The breakfast table of Hardwicke House buzzed with excitement. Lady Grace Abernathy appeared to be the conversation topic of choice, much to Alex’s consternation.

He would prefer, in some ways, to go about his business and make the marriage a reality. But his family was not one to merely sit by and allow one of its members to handle such matters on his—these things soon became family affairs. He wouldn’t want his life to be any different.

It was soothing, even when it meant constant interference he would sometimes prefer to do without. He sat back in his chair to answer his sisters’ questions.

Char, of course, wanted specifics. “Alex, is she beautiful? Tell us how she looks.”

He might as well indulge her. “She is very beautiful. Lady Grace has long black curls and eyes so light they are almost the color of ice—and she has the most perfect English rose complexion to her skin. She’s very small, too. I daresay the top of her head would only reach your shoulder, Char.”

She smiled at his description, but begged for more detail. “And does she dress in all the most current fashions?”

Leave it to Char to be more concerned with his bride-to-be’s appearance and clothing than her personality. “You might ask me questions about Lady Grace herself, you know. She’ll be part of our family soon. I am sure you’ll want to know of her interests and talents, wouldn’t you?”

He was needling at her to procure a reaction. Char would love Grace, despite any flaw or affliction she may have. That was simply Char’s nature. But it was also in her nature to want every sort of detail a typical young lady not-quite-out in society ought to want.

She scoffed at his rebuke. “Goodness, of course I want to know those details as well. I would get there in time, you know. You should have a bit more patience with me,” she scolded him, then returned to her previous luster. “So, tell me about Lady Grace’s clothes.” Char leaned forward, her eyes alight.

Alex shook his head at the impertinence he both loved and loathed. “Her clothing—well, I wouldn’t say her gowns are the absolute height of fashion, but they are more than becoming on her. They’re modest, in pretty shades for her complexion. Soft.” He might have told too much with his last comment. If he knew her gowns were soft, he must have touched her. Better keep moving before Char picked up on the hint he’d dropped. “For anything more than that about her attire, you’ll have to observe for yourself. I’ve told you enough on the matter for today. But Char, when I bring Lady Grace to London, you should offer to go on a painting excursion with her. She’s an artist.”

Thinking about watching Grace paint beside the Cary River in Somerton made him wish she was with him now, in London. He missed her company, though she usually was either silent or railing at him.

“Oh, how lovely! Lady Grace and I shall paint together often.” Char’s elation emanated throughout the breakfast room. “When will you bring her to London? I do hope it will be soon.”

Mama joined them in the breakfast room, and Alex was relieved to discover she would change the subject. He had enough on his mind without trying to answer all of his youngest sister’s questions.

When they finished eating, Peter rose from the head of the table. “Alex, might I have a word with you?” Unlike their mother and sisters, Peter seemed less than overjoyed by his news. The duke maintained a dour expression as they moved from the breakfast room to his library.

After the footman closed the door behind them, Peter seated himself behind his desk. “Have a seat.” Once Alex complied, he continued. “Do you know what you’re doing here? Have you met Chatham before? He is not the most honorable man.” Peter rubbed his fingers across his chin. “There have been rumors about your intended.”

Alex’s ears perked up, but he refrained from reacting too soon. “I’ve not met Chatham before.” Did he want to know the specific rumors? He wasn’t certain. He stared out the open window and listened to raindrops hit the panes of glass for several moments. “What sort of rumors? Rumors about her being compromised before she left London?” He prayed that was the worst of it.

“More than just compromised.”

Alex’s head shot up.

Peter held his gaze. “Lord Barrow made some claims one night at White’s, not long before she left Town. Rumors of her compromise at his hands had already been making their way through the gossip mill. His assertions added fuel to the flame. He claims that she initiated the act. He implied that she is fast—loose.”

“Barrow?” Alex roared in pain, his only thought revenge. This was not his first encounter with the man, not by any means. “The bloody, licentious bastard, I’ll have him drawn and—”

“Wait, Alex.” Agony flooded Peter’s face.

