"Kit!"
Christopher Langston, Lord Wessex, managed to catch a glimpse of Grace Howard's long, dark hair and feel her hands on his shoulders before she shoved him backward into the broom closet on the second floor and locked the door behind them.
"Gracie," he said, feeling around in the darkness and trying to disentangle himself without touching anything he shouldn't be touching, "is it a secret wish of yours for your father to call me out at dawn and shoot me?"
"I need a favor." Even in the dark he could see the characteristic determined expression that hadn't changed since she was five and he six. Brows and lips pressed together in a determined line, eyes bright with excitement. "A large favor."
"No."
"You have not even heard it." She looked affronted.
"The only favors that are asked in broom closets are the scandalous kind," he gave her his best roughish wink. "Don't you think my reputation is scandalous enough as it is?"
"Don't try to distract me—tell me you'll do it, Kit, please?"
"Ask Cadwell. That is what fiancées are for, I presume."
She shook her head fiercely. "Justin won't do. I need you, Kit. I need you in particular."
Two years ago, he'd have given anything to hear those words come out of her mouth. That was before she'd been smitten by Cadwell and he'd turned into the most notorious rake this side of London. He shook his head. "Sorry, sweetheart. But the last time you pushed me into a broom cabinet—"
"But this is serious!" she insisted, hand on his arm. "Please, Kit. I'll never ask you for anything ever again, I swear!"
"That's what you said the last time." A horrid thought occurred to him and he frowned. "Is it illegal?"
"I would never do that to you," she looked affronted. "And you wouldn't get caught even if I did."
"Ah, Gracie," knowing her, he'd never hear the end of it until he said yes. "Let's hear it then," he sighed, and nearly bit his tongue off when she leaned in so close that he could feel her breath on his neck.
"I need you to ruin me," she said very seriously, clutching his shirt. "I need you to ruin me completely, and I need you to do it tonight."
The Art of Ruination
A Regency Romance
By Zetzumei
Kit was nearly naked and getting more nervous by the second. The room was dark, but the moonlight through the windows would be bright enough to expose the seduction of the season in all its scandalous glory if they were found out. When they were found out. Grace would make sure they were found out, and the rumor would spread like a wildfire across London.
He glanced at the clock. It was half past one; Grace was late, and unless she was playing a fabulous prank at him and the entire household was waiting outside the door, waiting to see him in his drawers, something had gone wrong.
He swallowed, huddled deeper into the sheet he had wrapped around himself and tried not to think of Grace's father having an apoplexy when he found out. Thank God Cadwell was in the country and wouldn't have the opportunity to run him through with a sword. By the time Grace had cleared everything up, Kit was sure Justin, Lord Cadwell, would be one of the luckiest bastards in London, with thirty thousand a year, rolling parcels of land, and...
Grace.
She slipped into the room, one white-knuckled hand clutching the front of her night rail together, and he grinned, unable to help himself, at her primness. "Second thoughts, sweetheart?"
"Rubbish. Don't be ridiculous, I've come too far already," she said, and shrugged her wrap off. His mouth went dry. The last time he's seen Grace in her underwear she had been ten, he was practicing with his air pistol on the roof and it had been completely by accident. But Grace was no ten-year-old, and this was no ten-year-old's nightgown. Grace shouldn't even own such a nightgown. He had no idea where a respectable woman might find even such a nightgown. It was lacy, long sleeved, and so sheer that he could have seen right through it if the room had been any brighter.
"Pray, what are you doing?" he asked hoarsely as she started pulling the pins out of her hair, letting the dark locks spill down over her neck, those shoulders, to her waist.
"Making it look realistic," she said, undoing buttons. The scandalous nightgown plunged deep enough as it was and Grace was undoing buttons. He felt faint. "Are you going to stay like that?" she asked, turning to face him.
He swallowed. A curl had unfurled itself across the hollow of her throat like a lover. "What?"
"Take off your breeches."
"What—no!"
She paused to look at him. Kit stiffened and clutched the sheet closer to himself, hyperaware of her dark gaze. Devil take it, but he was acting like a virgin on her wedding night when it was Grace who was about to be compromised. And here he was, tainting her immaculate reputation so that she could marry another man.
"Stop being such a sissy," she crossed over and tugged the blanket away. Kit resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest. "Come on, take them off. You cannot ruin me looking like that."
"Watch me," Kit retorted. "I'll have you know that I have been challenged to duels just for being in the same room as some young women—Grace!" she'd reached out and touched his belt buckle, and he upped and scrambled to the other side of the room. "What have you done to Grace Howard? Who the devil are you?"
"A woman who is dead serious about being dishonored," she said, backing him up into a corner. "I would love to stand in the same room with you, Kit, but I need my reputation in tatters. Scandalously shocking, beyond-the-reach-of-moral-women, ruined-for-all-other-men ruined. It's the only way that Justin will ever marry me…you know father is disinclined to let the betrothal run its course now that Justin's father no longer supports his business interests. He will never approve unless it is to save my reputation," Grace said. She had explained it to him, in that tiny, cramped space in the closet, so close to him that he could count her lashes. Grace had seen Cadwell two years ago at her coming-out ball and had been smitten by that stiff, silent young aristocrat whose father had conducted a little business with Grace's family until recently. The two elderly lords had had a blazing row, and now her father would never agree to the wedding—except perhaps, if Grace made it so that he didn't have a choice.
Ah yes. Justin Trentham, Lord Cadwell. Kit made a note to cheerfully throttle him as soon as he got back from the country. For the love of this staid nobleman, Grace was willing to throw away her dignity, buy a scandalously see-through night rail, and orchestrate her disgrace in the arms of London's most notorious rakehell. The thought made him positively green with envy.
She'd never been quite the same after she'd met Cadwell. Kit would never admit it to anyone, least of all to himself, but Grace Howard, that little slip of a thing that had followed him around, demanding to play pirates, had grown up and he hadn't noticed until it was far too late. And it had to be Cadwell—upright, blonde, proper and exactly the kind of man Kit despised.
