The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens

Chapter 12

Gray paused in his aunt’s drawing-room doorway. While her butler, Gilchrist, announced him, Gray swiftly surveyed the summoned multitude of ladies and gentlemen, ranging in age from their early twenties to his aunt’s elderly years, and concluded that although his aunt’s “small dinner party” might include a dinner and might qualify as a party, it most certainly wasn’t going to be small.

His social mask firmly in place and with a charming smile curving his lips, he walked in. Aware of the many eyes turned his way, some overtly but many more covertly, he took wary note of the numerous couples with marriageable daughters in tow. Evidently, his aunt was up to her old tricks, and he was slated to feature as one of the principal attractions of the evening while she sought to prod, entice, or simply steer him into matrimony. Railroading, as the Americans so aptly termed it.

The thought of his aunt as a steam-powered locomotive deepened his smile as he approached the sofa on which she sat in splendorous state.

Halting before her, he took the hand she offered and bowed over it, then bent to buss the cheek she angled his way.

“Child. I’m delighted to see you.” Lady Matcham pressed his fingers warningly before allowing him to release her hand. With her fan, she indicated the haughty matron sitting beside her and the younger lady standing alongside. “Allow me to present Lady Alberfoyle and her daughter, Marguerite.”

He dutifully bowed over the matron’s hand, then that of her daughter, an insipid miss who fought not to titter. Smiling urbanely, he exchanged the usual pleasantries and was almost grateful when another matron with two young ladies in tow swept up to claim his attention.

He fought not to look around wildly for help; most of the gentlemen present were the young ladies’ fathers and unlikely to come to his aid. Instead, he smiled, let meaningless phrases trip from his lips, and told himself he could cope.

As the minutes dragged by, more couples arrived, some with eligible young gentlemen in tow, no doubt dragged along by their mothers. In this season, with most of the ton in the country, the Marriage Mart was largely in abeyance. Consequently, those still in London wishful of marrying off their young people would view his aunt’s event as an opportunity to be seized.

Sadly, the younger gentlemen provided no effective competition for the matrons’ and their daughters’ attentions. Regardless of not being in line for the title, as a duke’s son, Gray trumped them all even before his appearance, experience, and likely wealth were added to the scales.

He soldiered on, feeling grievously misled by his aunt and wishing he were elsewhere. The ineffable comfort of the quiet evening he’d spent in Norfolk Crescent two evenings before loomed longingly in his mind.

A Mrs. Dawlish and her son and daughter cornered him, and he was forcefully reminded that not all sharks swam in the sea. Desperate to escape, he glanced toward the door just as Gilchrist led in a trio of elegant ladies and announced, “The Dowager Countess of Exton, Lady Isadora Descartes, and Lady Marietta Descartes.”

Gray’s heart rose. Relief and expectation washed through him. Izzy caught and held his attention, a slender figure in aquamarine silk with her hair up in an elegant knot and a touch of fine lace at her throat.

He turned back to the Dawlishes and, without compunction, cut across Mrs. Dawlish’s haughty diatribe regarding the lamentable state of fashions in London compared to Paris. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I need to speak with.”

With a half bow to the matron and a nod to the Dawlish son and daughter—a miss every bit as rigid as her mother—Gray set out to intercept Izzy, who had greeted his aunt and was stepping away, allowing Marietta to pay her respects.

The dowager countess had claimed the seat next to his aunt, and from the way the two older ladies were avidly engaging with Marietta, he surmised the pair were old friends.

Izzy turned as he approached, and her face lit with a spontaneous smile. “Gray.” She held out her hand. “I didn’t realize—” She broke off and glanced at his aunt. “I forgot Lady Matcham was your aunt.”

“Indeed,” he said, the word laden with feeling. He clasped her fingers and bowed over them; he was tempted to press a kiss to the slender digits, but that would assuredly draw attention—even more than they’d already attracted. He straightened and continued sotto voce, “Thank God you’re here. I’d reached the stage of seriously contemplating cutting and running.”

Her emerald eyes danced. “But this is only a small dinner party.”

“I’m not sure my aunt knows the meaning of the word.” He glanced in that lady’s direction, saw she’d noticed his actions, and ignoring her rising brows, wound Izzy’s arm with his and turned them in the opposite direction.

Tipping his head closer to Izzy’s, with his urbane mask firmly in place, he murmured, “Given my assistance with Quimby’s murder and all that’s followed, I’m claiming your protection in return. Acting as my guard tonight is the least you can do.”

Izzy chuckled, but understood he meant the word “protection” literally. The matrons and marriageable young ladies who continued to approach them—their eyes and intentions brazenly fixed on him—were definitely hunting, and he was their hoped-for prey.

While she was too experienced and knowledgeable about the ton to be surprised by anything that happened within it, she didn’t appreciate that predatory attitude any more than he did, and while his tongue had lost none of its glibness, and if anything, his wits had only sharpened with age, having been absent from ton society for the past decade left him at a distinct disadvantage—one she didn’t share. Nevertheless, it took several encounters for her status as his preferred companion for the evening to be accepted.

However, once they’d established that, the importuning matrons, although puzzled, desisted, and she and he had a chance to converse.

“I take it”—he glanced at the sofa her mother and his aunt still graced—“that your mother and my aunt are old friends.”

“Very old.” She glanced at the pair. “They go back a long way. In fact”—she looked farther and located her sister and smiled—“one of their joint aims for this dinner is to encourage a connection between Marietta and Lord Swan.”

“Swan?” Gray frowned. “I’ve come across him somewhere…possibly at the opera?”