Alex’s anger subsided by a degree, only to be replaced by fear. “There’s more?” He didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Barrow absconded from the country. He has been gone since the day after he made his claims at White’s. No one knows where he went this time, nor do they know when to expect his return. Added to the gossip already floating about her after the broken engagement with Walsingham…well, it’s not a pretty picture. Things don’t look good for your Lady Grace.”

Alex seethed in silence, ruminating over the information.

After several moments, Peter continued. “And there is more yet.”

“More? How can there be more? By Jove, is this not enough?” He could think of nothing more than his desire to draw Barrow’s cork, if not something more extreme than that. When he looked at his brother again, there was pity in his eyes.

“Chatham. He’s been making waves.”

“What in bloody hell does that mean?” Who cared about Chatham when Barrow needed to be dealt with?

“He’s acting as though Lady Grace has been kidnapped. He claims to have the Bow Street Runners on the case, though I’m not certain that I would believe him.” Peter rubbed his chin absentmindedly again. “Does she seem at all uncomfortable with where she is? Is there any reason to believe she has been taken against her will?”

Was she uncomfortable? Kidnapped? “No. No, I don’t believe that could be true. But, wait…” Sir Laurence had suggested Alex take her to Gretna Greene.

“Wait, what?”

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Peter raised a brow, but said nothing.

Even if it were something, Alex needed to discover the truth on his own. No reason to have Peter suspecting an innocent couple of wrongdoing. Besides, Grace had arrived on the coach alone. No one brought her to Somerton. No, she hadn’t been kidnapped. So what was Chatham’s game? What did he hope to accomplish?

Several moments passed in silence. “Alex, do you know if it is true? Barrow has a reputation for fabricating stories to suit his purposes. He could have only wanted to ruin Lady Grace, though what purpose her ruin might serve for him, I don’t know.”

It took a moment for what Peter asked to sink in. “It’s true. I don’t know all of the circumstances, but I do know he tells the truth about the act having occurred.” He would be bowled over if Grace was the only innocent he had ruined, based on what he knew of the man.

He moved his chair away from the hearth then resumed his seat. He felt over-warm with the adrenaline coursing through him. Alex trusted Peter more than nearly anyone else in his acquaintance, so he delved deeper into his suspicions. “She may have been ravaged. She won’t tell me.”

Peter nodded slowly. “I was afraid of that. I wouldn’t put even worse crimes past Barrow. I don’t trust the bastard as far as I can throw him.”

Tell me about it.

Silence blanketed the room again, as the brothers determined their next step. The duke was the first to speak again. “You mustn’t waste time. Go to Chatham this morning. Do whatever you must to convince him to give his consent.” Peter paused for a beat. “He hasn’t protected his daughter well, has he?”

Alex imagined one of his own sisters in the circumstance Grace had been thrown into. “Not well at all. I’m afraid for her. Her reputation—” He couldn’t continue.

“Do you love her? Truly love her?” Peter’s marriage had been loveless, and Alex knew his brother didn’t want any of his siblings to suffer a similar fate.

“We’ll make a good marriage of it, Peter. I’ll be certain of that, if nothing else.”

He didn’t love Grace, did he? He was attracted to her. He found her amusing. But love? Alex didn’t think it possible after such a short period of time. Love needed to be nourished, encouraged, grown. It did not happen overnight.

“You do that. Work hard at it. She’s your responsibility now. You have a duty to at least try to love her.” Peter stood and walked to the window before turning back to him. “I have some business I must take care of this afternoon. Lord Rotheby plans to handle his affairs today as well. I’ll be taking him with me. And this evening, we’ve all accepted an invitation to attend a ball at Yardley Court. Mama insists you also attend.”

Alex joined his brother at the window. “I’ll visit Chatham House.” He had no desire to attend a ton ball this evening. Too many cares weighed on his mind. Besides, Grace wouldn’t be there. If he attended, he would have to dance and talk and make merry with the ladies, all the while thinking solely of another.

“And the ball? Don’t disappoint Mama. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” A cheeky grin softened Peter’s words.

