No. She would not marry him. But it was her father who concerned her more. He had successfully married off all six of his other daughters. Only Grace, the oldest, remained. The one not quite as pretty or quite as outgoing. The one more content to play her music and read her books than learn to flirt. The one who usually stood off to the side at any gathering and whose intelligence frightened most men away.
The one he’d made sure no one wanted so she would be left behind to be the mother her sisters no longer had.
She knew she’d always been a disappointment to him, but surely when his temper cooled he would realize she could not marry but would be more content single. Surely he would realize their home, Warren Abbey, needed a mistress to run it. That he needed her to be a comfort to him in his old age. He would let her stay here.
Surely he would.
Grace lifted her head at the soft knock at the door and inhaled a deep breath.
“Your father wants you to come to his study, my lady.”
Grace looked at the serious expression on the maid’s face and repressed a shudder. “Thank you, Esther.”
“Baron Fentington is with him.”
Grace steeled her resolve, then walked out the door with the same numbness as a prisoner going to the gallows. She braced her shoulders, taking each step with resolute determination. She would not give in on this. She would not let him force her into marriage. Not to Fentington. Not to anyone so reprehensible.
She made her way across the tiled foyer, suddenly feeling very sure of herself even though her stomach churned as if a hundred swirling whirlpools were rushing in opposite directions. She reached out her trembling hand and opened the door.
Her father, the Earl of Portsmont, stood behind his desk, waiting for her. His eyes were glazed with such fury that for the first time in her life she was afraid of him. Baron Fentington stood at the window with his back to her.
“Papa. Lord Fentington.”
Neither spoke. Her father remained silent, as if his temper wouldn’t allow him to utter any words. Fentington refused to acknowledge her presence, as if turning to greet her was so reprehensible he wouldn’t soil his tongue by uttering such blasphemy.
“Come here,” her father demanded, stepping out from behind his dark oak desk. He looked as angry as she could ever recall, as near to murder as she’d ever seen. He kept his hands fisted at his sides as if ready to strike out at something, someone. An angry muscle worked at the side
of his face and he kept his jaw clamped so tightly he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Tell him. Tell Baron Fentington that you lied. Tell him you are still a virgin.”
Grace held her father’s intense scrutiny only a moment before lowering her gaze to the floor.
“Tell him!” he yelled, stepping around the corner of the desk. He grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly shook her.
“I cannot.”
An angry vein stood out at the side of her father’s neck, and for a fleeting moment, Grace felt sorry for him. It wasn’t that she cared overly much for him. No more than he cared for her or for any of his daughters. They’d all been disappointments to him. Seven daughters and not one son. But since she was the only one left, all the disappointment and disdain was aimed at her.
Fentington spun around with a long, accusing finger pointed at her. “See! I told you, Portsmont. I told you your daughter was a Jezebel. A harlot. A whore!”
Before she could protect herself, her father reached out his hand and slapped her across the face.
Grace stumbled across the room and cried out in pain when her hip collided with the sharp corner of his desk. She clutched at the desktop, dazed and in pain, but was thankful she’d managed to stay on her feet.
It was the first time she could remember her father striking any one of them.
Whether it was the shock of his hitting her or the unleashed fury behind his attack, she knew she had created a chasm between them that would never be bridged.
“Come here!” he yelled, clamping his fingers around her upper arm and jerking her toward him. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything!”
Grace pressed her fingers against her stinging cheek and stared at her father. He released her with a shove and stepped over to where Baron Fentington stood. The baron’s face piously looked toward heaven and his lips moved as if reciting a silent prayer.
Her father reached for some papers on his desk and took them to where Fentington stood. “It’s not too late, Fentington. I won’t ask as much for her now. She will come cheaper.”
The air left Grace’s chest. Blood thundered inside her head. Her father was taking money for her. He was selling her as if she were a head of livestock or a bushel of grain.