“Very likely. He’s something of a music aficionado, and Marietta is seriously musically inclined as well.”

Gray groaned. “I was right—there’s going to be music, isn’t there?”

His put-upon tone made her laugh. Trying to school her expression to a mere smile, she patted his arm. “I fear so. In fact, I think one can count on it.”

The look on his face reminded her that, while he didn’t actually dislike music, he’d never appreciated having to sit still and listen to it.

“All I can say is that I hope we don’t have to listen to too much—” He broke off, his expression appalled as, on cue, a string quartet, out of sight in an alcove farther down the room, started to play. “God preserve me!”

Struggling not to laugh again, she tightened her hold on his arm and turned toward where Marietta and Swan stood chatting. “Never mind. Come and I’ll introduce you to Swan.”

Gray grumbled about not wanting to talk about music, but consented to accompany Izzy to join her sister and Marietta’s possible beau.

As they neared, Izzy tipped her head closer to his and murmured, “Be nice. I like Swan. He’ll suit Marietta to the ground, and she’ll suit him as well.”

Thus adjured, he girded his loins and, despite expecting to be utterly bored, when Izzy fetched up beside her sister, he bowed over Marietta’s hand and greeted her with genuine pleasure. Then he turned to Swan and, with his social mask firmly in place, offered his hand. “Lord Swan.”

Swan was younger by several years and readily grasped Gray’s hand. “My lord. I believe we crossed paths in Lady Alverton’s box at the opera last year.”

Gray inclined his head. “Indeed.” Understanding the surprised look Izzy sent him, he explained, “My aunt insisted I attend the event to further my return to the ton.”

She attempted, unsuccessfully, to hide her grin. “I see.”

Gray had expected Swan to pursue the opera connection, but instead, the young man said, “I saw a fabulous pair of matched grays being driven about town last week, and when I inquired, I was told they were yours, my lord.”

Smiling, Gray inclined his head. “They’re recent acquisitions.” He caught the droll look Izzy and Marietta exchanged and pointedly stated, “And no, I didn’t buy them because of my first name. Lord Hoddle had them from some breeder in Ireland, apparently imagining he was up to the task of managing them. Sadly, he was mistaken, and I was able to take them off his hands.” He grinned. “His lordship’s loss all around.”

“Indeed.” Appreciation lit Swan’s eyes, and he included Marietta and Izzy as he vowed, “Perfectly matched with utterly exquisite lines.” He glanced at Gray. “I imagine they run well?”

He nodded. “I couldn’t wish for better. Bowling along the Great North Road behind them is truly a pleasure.”

Marietta cut in with a comment about a recent offering at the Theatre Royal, and Izzy assisted in steering the conversation away from horseflesh. With unabashed good humor, Swan played along, as did Gray, and the four of them fell to reviewing recent London events.

By the time Gilchrist announced dinner, Gray had laid to rest his earlier fear that Swan would prove to be an effeminate waste of space. Swan and he had even managed to drag the conversation back to horses by debating the finer points of hunters and riding hacks suitable for the country. As both ladies rode, the discussion had involved them as well.

Gray wasn’t the highest-ranking nobleman present—that honor went to the ageing Duke of Perry, who therefore led the dowager countess into the dining room—but to his abiding relief, he was the second highest and therefore escorted the dowager countess’s eldest daughter.

Even more fortuitously, whether by design or sheer luck, his aunt had placed him next to Izzy more or less in the center of the long table and thus equidistant from Lady Matcham at one end and the duke and Izzy’s mother at the other. Swan and Marietta were seated opposite, a little way along.

Perfect placement. Gray proceeded to make the most of it, with Izzy’s ready assistance.

As dessert was placed before them, Izzy caught Gray’s eyes. “I’m enjoying this evening much more than I’d anticipated.”

Smiling, he held her gaze. “If your mother and my aunt are bosom-bows, then given Aunt Matcham loves to entertain, I imagine you’ve attended any number of these events over the years.”

“Indeed. Over the past twelve years, the number might even top fifty.” She tipped her head, regarding him quizzically. “How is it I never saw you at Matcham House long ago?”

His lips curved wryly. “In earlier years, I tended to avoid Aunt Matcham like the plague. I’m sure she itched to get her hands on me, but I was exceedingly elusive.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He inclined his head. “With my parents mostly in the country, I’ve found myself relying more and more on Aunt Matcham’s knowledge of the ton, and my attendance at events such as this is her price.”

“Ah.” Izzy nodded in mock-commiseration. “I can imagine she drives a hard bargain.”

Others drew their attention as the conversation grew more general. Not long after, one matron leaned forward to ask the company at large, “Did you see that the latest edition of The London Crier is by way of a hue and cry? Over some murder! I haven’t read it yet, but I made sure my footman fetched a copy.”

“Yes, indeed,” another lady replied. “I’m dying to read it. The articles are always so entertaining, but this week’s edition bids fair to being quite eye-opening.”

Izzy caught Marietta’s eye with a warning look, at which her sister rolled her eyes, but she kept her lips firmly shut on any impulsive and unwise utterance.

“Have to say,” the duke opined from the end of the table, “I could never understand why Gertie”—he nodded down the table to his duchess, who was seated beside Lady Matcham—“was always in such a flap every Saturday to read the blessed rag, but then I read it myself, and well, the stories aren’t half bad. Not the typical scandal-ridden offerings.”

“I,” the duchess intoned, “find the challenge of identifying the various personages in the stories quite enthralling.”

Many other ladies agreed.

Gray caught Izzy’s eyes and arched a brow.

Thoroughly pleased, she grinned.

