Page 22 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

“You look . . .” he began, and then he smiled. “Grace, you are beautiful!”

Grace felt herself swell with pleasure. But then he had to spoil it.

“I canna understand why Ramsgate would rather have fought a duel to the death than marry you.”

Her expression must have gone awry because he seemed to understand he had made an error. He frowned and then opened his mouth as if to repair the damage, but before he could do so, his aunt interrupted them.

“That color suits you very well,” she said to Grace, with a satisfied smile. Her gaze swept down over the gown and then back up again. “Yes, Rory is right. You do look beautiful, my dear.”

It was a beautiful color. Grace thought of it as the color of the sea off the coast of Cornwall, where her mother’s family originated. Turquoise, she would have called it, and it suited Grace’s pale skin and dark hair. The sleeves were short and puffed and the neckline was low, the swell of breasts showing more than Grace normally allowed, while the skirt was narrow and decorated with swags of ribbon. She did not resemble her mother in hair or eye color, but her features were very similar, which may have been another reason Ormsby did not like her. Did she remind him that when her mother was young, there had been another man who held her and possessed her? A man whose careless treatment of her mother caused Grace to be born.

Was Ormsby jealous? He had been possessive of her mother while she was alive. It was unfair of him to take out his feelings on a child though, and one who had had no say in the matter of her conception or her birth.

They sat down to supper, and at the countess’s nod, Hocking beckoned his minions to serve the soup. Grace noticed that Rory seemed to find it difficult to look away from her, and although it would have been nice if he were admiring her, she didn’t think that was the case. He seemed to be fixated on the space between the neckline of the gown and her chin, which seemed a little strange. There was some bare skin there but nothing that could be called indecent. She was showing some bosom but only what was in keeping with the fashion, and yet she caught him looking more than once, before he quickly glanced away when she caught him staring.

Whatever possessed the man? She hoped he would not be staring at her all night, not when she was already concerned about the reaction to her reentry to society. Would it be very unpleasant? The scandal with Bolton was still very fresh, and laid on top of that was her hasty marriage to Rory. Titillating ammunition for the gossips.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach and she found she was not as hungry as she had thought she was. As she nibbled at the various dishes, the countess kept up the conversation while Rory answered with a smile or a few words when it was necessary. He too was quieter than usual, and Grace was relieved when it was time to rise and leave.

Until she remembered what lay before her.

*

There was quite a crowd gathered outside the theatre. As Grace waited for their coach to reach the front of the queue, she began to grow more and more anxious. She knew people were going to stare and whisper, and they would call her by that awful name—Disgrace. This was why Ormsby had warned her to stay away from social gatherings, to vanish from sight and take her scandal with her, and here she was doing the exact opposite. And wasn’t that why she was supposed to ensure Rory consummated their marriage? So that if the scandal became too much for him, he could not abandon her?

Could she really do this? Could she walk in there with her head held high and pretend she didn’t notice the whispers and the stares? And this was just the beginning. There would be more evenings like this. But surely they would get easier?

That didn’t really help, so then she reminded herself that this night would be something she could tell her sisters about. They would love to hear about the theatre and the play she had seen. She could tell them in great detail when she saw them, which she very much hoped would be soon.

They were still sitting in the coach, waiting in silence to reach the theatre steps as each vehicle stopped and unloaded its occupants and then made room for the next one. When Rory finally spoke, his voice startled her. “What is the matter?” he asked. “You look very glum, Grace. Are you having second thoughts? We could always tell the driver to turn around and—”

“No, no, not about the theatre.” She forced herself to smile. She wasn’t about to tell him the truth and remind him of the stain against her name, so she said, “I was thinking about my sisters. I miss them.”

“You’ll see them again, dinna worry,” he said with the sort of confidence she was sure he had no business feeling.

That confidence irritated her. How could he be so sure of himself and his decisions? As far as she could tell, he did not let anything rattle him. But then she remembered when he had sent her from his bed in high dudgeon and tried not to smile. There were some things that did rattle him. And that memory reminded her that she could not rely on him, not really. Rory was not going to be by her side forever; he had already made that perfectly clear. At some point she was going to have to manage as best she could on her own.

“I think we are nearly there,” Rory said with obvious relief. “We could have walked faster.”

Grace followed his gaze to the large building with its glow of lights and the people in their finery climbing the stairs to the front doors. She tried not to think about what was awaiting her.

Rory spoke again, leaning closer in a confidential manner. “The only play I’ve ever been to was at Bonnyrigg. My sister set up a stage in the great hall and we all had to read the parts she gave us.”

“What was it like?” she managed to say.

He grinned, his blue eyes lighting up. “It was a shambles, and some of my lines were verra questionable, but I’ve never heard my father laugh so hard.”

“It sounds like you had fun,” Grace said a little wistfully. She had never had the joy of anything like that, and Ormsby—the only father she had ever known—had never laughed with the pleasure of seeing the girls enjoying themselves. Life in her childhood home just wasn’t like Rory’s.

By now the footman had opened the coach door, and they stepped down into the cool, clear evening. Rory swiftly took her arm and led her up the stairs. Grace was very aware of the whispers and ogles and tried not to cringe. It was going to be just as bad as she had feared.

As they passed, she heard one woman say, “Is that the Ormsby girl?” and then a titter as her companion replied, “Well, the earl says she was never his daughter, so who knows whose girl she is?”

Rory was ignorant of the drama and looked around in genuine enjoyment as they reached the foyer. Everything sparkled beneath the chandelier and the wide staircase rose before them, taking those wealthy enough to have a private box to their seats.

“Didn’t you say you went to the theatre with—” he began and then seemed to think better of it. She was glad of that. The last thing she wanted to talk about tonight was Bolton Buckingham.

They ascended the staircase, the carpet soft beneath their shoes, and Grace told herself that at least she was dressed fashionably and looked the part of an earl’s daughter and Lord Rory MacKenzie’s wife. They were shown to the countess’s box. She kept one for the London Season, although she claimed she rarely needed it these days. But she had been happy for the two of them to make use of it.