Page 7 of The Trouble with a Dare

She spun around at that, eyebrows tugging down, deep furrows in her brow.

He paused, drawing the moment out, uncertain if he was enjoying tormenting her for once or just delaying the inevitable explosion. “She’s a lady, with a generous dowry. Daughter of Baron Rothborn.”

His mother’s breath caught, her hand pressing flat against her heart, and for an awful moment Sterling wondered if he’d gone too far, if the shock was too much for her and she’d drop dead with outrage. Instead, she closed her eyes, and then she laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound. Sterling bore it, though he longed to run from the room, to leave her and her spite and her need to drain everything of colour and pleasure and reduce it to bread and water and some puritanical desire for the ordinary.

“Well, you’ve done your father proud,” she said, and he heard the mockery in the words. “You’ve married above yourself. You’ll have a bride who’s too fine to lift a finger, who’ll want more than you can give, and you’ll make yourself a laughingstock. She’ll despise you and make a fool of you, and that’s all that will come of this fine day’s work. Your children will be just as your father made you, neither fish nor fowl, never satisfied with a good day’s work and a warm hearth, always wanting more.”

Sterling snapped, the fear that there was truth in what she said making the words explode from him with more force than he’d intended.

“Better that than being too afraid to want anything at all!”

She just snorted, shaking her head at him in disgust. “I know what happens when people get greedy, when they want more. My father ruined us, and forced me to marry your father, but I was glad of it. I thought he was a sensible man, thought he had a prosperous farm and a good living, and we’d be content. But no, just another dreamer, like my own father. Your pa thought he was marrying into a fine family, more fool him. My father left us nothing but this house and tricked your pa out of my dowry. Reckon he hated me for that. I thought he’d put his dreams aside after, but he was more determined than ever, determined you’d be a gentleman, putting ideas in your head. What nonsense! You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. ’Tis better to be satisfied with your place, with what you’ve got, but you’ll learn…. You’ll see. You’ll see, when I’m right.”

Sterling let her rant, let the words wash over him as he always did. He was stone, impermeable, and nothing she said could touch him. It had taken years to build the walls about himself, to shut off his feelings and keep his hopes and dreams hidden away. It didn’t always work. She knew just where he was most vulnerable and always struck with precision, but he never gave her the satisfaction of knowing she’d hurt him. His face was a mask, and he knew it made her wild that he would not argue with her like his father had done. He could not deny a moment of satisfaction once she’d finally run out of breath, and he said his own piece.

“I’ve readied the cottage. You can borrow Annie and Jeb to help you move out. A house can’t have two mistresses, and my wife will have the running of this one. It’s no longer your affair. Tell Mrs Gladwish I’ll eat at The Lamb tonight.”

Sterling walked out and closed the door on her before she recovered from the shock of his words. He wished he could take more pleasure in her obvious disbelief, but he was not a vindictive man, despite so many years of provocation. This had been his mother’s home all her life, and he knew it was a hard thing he did, but she had made her choices. If he let her remain in the house, she would make Grace’s life a living hell, and that he would not allow.

Chapter 3

Dear diary,

I am so dreadfully tired. I have not slept properly in days. Though it was quite marvellous, I am wishing I had never set eyes on that wretched book. I may never sleep again. Whoever wrote The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo is an evil genius. I do not know whether to admire their talent or hate them for doing this to me.

―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington, (youngest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

2nd of September 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Grace made her way down to the parlour and hesitated outside the door, taking a moment to check her hair and smooth down her dress. The visit was unexpected and there was no one to chaperone, but then anyone who knew the circumstances knew that was a point hardly worth arguing. She took a deep breath, put up her chin, and walked in.

Mr Oak was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned as she entered and gave her a formal bow.

“Miss Weston.”

“Mr Oak.”

There was a tense silence, and as he offered nothing further regarding an explanation of why he was there, Grace felt compelled to add, “You wished to see me?”

Mr Oak cleared his throat. He seemed ill at ease, which was not unusual, but Grace had the sudden terrifying belief that he had changed his mind. No doubt he’d gone home and spoken to his family, and they’d told him he was foolish beyond measure to take on another man’s get and….

“Miss Weston!” he said in alarm, hurrying to her as she swayed.

Strong arms braced her, guided her to a heavy wingback chair, and helped her to sit down. He crouched before her, one large hand resting beside her on the leather arm.

“Shall I ring for some tea? Have you eaten today?”

Grace shook her head, utterly miserable now. “P-Please just say what you came to say, Mr Oak. I quite understand, I assure you. It was very good of you to make such a kind offer, but I shan’t hold you to it.”

“What the devil are you on about?”

She looked up to see his eyebrows knit, and as the room swam, she focused on his dark eyes.

“You d-don’t wish to m-marry me,” she stammered.

He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “Who put that maggoty idea in your head?”