Gray had noted the look she’d sent her sister. Under cover of the wider conversation, he asked, “Do you worry that your mother or sister might let something slip?”

“Constantly.” She met his eyes, her own suddenly serious. “And as they’re my best sources of gossip, if the connection ever got out…”

If her masquerade as Mrs. Molyneaux ever became common knowledge among the ton, the family would be ostracized.

The gentleman on Izzy’s other side claimed her attention.

Gray sipped his wine, his mind turning over the conundrum of how, in the future he was slowly constructing, Izzy might manage to continue to run The Crier. He suspected she would wish to and decided to allow the matter to percolate in the back of his brain. He was accustomed to finding his way past apparently insurmountable obstacles and felt reasonably confident that, one way or another, he and she would find a way around the potential hurdles.

His aunt tapped her glass with a fork and, when the conversations broke off and everyone looked her way, rose, bringing all the guests to their feet. “Gentlemen, we’ll leave you to enjoy your brandies. I trust”—she swept her gaze over the company—“you won’t dally overlong. I have further entertainment planned and would be loathe to find us pressed for time.”

With that pointed warning, she led the ladies out.

Drawing out Izzy’s chair for her, Gray grumbled, “‘Further entertainment.’ You know what that means.”

She laughed and patted his arm. “You’ll survive.”

He watched her walk away, then returned to the table and joined the general rearrangement as all the men moved closer to the head of the table, where the duke sat, as Gilchrist and his helpers set out the decanters and crystal glasses.

Gray settled and, smiling, nodded as Swan claimed the chair beside him. The brandy decanter made the rounds, and they helped themselves and passed it on, then sipped appreciatively.

Gray studied the amber liquid in his glass. “I once asked Aunt Matcham how it came about that she always had such excellent brandy. She replied that her late spouse had introduced her to the finer things in life—including the best brandy—and even though he’s been dead for decades, she didn’t see any reason to change her habits.”

Others smiled, several laughed, and the duke held up his glass. “To our hostess and her dearly departed lord.”

Everyone drank, then resumed or initiated conversations with their neighbors or those opposite. For a time, Gray and Swan were engaged with the gentlemen across the table, discussing the latest boxing match that had recently been held in Surrey.

When that subject waned, prompted by an impulse he didn’t stop to question, Gray turned to Swan and, savoring a sip of his brandy, studied the younger man. “Am I to take it your interest in Lady Marietta is more than passing?”

Caught in the act of raising his glass, Swan paused, then sipped and swallowed. Then he lowered the glass, swiveled so their conversation was somewhat more private, and met Gray’s gaze. “Lady Marietta is a sweet and lovely young lady with whom I share many interests.”

“So I understand. And as she’s in her second season and—as you noted—quite lovely, I assume she’s a young lady intent on making up her own mind. In that regard, from what I’ve observed, you’re well on the way to fixing her interest.”

Swan’s veneer of sophistication fell away. “Really?” Then he realized how hopeful that sounded and winced. But after staring at Gray for a second, he asked, “Are you sure?”

Gray waggled his head. “I only made her acquaintance recently. However, she’s very much the sort of lady who knows her own mind, and I can’t see her bestowing time on a gentleman if she wasn’t genuinely interested herself.”

Swan considered that, then blew out a breath. “That’s…encouraging.”

“Given that,” Gray smoothly continued, “I assume you’re in a position to make an offer.”

“Oh yes.” Swan seemed to be concentrating on that prospect as he rattled off his status, financially and estate-wise.

But then, eyes narrowing, he refocused on Gray. “In turn, I take it that your interest in my affairs stems from a similar interest in Lady Isadora?”

Gray met Swan’s dark eyes and…realized he was correct. Gray hadn’t paused to think why he felt compelled to sound out Swan over his intentions regarding Marietta, but that, indeed, was the reason. Given her brother wasn’t in London, he felt he should stand in lieu of Julius with respect to applicants for Marietta’s hand—exactly as a brother-in-law would.

He could deny his aspirations and, instead, claim to be merely an old family friend…

Holding Swan’s gaze, Gray inclined his head. “Just so.” He drained his glass and, lowering it, admitted, “However, no more than you can I be certain of the outcome of my suit.”

“Ah. I see.” Judging from his expression, Swan accepted that without further question. After a moment, he cut a hopeful glance at Gray. “Do you know much about the earl? Marietta’s brother?”

Gray considered how forthcoming he ought to be, then thought of what he would hope to be told were their positions reversed. “You’ve heard of Julius’s marriage?” Swan nodded, and Gray continued, “Apparently, he and his wife are content to remain in the country, but the family remain close, and that extends to Julius’s grandfather-in-law, Mr. Silas Barton. He was the source of the funds that saved the Descartes and is a firm favorite with the family and, from all I’ve gathered, has been a great help to them over the years.”

From the look in Swan’s eyes, he was clever enough to read between the lines, and Gray proceeded to paint as clear and truthful a picture of the dowager countess’s household as he could.

At the end of the succinct recitation, Swan grew thoughtful.

Gray left the younger man to digest the information in peace and turned to the gentleman on his other side.

Shortly afterward, the duke slapped the table. “Gentlemen, I fear we should return to what awaits us, or our dear hostess is liable to send in the cavalry.”

With chuckles and smiles, the gentlemen rose and, in groups of two and three, ambled toward the drawing room—only to be diverted by Gilchrist and the footmen to the music room, deeper in the house.

His worst fears realized, Gray bit back a groan, which proved wise given the way Swan’s expression lit.

“Excellent,” Swan said. “I had hoped her ladyship would include a musical interlude.”