He sighed. “Yes, I will attend the ball. Though I make no promises about enjoying myself.” It would be much easier to suffer through the dancing and entertainment if Chatham agreed to his offer. He hoped that would be the case.

It would be easier still if Barrow appeared and he could take matters into his own hands.

Aunt Dorothea and Grace worked on their embroidery together in the morning room of New Hill Cottage. They had finished their week’s stay in Bath early and traveled home. The carriage was so full of boxes and packages that Uncle Laurence had decided to ride his horse instead of enjoying the conversation of the two women (which primarily consisted of the solitary conversation of his wife).

Several days had passed since Lord Rotheby had quit Bath for London with Lord Alexander, and Uncle Laurence found he had enjoyed more than enough of the ladies’ company for such a short period of time.

Grace would never find a need for all of the purchases her aunt and uncle made for her. They bought her morning dresses, afternoon dresses, evening dresses, ball gowns—even riding habits! She had never ridden a horse before, and didn’t think it a wise endeavor to try to learn the skill while carrying a babe. Of course, the dresses were not enough for her aunt. She had ribbons and bonnets, pelisses, parasols, and so many other items to accompany her wardrobe, she had difficulty in keeping it all straight.

They hadn’t bought only one wardrobe for her, either. Aunt Dorothea thought it imperative that Grace have enough of each of these articles to suffice during each stage of her pregnancy. They wouldn’t ask poor Tess to continually let out her clothing—no, that would be far too much work for the young lady’s maid. After all, Tess must tend to all of Grace’s needs while her lady was with child.

So Aunt Dorothea bought clothing of all sizes for Grace, in every imaginable color, and in fabrics appropriate for every season.

Grace had tried to protest, telling her aunt she was more than capable of doing her own mending and letting out—she had done both her own and her father’s for a number of years, after all. No need for Tess to be put out by the workload.

Aunt Dorothea found the idea laughable.

Then Grace had argued she wouldn’t need riding habits, since she didn’t ride. Neither would she need ball gowns, as she intended to avoid all such future engagements—especially during her confinement. She also wouldn’t need separate morning and afternoon and evening dresses, since she did not intend to be out in company. Aunt Dorothea hadn’t dignified these arguments with a response. So Grace had returned to New Hill Cottage with more items than could possibly fit in her chamber.

They had been home, as Grace now thought of New Hill, for two days. She spent her days working on embroidery with her aunt, or digging up weeds in the gardens with Uncle Laurence. Some days she read novels, though she took great care to keep them hidden from Aunt Dorothea, since the older woman found them highly scandalous.

More and more often, nausea caused Grace to limit herself to her chamber. Sometimes, Tess kept her company, while other times she preferred to be alone. When around people, Grace put on a brave face. She smiled and laughed and talked, but she rarely found joy in life anymore.

But when she was alone, she sometimes cried and didn’t quite know why. She had heard women often became overly emotional when they were with child, and hoped that might explain her sadness. Some deep part of her knew better.

The truth was that she missed Lord Alexander. She’d spent one night in his arms. She’d allowed herself to experience an act with him she believed she would never come to know. And now he was gone, at her insistence.

Yes, he had offered her marriage. She’d been sorely tempted to accept. But in the end, she had done for him what was right and honorable by refusing his offer.

Now she wished she could change her answer.

Grace had no right to want such a thing. He had made the offer, only because of the expectations of society. Lord Alexander had felt honor-bound to offer for her. Nothing more. And she had refused him as was her right and prerogative

No great feeling existed on his side…certainly nothing more than a simple curiosity. She couldn’t allow him to bind himself irrevocably to her and her unborn child, which he did not even know would soon exist, when he so clearly felt no deep feelings for her.

Her heavy heart made her tearful again, and she set aside her embroidery with an audible sigh.

“Gracie, sweetheart, is something the matter?” Aunt Dorothea looked up from her embroidery work.

“No, Aunt. Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t feel quite the thing.” Perhaps a lie would keep the woman from puttering about her. “I believe I’ll take a nap, if that is all right.”

“Of course, dear. You must get plenty of rest, I’ve been telling you this all along. Go on, now. Have Tess take care of you.”