"Grace," his hand closed over hers as she reached for his belt buckle again. "Stop that."
"Take it off yourself then," she insisted, trying to wriggle out of his grip. "Ouch, Kit—"
"Sweetheart, we're walking a very fine line here," he said, gritting his teeth. "Heaven forbid that your father thinks that I—we—you..." he struggled for a moment, trying to word it properly, and gave up. "Your father and Cadwell must believe that you're still a virgin, so I will keep my breeches. Otherwise…"
"Otherwise?"
"Otherwise we'll find ourselves married to one another," he said bluntly, trying to ignore the twinge in his chest as he said it. "And then we'd both feel bloody silly now, wouldn't we?"
She jerked her hand away so fast he couldn't help but feel the slightest bit insulted. "No," he heard her mutter beneath the protective curtain of her hair. "I mean… yes, we'd feel rather silly."
He wished he could run his fingers through that hair, sweep it back to see her face, but instead he put his hands on her night rail, so thin it was barely there, and buttoned it back as high as it would go. He knew he'd be regretting this for weeks, maybe months, but dashed if he couldn't say no to Grace.
"Let's go over this one more time, shall we?" he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so hungry. It would be so easy, he knew. All he had to do was drop his pants and kiss her, pin her down on the bed and then Grace would be his.
Dear God, he had been mad for her before, but the feeling didn't seem to have diminished at all. He dug his nails into his palm and tried very hard to control himself.
He had no business salivating over Grace, not when he was trying to help her get married. He'd lost the chance to make her his a long time ago, dashed if it didn't come back to haunt him whenever he saw her. He might be a rake, but Kit fancied himself a rake with morals, and she would never speak to him again if he tried something like that. The thought of Grace with Cadwell made him want to punch something as it was. The thought of no Grace at all would be hugely unbearable.
"I've asked my maid to come here at two," she reminded him. "And doubtless she'll kick up a fuss when she finds out, my cousins in the next rooms will come to see what's going on, and then they'll call Father. He should find us… will it have to be in bed?"
Images of Grace beneath him, hair spilling in a dark cascade over his pillow, her lips, her skin—
"Dear God," Kit muttered. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He took his eyes off the floor to look at her, to remind him of what he would lose—
Big mistake.
One glance at her, with her hair let out, clad in that sacrilegious nightgown, that crease of anxiety between her brows and the rakehell instincts kicked in and he laid his hand against her neck and kissed her shoulder.
She jumped back as if she'd been electrified and her arm whipped around in a perfect right hook and hit him squarely across the face.
Ow.
He'd taught her that, back when she was still young enough to want to learn how to ride and fence and box like a man. Kit was surprised that she had even remembered how to do it, and well: there was something warm and salty dribbling across his upper lip—she'd given him a right proper nosebleed.
"Why did you do that?" she demanded, stumbling backwards to put the bed between them and looking horrified. "What was that for?"
"Calm down," he managed, but he was anything but calm. His head was whirling at the feel of that soft patch of skin again, and the smell of her neck. "I was… I was merely demonstrating."
"There was no need to actually do it!"
He made the mistake of looking at her; she brushed against her neck, wiping away his kiss with the back of her hand. There was a dull explosion of anger deep in his gut, and he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her again, claim her, mark her somewhere in a way that she could never erase. The effort to resist the thought had him want to break something.
"Sweetheart," he said as calmly as he could, attempting to staunch his nose with his fingers, "If you can't handle a little peck like that, we've got about as much a chance of convincing your father as pigs have of flying… Ah, Gracie." She looked so stricken it make him feel properly ashamed. "Forgive me, darling. It won't happen again."
"Well, we'll have to," she replied, sounding very much unlike a stricken maiden. "We have to put on a good enough show for Father."
He shrugged, stepping back. He was having trouble controlling himself now; if she even got any closer he wasn't sure how well he could stop himself throwing her down and making short work of that tiny line of buttons. "We'll fake it."
"We can't." she said crossly, and reached out to touch him. "I won't take that chance. Now kiss me while we still have time to practice!"
Dear God, the chit was trying to ruin herself in earnest! "You don't need kissing practice, Cadwell should have taught you that well enough—"
"I'll have you know that he's been the perfect gentleman," she snapped.
Kit sneered. "Of course he—" He froze as the implications of her words kicked in. "He hasn't kissed you."
Grace's shoulders stiffened indignantly through the thin gown and he felt that sudden stab of anger again. Here he was, two years past the first time he'd felt his heart slow at the sight of her, and she was willing to throw away everything for a man who didn't even have the slightest inclination or the courage to kiss her.
Who was he, anyhow? How much did she know about him, how had she known him at all?
God, if it had only been him—
"Grace," he said, huskily. "Are you sure this is what you want? I am not questioning your judgment, only…" he swallowed. "You have a lot to lose. A scandal such as this one will deprive you not only of your reputation but also of your Father's affection and any chance of a respectable match in the future. Are you sure that you are risking it for the right man?"
"Oh, Kit." She'd heard the concern in his voice and softened, laying a hand briefly on his arm. "You know me. Am I a silly debutante, so thoughtless as to be willing to gamble everything on a man who only possesses a passing fancy for me?"
"I wouldn't know, Gracie," he said slowly. "After I came back from Eton, you were already…different." Already in love with Cadwell, but he couldn't bring himself to say those words.
"Different?" She was shaking her head. "You were the one who went off to college for a year without as much as a letter to me."
"I'm sorry."
"I was quite devastated," she said, but with no reproach.
He had been the devastated one upon his return from Eton, to find that his one boon companion, his confidante, his little shadow had vanished, replaced by a startlingly pretty young woman who looked at Cadwell with stars in her eyes. He had been more than devastated; to him it had felt almost like bereavement.