Gray inwardly sighed. If he and Swan did become brothers-in-law, he would have to confess to his aversion to music in a social setting. He wasn’t sure his tact was up to the task; he’d have to conscript Izzy to do the enlightening.

He scanned the room and found her not far from the doorway, chatting with three other ladies, two young and one old.

He joined the group, and Izzy introduced him, but before any conversation could ensue, his aunt banged her cane on the floor, much like a judge with a gavel.

“Come along, everyone.” She waved toward the straight-backed chairs arrayed in a semicircle before a pianoforte. “Please sit, and we can begin.”

Gray hung back as the three ladies excitedly made their way to the chairs.

Izzy dallied by his side.

He met her amused and faintly questioning gaze and resolutely shook his head. “I can’t bear it.” Concealed between them, he grasped her hand and surreptitiously tugged. “Come and keep me company.”

She searched his eyes, then glanced toward the front of the room. “Wait until the first performer starts and everyone’s attention is fixed on them.”

That was sound advice. As there were more guests than chairs, plenty of others were standing about, although none were closer to the open doorway than they were.

With relief in prospect, Gray watched as a young lady was persuaded to seat herself before the keys. Helpfully, she launched into a resounding rendition of some march.

Izzy glanced his way. “Perfect covering fire, don’t you think?”

He grinned, gripped her hand more firmly, and quiet as mice, they slipped out of the room. He glanced back, but no head turned; no one noticed them leaving.

Matcham House hadn’t changed in the past ten years; unerringly, he led Izzy to the private parlor his aunt favored when alone and that would, therefore, be deserted as well as unknown to most guests.

He opened the door, and they whisked inside. The curtains were drawn against the night, but as per his memories, a lamp sat on the small table by the door. He quickly lit it, then turned the flame down to a comforting glow.

“That’s better.” He surveyed the room, finding it much as he recalled.

Izzy was already making her way to the small, well-padded sofa. With a swish of her skirts, she sat and looked invitingly at him.

He drank in her features, took in the open question in her eyes, then slowly walked across and settled in the spot beside her.

Tilting her head, she studied his face. “Is there something specific you wish to speak about?”

Yes. He’d been acting on impulse fed by instinct, as was his wont. Now, however…

He leaned back, angling so he could watch her face as he spoke; she obligingly mirrored the position so they could more easily observe each other’s expressions.

He looked at her, appreciating her quiet confidence, her assurance, and the experienced intelligence lurking behind her emerald eyes. His opening words leapt to his tongue. “One change the past ten years have wrought is that we’re older and wiser—with the years, we’ve gained wisdom and insight.” He tipped his head, ruefully acknowledging, “Perhaps not of each other but of ourselves and our world. I hope, because of that, we’ll be better able to understand and accommodate each other.”

She said nothing, simply waited, and he went on, “Given my suggestion of reclaiming what we had ten years ago and, this time, going further and exploring what might be”—he drew breath and searched her eyes—“perhaps it’s time we shared our thoughts on what we want from our lives.”

Her brows faintly rose; she looked unsure.

Unable to stop himself, he stated, “That kiss, Izzy. You know as well as I do the connection still exists.” He gestured. “So what are we to do about it? Go forward? Or pretend that link between us isn’t there?”

“It’s not that,” she replied rather tartly. “It’s just…where do we start?”

He thought for a moment, then surrendering wholly to impulse, said, “How would you feel if I proposed?”

Izzy blinked. He wanted to start there? Then she realized how he’d phrased the question. Put like that, it gave her the chance to put him off before he actually proposed—an easy way out for both of them, one that wouldn’t involve a direct rejection and the associated hurt.

Yet they’d been this way before, talking of sharing their lives.

But those lives had changed, and so had they.

“I don’t need to marry for money anymore.” That was a simple fact.

“You don’t need to marry at all. You’ve already built a life for yourself. What I would offer you is…not an alternative but an added dimension. Me as your husband, children, a home of your own—if that’s what you want.” He tipped his head. “What do you want, Izzy?”

A good question. Love?

Strangely, she knew that had always been there, between them. Not always comfortable, yet always present, not spoken of but tacitly acknowledged by them both.

Like the fire in that kiss, it simply was. Had been and still was.

If she took the chance and embraced “them,” would things end differently this time?

They truly were standing together and looking down the same path after a ten years’ hiatus.

Still…

Did he truly imagine that she might reject his offer?

Yes, he did, for the very good reason that he was such a different man to the cocky, brashly confident, second-son-of-a-duke he’d been back then. Yet the man he was now suited the woman she was now far better than before.

Exasperated by her silence, he looked pointedly at her.

She drew breath, paused, then lightly grimaced. “In response to your question, the honest truth is I don’t know.”

She met his eyes. “Yes, I’m drawn to you. I always have been, and yes, the connection seems even stronger now than it was. We get on well—we understand each other, and despite the years apart, I feel closer to you as a person than I do to any other, man or woman.”

She hesitated, absorbing that.

After a moment, he prompted, “So?”

She refocused on his eyes, the same rich amber she’d never forgotten. “Is that enough on which to build a marriage? For us, as we are now, is that sufficient foundation to make a marriage work?”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then admitted, “I don’t think either of us can answer that. Who can see the future? But is it The Crier—your role and responsibilities there—that makes you hesitate?”

The question forced her to confront and examine that issue. Eventually, she conceded, “To a point.” She trapped his gaze and held it. “If I were to agree to go forward, then whatever joint future we constructed, I would want to retain ownership of The Crier, but”—she tipped her head in acknowledgment—“there are ways to satisfy what I want from the position that would not involve the same time and personal effort that my current roles do.”

