As Grace and her aunt and uncle finished their tea, the messenger once again knocked at the door to Uncle Laurence’s townhouse on Curzon Street. He guided the man inside, and nausea swept over Grace when she recognized him. Her trembling had to be visible. Had he found Father?

“What else have you discovered?” Uncle Laurence asked. “Have you found Chatham?”

“I’ve not found Lord Chatham yet, no sir. But I can tell you more of his dealings last night.” The messenger looked eager to continue, but waited for a signal from Uncle Laurence. “You see, he was not only seen with the Earl of Barrow at the ball, but he also spoke with the Duke of Somerton.”

Grace felt faint. The Duke of Somerton? But he was Lord Alexander’s brother. Why would Father have spoken with him? And was the earl involved too?

“Some say he left with the duke, but others weren’t so certain.” He pulled out a paper and passed it to her uncle. “There’s His Grace’s address. He may be able to give you more information.”

“Excellent. You’ve done good work today.” Uncle Laurence passed the messenger a fistful of coins. “If you discover anything else, let me know immediately.”

He closed the door behind the messenger and turned to Grace and Aunt Dorothea. “Well I suppose we should pay a visit to the Duke of Somerton then. It’s not yet too late for a social call, and I’ve not seen the man in far too long. It has been years since he resided at Somerton Court.”

“But Uncle,” Grace said, then faltered. What had she intended to say? She scrounged for something to say. Anything at all, really. “Wouldn’t it be better if you paid the call to His Grace by yourself? Aunt Dorothea and I can stay here. Surely someone ought to wait for more news from your messenger, or possibly for Father to arrive here looking for me.” They looked astounded by her scrambling. “And won’t His Grace be put out by having so many visitors arrive without an invitation? Surely only one of us would be better.”

Her reasoning was paltry even in her own estimation, but she wanted desperately to avoid the duke. He was bound to remind her of Lord Alexander. Something she would far prefer to avoid.

Or even worse, Lord Alexander could be there with his brother. She hadn’t seen him since he left Bath, and all indications pointed to his having returned to London with Lord Rotheby. She missed him more than she ever imagined possible. But seeing him again would only give her hope when truly, she had none. Her future had been decided.

And the possibility of seeing both Lord Alexander and her father together—Grace would prefer not to even think of that.

“Now why would you think it better to call on Lord Somerton without us, Gracie?” asked her aunt. “What fustian nonsense. No, we shall all visit the duke together. I daresay he would ask after us if we weren’t there. Certainly he’s aware you’ve been staying with us. After all, he is Lord Alexander’s brother you know, and we’ve been friendly with his family for quite some time.”

Yes, Grace knew.

“And it is a perfectly acceptable hour for all of us to pay a social call. He won’t be put out at all. Really, your father has done you a great disservice by keeping you so sheltered all this time. One might think you had no understanding of society whatsoever.”

As usual, there could be no arguing with Aunt Dorothea. Grace resigned herself to something she would far prefer to avoid. She didn’t dare feign optimism at the task, and feared her dread of the impending meeting showed on her face.

The combination of longing and trepidation grew as she secured her bonnet. She must be daft to experience so many emotions—conflicting emotions, at that—all over a simple visit, a mere social call.

They boarded Uncle Laurence’s carriage. A visit to the Duke of Somerton would wait for no one, after all.

For the entire journey there, Grace could not bring herself to look at either her aunt or uncle. She dreaded walking in to the Hardwicke family home and seeing a room full of people who all looked like Lord Alexander. Had he not once told her they were all uncommonly tall, and all bore some shade of ginger in their hair? And there were so many of them.

Really, if she must meet the man’s family, would it not be better to do it an individual at a time? But why must she meet them at all, since she had refused his pursuit? This was all highly bothersome.

As the carriage rounded the corner, a home far grander and more regal than her father’s London home came into view. Number three, Grosvenor Square stood tall and proud. White Grecian columns stood as sentinels next around Palladian porticos and tall, arched windows. The gardens were precise rows of color situated against the backdrop of soft grey stone and brick. This home would rival even the most elaborate country homes such as she’d seen in Somerton and Bath in elegance, if not in size.