“I will, Aunt Dorothea.” She placed her thimble, needle, and threads in a small chest, and headed upstairs.

When she arrived at her chamber though, she decided not to rest. She needed to paint—she needed to work through the emotions that had plagued her since the trip to Bath, the emotions continually stirred up by thoughts of Lord Alexander. She needed to find release.

Grace collected her easel, paints, brushes, and other supplies. She sneaked down the servants’ staircase and out the side door through the kitchen, so as not to be caught by either her aunt or uncle.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sky was overcast again. She lugged her tools through the gardens a good distance, separating herself from the cottage. Heaven forbid if a servant should catch a glimpse of her and then notify Aunt Dorothea. She needed peace and quiet to create.

After a short hike, she settled on a location in a clearing. Open space and wind surrounded her, but little else. Setting up her easel and canvas, she selected her angle. Up ahead was a hill dotted with foxgloves and clover, with a few ancient willow trees scattered throughout. The darkened sky juxtaposed well against the scene.

Peace descended over her as soon as she set to work. She tried not to think as she painted, but wanted to let the images flow from her hands, through the brushes, and onto the canvas.

Things did not work out quite as she planned.

As she painted, the scene on her canvas took on a life of its own; it looked nothing like the sight before her eyes. Neatly organized flowers, water fountains, and sculptures sat in a garden of roses in every hue. She heard the sound of water tinkling in the fountains and the call of a bird from a nearby tree that grew just outside the area of the garden she painted.

Grace’s curiosity rose as she marveled over painting something she could not see before her. Still, the garden sat clear in her mind. She saw every tiny detail, right down to the blush pink dog rose he placed in her hair.

Pink dog rose.

Memory poured over her as she continued to paint the scene from Lord Rotheby’s rose gardens—the place where Lord Alexander had first kissed her. Grace flushed, thinking of his kiss, his hands, his scent—that woodsy, clean male scent so unlike any other.

Then she thought about the morning kiss in the Pump Room, when she was so angry with him—and angry with herself, if she was honest—when she had returned his passion for just a moment before striking him. Her flush deepened. The fierceness of her paint strokes intensified; her hands worked seemingly of their own accord.

Then her thoughts turned to their encounter in the gardens outside the Assembly Room. Her body tightened—a liquid pull to her center—in response to the memory of his lovemaking.

Grace no longer saw the canvas. She saw only Lord Alexander as he pressed into her from above. She could almost feel the pressure of his strong thighs against hers, the supple texture of his mouth on her own. She shuddered in her need.

A clap of thunder overhead pulled her back to the present. Blast! Grace ought to return to the house before she was drenched by the oncoming storm. She took a quick glance at the canvas. No one had touched it other than her, yet she didn’t recognize it as her own creation.

The rose gardens of Roundstone Park danced before her. Where the last time she had painted, her creation had evoked darkness, danger, and a foreboding evil, this piece conjured something more sensual, more carnal.

The roses displayed their fertility. Branches and leaves beckoned the viewer closer to recline in their arms. She could almost smell the flowers’ essence—heady and musky and verdant. But the fresh scent of rain in the air severed her appraisal of the painting, and she rushed to collect all of her utensils before the summer rainstorm ruined her work. With arms overflowing, she trekked to the kitchen doors of New Hill Cottage, arriving just as the clouds released their deluge.

Mrs. Finchley gawked at Grace as she rushed inside, barely escaping the downpour. “My lady, gracious heavens! What on earth have you been doing outside? You could have been caught in this storm. I daresay you would catch a chill if you had!”

The housekeeper puttered about the kitchen as she took most of the items Grace carried and set them aside. “Did my Tess know you were out from the house? That girl! She ought to look after you better.”

Mrs. Finchley rang for a footman to carry Grace’s load up the stairs to her bedchamber before pouring her some tea. “And that wind, my lady, why it is biting cold today. You may come down with fever yet. Drink this now, and then Tess shall take you above stairs for a rest.”

It was pointless to argue with the servant. Truth be told, she was worn out after her excursion. Creating this piece had both exhilarated and exhausted her, all at once.

