The ride to Maguiresbridge had seemed interminably long. Amelia looked out her window, the dowager out hers, and Lord Crowland and Mary Audley did the same. Grace, squeezed in the middle facing backwards, could do nothing but stare at the spot midway between the dowager’s and Lord Crowland’s heads.
Every ten minutes or so the dowager would turn to Mary and demand to know how much longer it would be until they reached their destination. Mary answered each query with admirable deference and patience, and then finally, to everyone’s relief, she said, “We are here.”
The dowager hopped down first, but Lord Crowland was close on her heels, practically dragging Amelia behind him. Mary Audley hurried out next, leaving Grace alone at the rear. She sighed. It seemed somehow fitting.
By the time Grace reached the front of the rectory, the rest of them were already inside, pushing through the door to another room, where, she presumed, Jack and Thomas were, along with the all-important church register.
An open-mouthed woman stood in the center of the front room, a cup of tea balanced precariously in her fingers.
“Good day,” Grace said with a rushed smile, wondering if the others had even bothered to knock.
“Where is it?” she heard the dowager demand, followed by the crash of a door slamming against a wall. “How dare you leave without me! Where is it? I demand to see the register!”
Grace made it to the doorway, but it was still blocked by the others. She couldn’t see in. And then she did the last thing she’d ever have expected of herself.
She shoved. Hard.
She loved him. She loved Jack. And whatever the day brought, she would be there. He would not be alone. She would not allow it.
She stumbled inside just as the dowager was screaming, “What did you find?”
Grace steadied herself and looked up. There he was. Jack. He looked awful.
Haunted.
Her lips formed his name, but she made no sound. She couldn’t have. It was as if her voice had been yanked right out of her. She had never seen him thus. His color was wrong-too pale, or maybe too flushed-she couldn’t quite tell. And his fingers were trembling. Couldn’t anyone else see that?
Grace turned to Thomas, because surely he would do something. Say something.
But he was staring at Jack. Just like everyone else. No one was speaking. Why wasn’t anyone speaking?
“He is Wyndham,” Jack finally said. “As he should be.”
Grace should have jumped for joy, but all she could think was-I don’t believe him.
He didn’t look right. He didn’t sound right.
The dowager turned on Thomas. “Is this true?”
Thomas did not speak.
The dowager growled with frustration and grabbed his arm. “Is…it…true?” she demanded.
Still, Thomas did not speak.
“There is no record of a marriage,” Jack insisted.
Grace wanted to cry. He was lying. It was so obvious…to her, to everyone. There was desperation in his voice, and fear, and-Dear God, was he doing this for her? Was he trying to forsake his birthright for her?
“Thomas is the duke,” Jack said again, looking frantically from person to person. “Why aren’t you listening? Why isn’t anyone listening to me?”
But there was only silence. And then:
“He lies.”
It was Thomas, in a voice that was low and even, and absolutely true.
Grace let out a choked sob and turned away. She could not bear to watch.
“No,” Jack said, “I’m telling you-”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas snapped. “Do you think no one will find you out? There will be witnesses. Do you really think there won’t be any witnesses to the wedding? For God’s sake, you can’t rewrite the past.”
Grace closed her eyes.
“Or burn it,” Thomas said ominously. “As the case may be.”
Oh, Jack, she thought. What have you done?
“He tore the page from the register,” Thomas said. “He threw it into the fire.”
Grace opened her eyes, unable to not look at the hearth. There was no sign of paper. Nothing but black soot and ash under the steady orange flame.
“It’s yours,” Thomas said, turning to Jack. He looked him in the eye and then bowed.
Jack looked sick.
Thomas turned, facing the rest of the room. “I am-” He cleared his throat, and when he continued, his voice was even and proud. “I am Mr. Cavendish,” he said, “and I bid you all a good day.”
And then he left. He brushed past them and walked right out the door.
At first no one could speak. And then, in a moment that was almost grotesque, Lord Crowland turned to Jack and bowed. “Your grace,” he said.
“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. He turned to the dowager. “Do not allow this. He will make a better duke.”
“True enough,” Lord Crowland said, completely oblivious to Jack’s distress. “But you’ll learn.”
And then-Jack couldn’t help it-he started to laugh. From deep within him, his sense of the absurd rose to the fore, and he laughed. Because good God, if there was one thing he’d never be able to do, it was learn. Anything.
“Oh, you have no idea,” he said. He looked at the dowager. His desperation was gone, replaced by something else-something bitter and fatalistic, something cynical and grim. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he told her. “No idea at all.”
“I have restored you to your proper place,” she said sharply. “As is my duty to my son.”
Jack turned. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her for one moment more. But there was Grace, standing near the doorway. She looked shocked, she looked scared. But when she looked at him, he saw his entire world, falling softly into place.
She loved him. He didn’t know how or why, but he was not enough of a fool to question it. And when her eyes met his, he saw hope. He saw the future, and it was shining like the sunrise.
His entire life, he’d been running. From himself, from his faults. He’d been so desperate that no one should truly know him, that he’d denied himself the chance to find his place in the world.
He smiled. He finally knew where he belonged.
He had seen Grace when she entered the room, but she’d stood back, and he couldn’t go to her, not when he’d been trying so hard to keep the dukedom in Thomas’s hands, where it belonged.
But it seemed he’d failed in that measure.
He would not fail in this.
“Grace,” he said, and went to her, taking both of her hands in his.
“What the devil are you doing?” the dowager demanded.
He dropped to one knee.
“Marry me,” he said, squeezing her hands. “Be my bride, be my-” He laughed, a bubble of absurdity rising from within. “Be my duchess.” He smiled up at her. “It’s a lot to ask, I know.”
“Stop that,” the dowager hissed. “You can’t marry her.”
“Jack,” Grace whispered. Her lips were trembling, and he knew she was thinking about it. She was teetering.
And he could bring her over the edge.
“For once in your life,” he said fervently, “make yourself happy.”
“Stop this!” Crowland blustered. He grabbed Jack under his arm and tried to haul him to his feet, but Jack would not budge. He would remain on one knee for eternity if that was what it took.
“Marry me, Grace,” he whispered.
“You will marry Amelia!” Crowland cut in.
Jack did not take his eyes off Grace’s face. “Marry me.”
“Jack…” she said, and he could hear it in her voice that she thought she should make an excuse, should say something about his duty or her place.
“Marry me,” he said again, before she could go on.
“She is not acceptable,” the dowager said coldly.
He brought Grace’s hands to his lips. “I will marry no one else.”