"Gracie," he took the hand she proffered. "What happened?"
"I'm not so certain." She said. "He was very kind to me, of course, but it is more than that—"
He shook his head. "Not Cadwell," he said. "Us."
"You're being melodramatic," she scolded him gently. "We… grew up, I suppose. It is not uncommon between people…but that does not mean that I do not consider you to be one of my closest friends." She squeezed his hand. "After all, I still have the liberty of pushing you into broom closets and asking all sorts of improper favors."
He managed a thin smile. "For you, my love, anything."
She shifted, so that the moonlight fell in a long strip over one eye and cheek, and his breath caught in his throat as she put her other hand on his cheek, her mouth coming closer and closer to him. He leaned forward, a part of him begging to know what she tasted like.
"You're dripping into the carpet," she said, and thumbed away a spot of blood on his nose. "Father can't think that I've been brawling with my seducer, can he?"
"No," he said, wrestling with the overwhelming disappointment and the temptation not to grab her and remedy the fact that she hadn't kissed him. "No, we can't have that"
She was very quiet for a moment, so that all he could hear was her breathing. "I miss brawling with you."
He gave a surprised bark of laughter. "Pax, Grace. It was a good punch, I was surprised that you remembered how to do it."
"Oh, that is not the only thing I remember," she shot him a sly look, unchanged from when she was seven. "The stories I could tell."
"Oh ho, blackmail? You minx, I'll tell your father that you used to hitch up your skirt and ride your horse—astride, mind you, and not side saddle—in Hyde Park early in the mooning!" he threatened.
She wasn't cowed. "I'll tell your cook that you were the one who broke your great-aunt's silver dinner service!"
"You dressed up as a boy and visited Vauxhall on your fourteenth birthday!"
"You swam in the creek with nothing but your unmentionables on!"
"You swam with me!"
"I was clothed!"
That last retort was given with so much feeling that Kit let out a snort of laughter and the next second he knew, they were both giggling like little children. She was beautiful like that, he thought as he looked at her. All this time, there was this sublime creature hiding under all that dirt and mischief.
He regretted that he found out only now. If he'd been sooner, or if he'd just written from Eton… and now their days were numbered, and she would be engaged to Cadwell, and after she was married he'd whisk her off to the country and then they be strangers. His heart twisted at the thought.
"Grace," he said, but she was still chuckling quietly to herself. He touched her shoulder, making her look at him. Her eyes were starry from laughter, exactly what he'd seen that devastating first day back from college. He almost stopped himself.
But he wouldn't settle for strangers. He wouldn't settle for smiles across crowded ballrooms and stilted conversation and forced courtesy. He needed more than that. He needed Grace.
This wasn't a game. This wasn't the children's make-believe that they'd played before. Grace was deadly serious about taking her lie into her own hands, and now it was up to him to push her over the precipice. And he would… but she had to know.
"Grace," he tried again, and this time she turned to look at him; much too close, her breath brushing his collarbone, nearly missing his mouth.
"Yes?" it was a bare whisper.
"I want—"
The chime of the clock behind them cut him off, and he watched as all the color drained from her face.
"Don't faint on me," he said, touching her shoulder. He could feel the beginnings of a fine tremble making its way up her spine. "Breathe, sweetheart. It'll be easy. Everything will go well."
Grace's eyes were large and afraid. "They'll be here any second," her voice wobbled dangerously and she broke off, twisting her fingers, "I told my cousins to come up—"
As if on cue, there were muffled footsteps in the hallway outside.
There was no time to tell her, no time for himself. Devil take it, but he was becoming unselfish.
"Grace," he said, as gently as he could, "Are you sure you love this man?"
There was a strange light in her eye. "Yes," she breathed. "Yes."
That was all there was to it. His chest clenched as he drew her to him.
"Good," he murmured, and took her face into his hands and kissed her. The door scraped open. Her maid's surprised shriek, the sound of a dinner ray shattering on the floor, more footsteps thudding down the hallway toward their room sounded muted and peaceful, as if they were coming from a world away.
Three years ago, he had come home from Eton expecting the same little half-slip of a chit, all line and a mischievous grin and not a curve in sight, and been thoroughly surprised.
He'd arrived sometime past two in the morning and found himself locked out of his own house. It was freezing cold, so he did the only conceivable thing he could think of at the time—he took his horse down two streets and got off at the Howard's residence on Drury Lane. No doubt Grace was still awake, and ready to set him up in a guest bedroom for the night.
He climbed the drainpipe with practiced grace and eased himself onto her windowsill. The lock hadn't been changed and he was in with a quick flick of his fingers, rubbing his hands together grateful for the warmth.
Grace was nowhere in sight, despite the later—or early—hour. Doubtless out on an illicit riding spree around Hyde Park or such. It had been quite a while, and he missed the little chit. She'd be dashed happy to see him, too.
He made himself comfortable on her bed, propping his boots up against the footboard. Things had gone so fast in Eton that he found that his promise of a weekly letter to her was quite in tatters. He'd gone a mere boy and come back a man, so to speak.
He was much older and experienced now that he had finished college, but that would be no obstacle in their friendship. It was inconceivable that Grace could be anything but an impulsive, irreverent riot of a girl, good as any man, and things would be the way they should, the way they had always been.
There were footsteps at the door and he grinned, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better view. She would be delighted to see him.
"Ah, Gracie!" he said as the door swung open and froze.
The door-opener was a young man, tall and blond, with a patrician nose. His eyebrows disappeared into his hair as he took in the sigh of Kit lounging in Grace's bed.
They looked at each other in shock for a long and dreadfully awkward moment, before a voice came wafting into the room: "Justin, what is it? Is something the matter?"
Grace.
He sat up, suddenly conscious of his wayward hair, his rumpled neck cloth. But there was no time for that—she stepped into sight beside the man and his jaw dropped.