She felt thoroughly insignificant next to it—much as she was doomed to feel in the presence of its inhabitants.

His Grace must be quite an imposing figure, indeed, to own such a lavish residence in Town. Images of ton balls held here, like the one she had attended last Season, flashed through her mind, filled with all the glittering extravagance her imagination could muster. Such an event held here would be immaculate, perfect—everything in its place, no detail missed, nothing forgotten. It would be exquisite.

She admonished herself for daydreaming of things she would never see. A ball at Hardwicke House? With her presence? Grace pushed the thought as far aside as she could manage.

As they pulled to a stop before the structure, a tall man dashed out. Was it him? Could it be Lord Alexander? Tingles of pleasure and trepidation coursed through her body and the air around her felt alive. But before she could determine his identity, he was gone.

“Gracie, are you ready dear?” Her uncle held out a hand to her from the street, where both he and her aunt already stood.

Before she could respond, she snapped shut her jaw. She must remain composed. “Yes, of course.” She allowed Uncle Laurence to hand her down from the carriage and to lead her to the entryway of the glorious house. The house she wanted anything but to draw nearer to. The house she most certainly did not want to enter. Her legs propelled her forward, but she felt almost as though she were floating, as though her body had taken over since her mind wouldn’t quite cooperate.

Perhaps that had been one of his brothers. Or perhaps it was him, and his leaving meant she wouldn’t have to face him. Facing just his family would be enough of a trial. If only she could decide whether she wanted the man to be him or not. This indecisiveness might be the death of her.

Before she could make up her mind, they were being escorted into the house and led through stately hallways until they arrived at a dining room. A lovely dining room. Perhaps the most beautiful dining room she had ever seen, filled with silk fabrics hanging over the windows and covering the furnishings, in rich colors that beckoned to her, and a huge table that would easily seat fifty people without batting an eye.

Of course it was also filled with people. Her head was still in a fog, and she found it difficult to concentrate or to look at these strangers and determine who they were and if any of them happened to be Lord Alexander.

Her hand was taken by another—a soft, female hand—which then guided her to a seat. So she sat. And realized that her mouth must be gaping open, yet again, even though she had firmly shut it before dismounting her uncle’s carriage.

Voices rang out all around her: a loud, aggressive male voice, a sharp, forceful female voice, one very calm masculine voice. They all blended together before things shifted into focus.

“She is a whore!” Father. Father was here. With Lord Alexander’s family. He is here. “Grace, you will come with me this instant. I swear on your mother’s grave—”

No, she couldn’t go with him. She tried to speak, but no sound came out.

“You are not taking this girl anywhere, my lord, so you may force that idea from your blithering head this instant.” The female voice. Grace looked about, trying to find the speaker.

An older woman stood before her, tall and regal with the most glorious head of rich, auburn hair Grace had ever seen, tinged with only a few streaks of grey. She had a look of determination on her face that would have cowed an army as she stood before Father, towering over him, hands fisted against her hips and swords slashing through her eyes. This woman held herself with the bearing of a goddess, or perhaps the Queen.

“His Grace has informed me that you are his guest because the Prince of Wales has made the request, and so you’ll not be taking one single, solitary step outside. Is that clear?” She paused only long enough to receive a curt nod from Grace’s father. “And to top that, since your daughter has come into my home, she is my guest and may stay as long as she sees fit. You, sir, have no say in the matter.” He stammered to interrupt, so she added: “None!”

The goddess-woman had not finished. Grace could only stare in amazement that anyone would dare to speak to her father in this way. What she wouldn’t give to have the courage to do so herself.

“Furthermore, you will never use that word in my presence again. Have I made myself understood? Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what word I speak of, and do not ever use it again in reference to your daughter. Your own daughter! How could—how could—augh!” She shuddered in anger, but took only a moment from her diatribe.

