The red spots in Miss Ellerby’s cheeks expanded until her whole face looked badly sunburnt. She hung her head. “I am no expert in matters of the heart, sir. I did fancy myself in love once, but now I am not certain I truly was.”
Her reply surprised Rupert. It had not occurred to him that a woman like her had ever known the stirrings of love. Perhaps it had not occurred to the man she’d cared for either. Which made them a pair of fools, Rupert acknowledged to his chagrin. Just because Grace Ellerby was no beauty did not mean her heart was incapable of beautiful feelings. He should know, for he had seen and heard the tenderness she lavished upon his children.
Was that the reason she behaved so guardedly—because her tender heart had been injured by a man who judged her too plain and poor to care for?
Before Rupert could summon the words to apologize for jumping to that same conclusion, Miss Ellerby raised her head to skewer him with a challenging glare. “Perhaps I was mistaken in my ignorance, Lord Steadwell. Are you in love with Mrs. Cadmore after all?”
Was Lord Steadwell in love with the woman he intended to court and marry? Grace wondered what made her press him on such an intrusive question.
“My feelings toward Mrs. Cadmore are no business of yours or anyone else’s,” he replied at last. “But since you insist on knowing—no, I am not ‘in love’ with Barbara Cadmore.”
His brutal candor shocked Grace. Yet part of her greeted his response with a flicker of relief.
“However,” he continued, “I find the lady attractive and compatible, which is sufficient for me, as I believe it will be for her. We are not a pair of sentimental youngsters seeking the sort of endless romantic idyll in one of Sophie’s Mother Goose tales. We both have children and property and responsibilities to consider ahead of our feelings. I have known love and discovered the high toll it exacts when lost. Even if I believed it were possible for me to recapture that kind of feeling, I would not care to try. I have no desire to plumb that depth of grief again. I doubt Mrs. Cadmore does either.”
A brief quiver of doubt in his eyes made Grace wonder what part of all that he did not truly believe. Much as it troubled her to hear him renounce love once and for all, she could understand his reasons. Had she not vowed to protect her heart from further injury after Captain Townsend had broken it?
Grace recalled the torment she’d suffered as if it were only yesterday. The engaging brother of her very first employer had spent one winter at his sister’s home recovering from a wound he’d received while fighting in Spain. Fresh out of school and desperately lonely, she had been flattered by the gallant captain’s admiration. Like a naive little fool, she had allowed herself to dream of a future with him, that endless romantic idyll at which Lord Steadwell had sneered.
Only when the captain tried to tempt her into a dishonorable connection had she understood that he did not share her feelings. He’d scarcely regarded her as a person at all, only a pretty bauble to amuse him until he wed a lady of sufficient fortune to keep him in comfort. After that, she had never felt anything but fear and loathing of the men who had pursued her.
Grace stirred from her painful musing to find Lord Steadwell staring at her in expectant silence. Did her face betray as much of her feelings as his had a few moments ago?
“Well?” he prompted her. “Do you not intend to argue me out of my decision?”
Of course she did, though she now realized it would be even more difficult than she’d first believed. She owed it to his daughters to do everything in her power to keep him from making a mistake for which they might all pay dearly.
“I beg your pardon, sir. But what you said reminded me of another man who wed a woman he did not love for similar reasons.”
“Who are you talking about?” his lordship demanded. “I assume his second marriage did not turn out well.”
Grace gave a rueful nod. “The man was my father. A few years after my mother died he married a lady of some fortune, the better to provide for me.”
She forced the words past a barrier of long-standing reluctance to speak about the events of her childhood. Having recently told Charlotte about some of her experiences at school, she found it easier to confide in his lordship that she’d expected.
“I sympathize with your father’s motives.” Lord Steadwell’s tone seemed to question why Grace could not do the same.
“I know he meant well, as you do. Nevertheless, that marriage was a mistake. Our home was not a happy one. When I quarreled with my stepmother’s children, she and Papa each took the part of their own offspring. Papa tried to hide his unhappiness and pretend all was well. To make up for my stepmother’s coldness, he doted on me, which only vexed her and made the situation worse.”
Was the cautionary tale of her childhood giving his lordship second thoughts? If so, perhaps it would be worth the heartache that had crawled out of some dark corner of her memory to gnaw at her heart once again. “I believe the strain of all that frustration and regret was what made him ill. When he died, I was left at the mercy of my stepmother, who had come to despise me.”
Her voice broke as stinging tears welled up in her eyes.
Old feelings trampled her heart in their fierce delight at being set free. She might have been able to subdue them if she’d believed her painful confession was having the desired effect. Instead, she feared his lordship would not be swayed from his decision, no matter how much he pitied her past troubles. Futility threatened to overwhelm her.
Grace bowed her head and raised her hand to her brow. She was concentrating so hard to keep from breaking down that she scarcely noticed Lord Steadwell moving toward her. Suddenly he knelt beside her chair, pressing a handkerchief into her hand.
She started and shrank from him. But besides the usual flare of panic at having a man so dangerously near, Grace also experienced an unaccustomed sense of yearning.
Chapter Ten
HE COULD NOT bear to see Miss Ellerby so upset.
The sight of her hunched over, fighting back tears, tore at Rupert with an intense mixture of pity, helplessness and a jagged shard of guilt. It was his fault she had felt compelled to dredge up all those wrenching memories.
He ached to comfort her, but the nature of their connection made that improper, even if she had not cowered from his sudden approach.
“Do not fret,” he pleaded, offering her a handkerchief. “I am sorry for all you suffered during your youth.”
“You need not pity me!” She snatched the handkerchief from him and tipped up her spectacles to press the cloth to her eyes. “Save your pity for your children if you go ahead with your plan to remarry.”