That was not Grace.
Grace was plain, unprepossessing, and had a figure like a bamboo pole. The girl—the woman standing in front of him was startlingly pretty and could only pass for Grace's elder, more beautiful, more glamorous, and much more proper cousin. He could see the outline of her hip through her elegant, impractical dress. His mind was whirling; he was preparing to flee out the window in horror when she whispered, "Kit?"
Her voice was different, but the crease between her dark brows hadn't changed a bit. He looked at her disbelievingly, torn between scandalized terror and fascination. "Grace?" he jumped off the bed and was across the room in two long strides, leaning in to inspect her more closely. "What have you done to your hair?" he demanded.
She blinked. He remembered those eyes as well, and the indignation in their depths. "I changed it," she said. Gone was the hasty knot at the back of her neck. Curls that would have taken a modiste at least an hour tumbled over her nape and shoulders. He seized a lock to make sure it was real. It was. He nearly gasped.
Kit was sure that he would have gone on to discover exactly how much she had changed and even divested her of her gown just to see that hip more clearly if the man standing at the door had not stopped him.
"You overstep yourself sir," h¿is voice was hard. "It would please me if you would unhand my betrothed."
He really did gasp then.
"Justin," Grace said, and Kit's eyes snapped back to her. She was blushing. Grace never blushed. He felt faint. "This is Christopher Langston, Lord Wessex."
God help him, she looked like a debutante! A shy, sweet, meek-as-a-mouse debutante! Was it Season? He checked the date in his head and realized with a start of dismay that it was. Had she come out? Grace had sworn that she would never come out—worst of all, she had come out without him! Part of him wanted to hit her over the head and make her come to her senses. The other part was wholly occupied with noticing her lashes, the curve of her cheek, the line of her neck...
"Kit," she said, "this is Justin Trentham, Lord Cadwell, and… and…" she seemed to steel herself. "And my fiancée."
That was the last straw. It was too much for him, and he sank back down on the bed, relieving his trembling knees.
"Kit?" she was peering down at him concernedly. "Are you alright? Your mouth is pale."
It took him a breath or two to compose himself. "When is the wedding?" he asked weakly, and managed to make his excuses and flee back down the drainpipe on legs that felt like jelly.
It would take him another three days to comprehend exactly how much he had lost.
She was waiting for him outside her father's study as he arrived at the Howard residence the next day, and jumped up as the butler let him in.
"Thank God you're here," she said, and he fought not to smooth his thumb over the crease that seemed to have become a permanent fixture between her brows. "They've been at it for an hour and I don't think I can stand being called a shameless hussy by my own father any longer."
"Poor darling. It'll be over quite soon, I promise." He touched her shoulder and grinned. "Now go back up the stairs and glare at me as if I have ruined you all by myself. We must keep up appearances."
"I hate you!" she hissed at him in mock anger. "You rakehell! You rouge!"
He winked at her before stepping into the study. Grace's father, the sixth Earl of Pembroke, was sitting behind his desk, brandy decanter open beside him. The other man had his back to the door but Kit had memorized enough of that stiff bearing to know that Cadwell was displeased and much more rigid than usual.
"It was all a mistake," he said, when neither of the men seemed willing to speak first. "I have utmost respect for Miss Howard, and what her maid saw in the bedroom last night has been widely misconstrued, gentlemen."
He had spent nearly an hour with Grace in secret a week before, plotting how best to set the situation to her advantage, and had agreed that Kit should try to wash his hands off the matter, so that her father would be inclined to marry her off to a comparatively more willing Cadwell. Only if things started to go awry would he offer to salvage her reputation and rouse Cadwell's jealous tendencies in the process.
Pembroke was curt. "What do you mean by misconstrued, exactly, Wessex?"
"Ah, it was nothing. Silly Flirtation, and such. We were childhood friends, you know."
"I am well aware," Cadwell said through gritted teeth, "and have asked her to refrain from agreeing to your company several times. Clearly, she has not obliged me."
Kit felt affronted. The sheer cheek, asking Grace not to see him—why the man was acting like a selfish child. "Well, Cadwell," he said slowly, wondering what on earth Grace had seen in this starchy creature, "perhaps you will be able to monopolize her once she is your wife. You will have to do it, for she is disgraced and I myself have no intention of being leg-shackled so early in life."
"I am not sure that is possible," he said, back so stiff that Kit feared that his spine would break from the tension.
"Why the devil not?" Kit demanded. Any man should be jumping for joy at the prospect of marrying Grace, of her becoming his. Deuce take it, he had half a mind to call Cadwell out. If only Grace wasn't in love with him! She wouldn't want him shooting a hole through her prospective husband.
Cadwell and Grace's father glanced at each other with a look that meant that they both knew something he did not. Kit felt a bad tingling in his gut. "What is it?" he demanded. What had gone wrong?
"Perhaps we should bring you some more conclusive evidence as to the matter, Wessex." Pembroke said, standing up. "After all, what the maid saw can indeed be questioned… but if you would follow me up, gentlemen? We shall go and see my daughter's room. Grace will join us."
He followed Pembroke out of the study and up the stairs, catching Grace's eye as he did. She looked as surprised as he was. She should have been called into the study, and Cadwell should have proposed. This was not part of the plan.
Kit's jaw hardened as Cadwell swept past her without so much as a glance.
Pembroke had pushed the door of the room open before turning to his daughter. "Now, Grace," he said. "Do you still insist that nothing happened between you and Wessex here last night?"
"I swear to you that nothing did," she said, looking like a fainting debutante again. She looked most distraught, he thought admiringly. All those years of making up excuses had done her good.
"The girl speaks the truth, Pembroke." He followed her up with an air of nonchalance, looking around the room. It had not been tidied up since last night. Clearly, her father was in favor of keeping the scene of the crime unsullied. "Her virtue is intact. That I can promise you. Not so with her honor… but one cannot have everything in life."