Grace couldn’t bear to take her eyes from the woman for long, but she took a brief glance about the room during that time, now that her vision had cleared again. Two young ladies, similar in age to herself, with varying shades of red in their hair sat about the table. Aunt Dorothea and Uncle Laurence had taken seats at the end of the table, opposite of Father and the older woman, next to Lord Rotheby. Aunt Dorothea winked when she caught Grace’s eye. Two men with reddish hair and two others with dark hair completed the party. They must be Lord Alexander’s family. Except, perhaps, for the dark-haired men. She searched her mind for a moment, trying to place them amongst the siblings, but to no avail.

They all stared, transfixed, upon the very same exchange she’d been observing for the last several minutes. Not upset, per se, but rather engaged.

Lord Alexander was nowhere to be seen. Good. Or was it bad?

There was no time to debate. The goddess had recomposed herself and pushed forward. “You call yourself a father? You arrogant, impertinent fool.”

Father looked to take exception to being called a fool, but she would not be deterred, and she allowed no one to interrupt.

“And what is this bag of moonshine you’ve directed toward Sir Laurence and Lady Kensington? Of all the blasphemous faradiddle, that just about takes the cake. It is plain to see that these two could not hurt a fly if they tried, so I call your bluff. Poppycock! No one kidnapped anyone, and I’ll hear no more of it. It seems to me, based on the way you speak to your daughter, that she would have been ridiculous and absurdly foolish to stay with you. She left you, Lord Chatham. She ran away. Is that not the truth of it, Lady Grace?”

The fullness of the formidable woman’s gaze fell on Grace, along with the eyes of everyone else in the room. Even Father. She slunk down into her seat and wished she could burrow a hole to the Indies or the Americas or somewhere else—anywhere else—but there.

She had to be Lord Alexander’s mother. Mustn’t she? “Er, Your Grace, that is, well. Yes? Yes. I did. I left on my own.” After a few words came out with no major disasters smiting her down, she gained a touch of courage, turning her gaze to rest fully on her father. “I went by coach to Aunt Dorothea and Uncle Laurence’s home in Somerton and they were gracious enough to allow me to stay with them. They’ve done no wrong. You must drop your unfounded charges against them at once.” Good God, where had that come from? She had issued her father a command.

Might as well continue while she still had breath. “And as Her Grace said, I won’t be going anywhere with you. Ever again.”

“That’s right! She can stay with us,” said Aunt Dorothea, apparently unable to completely bite her tongue.

Grace passed her aunt a smile before she turned to the duchess and nodded. She wished, for the briefest of moments, she could interpret the look on the older woman’s face. Reverence? Acceptance?

“Well, I suppose that’s settled then,” the duchess said. “Shall we move on to what I find to be the greater concern here, Lord Chatham?” As she turned her gaze away from Grace and back to her father, it shifted to the cold, steely determination from before. “Which, of course, would be your treatment of your daughter. I realize that, as her father and her guardian, you are certainly entitled by law to do with the poor girl as you see fit. But really, sir, some things are simply beyond the pale. Where has all of this come from?”

Her posture demanded a response.

“You dare to question me in this manner, yet I am the impertinent one?” Father’s chin quivered, belying his show of bravado.

“Lord Chatham,” came the calm, smooth voice of the man nearest her father. This must be the duke himself. “You would be well advised to answer my mother when she asks you a question. And if you insult Her Grace again, or any of the ladies present for that matter, I shall take it upon myself to teach you a lesson in manners.” He never raised his voice much higher than a whisper, forcing her to lean closer to hear his words. But his quiet demeanor disguised a grim resolve she had no desire to test.

Father’s eyes narrowed, but he only followed it with, “Indeed.”

“So? Go on.”

He harrumphed and fidgeted and shifted his eyes about, but the dowager would not back down.

“Very well. What was your question?” Of course, Father couldn’t make this confrontation easy. Grace was, at least somewhat, hoping he wouldn’t answer. Hearing the truth of why he had so mistreated her might be too much to tolerate.