She sipped from her tea as Mrs. Finchley fetched a blanket from a nearby sitting room and wrapped it about her shoulders. When Tess arrived, Grace allowed herself to be led to her chamber, undressed, and placed between the sheets.

Grace slept—but she dreamed of the arms of an auburn-haired man wrapped about her.

The rain still had not let up by that afternoon as Alex descended from one of Peter’s carriages and looked up at Chatham House. He would have preferred to take his curricle, but that would force him to arrive with his clothes drenched from the storm, so he’d thought better of it.

The gardens were unkempt and in shambles. Shutters flopped about in the wind on broken hinges. Overgrown moss and vines snaked up Grecian columns, masking cracks in need of repair. The windows of the house were all shuttered, save those whose shutters hung limp from the walls. Gloom settled over the entire structure.

He climbed the ancient stairs that led to the door and thought of how life must have been for Grace as she grew up in such a place. Alex imagined his niece and nephew tromping through the gardens and shuddered. They would trip over weeds, if not worse.

This was no place for a child.

Alex rapped against the heavy entryway and waited. And waited.

And continued to wait some more.

He reached up to knock again, just as a bedraggled servant pulled the door open. The man squinted at him against the cloud-covered daylight that fought to break through. Inside the hall, darkness abounded.

“My lord. How may I be of service?” The old butler’s tone suggested he had no desire to be of any service to anyone whatsoever.

Alex reached inside his coat and retrieved his calling card. As he passed it to the butler, he said “I wish to call upon the marquess, if he is in. Please inform him of my arrival.” He waited for the man to do his bidding.

The servant glanced at Alex’s card with a scowl before stepping back and ushering him inside out of the rain. “Wait here,” he said as he hobbled off, a slight limp detectable in his gait.

As he waited in the dim light, Alex observed his surroundings. A thick layer of dust covered the tables and floor, and the rugs were in need of a good cleaning. None of the usual decorative touches he would expect of a man of the marquess’s station graced the walls; no paintings or mirrors or vases of fresh spring flowers brightened the room. The furnishings were sparse and worn, and had likely been in place for generations.

Finally, the old butler returned. “His lordship will see you now. Follow me.” He stepped gingerly toward what Alex assumed to be Chatham’s library while Alex followed behind. No footman awaited their arrival to swing the doors wide, so the doors stood open. The butler waived him inside, without making the effort to announce him.

Chatham glared at him from his seat behind a decrepit desk. The man was likely in his forties, but he looked much older. Only a small amount of wiry, grey hair wisped over his head, his scalp shining even in the poor candlelight. He had a ruddy complexion, whether from anger, drink, or hard living, Alex couldn’t determine. Stains blanketed the marquess’s rumpled clothes.

Alex inclined his head in greeting.

Chatham remained seated and took another swallow from his glass. “Lord Alexander, I understand you have been dallying with my daughter. Word travels fast, you know. You would do well to stay away from her.”

“You’re misinformed, my lord. Dalliance is the furthest thing from my mind in relation to Lady Grace. I am afraid I shall be unable to concede to your request. I’ve no intention of avoiding her.” Not any more, at least. Alex waited for a moment before continuing, attempting to ascertain the older man’s level of drunkenness. “I assume you refer to a kiss at the Pump Room?”

He hoped the marquess’s informant, whoever the bastard may be, hadn’t witnessed the latter incident outside the Assembly Room—though such a revelation might, in actuality, serve to aid his cause.

“Yes. Though I wonder why you question me on that. Is there something else I’ve yet to hear?” Chatham gazed at him through heavily lidded eyes. “Nevertheless, stay away from Grace. As things stand, I’ve already discovered her whereabouts and have ordered her aunt and uncle to return her to me in London at once. Should they not comply, I’ll involve the authorities. Kidnapping is no trifling matter, you know.” Chatham’s expression dimmed, turning sinister. “They’ll all stay here, at Chatham House, where I can forestall her further exposure to gossip and scandal and where I can be certain the Kensingtons face justice.”