He grinned cheekily at Cadwell, attempting to infuriate him, but Grace's fiancée only looked at him, and said in a voice like ice, "You are a liar, sir."
"What?" he shot back. "You have it from her mouth and mine that nothing happened last night. Do you have so little faith in your betrothed, Cadwell?"
"I would have more faith in her," Cadwell said, "had it not been for the overwhelming evidence otherwise." He pointed, and Kit looked to see a small, dark stain on the carpet, the size of a dime, rust red with the color of dried blood. His heart plummeted to his feet. Behind him, Grace had gone absolutely still.
In his mind, he could picture himself trying to staunch his nose, to minding those few, inconsequential, damning drops.
"It is not what you think," he heard her say faintly. She had gone completely white. He had a bad feeling in his gut.
"There has been some mistake," he croaked. "This is not… I mean to say… That is not from her maidenhead."
"I gave him a nosebleed."
"She was fighting me off."
"Justin, please…"
That last phrase was said in a desperate, wretched thread of a voice. She had reached out and touched his shoulder, but he shrugged it away. Grace looked stricken. "Although we had a formal understanding," he said, pointedly not looking at her, "I find myself unable to honor it in light of the circumstances of last night. I am an honorable man, Miss Howard. It pains me to see that you are not as honorable as I. I have told you time and time again not to associate with this man, and now it seems that you have come to reap the consequences of your actions. I cannot marry a disgraced woman. I will not see you again. Good day."
He swept down the stairs, and Pembroke after him, alternately apologizing and demanding that he come back and make an honest woman out of his daughter until their voices faded into the distance.
She was standing very still. She had not moved since Cadwell had spoken.
"Grace?"
She made no indication that she had heard him. He touched her shoulder; she was as stiff as ice. "Oh sweetheart. Darling, I am so sorry. Forgive me."
She blinked. He could feel her start to tremble beneath his hand, through the fabric of her dress.
"Grace?" he wanted to shake her, but he was afraid to touch her. "Grace, speak to me."
There was indistinct fighting from below stairs. Grace flinched as the shouts of her father grew louder and more threatening, Cadwell's angrier before the crash of the front door slamming shut echoed jarringly through the house.
"Grace!"
She was listing to one side, and he caught her just as her knees crumpled beneath her. "Grace, sweetheart—"
"What have I done?" she choked out. "Oh Kit, what have I done?"
"Grace—"
The look in her eyes frightened him. He had not ever seen her look like that.
"I am disgraced—" she said. Her eyes were wide, and the hand on his shoulder gripped him with bruising strength. "I have d-driven him away."
He drew her to himself, allowing her to bury her face against his shoulder. "Ah, sweetheart. There, now. He was a fool for not marrying you."
"I will never get married!" she exclaimed. The frenzied look had not left her eye. "Oh, Kit—no one will ever have me, not now that e-everyone knows! Everyone knows! I—" She was trembling in earnest now. "What will become of me?"
"There now," he managed a weak chuckle. "It is not all that bad, Gracie. After all, you declared you never wanted to get married in the first place—"
"Don't patronize me!" she cried, eyes flashing. "You don't know—you don't understand—what will happen to me? I am… I have—no one will ever accept me—"
"Don't be silly," he said failing miserably to keep his tone light. "I'll accept you."
"No you won't!" her voice broke. "How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't you stop me, Kit! You knew it was a stupid idea, you knew! No one will want me now that I'm a whore as well as a madcap! Father will never look at me again, he'll lock me away in a miserable house in some godforsaken county and leave me there to rot—"
"Grace," he said, and tried to get her to look at him, but she resisted, burying her nose into his waistcoat. "Darling, please. Don't hurt yourself that way. Listen, I…" God, he loved her. Last night he would have told her, but this wasn't the time. "I've been able to stand you since you were seven. If no one will have you, I will."
She paused, lifting distraught eyes to his, and he thought for a nerve-wreaking moment that she had figured him out. "I loved him," she said, and began to sob into his shirt. "I loved him."
He looked down at the top of her head, at the small, fragile bones of her neck. "Shh, darling. There, it won't be so bad, you'll see."
"He was the only one who cared!" she lashed out, so suddenly that he released his grip of her arm. "He was the only one! I have nothing else!"
He felt the anger tamping down in his stomach and he took her by the shoulders and shook her, hard. "Grace," he said, "First of all, that man never cared for you. If you think," he said, emphasizing with a firm shake, "that that sorry display that you saw just now was care, then I haven't raised you right. Do you understand?"
She was shaking her head, and the solicitous part of her wanted to stop and just let her cry it out, but there was no way in hell he was going to tolerate such a sordid display, not when he loved Grace and all she could do was cry over that wretch.
"Any man would be glad to marry you." He said, suddenly aware of how close she was. "Devil take it, I would be glad to marry you."
She was looking at him now, her head no longer against his shoulder, but he strove on, his courage threatening to fail him. "I came back from Eton and you were with him already, but I swear, Grace, if he had not—if you had not made plain your feelings or that wretch I would have done everything in my power to woo you."
"Don't," she said miserably, dashing away a tear with the back of her hand. "I know what you are trying to do—don't, Kit. I don't need your pity, you're making it worse—"
"You think I'm doing this out of pity?"
"Aren't you?"
"You haven't been listening to anything I've been saying!"
She pushed him away. "I have been listening! And all I hear are half-hearted comforts made by a man who intends to do nothing about my situation!" her eyes were red as she glared at him. "All of this is your fault! If you hadn't been so careless then none of this would be happening!"
"What—"
"You were careless enough to drip on the floor; was it not very clear to you what something like that would lead my father to think? I am sure you have deflowered a virgin before, you should have known what blood on the carpet would look like!"
He gaped at her. "You're suggesting that this was my fault?"
"It was your fault, Kit! There is no 'suggesting' to it!"