Gray nodded. “You’re the owner, the editor—”

“And the principal writer and contributor. However, given how established the paper has become and how sound the printing works is as a business, I could find others to take on all those roles bar that of owner. Stepping back from the other roles would see me no longer at the printing works on a daily basis.” She met his gaze. “If there were other demands on my time, I would have space in my days to meet them.”

The last sentence was a thinly veiled challenge. She wanted him to tell her what he wanted, what he wished for.

He held her gaze for several seconds, then said, “If I proposed and you accepted…I would prefer to live primarily in the country, with a town house in Mayfair for when we need to be here. Other than that, we both have lives and occupations we want to pursue, and I foresee us both supporting the other in those endeavors, our currently separate lives enriching the other’s, with us ultimately acting as a team in both spheres.” He paused, then without shifting his gaze from hers, went on. “And I would like to have children with you. However many we feel we can handle.”

That surprised Izzy. “You like children?” She hadn’t thought children would rate so highly on his list.

He grimaced. “I didn’t know I did, but having become acquainted with the Alverton brood, I’ve discovered I do. They’re”—he gestured—“engaging and entertaining. They remind me of my youth and all the good times I had.” Passion sparked in his eyes as his gaze returned to her face. “I want others to know and have what I did—to enjoy life as I did.”

There. That.

That was what was new, his drive to share the good things in life with others. She recognized the trait as one aspect of his character that powered the attraction she felt for him now, an almost-irresistible temptation to go forward with him and see where he went, how he developed.

He’d changed. For the better.

And she felt the tug of temptation ever more strongly.

Perhaps it truly was time to see what might be?

“To go forward”—she thought of it—“we need to put paid to our past. I still have questions from that time, and I daresay you do, too.”

He held her gaze. “I noticed how shocked you were when I mentioned the conversation I’d overheard between you, your mother, and your aunt.”

“I didn’t know you’d heard that. I didn’t know you’d called that day, that you’d even been in the house.”

“I was admitted by a footman. I breezed past him, asked where you were, and when he said the drawing room, I said I’d show myself in. The household was used to me calling by then, so he didn’t argue.” Speaking as if the moment was fresh in his mind, he went on, “I went up the stairs, and the drawing room door was ajar. I paused before it, settling my coat, and heard your aunt say my name. I stopped and listened.” His gaze recaptured hers. “You know what I heard. Your aunt, your mother, and you discussing me as if I was a commodity—no, a valuable creature to be acquired, to be lured, trapped, and caught.”

She heard the vulnerability in his voice, a vulnerability she’d had no idea he—so cocky, so confident—might feel, and didn’t know what to say.

He continued to look at her, wordlessly demanding a response.

She swallowed and said, “So…you heard what you did and disappeared without a word.”

His eyes narrowed. “I assumed someone would tell you—”

She shook her head and, chin rising, huskily said, “No one did.”

He paused, then said, “So when I disappeared…”

“I had no idea what had happened—why you’d left or where you’d gone.”

He frowned. “I thought you’d realize I’d overheard what I had, and that was why I’d vanished.”

“I understand that now. Then”—she raised one hand in a helpless gesture—“all I knew was that you’d disappeared and effectively deserted me.” The hurt was still there, buried deep though it was by the passage of the years.

The senselessness, the futility of all the angst that moment had caused both of them and how much it had changed their lives…

The consequences were staggering.

Dazed by her evolving understanding of how far-reaching the impact of that moment had been, she said, “I really don’t know what to say. What you heard, all you remember, is correct. That was what was said.” She refocused on his eyes. “How you interpreted it wasn’t.”

His amber gaze pinned her. “Tell me, then. Explain to me, Izzy, because—damn it—I was so in love with you, and hearing you say those words hurt so damned much I ran to the other end of the world.”

I was so in love with you…

The words sank into her, spreading like a balm over a heart that had never healed.

When she didn’t immediately respond, he continued, “I overheard your aunt talking of how my wealth made me such an excellent catch. I heard you agree. I heard you say enough to be certain you wanted to marry me because of the money.”

“No.” The word came out with such strength, such forcefulness it made his eyes widen. She fought the urge to lean toward him, to plead. Instead, with simple dignity, she said, “I wanted to marry you because I loved you. Mama was happy that the man I loved was wealthy enough to satisfy my aunt. My aunt Ernestine…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Do you remember her? My paternal aunt, Ernestine, Lady Bloxborough?”

“She was a terrible old tartar,” he supplied. “That, I remember.”

She nodded. “She was old—far older than my father—and a penny-pinching miser to boot. As much as he was a profligate gambler, she was an inveterate miser. For all I know, those traits were connected—one a reaction to the other. I always suspected a large part of her problem with us—Mama and our family—was that she felt excruciatingly guilty over Papa, her younger brother, running the estate into the ground and callously leaving us penniless.”

Unflinchingly, she met his eyes, knowing her own were as hard as flint. “Ernestine was aware of Papa’s habits and just how close to the wind he’d been sailing. She knew far more than Mama ever did, yet she never said anything. She knew when Papa broke the entail, but not a word of warning passed her lips. And then Papa died, and it was too late, and we’d lost everything.”

She paused, trapped in the past. “We papered over the cracks for as long as we could, hanging on as best we were able to reach my first Season in the hope I would attract a suitor wealthy enough to save the family. Ernestine agreed to fund my Season, but in return, she demanded and insisted that I marry for money, and she held the purse strings in an iron fist. Julius was at Eton, and him continuing there depended on Ernestine, and during the months of that Season, everything Mama, Marietta, James, and I possessed, including running our household, we owed to Ernestine. Without her, I couldn’t have had a Season, so we all had to dance to her tune. That was her price—and we, Mama and I primarily, had to pay it.”