Alex didn’t waver in his resolve. “I will not stay away from her.” His voice dropped. “I have come to request your permission to marry your daughter.” He paused as the marquess glowered at him, measuring his words cautiously. “You’re obviously aware that I’ve compromised her. I intend to make things right for her, so she won’t suffer ostracism. Allow me to give her the protection of my name.”

“Ha! You young pup, you aren’t the first to compromise my daughter, as you so carefully termed it.” Spittle flew from Chatham’s mouth and his voice rose. “There can be no other reason she would have left—I mean, no other reason she would have been taken from me. I suppose her aunt and uncle felt they would protect her better than I have, yet they were poorly mistaken, weren’t they? Your presence here proves it.”

Alex held his temper in check. “I’ve done more than compromise your daughter. She may well be increasing.” As much as he would prefer to avoid admitting this facet of their connection, he knew he must do whatever it took to obtain Chatham’s permission. He would marry Grace.

“That’s no concern. She’ll marry Lord Barrow as soon as it can all be arranged. He’s made quite a settlement on me for her. The man has a goodly portion.” The bastard looked pleased with himself.

“A settlement? Barrow will pay you for her?” Disgust and fury boiled under his skin at the idea of Grace being sold. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He wouldn’t.

“She is quite a prize, don’t you agree? After Barrow tasted her treats once, he even raised his offer.” The fire had burned down and Chatham rubbed his hands together. “Oh dear, you didn’t believe you were the first to have had Grace, did you? She can’t carry your child, as she already carried his before you met her.” Chatham tsked and tutted in condescension. “You are absolved of at least that one crime. He’ll now pay more than the Duke of Walsingham had offered. So whatever you may want, Lord Alexander, she won’t be yours.”

She was already pregnant. Before they met. It all started to make sense in his mind.

Why she was unfit to marry him.

Why she had tried so hard to avoid him.

Why she refused his proposal.

He was crestfallen. It had nothing to do with a dislike of him, but only with her shame and fears.

His determination multiplied. “I’ll double Barrow’s current offer, whatever the price may be.” His stomach revolted at the thought, but he saw no alternative.

Chatham perked up, but still scowled from across his desk.

“I have a sizeable fortune, as well. My brother has provided well for our entire family. Money is no object to me.”

The marquess raised a cheroot from his desk to his mouth, chewing on the end. Minutes ticked off, and still he did not respond. Alex thought an eternity would pass him by before the marquess finally spoke. His anger toward the man grew with each passing moment of silence.

“The answer is still no. Grace will obtain a title, and I’ll become aligned with the Earl of Barrow through her marriage. He has ample estates,” Chatham gave a pointed look at Alex, “of which I understand you have none. Likewise, you have no title. Allow me to show you the door.” Chatham stood behind his dilapidated desk and moved to escort Alex out.

Alex shook from the violence groveling at him for release. The bastard would sell Grace. To Barrow. “How soon? When will their marriage take place?” He needed time. Perhaps he could overtake the Kensingtons along the road to London and take her to Gretna Greene like her uncle had suggested.

Chatham’s eyes narrowed. “That, again, is none of your concern. Do yourself a favor, Hardwicke. Forget her.”

“Forget her. Forget her? You bloody bastard, have you no concern for your daughter at all? You would sell her to Barrow—for what? What purpose does it serve?” He kept his fists clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t strike the man before he good and well earned it. He would not give the blockhead the satisfaction of striking first. “She doesn’t care about a title. And she doesn’t wish to marry Barrow. You cannot think he would be a better husband for her than I am. You cannot think he could make her happy—could be a good father for her child.”

“Whether he will be a good father or not is irrelevant, since he is the father. I don’t care how he treats them.” Chatham reached again for the bottle and poured more into his glass until it overflowed, seemingly oblivious to the mess he created. “She will marry him and then she will be his problem. Not mine. Now leave.”

Before the marquess could move around the desk, Alex spun on his heels and marched out the door, fuming his way to the carriage.

He would find a way to marry Grace. He must. No way would he allow Barrow to place one more finger on her, let alone on the child. It would be his child, by Jove.