"You were the one who punched me!" he heard himself shouting back but he was too angry to care. "You can hardly blame me for bleeding! "
"Only because you kissed me!"
"Well if you hadn't worn that damn nightgown—"
"You promised me that I would wed him." It was said with such ice in her voice that he forgot what he was going to say. "You said it was all going to be alright."
"Gracie—"
"Don't call me that! You have no right—" her voice broke. "You have no right! Why don't you just go back to Eton, and hide out there until all the problems are gone and everything is forgiven? That's what you did last time! I should have known better than to trust someone like you!"
"Now hold on—"
"I should have known better than to trust you! You and your empty promises, you never meant a single one! You never mean anything!" Her eyes were blazing with anger. "You promised me you would come back for the holidays! You promised that you would write, every week, without fail, that we would never be strangers to one another! And then you come back a full-fledged rake!"
"Let I remind you that you asked this favor of me because I was a rake!"
"And a fine choice that turned out to be!" she spat. "You left me here and went off and changed, and now you think you can just waltz in here and say everything will be alright? You can go to hell, Kit Langston!"
He felt something snap inside him, and the next thing he knew he had sized her by the arms and dragged her to him, so close he could have kissed her, but he didn't. He was too angry for that.
"You'll have to get used to the idea." His voice was deadly even. "I'm going down to speak to your father. We will be wed by special license in a fortnight."
"Married!" her face had gone deathly white. "Marry you!"
"Yes, Grace. Marry me." His words sounded harsh, even to his own ears. "You called me a dishonorable man, one who does not keep promises. Well, I fully intend to keep this one. You shall hear my official offer tomorrow." He turned away from her, heading for the stairs, but she caught his sleeve at the last moment, stopping him.
"Kit," she whispered. Her hand was trembling. "Oh, Kit, I beg of you, please don't. Don't go speak to my father. I could not bear it."
"My honor depends upon it." He said, flatly, disengaging himself. "And honor is everything, is it not, ma'am? I was the one who disgraced you, and now society demands that I take responsibility for my actions and make you an honorable woman. Is that not what you wanted?"
"I do not wish to marry you." The words had been spoken in the softest of whispers, but he felt as if someone had plunged a red-hot iron into his chest.
He closed his eyes. It hurt to speak.
"My offer stands, nonetheless."
He turned and left her standing there, afraid to see her face.
He could feel her presence very clearly from the other side of the ballroom. He couldn't see her; there was a crush tonight, and she was at the far end, out of sight from where he was waltzing with Miss Dayson—or was it Miss Dayton? He couldn't quite remember.
He hadn't talked to her for months. Three months, if he wanted to be exact. He'd come banging at the door to their house only to be informed that the Howards had gone back to the country for the summer. No, he could not send a message to Miss Howard. No, he couldn't know which summer house the Howards had gone.
He regretted every word he had said to her. If dancing around Grace, not quite sure if they were friends or merely acquaintances, had been difficult, life without her was nigh unbearable. And just as the ton poured back into London for the Season, and he had lost himself in the persona of that careless, devilishly charming rake that society loved, Grace had come back into his life—or at least, into the same party that he was attending. She hadn't glanced in his direction all evening.
But he had. He had followed her with his eyes, drinking in the sight of her, the glow of her skin, the tumble of dark hair, those cool eyes. He was making a fool out of himself, that much he knew. And his reputation as a rake would be at stake if he kept it up—why, he hadn't made an inappropriate comment to a debutante in the last three dances.
What had happened in those three months? Was she still angry? Was she still pining over Cadwell? Had she forgiven him? There had been whispers when she had come in, and a few meaningful looks in his direction, but in no time at all she had been dancing. The scandal had died down. She had that, at least.
If it also meant that she no longer had a reason to marry him, and that she would never speak to him again, it was only what he deserved.
"Kit?"
It took everything he had to look up languidly, as if he hadn't been thinking of her all evening. She had been beautiful from across the ballroom. Up close, she was breath-taking. "Might I have a word in private?"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said in his best rakehell drawl before he could stop himself. "But you see, I'm booked for all the dances. Better luck next time."
Her eyes flickered, angrily, and she took a step back, but he reached out and caught her wrist. "Ah, Grace. I'm sorry," he said. "I did not… I did not mean for it to come out that way." Her skin was cold. "Perhaps we can take a turn in the garden? It is a warm night."
"I would like that very much," her voice was carefully neutral. "But the next set is starting, and you would leave some debutante without a partner."
"All the better for that debutante's mama," he replied, offering her his arm. "I swear they pale when the young lady asks me to dance. My reputation is getting quite out of hand."
"Then I must endeavor to keep you occupied, sir, the better to keep all these innocents safe from you."
By God, was she flirting with him? He glanced at her, but her gaze was cool and hard.
"Ah, Miss Howard," he led her out of the ballroom and into the garden, "let us hope that you can endeavor to keep yourself safe from me as well."
She trembled a little, as he placed his hand on top of where hers rested on the crook of his elbow.
"You look well," he offered, finally. The silence was too much for him to bear.
"Thank you. So do you."
"I heard you were out of town."
"We returned last week. We were visiting Bath for my Father's health."
"I hope he has recovered from whatever it is that is ailing him."
"He is fine, but thank you for your concern."
They lapsed into silence. Kit could feel the gap widening between them. Was this all they were now? Strangers with nothing useful to say to one another?
"The weather is beautiful, isn't it?" he tried, miserably.
"Very bracing."
"Will you be in town for the whole Season?"
"Will you stop talking like that?" she had stopped walking, her hand slipping free from his arm. "For if you do not, I can assure you that I will go right back to Bath. There at least I will not have to be bored to death by polite conversation."
"Forgive me," he said quietly, "if I cannot make anything except inane talk to a woman who I insulted into rejecting my offer of marriage."
"You never offered."
He frowned. "Yes, I did."