For a moment, she was back in their London house, with her wretched aunt and her peevish ways. Considering the vision, she tipped her head. “I believe Ernestine viewed what she termed ‘footing our bill’ as enforced reparation for her brother’s failings and her own, and she resented it bitterly. But the upshot was that Mama and I had to do as she demanded.” She glanced at Gray. “I had to marry a wealthy man.”

“You had to keep Ernestine satisfied.”

A statement, no question. Recalling how difficult and, at times, excoriating forcing herself to toe her aunt’s line had been…

The pain in her eyes was too raw for Gray to doubt—or bear. He reached out and closed his hand about one of hers, and she blinked and refocused on him.

“That’s what the conversation you overheard was about,” she told him. “Convincing Ernestine that all was progressing exactly as she wished. Obviously, Mama and I did an excellent job—unknowingly, we convinced you as well.” She held his gaze, her emerald eyes clear and unshuttered. “And then you left, and my world fell apart.”

He tightened his hold on her hand. He couldn’t look away from her unshielded gaze. “What did Ernestine do?”

Her lips twisted wryly. “Exactly what you might expect—she pushed and pushed me to accept another suitor.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t.” She looked into his eyes, then sighed and continued, “Out of that, Mama grew so desperate, she gave in to the creditors’ demands and sold the London house. That gave us a buffer, enough to hold on through another Season, and later, once Julius married, there was just enough left for me to buy the old printing works and start The Crier.”

She met his eyes again. “By then, of course, we’d fallen out with my aunt, and I couldn’t think of anything else I could do to earn income. You could say that Ernestine drove me to become the owner and editor of The Crier.”

He gripped her hand yet more tightly. “Am I allowed to say I’m glad she did? Is she still alive?”

She shook her head. “She died a few years after that. She left us nothing, not that we expected anything. By then, we were well and truly estranged.”

He’d already mentally reviewed the comments she and her mother had made that fateful day, the so-hurtful words he’d overheard and taken to heart. In hindsight, he could see each statement for the appeasement it had been; he could see—could accept—that both Izzy and Sybil had been pandering to Ernestine’s view of how things had to be.

“I…had no idea your family was in such straits.” He focused on her face. “It never occurred to me—would never have occurred to me—that that was what lay behind those comments, but I can see it now.”

She studied his face, then said, “I’m sorry you heard what you did. So very sorry it hurt you so deeply.” With her free hand, she gestured helplessly. “Yet if I was in that position again, had to play that scene again, I would say the same as I did then. I regret each and every word”—her eyes on his, she shook her head—“but I can’t take them back. They might have led to me losing you, but at that moment, those words were necessary, and I had to say them.”

“We can’t go back and change history.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “So let’s not try.”

Her smile was crooked. “When I think back to that time…I was so full of naive hope and an unquenchable belief in love.”

“So was I.” He paused, then said, “Perhaps I should have done the dramatic thing and burst into the room and confronted you. Or at least waited and asked you face-to-face what you felt.”

“But we can’t rewrite history.” When he raised his gaze to her eyes, she continued, “We were who we were then—younger, inexperienced, and far less sure of ourselves, no matter how we tried to appear. We reacted—both of us—to the situation as we saw it.” She shrugged. “We didn’t know to do otherwise.”

He sensed there was more to that statement than he’d yet heard. “We?”

She sighed. “You vanished, and I couldn’t understand why. I’d thought…I’d hoped… But then you were gone.”

When she fell silent, her gaze distant, once more in the past, gently, he pressed, “Tell me.”

“I felt deserted.” The words fell from her lips, harsh, full of remembered pain. “I felt that the bright future I’d come to believe we would have—such a precious flame that we’d both ignited and, I thought, nurtured—had been cruelly and deliberately snuffed out.”

“You thought I’d led you along, then deliberately left you?”

She met his gaze. “I didn’t know what to think. I just didn’t know.”

He drew in a breath, then said, “Because of that one, accidental moment, we were both hurt deeply. Viewing it now, with the benefit of age and experience, we might have reacted differently and avoided the pain—”

“We were who we were.”

“And it’s easy to be wise long after the event.”

She turned her hand in his and gripped. “Looking back, us parting wasn’t the fault of either of us, or alternatively, it was both our faults. One or the other. But does that make any difference now, with so many years having passed?”

“The only difference is we now know the truth. Each of us loved the other, more or less to the same degree, and neither of us deliberately hurt the other. All we can do—here and now—is put that time behind us and let our misplaced rancor fade and die.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then gave a small nod. “And now?”

“Now…” He tipped his head and found a faintly teasing smile to distract her. “I was shocked to learn that you hadn’t married. Why didn’t you?”

Izzy tried to stop her answering smile. “No other man”—lived up to you in my eyes—“tempted me.” Then she sighed and went on, “And then things got even worse, and we had to sell the country house as well, and the fact we weren’t flush any more started to percolate through the ton. Just the usual whispers—you know how it happens. My second Season had passed with no suitor in sight, and later that year, Ernestine died, and we went into half mourning, which severely limited the next Season for me, not that I was interested in socializing by then. I could see we were heading for desperation, and I started developing my ideas about publishing a small newspaper focusing on the ton’s social events, and then Julius married, and the upshot of that was that I felt free to try my hand at being Mrs. I. Molyneaux, and with Silas’s backing, I pulled it off.”