“Whatever could give you cause to cast such dubious names upon your one and only daughter, your flesh and blood, your child whom you should protect and love and cherish?”

His eyes settled on Grace, full of hatred and unbridled anger. She cast her own to the floor and took deep, rapid breaths, hoping to staunch a flood of tears.

“That whore—”

The duke was out of his chair and across the room faster than Grace could react. He pulled Father from his seat and slammed him against the wall. The crack of Father’s skull reverberated in the room. He hung, suspended by the younger man’s grip on the collar of his coat, his feet dangling a few inches above the floor.

“You have been warned, Chatham.”

Father stared up at Lord Somerton’s teeth, which had not even moved when he spoke, trembling like a small child.

“I ap—apologize. It will not happen again.” Words rushed from his mouth. “Please, please put me down. I promise to mind my language.”

Lord Somerton dropped him and he fell like an overused doll to the floor.

Seemingly unfazed by any of the happenings, the dowager walked over to where Father sat. She took a chair nearby. “Where does all of this anger stem from? Surely she couldn’t have done anything so terrible to cause all of this.”

“Her? Grace?” Father spat out the words. “Grace has likely done nothing so terribly wrong, at least if you disregard her having run from home and then whatever misguided affairs she has carried on with your Lord Alexander. No, it has nothing to do with her, but with what she is not.”

“What am I not?” She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until all eyes turned to her again.

“What are you not? You aren’t a boy, for one thing. You cannot be my heir.” Venom filled his words.

“I cannot help that, Father.” Could he really hate her for that?

“Oh, but that’s not all. You are also not your mother, but you look like her. You have her hair, her skin. Her eyes. You look more like her every day. I can’t bear to look upon you.” Was that a tear forming in his eye? Surely not.

“Lord Chatham, why does it hurt you so much to have your daughter bear the resemblance of your wife?” The dowager’s voice was soft, kind. Almost motherly.

“Because after Grace was born, her mother would have nothing to do with me. The trollop carried on affairs with half the ton, and then she contracted an illness and died from it.” Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, and his usually ruddy face was blisteringly purple. “Because I was never good enough for her mother, so she can never be good enough for me.”

Something propelled Grace forward, across the room, to hand her father a handkerchief. She stood there, before him, watching him with something akin to pity. All these years, he had pushed her away and wasted his life, all because she looked like her mother and reminded him of his own pains.

He reached for her, and she backed away out of instinct. As she took her step backward, she bumped into a very tall, very male body.

“Oh! Pardon me.” When she looked up, the duke reached out to steady her and then moved her off to the side, where she was suddenly surrounded by all of the Hardwicke siblings present. One of the sisters took her hand and patted the back of it reassuringly.

“You do realize, of course,” the dowager continued, “that you’ve been quite wrong to mistreat your daughter because of your own grief.”

He blubbered and sniffled and wiped the handkerchief across his face, making an even bigger mess of things. “I know!”

“You cannot change the past, Lord Chatham. But you can change the future.”

“But how? I’ve made a true muck of her life, haven’t I?” He looked only at the dowager, not at anyone else in the room, least of all Grace.

“She won’t return with you. She’s made herself abundantly clear on that matter, and I daresay she’s made the proper decision there. I’ll certainly support her in that endeavor.”

“As shall I,” said the duke.

“And I,” came from one of the dark-haired men.

“I believe you know, Chatham, where I stand on the matter.” Uncle Laurence remained seated with the earl and Aunt Dorothea, but he insisted upon being heard.

The other Hardwicke brother said nothing, but formed one hand into a fist and punched it against the other.

“So it seems Lady Grace has two options. She can return to Somerton under the care and supervision of her aunt and uncle—”

Father scoffed. “They have obviously not supervised her too closely now, have they?”

Lord Somerton spoke so softly Grace was uncertain she’d properly made his words out, but it sounded something like, “And your supervision has been better, then?”