Her smile was wry. "Oh, was I to consider "We will wed by special license in a fortnight' an offer of marriage? Forgive me, sir, for misreading your actions. You never came to propose the next day. You never even spoke to my father."
"Well, you can hardly blame me for interpreting your actions as a clear 'to the devil with you', Gracie."
"You are the most infuriating thing," she had crossed her arms over her chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture. "I cannot tell whether or not you are still angry with me."
He shook his head. "It was my fault."
"Don't be silly," she said, and sounded like her old self again. "It was mine. And I deserved it, too," she laughed ruefully. "Trying to trap a cold fish like Justin Trentham into marriage. It serves me right."
"I hear he is to be married."
"Yes. By December, I believe."
"I'm sorry." He said.
"Don't be. We did not suit."
"Gracie," he took her hand, looking up to make sure that she would not protest. Her expression was carefully blank. "You had an informal agreement for over a year, I believe. Are you just saying that, now that he is with someone else? "
"I did, at first. To make myself feel better." She sighed. "I was upset, you see. Growing up with you has earned me a bit of a reputation as a madcap, and Father was always roaring about how I'd never find myself a proper husband the way I was. Just the fact that Cadwell paid me any attention was a miracle to me."
"I paid you attention."
"You were in Eton and didn't write." There was no reproach in her voice, but guilt still gnawed at the pit of Kit's stomach. "And when you came back, you went off right away with your bunch of dandies, and you drank and rode and… did other things that rakes do."
"Only because you were with Cadwell," he protested, and she hit him lightly on the arm.
"Kit Langston, don't you dare blame me for your youthful indiscretions. I took the blame for laming your uncle's prize stallion, I am not prepared to do it a second time."
She was looking at him with a half-teasing glare, but God, she was beautiful. It made him want to stay, to do whatever it took to be with her.
"Grace," he said, and took her other hand, forcing her to look at him. "I want you to know that I am still prepared to take full responsibility for what happened." His heart was beating unnaturally loud. "I am willing to marry you, Grace. We have known each other all our lives, have we not? We will suit, sweetheart. Let me speak to your father."
She was quiet for a very long time. "Is that all?" Grace asked, quietly.
Her fingers were very small and fragile in his. "Do you wish carte blanche? I will give it to you."
"No," she said, and withdrew her hands.
"You do not wish it?"
"I do not wish to marry you, Kit." Her eyes were large and dark, and he felt his heart twist at the sight of them. "You do not have to hold yourself responsible for the scandal that has happened. As you can see, most of the ton has forgotten, or at least, willing to pretend that they have forgotten. I am still intact…and being the daughter of a rich earl does have its advantages. There are many men in search of heiresses in the Marriage Mart."
"You would marry a man after your father's money?" he asked, bleakly. Was he that repugnant to her? So despicable that she would rather marry a fortune-hunter?
"That is not your concern, I think."
"Damn it, Grace, of course it is my concern!" he hissed. "I am your friend, am I not?"
"Yes, Kit. A dear friend. Perhaps the dearest one." She touched his hand. "As my friend, will you do me a great favor?"
"Anything," he said, through gritted teeth.
"You must trust me enough to let me choose my own husband." She said, slipping her hand through his arm and leading him back to the ballroom. "And we must meet more often, you and I. I would like to know the man my young friend Kit has become. He never was quite the same after college."
There was a little pain in his chest as she held out her hand to him. "Friends?" she asked.
He lifted it to his lips. "Friends," he agreed, and watched as she walked back into the crowd and left him.
It was better than strangers, he thought. He only hoped that it would be enough.
"I admire you very deeply, Grace."
Her smile was unsteady, but she did not remove her hand from where it rested in his. "I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning."
"I have let you know on several occasions my ardent affection for you." He was standing very close to her in the dim light of the pavilion. "You have said that the feeling was mutual several times. I don't care about the scandal. You are still a virtuous woman, and I-I would like to you to do me the honor of being my wife."
She looked mildly unsettled. "I…I am not sure."
"I will speak to your father." He leaned in, lips brushing her cheek dangerously. "You will see, love, that we will suit—"
"Sir—"
"It would suit me, Brampton, if you took your hands off the lady," Kit growled, grabbing the hapless viscount by the neck cloth and hauling him away from Grace. "Proposing to her does not grant you the liberty to paw at her like a dog in heat."
"The Devil, Wessex!" Brampton said, going very red in the face. "This in an outrage! Listening in on a private conversation! I have half a mind to call you out!"
"Oh, call me out, by all means," Kit's expression was murderous. "For if you do, I will choose pistols, sir, and you will not wish to face me with a gun in hand."
The aristocrat paled, muttered something in Grace's direction, and nearly tripped over himself in his haste to make himself scarce. Grace frowned at him.
"Kit, we've spoken about this."
"Yes, we have," he agreed, expression still stormy. "We still have to talk about your choice of dance partners, sweetheart."
"I liked him," she said, mildly.
"Well, if he liked you back then he should have called me out."
"Kit, I want a man who is brave, not suicidal. You would have blown his head right off."
"Too true I would…unless you asked me to miss." He amended quickly, seeing her glare. "Ah, Gracie. You are too good for a dandy like Brampton."
"That's what you said about the last two fellows." She laid a hand on his arm. "At least he didn't mind my scandal."
Kit snorted. "Sweetheart, the fact that he mentioned the scandal means he minded. Otherwise he wouldn't have mentioned it."
She laughed, leading him across the ballroom. "Well, with your standards, there isn't a man here who will suit. I'm doomed to be an old maid. Who will I marry? You?"
It was a joke, he knew, but it smarted. He didn't let it show. "You're too good for me, Grace."
"Shall I go back to Brampton, then? He isn't as bad as you say he is, you know."
He tried to smile without much success. "Oh?"