Fentington speared a look at her father that simmered with fire and brimstone. “She’s used, Portsmont. Tainted. The devil only knows who all has had her.”
Her father turned on her. “Who, girl? Who is it?”
Grace backed up until her legs hit one of the two matching leather chairs in front of the desk. Her father reached for her again, but this time she twisted to the side to avoid him. He kept coming after her.
“Father, stop! What are you doing?”
“Who is it, girl? Who have you been laying with?”
She knew he wouldn’t give up without an answer. “You don’t know him.”
Her father looked at her as if he couldn’t believe her, as if he thought she might be lying. “It doesn’t matter who it is, Fentington. Who it is can’t be of importance.”
“Doesn’t matter! The girl can’t even assure us she isn’t carrying.”
Her father’s head jerked back to her. “Are you? Are you carrying some man’s bastard?”
Grace placed her hands on her stomach. Of course she wasn’t carrying his child. They’d only been together one night. The odds were his seed hadn’t taken hold. It had taken each of her sisters months of trying before they conceived. But she couldn’t let Fentington know that.
She held her hands against her abdomen as if protecting something very special, then looked into her father’s face. What she saw stole her breath. There was hatred there, a repulsion and disgust she’d never noticed before.
“Are you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
His arm swung out and he slapped her again. She tasted blood and touched her fingers to her mouth.
Her father drew back his fist again, then stopped as if he realized it was too late. The damage was done. He faced the baron squarely with his head high and his shoulders braced. “We can come to an agreement, Fentington. I know she’s far past her prime and not nearly as pretty as the other six, but she’ll still serve you well.”
“Father, no!”
“She can be taught subservience. With you to guide and mold her, she can be an exemplary wife. She still has a few years of breeding left to give you the heir your other wives were unable to give you.”
Fentington snorted a repulsive sound. “She’s too old to be molded, Portsmont, and she’s given herself as a whore. Any fool knows once a woman’s gone down the path of sin and degradation she can no longer be trusted. You keep her. She is of no value to me.”
“No. She still has value. Tell him, Grace. Tell him you’ll be exactly the kind of wife he wants.”
“Father!”
“Tell him!”
Grace felt the floor shift beneath her. “I’d rather rot in hell than let such a contemptible monster as Fentington anywhere near me. His sadistic penchants are so vile and revolting that even if half of the horrific stories about him aren’t based on fact, the ones that are true are enough to send him to hell for eternity.”
Fentington staggered back as if her words had been a physical attack. The loathing in his glare suggested an underlying evil that frightened her. Then he smiled. The sneer on his face was the most sadistic grin she had ever seen. “Perhaps it would be my Christian duty to wed your daughter to save her soul.”
“Yes! Yes!” her father agreed.
Grace’s blood turned to ice. “Like you saved your last wife’s soul? Do you think there is even one person in all of Herefordshire who doesn’t know she took her life to escape you? That death was preferable to living with you?”
Baron Fentington pursed his lips, grinding his teeth so loudly she could hear the grating noise in the deafening silence.
“It would serve you right if I married you and brought you down a peg. You need that viperous tongue stilled and that high-handed attitude subdued. You need your sinful ways beaten out of you and need to be taught humility and respect and contrition. God says—”
“God does not speak through you, Lord Fentington,” Grace said, willing herself to find the courage to stand up
to him. “And if you ever try to force marriage, I swear I’ll go to Reverend Perry and tell him all your dirty little secrets. Perhaps I’ll invite him to tea along with Hannah and His Grace, the Duke of Sherefield, our local magistrate. Your daughter can tell them how wonderful it was growing up under your roof.”
“Quiet! Don’t you mention that harlot’s name in my presence. I have no daughter. She is dead!”
“No, she’s not. She’s alive and well and living the only life growing up in your house has left her.”
Fentington’s face turned a mottled red. His eyes glared black fury. She could see murder in them and felt a fear unlike any she’d known before.