The dowager continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “Or she can marry Alex. Of course, I’m sure you can see the latter option would be the far better course of action for her reputation, since she has been quite the subject of all the latest on dits here, and I would imagine in Bath, and likely in a number of other places across the country. And if you truly have the intention of making her future better than her past has been, then I would suggest you consider everything that is best for her.”

But she couldn’t marry Lord Alexander. She’d refused him. He deserved better. “But—” Her voice broke off on a sob. The sister holding her hand pulled her in for a tight hug and the other girl joined them, patting her on the back, rubbing a hand over her hair.

“I believe the young ladies have heard enough of this, don’t you agree?” the dowager asked the group as a whole. “Lord Sinclaire, would you be so kind as to escort them all to the drawing room? And the Kensingtons too, if you’d like. I’ll order tea served, and Peter, Lord Chatham, and I will join you once this business has been settled. Neil, you go along with them.”

The woman effectively shooed them all on their way, the two Hardwicke sisters practically holding Grace up as they walked. They settled in and a cup of tea was pressed into her hands where she sat near the hearth. She didn’t know whether she drank. She could only think of one thing.

She would be married to Lord Alexander, if she could not find a way to stop it from happening. But surely, the dowager and the Duke of Somerton would convince Father. He would think it his best course of action. How could he not?

But how could she allow it to happen? Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful mess.

People came and went from the drawing room, conversation went on all around her, but she paid it no mind. Not until Father came in.

He looked at her, his eyes filled with sadness and guilt and maybe a touch of fear. He nodded with resolute fervor.

And she knew.

He rode Sampson through Rotten Row. Alex needed to clear his head, and nothing short of a neck-or-nothing jaunt would do.

The fashionable hour wouldn’t arrive for several hours, which suited him. Company would only serve to aggravate him more, and constant interruptions to socialize and gossip would surely cause his head to explode. A few ladies and gentlemen were out and about, taking some air in the park. The Row, however, was deserted in general, and those who were there seemed content to ignore him.

Alex spurred his horse again. The wind created by their run pushed his beaver hat back from his head, but he didn’t care. The hat floated away behind him. He knew not where it landed. Really, what did something so frivolous matter in the grand scheme of life?

More than ever before, he wanted to marry Grace.

Of course, all the prior reasons were still in place. He had compromised her virtue, had been intimate with her—and while she did not carry his child, she certainly carried a child. A child who would need a father. A child he would love.

But now, there was something more.

Grace could never go back to her father. He couldn’t allow it. Alex tried to imagine what her childhood must have been like with a father who would call her a whore. How could the man care so little for his daughter, for a child of his own flesh?

But clearly Chatham was capable of unspeakable atrocity. Alex knew this. The man had been prepared to marry Grace off to Barrow, after all, a man who quite possibly was a traitor to the crown. A man who may have ravished Grace.

Alex shuddered.

At least he would no longer need to worry about Grace’s future with Barrow. The Regent would see to it that the bastard would never step foot outside of prison walls alive again.

Cool air heavy with the scent of rain whipped his hair about his head. He heard nothing but the clop of Sampson’s hooves against the hard dirt. Alex dug his spurs into the horse’s side, urging him to more and more speed, the possibility of rain be damned. Wind against his face was exactly what he needed to clear his mind.

How could he change Chatham’s mind? There must be a way.

Alex had a fortune, thanks to his brother. He would someday have property, whether through inheritance from Gil or through his own purchase. He could provide the marquess with a connection to the Duke of Somerton, one of the most powerful men in all of England.

What more could he want?

Without question, Chatham wasn’t concerned with Grace’s welfare, but more with his own status. And with a guarantee of higher respectability within the beau monde than he currently possessed, was Alex’s dearth of title really such an issue?

Truth be told, Alex’s problem with their earlier encounter was not Chatham’s refusal. He had more confidence in his own persuasive abilities than to take the man’s denial at this point as an absolute.

No, what truly bothered him was that Chatham had used such a monstrous word to describe Grace.

Whore. He filled with rage again over the thought of the term.

