Page 8 of The Trouble with a Dare

Grace blinked at him. “You did!”

Mr Oak stared at her as if he believed she’d run mad.

Perhaps he hadn’t come to call it off. Oh. She felt a flush of mortification turn her cheeks scarlet. “Well, what else was I to think when you come to call on me and greet me with a face like a funeral?”

His expression did not change, but at length he let out a breath. “I have not changed my mind.”

Grace closed her eyes and swallowed hard, willing the nausea away and trying to convince her heart to stop careening about in her chest.

“When did you last eat?”

“I cannot eat in the morning,” she said, frustrated as tears pricked at her eyes. Why did the slightest thing turn her into a wretched watering pot? It was ridiculous.

“You should eat a dry biscuit or a piece of toast before you get up. It will help settle your stomach.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Does that work for sheep?” she demanded, and then flushed. “I beg your pardon, that was uncalled for.”

“It’s of no matter, and no.”

“No?”

“I don’t feed my ewes toast.”

“Oh.”

Grace took a deep breath. This was a peculiar conversation. They had best start over.

“Why did you wish to see me, Mr Oak?”

He got to his feet and straightened, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by him again. Though he was gruff and taciturn, he had only ever been kind to her and yet his presence in a room was so overpowering that she felt rather afraid of him.

“We need to get our stories straight.”

“Stories?” she repeated, bewildered.

She watched as he walked to the window and stared out, his stance as rigid as when she’d first entered. He was certainly uncomfortable about whatever it was he wished to speak of.

“You are almost three months pregnant. We cannot have just met. If people are to believe the child is mine, we must—”

“Oh,” Grace said, heat searing her cheeks as his meaning sank in.

He turned, and she noted there was a dull flush of colour high on his strong features. At least he felt some of the same awkwardness. That was a comfort.

“I was in London in April. Is it possible we could have met then?”

Grace considered this and shook her head. “My father did not wish me to come out until I was eighteen, so I have not been in society.” Her lip trembled as she realised her father had been trying to protect her from entering the marriage mart too young. She ruthlessly squashed the emotion. “I have been at The Mitcham Priory for most of this year. It’s an hour or so from here.”

Mr Oak considered this. “There’s a good market at Mitcham. I visit it often enough. Sold a tup there not long since.”

“A tup?”

“A ram.”

“Oh.”

“Could we have met at the market?”

Grace nodded.