He nodded in understanding. “So now you have a very different life.”

“A dual life—half in and half out of the ton.” When he didn’t respond, she seized the chance to ask, “What did you do during the years you were away? Aside from finding that nugget, how did you become so very wealthy?”

Gray hesitated, but it was she who was asking, and given all she’d revealed and what he wanted to build with her… He paused, marshaling his thoughts.

She waited patiently, attentively.

Eventually, he said, “If we’re to have any chance of a shared life, then between us, we must have trust—absolute and unequivocal.” He met her eyes. “That means I need to bury the past and all I thought and felt about you then and trust you as you are now—the woman I’ve observed over the past week, the woman I know you are today, one who deserves my unreserved trust. So…to answer your question, I’ll tell you what I haven’t told anyone else, not even my oldest, closest friend.”

She tipped her head and waited.

He almost smiled. “I know what it’s like for people like us not to have money. Not to have recourse to something we grew up taking for granted.” His mind balked at giving her every detail—not yet, too risky. Instead, he said, “After I arrived in America, over a period, I lost all the money I’d brought with me. I was too proud to contact my parents and ask for more, so I was forced to work, to eke out a living using my bare hands in whatever way offered. I worked in fields, helping with the harvest, and eventually, I worked on the railroads being laid across the country. I was almost to the west coast, in a state called Oregon, when news about the Gold Rush in California broke. I hired on as crew on a ship running down the coast and got myself to the gold fields. Trust me when I say it was a hard and bare existence, scraping out the ore with picks and shovels, panning in the streams, living under canvas or the stars.”

He held her gaze and quietly said, “By then, I was little better than what Americans call a ‘bum.’ I had no money, and what I managed to get, I spent on food and…entertainment. And drink. One night, after leaving the saloon—a tavern—I was so inebriated that on my way back to my tent in the dark, I collapsed in a ditch and…stayed there. I was all but delirious, and at that point, I truly didn’t care if I woke or not.”

She squeezed his hand. “You’d reached rock-bottom.”

“I had. But, it seems, Fate hadn’t finished with me. I woke with the dawn, and as I was hauling myself out of the ditch, my hand landed on a rock. Only it wasn’t just a rock—it was a nugget. Not a small one, but one of the biggest found to that point.”

“What did you do?”

“I seized it, but I also took it as a sign—as having been given one last chance. I cashed in the nugget at the assay office, took the money, and swore to reform. To become the best man I could be. I took the funds and invested them, specifically in ways that would benefit others—in businesses that gave others jobs. Honest and reasonably paid jobs. Once I’d established such a business, others came looking to purchase it, offering me yet more money. So I sold out, took the money, and moved on to my next venture. In that manner, I progressed, company by company, town by town, gradually traveling back across America to the east coast again. When I reached Boston, I stopped and asked myself what came next.”

Her eyes on his, she tipped her head. “And what did?”

He smiled briefly. “That was when I finally faced the question of what I actually wanted to achieve with my life. My epiphany was realizing that I was trying to—and possibly needed to—justify myself to my family, to society here, and I accepted that it was time to come home.” He paused, then went on, “It was as if my time in America had been about teaching me things I would never have learned while being Lord Grayson Child over here. But given I’d learned those lessons, it was time for me to come home and face my ultimate challenge, namely, to pick up the reins of being Lord Grayson Child and craft a satisfying life for myself here, where I actually belong.”

He met her eyes. “That’s why I returned—why I came home.”

Izzy digested that, then observed, “Both of us have learned lessons of life and of ourselves by being forced to exist without the funds we took for granted in our earlier years. I had to become Mrs. I. Molyneaux, and you had to become the man you are now. In order to survive, both of us shed the trappings of noble birth, and to be perfectly truthful, I don’t regret that. As Mrs. Molyneaux, I’ve learned more about the common hardships and realities of life than I ever could have as Lady Isadora Descartes.”

He was nodding. “That’s how I feel, too. That time was no picnic, but I gained a great deal from the experience and, I hope, have emerged a better man than I was before.”

“I appreciate you telling me your story.” She studied him for a moment more, then nodded. “I agree it’s time for us to bury our past and leave it behind us, fully and completely.”

An almost-imperceptible tension eased from him. “Our pasts don’t define us. We are the people we are now, not ghosts from years gone by.”

“Agreed. And”—she drew in a breath and forced herself to ask—“returning to your earlier question regarding how I might react if you proposed, is it the lady I am now you wish to offer for or a wraith from our mutual past?”

His smile was slow. “Definitely not the wraith. In fact, given what I now know of myself, I’m not at all sure the Lady Isadora of ten years ago would have been lady enough for me.”

She arched her brows. “Really? But now?”

He sobered. “Now, the lady you are is all I want and all I need.”

She tipped her head, sensing the ruthless certainty in the declaration. “You sound exceedingly sure.”

“I am.” His eyes didn’t leave hers. “What about you?”

She considered, but could see only one way of adequately answering that. She shifted closer and raised a hand to lightly trace his cheek. Voice low, she murmured, “I’m not quite sure…”

Stretching up, she pressed her lips to his. She kissed him, and for a long moment, he let her. Let her fit her lips to his and savor the firmness of his mobile lips against her lusher, softer ones. Then he responded, and the world spun away until nothing else mattered but the simple, honest, candid exchange.

He reached for her, one steely arm sliding about her waist and slowly drawing her closer. His other hand rose to encircle the wrist of the hand framing his face, but he didn’t draw her palm from his cheek. Instead, his long fingers artfully stroked the inside of her wrist, a strangely intimate caress that fractured her awareness.