The worst of it was everything in Chatham’s manner showed he believed what he said. The man had neither cringed nor had he shown disgust when he called her a whore. He’d looked Alex plain in the eyes and uttered the foulest thing imaginable.

When it came to the heart of the matter, Alex’s actions might have contributed to Chatham’s assessment. In being so plain with the marquess yesterday about his relations with Grace, even though he had auspicious intentions, he might have furthered the man’s impression of his daughter. And that, Alex realized, was the true source of his anger. Not that Chatham had called Grace a whore—but that he had played a part in creating such an impression.

He was a rake. A brute. Strong enough words to describe what he’d become didn’t exist.

How could he possibly deserve Grace now?

But he couldn’t allow her to be with anyone else. Alex may have hurt his honor already, but he couldn’t allow her virtue to suffer. He would marry her. He would find a way to convince Chatham, and he would marry Grace.

The park was beginning to fill with people, so he slowed Sampson to a canter. Devil take it, he must have been out longer than he realized.

Alex turned Sampson around and began the return journey to Grosvenor Square. He hoped beyond hope he wouldn’t encounter someone he knew. He was in no mood to make polite conversation.

Two riders approached, and he cursed beneath his breath before he realized those riders were Sir Jonas and Derek.

“Have you finished with your sulk then, Alex?” Sir Jonas called out. “And where did you lose your hat? The dowager will die of shame if she discovers you’ve been out in public without your head properly covered.”

“My hat?” He touched the top of his bare head, shocked to feel nothing but his own hair. “Devil take it, it fell off earlier and I let it fall.” But his friend was right, his mother would be thoroughly scandalized if she heard of the matter.

The three men looked about to find it. Derek took off after a moment toward what Alex could only make out to be a black spot on the ground, a rock or something of the sort perhaps. That rock turned out to be his hat. Derek rode back with the beaver hat in his hands and handed it over. “Now your mother won’t be forced into scandal by your behavior, as long as the gossip mill doesn’t give you away.”

“Thank you. I’m sure Mama would be most appreciative.”

They rode together at first in silence. Alex was glad for the company because their presence prevented someone else from stopping him for conversation. But his pensive mood continued.

Despite his part in Chatham’s view of Grace as a whore, and discounting his feelings toward a man who could think such a thing of her, there was yet another problem Alex must overcome.

“Will Chatham allow me to marry Grace after I attempted to kill him?”

“What was that?” asked Derek.

Alex jumped. He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud, so Derek’s response was unexpected.

“I—I just—well, do you think he will? Allow me? To marry Grace, that is? I mean…I don’t know what I mean.” He paused to find the answers within himself. “I did strangle him, you know. That’s not an easy thing to overlook.”

They neared Grosvenor Square and slowed their horses, so they could have a few more moments to speak in private. Sir Jonas sent a questioning glance across to Derek, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“What?” Alex asked. “What do I not know?” Dread settled in his stomach.

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Sir Jonas said. “Come on, they’re waiting for us inside. No reason to put this off any longer.”

“Put what off?”

But Sir Jonas and Derek dismounted and moved up the stairs.

A familiar carriage was parked outside the house. Try as he might, Alex couldn’t place where he’d seen it before.

“Put what off?” he called out again, in a futile attempt at finding some answers before he walked into—well, he had no idea what he might be walking into. As had become something of a habit, he received no answer. Sir Jonas and Derek were already well inside the house, thoroughly ignoring him.

Alex cursed as he landed on the street and handed his reins to the groom. It was horrid enough to have his own siblings keep information from him, but to have Derek and Sir Jonas go along with it was beyond the pale.

Alone, he climbed up the stairs of Hardwicke House and entered through the front door. Who were their guests? No point in delaying the inevitable.

Spenser greeted him as he entered. “Lord Alexander, your presence has been requested by His Grace in the downstairs salon.” The butler reached for his hat and coat even as he executed a perfect bow.

“Thank you. I’ll attend him immediately.”

