Page 40 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

“Never too tired for you.” He held out his hand, and when she placed hers in it, his fingers closed.

He wanted to ask her if she still thought about the Buckingham beastie. He wanted to wipe the beastie’s very existence from her memory, so that she would never think of him again. But it sounded too much like jealousy, and he had no right to be jealous.

What was it about Grace that made him so conscious of her? Her every smile lifted his heart while her every tear made him want to strive harder to make her happy. He was never happier himself than when she was in his arms and by his side, and when he thought of her going away . . . Well, he didn’t think of it. He refused to imagine a world without Grace in it and close to him.

His wife.

Rory knew he was in trouble and that refusing to think about his feelings was not helping, but right now, he didn’t care.

Chapter Twenty

The next few weeks were calm. Jennie and James were busy returning to married life, and neither of them seemed ready for James to leave again. “I know he will have to go,” Jennie said to Grace in a voice that tried to be brave. “I will miss him, but I will wait because I know he will come back.”

After the ball, more invitations had arrived, which had surprised everyone. It was as if not all of the ton looked down upon Grace and judged her for what had happened with Bolton. Some of them admired Grace for her bravery and were not at all enamored with the Fotheringhams’ behavior. Soon they had collected quite a few offers of dinners and another ball, and even a visit to the theatre with Lord Kilsyth.

“I heard of your unhappy adventure at the Fotheringham’s,” he said, when they were settled in their box. “I think Mrs. Fotheringham believed she was helping her brother restore his reputation, but instead they have both fallen out of favor. A good thing too.”

“They are a close family,” Grace said. She had remembered who Lady Fotheringham was, but too late to do any good. Bolton had spoken of her sometimes, but only by her first name.

“Well, let’s hope they enjoy their disgrace together,” Kilsyth declared.

He was a good friend to them both, but Grace was glad James had returned home to Jennie. An affair with Kilsyth would not have been a good idea, and she wouldn’t like to see either of them hurt. Perhaps Kilsyth would find someone else to love, one day. She hoped so.

That night when they returned to the house in Mayfair, Jennie met them as soon as they entered, and Grace was shocked to see that her face was ashen.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is it James?”

Jennie shook her head and took Grace’s hands in hers.

“My dear,” she said, “I have some dreadful news. Your father . . . I will not gild it because you need to know at once. Ormsby was thrown by his horse. He did not survive the ordeal.”

Grace stared back at her in silence. Ormsby dead? Despite all that lay between them, she felt hollow inside. Surely it was impossible that the man who had made her life a misery was gone. How could that be? A mistake, she was sure, because the earl would always be there, always be a thorn in her side.

“Grace?” Rory’s arm was warm about her shoulders as he led her to the sofa. She sat down, her legs no longer able to hold her. She could hear him conversing with his aunt, their voices low and serious.

A moment later, she felt the cold rim of a glass against her lips and realized she was meant to drink. It was whisky, and she choked, but it had the effect of bringing her back from her dark thoughts. Blinking with watery eyes, she looked up at Rory and Jennie.

“Is he really dead?” she asked them.

“Yes,” Rory said gently. “He really is. And there’s more.”

“More?”

“Your sisters. Evidently, Ormsby left the bulk of his estate to his cousin.”

“Hugo?” she said, her voice rising. “Why would he . . .?” But of course she knew why. Her father would never believe a woman could successfully manage her financial affairs, so he would have expected Hugo to deal with the estate. He would have made Hugo the girls’ guardian, too, and as much as she had loathed her father, she knew that Hugo would care even less for their wellbeing.

“I must go to them,” she said urgently, getting to her feet.

The countess stopped her. “No need,” she said. “They are here. I have put them in the yellow room—”

She did not finish because Grace was already hurrying out the door. The yellow room was upstairs, and she rushed up them at a fast pace, barely aware of her surroundings. When she flung open the door, two pale and worried faces turned to her, and they both burst into tears. A moment later they were in each other’s arms.

There was chaos—garbled words and tight hugs and grief—but eventually Grace found herself seated between her sisters, their hands clutched in hers, their faces tear streaked and exhausted, while they told their side of the story.

Ormsby had died a full fortnight ago. His cousin Hugo, already a guest at the estate, had immediately assumed control, announcing he would be taking up residence in the London house and the girls would return there with him. But Hugo’s wife did not seem to want anything to do with them—she was too busy planning a complete renovation of the house that Ormsby had allowed to grow tatty over the years. Hugo might be guardian to the two girls, but he seemed happy to ignore them, and it was a simple matter for them to slip away and come to the Strathmore house. Grace’s letter had furnished them with the address and they had caught a hackney.

“Don’t make us go home,” Harriet begged. “Please! We want to stay with you, Grace.”