“The devil has your soul, you spawn of Satan. I should—”
“Try to force my hand, Lord Fentington, and I’ll spread the stories of your perverted penchants from here to London and back. And feel no regret while I’m doing it.”
Fentington took a step toward her. Grace stepped back, fearing he would do her harm. Certain her father would not come to her aid if he did.
“You can keep your harlot daughter,” he said, giving her a final malicious glare. “The devil owns her, body and soul.” He turned his attention back to her. “If your father is wise, he’ll rid himself and his home of you and throw you out on the street where you belong. You are nothing but a whore. And God will punish you as He does all evildoers for their wicked ways.”
Grace lifted her chin and faced him squarely. She refused to be cowed by a man as repulsive as the baron.
“You have played me for a fool. I’ll not forget it.” His eyes turned blacker. “I’ve let it out that you agreed to be
my wife and will now have to face the humiliation of being spurned. You’ll pay for your betrayal. Pay!”
Giving her a last glare, he spun on his heel and stalked from the room. The door slammed behind him and Grace nearly collapsed from fear and relief. Her heart thundered in her breast and she had to reach out a hand and grasp the back of the leather chair to steady herself.
She’d done it. She was safe from him and could spend her days in quiet contentment here in the country, reliving her one magical night and dreaming about the man who’d given it to her. Grace let her throbbing head drop to her hands.
“Get out of my house,” her father growled from behind her.
His words slammed against her with the force of a fist pummeling her stomach. The hatred in his voice stole the air from her and engulfed her in a fear from which she couldn’t find an escape.
“You will not spend one more night under my roof,” he continued, taking a menacing step toward her.
Grace grabbed a fistful of the leather on the back of the chair to keep from sinking to the floor.
“Father—”
“No!” he bellowed, slashing his hand through the air. “Do not call me that ever again. You are no longer my daughter.”
She stiffened her shoulders as she faced him. “Were you that desperate for his money?”
He stepped around her, circling her as a hunter circles his prey. “You lied to me. You told me you would accept Fentington’s offer once Anne was married.”
“Only because you threatened to give her to Fentington if I refused to marry him. I could never have let our Annie marry such a monster.”
“So you waited until she was married to drop this surprise on me.”
“I waited until she was safe from him. And from you.”
“How dare you,” he hissed and reached out to slap her again. Grace twisted away quickly enough to spare herself the full brunt of his blow.
With a loud bellow, her father paced back and forth as a man demented. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“I’ve done nothing except refuse to marry a man all of England knows is morally repugnant. You would not make me marry him if you knew what he was truly like.”
“You think I don’t know?” Her father laughed. “You think I haven’t known for years the rumors that surround him?”
Grace tried to speak but no words came out.
“Do you know how much he offered for you? Do you know how rich it would have made me? And I would have gotten rid of you at the same time.”
Her father staggered to a small table like a man already drunk. He filled a glass from one of the crystal decanters there and took a long swallow. Then turned back to her with an angry, black look on his face.
“Get out! There is no room for you here anymore.” He refilled his glass and took another swallow, his actions more controlled this time. “I am remarrying.”
Grace couldn’t believe this.
“Lady Constance Sharpley will be my wife. You don’t know her. How could you when you spend all your time
hiding in the country? But she knows you. Or knows you by reputation. Everyone remembers my oldest daughter who spent her London Season as a wallflower. Whose plain looks and sharp mind sent men fleeing instead of pursuing. Oh, yes. She knows you. Knows of your bookish, domineering ways. And my new countess wants you gone. She wants to come here to Warren Abbey and be mistress of her own home.”
Grace couldn’t hide her look of surprise.
“What, Grace? Did you think I would be content with you as my companion for the rest of my life? That I would let my spinster daughter hide away in the country because no one wanted her? That I would want you to nurse me in my old age so your life would have some semblance of worthiness in your otherwise dull existence?”
“No, Father. I never thought that. Never thought you would ever want me. Just as you’ve never wanted any of us.”
“I wanted a son! An heir! And I intend to have one.”