Derek and Sir Jonas had already made their presence scarce, whether by a request for their presence in the downstairs salon or by having been granted some other reprieve. He moved through the familiar halls toward the salon with a sense of fate hanging over his head.

One of Peter’s liveried footmen opened the doors and ushered him inside. The room was full to bursting at the seams. His entire family was present, save Richard. Derek, Sir Jonas, and Gil were there as expected, since they were all more like family than not. Chatham stood near the window looking out into the gardens.

They all turned to face him upon his entrance. The memory of where he had seen the carriage outside before washed over him as he saw Sir Laurence and Lady Kensington seated near Gil by the fire. Alongside them sat Grace, her two icy eyes gazing at him, filled to the brim with unshed tears.

Grace was there. In London. In his home.

His body begged him to rush over to her, pull her to him, and wipe away her tears. The sight of her, even with the upset clear upon her face, rejuvenated him after spending so many days away from her. He took a breath and allowed himself to relax for the first time since he had left her in Bath.

And then he remembered himself. “Lady Grace, Sir Laurence, and Lady Kensington, it is wonderful to see you in London.” He bowed to them and forced his feet to remain rooted in place.

A warm smile spread across Lady Kensington’s face. “Lord Alexander, how lovely to find you here. You left Bath so suddenly and took our Lord Rotheby with you. And then when we returned to Somerton, we didn’t find you there. I was greatly disappointed, I must say. But we’d hoped, when we decided to visit London, we might find you here.”

“I apologize for leaving Bath so quickly, ma’am, and for taking Gil with me. I had pressing business matters to attend.” What a piddling excuse.

“Oh goodness, don’t trouble yourself over such a silly thing.” Lady Kensington waved her handkerchief in a dismissive gesture. “We’re delighted you’re here. I know our Gracie has missed you dreadfully.”

The color rose in Grace’s cheeks and she looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. Could it be true? Had she missed him?

Her reaction rekindled his hope, but one very large impediment still stood in his way—the Marquess of Chatham.

Alex’s obstacle chose that particular moment to clear his throat. “Pardon my interruption, Lord Alexander, but might it be possible to have a private word with you? There is something I wish to discuss.”

He glared over at Chatham. The man had had the audacity to call Grace—the woman Alex loved, the woman he intended to marry, the woman he would give his life to honor and protect—a whore in his presence, and now he wanted to speak in private?

Lady Kensington beamed up at Alex and squeezed her husband’s hand.

Without Chatham’s permission, he couldn’t marry Grace. He had to speak with the bastard again.

Peter spoke up. “You may use my private library if you wish. I believe that will suffice your needs, Lord Chatham.”

With his glare still in place, Alex nodded and led the marquess from the salon to his brother’s library. His body shook with fury. The man had to be the cause of Grace’s tears; there simply was no other explanation.

He ushered Chatham inside and waited for the doors to close before taking a seat behind Peter’s large oak desk. He wanted to assume an air of authority. He wanted it to be clear he was the one now in charge, not the marquess.

Alex waved a hand toward an empty wing chair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat. And tell me, what would you like to discuss? Though I must warn you, if you haven’t yet offered my mother and sisters an apology for your earlier language, I doubt I’ll be very open to hearing a word you have to say.”

Chatham cast his eyes away, a faint shimmer visible in the corner of one from the sun descending outside the windows. “Oh, I’ve offered my apologies. And I believe you’ll have your mother to thank, shortly.”

“My mother?”

“Yes. You see, the dowager is the one who convinced me to have a change of heart toward you.”

“Mama did?” How on earth could the woman have managed such a feat when he could not? And a ‘change of heart’ meant what exactly? Alex rubbed a hand against his eyes, hoping to clear the fog settling over his thoughts.

“She did. Well, I should clarify. It’s more Grace I have changed toward than you. I’ve been a neglectful father. I hope to remedy that.”

“Just how do you propose to cease neglecting your daughter? And what, pray tell, does any of this have to do with me?” He moved his hand from his eyes to his temples and rubbed against the pounding blood there.

“I…well, I insist you marry my daughter.”