If she’d wanted to know if he desired her, the answer was there in the sudden heat that flared when he angled his head, and instinctively, she parted her lips, and his tongue surged in and claimed.

Ardent and entirely certain, she responded and pressed closer. She slid her fingers from his cheek and speared them through his thick hair, then raised her other hand and, gripping his head between her palms, met his questing tongue with her own.

She matched him in the increasingly ravenous exchange and, captured by the moment, by the surging passion and all it promised, brazenly urged him on.

With lips and tongues and melding mouths, together, they forged deeper into passion’s lair, tempting, exploring, inciting.

Giddy and restless, she almost groaned when the hand that had been at her wrist traced along her arm to her shoulder, then skated over the taut silk of her bodice and closed about her aching breast.

Yes. There.

Gently, he flexed his fingers, then kneaded, and when, through the kiss, she signaled her eager approval, he massaged her sensitive flesh, then his fingertips found the tight bud of her nipple beneath the silk, circled teasingly, then closed and squeezed.

Sensation streaked through her, and she forgot how to breathe.

He continued his ministrations, and her head spun, awash in pleasured delight.

Gray couldn’t get enough of her gloriously uninhibited responses. Her lips tasted like ambrosia, her mouth was luscious and sweet, and the intoxicating mix of her desire and his swamped his awareness.

Exultant, he explored her curves, knowing, now, that she would be his—that she’d accepted the challenge of placing her hand once more in his and forging a new path together.

He eased back against the sofa’s arm, urging her over him. She came readily, eagerly, no more willing to break the heated kiss than he. She settled over him, her breasts pressed to his chest. Her long legs tangled with his, her thighs sliding between his, her hips riding over his in excruciating temptation.

To distract them both from that temptation, he framed her face between his hands and kissed her voraciously, and she responded in kind.

Just how far their passions might have driven them, they were destined never to learn. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve times, loudly enough to penetrate the haze of desire wreathing their senses.

They both registered the problem and, patently reluctantly, eased back from the kiss.

She raised her head and stared down at him with disappointment etched in every line of her face. “Damn!” she muttered.

He sighed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

He helped her sit up, and they spent a minute rearranging their clothing. He rose, drew her to her feet, and ran critical eyes over her hair and gown. She did the same for him, then reached up and resettled his cravat. Meeting his eyes, she murmured, “Your aunt and my mother don’t need any further clues.”

“No, indeed.” He closed a hand about one of hers, dipped his head, and stole one last kiss, then he straightened, lowered their clasped hands, and resigned, walked with her toward the door.

He definitely didn’t want to return to their prescribed evening’s activities, yet realistically, they had no choice.

When they reached the door, she halted and tugged his hand.

When he turned and arched his brows, she met his eyes and waved her free hand between them. “Obviously, we need to discuss our next steps, but with tomorrow looming as a critical day in our pursuit of Quimby’s killer…”

He grimaced. “Let’s agree to go on as we have been, at least until we see what tomorrow brings.” He trapped her gaze. “But I give you fair warning that, after delaying for ten years, I’m not inclined to dally over making you mine.”

She read his determination in his eyes, and a glorious smile broke over her face. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score—indeed, I’ll encourage you—but…” A cloud passed over her features. “If nothing useful comes from our hue and cry edition, then the police might revert to their previous stance of considering me the prime suspect and—”

“No.” His tone made the word absolute, impossible to contradict. “Trust me. That won’t happen.”

She took in his set face and sighed. “Yes, well, things might get messy, but hopefully, we’ll know one way or another by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t as happy as he had been. He frowned at the door. “We’d better get back to the music room.”

Without further words, they slipped along the corridor and into the music room in time to witness the final performance—Marietta at the pianoforte accompanying Swan, singing a country ballad.

Even Gray had to admit the pair made very pleasant music; when the piece ended and Marietta and Swan took their bow, he clapped enthusiastically along with everyone else.

Apparently, that brought the evening to a close. The guests rose and, in groups, thanked Lady Matcham, then headed for the front hall.

Together with Swan, Gray joined the Descartes ladies in tendering thanks—for once, entirely genuine—to his aunt.

Apparently sensing that surprising change, she peered at him curiously, but he kept his expression politely bland and offered the dowager countess his arm down the Matcham House steps.

Izzy glided on his other side.

After he’d helped her mother into the carriage, he glanced back, saw Swan and Marietta still chatting to his aunt, and turned to Izzy. Meeting her eyes, he murmured, “Once Baines has Quimby’s killer by the heels…”

She smiled brilliantly and squeezed his arm. “We’ll return to our recent discussions.”

“And bring them to an agreeable conclusion.” Such as a wedding date.

She noted his unwavering determination, and her smile softened. “Indeed.”

She gave him her hand, and he took it. With “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow,” he helped her into the carriage.

Gray stood back as Swan escorted Marietta to the carriage and assisted her up the steps.

After closing the door and nodding to Fields, Swan joined Gray on the pavement, and they watched the carriage rumble away.

Swan turned to Gray and offered his hand. “Thank you for the information you imparted earlier.”

Shaking Swan’s hand, with a smile, Gray inclined his head. “It seemed the least I could do.”

Both patently pleased with their evening, they established they were heading in opposite directions and parted with amiable nods.

As Swan strode off, Gray glanced at the Matcham House porch and found his aunt staring at him, suspicious and knowing at once.

Deciding that everything in his world was close to being perfect—possibly only one day away from him attaining all he most wished for—he allowed his welling enthusiasm for life to light his smile as he saluted his aunt and, with a spring in his step, walked on.