Hot Silk. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ drizzle began to fall, cold and reproachful as it struck Grace’s cheeks.

      “Are you leaving?” Large gray-blue eyes met hers, revealing Prudence’s frank astonishment.

      Grace plucked at the skirt of her dull gray traveling pelisse. The gray ribbons of her worn hat fluttered across her face in the cool, damp breeze as rain pelted her cheeks. “I think I should, Lady Prudence.” How did she even begin to explain?

      Her friend’s lips turned down. “Why? Why would you leave without telling me?”

      Grace took a fortifying breath as two footmen brought her small traveling trunks outside. One servant hastily followed with an umbrella for her ladyship, but, as Grace sought words that would tactfully explain how gloriously she’d ruined herself, Prudence fixed her with a look of horror. “It is true, isn’t it? You made a fool of yourself with my brother.”

      Well, she had, but the censure in her friend’s tone surprised her. Aware of the footman holding the open brolly, Grace said, “Errr…”

      Prudence snatched the umbrella and held it above her head, letting the rain drip off onto Grace. “We will have to walk a bit, to where they cannot overhear.”

      In those few yards that Grace walked at her friend’s side in silence, she made a decision. She’d intended to lie about the offer of marriage, but now she knew she would not. Why protect Lord Wesley? Yes, Prudence had warned her about him, but Grace had never expected a gentleman to make an offer and then retract it.

      Lady Prudence stopped at the end of the south wing and arched a brow.

      Grace folded her arms across her chest. “Your brother promised me marriage,” she said flatly. “He offered marriage and then he wanted to…” How was it always so delicately put? “Anticipate the wedding.”

      “Oh goodness. You truly did it…” Prudence abruptly dropped her arm and backed away. She tipped her chin up and looked down her nose. “You truly thought my brother would marry you?”

      Shock held Grace motionless on the gravel drive. “Of course I did. He made an offer. He asked me to marry him and he asked me to say ‘yes.’ And I did. I accepted before I—”

      “Even if he actually had made an offer, you had no right to accept! Of course he did not mean it. You had to know it was only to get under your skirts. Of course it meant nothing to him.” Prudence’s lip curled. “You, the future Marchioness of Rydermere?”

      Grace was held stunned, like a beetle caught in amber. She’d thought Prudence was hurt she was sneaking away. She felt her lips part uselessly.

      Prudence’s harsh words were like a knife blade to her heart. “You are nothing but a wanton tart! And my brother never said he made an offer.”

      “I was not a wanton tart or a liar,” Grace answered. Anger had blown away shock. She was completely fed up. “I was your brother’s lover,” she hissed, “and I am no different a person than I was as a virgin! I am not mean or spiteful. I am not suddenly cruel or vicious or without a shred of kindness.”

      “Wesley wished to have you removed from the house immediately since you are hardly fit to be an acquaintance of mine.”

      “He needn’t worry. I am leaving.” Lord Wesley really was a swine. He was a liar, a scoundrel, a thoroughly coldhearted, evil snake, and he wanted her ejected from the house? But he was a man and it was quite socially acceptable for him to be a snake. And she was a woman who should be condemned for believing a gentleman’s word.

      Lady Prudence’s angry voice caught her attention. “I thought you would at least have the decency,” she was saying, “to beg my forgiveness.”

      Her friend no longer looked like a friend. Prudence looked every inch the arrogant lady, and Grace bit her tongue. By adhering to her mother’s story that her father was respectable and her parents were legally wed, she had lied to Prudence. She had used a false story to enter a world in which she didn’t belong, lying all the while to a woman who had honestly wished to be her friend.

      In her heart, she did not believe that making love without marriage made her an evil woman, but in the eyes of Prudence’s world it did.

      She wanted to turn and run to her modest carriage, run away without a word, and let the tears come, but she tried to stand as straight as a lady should.

      “I would not think of begging for your forgiveness,” Grace said firmly, “but I do owe you an apology.” For what, though, really? For simply wanting to be a friend? For being a human woman, foolish enough to lose her heart? But she quelled the burning need to defend herself and said, “I am sorry.”

      Turning abruptly, not meeting her friend’s haughty eyes, Grace walked away from Lady Prudence and out into the rain.

      Prudence said nothing, and Grace did not turn back. It was humiliating to be striding through the rain. But humiliation was an emotion she would come to know well very soon. This was just a taste and soon she would have it rammed down her throat.

      In weeks, Prudence, her former friend, would be in London, Grace thought as she reached the waiting carriage and the carefully impassive servants. Would Prudence join in the gossip that was certain to erupt when Wesley spread his tales?

      Mr. Sharpe promised he had Wesley under his control, but Wesley was a peer of the realm. And a damned arrogant one. Why would he obey Mr. Sharpe?

      As she stopped at the side of the carriage, she could not resist—she began to turn, to look for Prudence. Her hand trembled. What would happen in London? Would Prudence even admit to being her friend, or would she deny it?

      But as she twisted her head, she saw nothing but the empty drive. Without a word, Prudence had gone.

      The liveried footman reached Grace with Lord Wesley’s message before she stepped up into the simple black carriage.

      “From Lord Wesley, Miss,” the young servant said.

      Had he actually put his gloating to paper? Could it be an apology?

      Irritated at the flare of warm hope in her heart, Grace unfolded the simple page. A summons to meet him at the summerhouse—the lovely stone building that sat upon a landscaped hill overlooking the garden.

      Only a fool—or a glutton for punishment—would go.

      But she had to know what he was going to say. Her future depended on it.

      “Have the carriage wait,” she instructed the footman. Lifting the hems of her skirts, she crossed the drive to the narrow path that wound through the famed gardens of Collingsworth and led to the stone steps ascending to the summerhouse.

      Perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed, and her heart fluttered in her chest as she reached the marble portico. Where was Wesley? Inside? Or had he not come? Had he made an idiot of her one more time?

      “Come in, Miss Hamilton.”

      The bold, arrogant drawl drifted out of the open doorway. The lazy, sinfully aristocratic voice had once enticed her—now it set her teeth on edge. But she pushed open the door and stepped within.

      This was a summerhouse?

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