagination was fatal flaw, one that Sterling had learned to keep hidden since he’d realised how she feared it, and Grace....

He sucked in a breath. No. Grace would not be crushed, Grace would not have her love of beautiful things and her flights of fancy chased from her. He would protect her from that.

The knowledge that he must face his mother now, tell her he was getting married, and that she must move out of his home and into the cottage he had prepared for her was not pleasant. There would be a scene. Sterling hated scenes. Especially her scenes. Her spiteful fury rubbed against his skin like nettle rash, making him all on edge. It made him want to lash out, but he’d never lose his temper with a woman, not even one who provoked him beyond bearing. There was no escaping it, though. Things were going to be hard enough for Grace without having in his mother living in the same house as her.

Grace.

The name suited to perfection. She was slim and elegant as a reed, her features so delicate they might have been painted on porcelain. Sterling had ventured to consider what it might be like to take her in his arms and found the idea so audacious he wondered if he would ever dare, or if he’d be able to do it without bruising her. She seemed too delicate for such earthly pleasures.

Without really considering where he was going, he found himself in the churchyard next to Saxenhurst Hall, standing by his father’s headstone. He laid a hand on the thick engraved stone, warm from the afternoon sun.

“You’d like her,” he said. “But Mother is going to pitch a fit the likes of which we’ve not seen since you sent me to university.”

Sterling smiled and let out a slow breath before giving the headstone a fond pat.

“Ah, well. Worrying is for the living. You rest easy, Pa.”