"Yes. He's wealthy and doesn't need my money. He'll come into his title when his father is dead, he's considerate, promises to be discreet in his affairs, only wants two children… He's offered me carte blanche, too."
"I offered you carte blanche," he said through gritted teeth.
She laughed, throwing her head back. "Oh, Kit. That was different."
That was the last straw. He stopped walking, catching her arm so that she had no choice but to look at him. "Different? How was it different?"
"Kit, let go." She struggled in his grip. "You're hurting me, Kit—people are staring!"
"Let them stare," he hissed, but looking around at the faces that were slowly turning to face them, he gripped her arm tighter and pulled her out of the ballroom and into the hall.
"Kit!" she was angry, now. "Let go!"
"Not in your life." He glanced around and found what he was looking for.
"Kit, you're making fools of the both of us—" She was still struggling as he reached past her, opened the door, and shoved her into the broom closet at the end of the hallway.
"You are incorrigible!" she hissed as he clambered in behind her and shut the door. "Isn't one scandal enough for you?"
"I thought so, but apparently, one scandal isn't enough for you, Miss Howard." He reached out in the darkness and took her by the shoulders.
"Don't touch me! What's come over you?"
"You're what's come over me!" he gave her a good shake. "You're impossible, that's what you are! You're deliberately trying to provoke me!"
"I have no idea what you mean!"
"Don't you?" his eyes narrowed. "Let me think—how about 'he's wealthy and doesn't need my money'? Or 'promises to be discreet in his affairs'? Do you have any idea what you sound like?"
"Well, I don't see what other chance I've got!" she shot back. "Kit, you should recall that I have a scandal hanging over me. It shouldn't be hard to remember, seeing as you were part of it!"
"I offered to marry you! You were the one who refused!"
"Of course I refused!"
"There isn't an 'of course' to it! Look, Grace. Brampton is wealthy, about to come into a title, wants two children, and will be discreet with his mistresses. But if that's all you have to go on, I'm not such a beggar myself! I already have a title, I happen to detest children, and I don't plan on keeping a mistress! Not if… not if I'm with you." He finished, lamely.
"Kit, I've already made myself very clear," she sighed, sounding tired. "I'm not going to marry you."
"Then you could at least give me a good reason why."
"Because you don't love me."
He sputtered. Didn't love her? Was the chit mad? "Neither does Brampton!"
"Brampton explicitly stated that he had an 'ardent affection' for me. There's that, at least."
He laughed, darkly. "Let me assure you, darling, that that 'ardent affection' won't last three months."
"At least it's there."
"'At least it's there'?" he echoed incredulously. "What about my affections?"
"Kit." Her voice was very serious in the darkness. "You don't love me. I told you before that you didn't have to feel responsible for the scandal. You don't have to pretend for me. I know you don't feel for me that way."
"Where the devil did you get that idea?" he demanded.
"I think I can safely assume that if someone doesn't tell me he loves me that the feeling is absent."
His mind went blank. "I did tell you."
"No you did not. You said 'I fully intend to keep my promise' and 'my honor depends upon it' and… oh, and 'I take responsibility for my actions'. Love didn't come into it, I think."
"But I do love you!" it burst out of him.
"I told you, you don't have to pretend for me, Kit. Please, don't make it worse—"
"You utter fool, of course I love you!" he roared. "Do you think I'd offer for you if I didn't?"
"You're feeling guilty that I won't be able to marry according to my station because of the scandal, but I told you it wasn't your responsibility to—"
"Shut up," he said fiercely. "Shut up, otherwise I'll kiss you for real this time."
She fell silent.
"Grace," he said, very slowly, so that she could understand every word. "I've loved you ever since we were children. Now I was a proper dolt and didn't realize it until I came back from Eton, but if you are going to keep insisting that I do not care for you then I shall have to take drastic measures to prove otherwise."
"Drastic measures?"
"We're locked in a broom closet, darling. Use your imagination."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Yes, I would, and you know it," he glowered at her. "I admit, botching up the scandal was my fault. But I'm not sorry, deuce take it. Not if it meant you marrying Cadwell."
"I find it hard to be sorry, myself," she replied. "I owe you a favor for that, I think. Saving me from a loveless marriage and whatnot."
"I am sorry for not proposing properly the first time. But this marriage…" he took her hand. "This marriage does not have to be loveless, Grace. Not if you do not wish it to be."
She was silent for a long time, so long that a trickle of trepidation, of the fear of being told that he was not loved, ran down his spine. "Grace?"
"Kiss me," she whispered.
"Gladly," he murmured, and leaned forward to put his mouth to hers, clutching her to him. This was no fake kiss, no farce. He buried his hands into her hair and lost himself in the taste of her. "Grace," he said against her lips. "I am in earnest, you know."
She pulled away. "I think you are lying about one thing."
He was tracing the outline of her jaw with his fingers. "Oh? And what is that?"
"I think it is quite impossible that you have loved me since we were children."
He grinned crookedly at her. "Now, why would you say that?"
"I have been in love with you since we were children," her voice was mild. "If you had been in love with me, you would have noticed."
He chuckled. "Forgive me, sweetheart. But that argument can go both ways, you know."
"Nonetheless," she repeated. "I have loved you since we were children."
They fell silent for a while, listening to the muffled sounds of the waltz, of the low hum of chatter, the clink if champagne glasses in the world outside the broom closet.
"They will miss us," she said. A lock of her hair brushed his cheek as she turned to face him. "Should we go?"
"Can I ask a favor of you, Grace?" he took it into his hands. "Can you promise me something? I swear I will never ask for anything else."
"Hmm." she pretended to consider it. "I suppose I owe you."
"Yes you do." He winked at her.
"Not to mention that I have a tendre for you."
"Yes, you do."
"Oh, alright." Grace gave him a half smile. "Let's hear it, then."
"I need you to marry me, sweetheart," he said, and leaned in to kiss her again. "Marry me completely. Marry me tonight."
Fin.
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