The Trouble with a Dare (Daring Daughters Book 6) Read online

  “But what do you know of this Oak fellow, Grace?” her father asked, bringing her back to the conversation.

  She turned to look at him, seeing his brow creased with worry.

  “I know he has offered me a lifeline, Papa,” she said simply. “He will give me a future, a home, a name for my baby. He has promised he will accept it as his own child, and that he will never hurt either of us.”

  “What is he like, though?” Mama asked. Grace looked down to where her mother’s hands clasped one of hers, holding it protectively, as if she could shield her daughter from pain, if she only held on tight enough. “What kind of man is he?”

  Grace gave a little laugh. “I… I hardly know. He dresses and sounds like a gentleman—well, most of the time—but he does not have an easy manner. He looks rather fierce and does not seem comfortable in company. Mr Oak is not wealthy, but I believe he is comfortably off and has a fine house, and a prosperous farm. Mr Stanhope regards him well, I believe. They are friends as well as neighbours.”

  Neither of her parents seemed greatly reassured by this explanation.

  “He has been very kind to me,” Grace ventured, which was true. For, though his manner was brusque, and he was brutally forthright, he had been kind in his way.

  Her father responded to a knock at the door and the butler appeared.

  “There is a Mr Oak here to see you, Lord Rothborn.”

  “Show him in, please,” Mama said, before her father could respond.

  The butler looked at her father, who nodded in agreement.

  “I’d make no decision without you, Jem, love,” Papa said, once the butler had closed the door. “Surely you know that.”

  “Of course I do,” Mama replied, looking a little indignant. “I just wanted to save you the trouble of thinking about it.”

  A look of such understanding passed between them that Grace felt her heart ache, but then there was another knock at the door and her heart was pounding for quite a different reason. Mr Oak strode in, and Grace felt her breath catch. As ever his expression was fierce, his bearing that of a man who would take his leave the moment it was possible. He put her in mind of an untamed horse, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. A stallion, she corrected herself as she took in the sight of him, remembering all over again how large he was, a lifetime of working the farm having built powerful shoulders and strong limbs.

  “My Lord Rothborn, Lady Rothborn,” he said, giving a stiff bow. “I don’t doubt you’re not best pleased to see me, but I mean to do right by Miss Weston. I know I’m not what you’d look for in a son-in-law, but—”

  “Why would we not be pleased to see you, Mr Oak?” her mother asked, her grey eyes watchful.

  Mr Oak faltered and Grace had the distinct impression that he had rehearsed his part carefully and her mother’s question had thrown him off balance. He stared, his dark brows knit.

  “She’s with child,” he said, blunt as ever.

  Grace winced.

  He noticed her reaction and his face darkened further. “I’m sorry for it, but we must marry at once.”

  “Yes, but… the child is not yours,” her mother persisted, staring at him with interest.

  Mr Oak’s gaze flew to Grace, full of accusation.

  “What did you tell them?” he demanded.

  Grace gazed at him in shock, so surprised by his obvious annoyance that for a moment she did not respond. “The truth, of course. Surely you did not think I would let them believe the worst of you?”

  His face darkened. “Better that,” he said, his voice terse as he turned on her father. “She was taken advantage of and if I ever discover who the bas—blackguard was, he’ll wish he’d never been born. Miss Weston had no defence against such a man, no experience to—”

  “I know that,” her father cut in sharply, his expression rapt as he stared at Mr Oak. “And if there is any retribution to be meted out, I shall be first in line, but you… you would have had us think you responsible, perhaps even suspect you of being a fortune hunter?”

  Grace watched, startled to see colour flare high on Mr Oak’s cheeks.

  “I’m hardly penniless,” he said, his jaw tight.

  Interest flickered in her father’s eyes and his voice was apologetic when he spoke. “I meant no disrespect, I assure you. I only wish to understand why you would do so.”

  “None taken,” Mr Oak replied gruffly. “And because Miss Weston needs protecting.”

  To her surprise, a look of mingled pain and regret settled upon her father’s strong features. “I am culpable, and I know it.”

  “No!” Grace exclaimed in horror.

  “I did not mean to imply….” Mr Oak said, both he and Grace speaking at once.

  Her father held up his hand. “You did not need to imply, Mr Oak, and Grace, darling, if I had guarded you closer—”

  “You ought not need to keep watch on me every hour of the day, Papa! I am young, perhaps, but not a child. You both taught me right from wrong, and I knew I was doing wrong and I… I am ashamed. I regret it very, very deeply, but the deed was mine, the decision was mine, and I kept the truth from you. I sneaked out of the house at night. What were you to do? Lock me in my room?”

  Her father sat heavily, one hand going to his thigh and the war wound that still caused him such pain. He massaged the muscle, his expression taut.

  “Why did you seek to protect our daughter in such a way?” her mother asked him. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, self-contained and calm although her eyes were still red from weeping. Her voice was gentle, as though soothing a fractious child. “Why not just tell us the truth? Grace has a significant dowry. Surely you knew we’d think the worst of you, believe that you had seduced her on purpose?”

  “I didn’t know about the dowry, and I don’t care either way. I’ll not have you treat her as though she’s done wrong when she knew no better,” Mr Oak said, folding his arms.

  He looked belligerent and unhappy, and Grace fidgeted on the sofa, uncomfortable in the unsettling atmosphere, quite at a loss for what to think of her husband–to-be. It touched her that he would defend her so fiercely, but she found herself irritated that he believed her so witless. With a rueful sigh, she had to admit that she had hardly given him reason to think anything else.

  Her parents studied Mr Oak with open curiosity, clearly as baffled by him as Grace.

  “I assure you, we know where the blame lies, and we would never punish Grace for it,” her father said, his gaze never leaving Mr Oak.

  Grace frowned at that. Much as she wished to believe she was blameless, she knew that was not true. Yes, she had been naïve and foolish, but she had known it was reckless. At the time, she hadn’t cared. She’d been idiotic enough to believe herself in love and that it was all terribly romantic, when it had been nothing but childish infatuation. It was astonishing how quickly one grew up and saw the world in a new light when calamity struck.

  “She’s almost three months gone. We’d best marry as soon as possible. There’ll be talk either way, but it won’t do to linger,” Mr Oak said.

  Grace jolted in shock, and her mother gave a little gasp at his bald statement.

  Mr Oak heard her intake of breath and frowned. “It’s best we speak plainly, my lady, but I am sorry if I offend you.”

  “I am not offended,” her mother said softly, turning to stare at Grace. “Why? Why did you not tell me at once, darling? Did you not feel you could confide in me? Did you think I would not understand?”

  “No!” Grace said, helpless as her eyes burned, and the tears began all over again. “I knew I could confide in you, but I knew I would break your hearts, and I… I could not bear it.”

  She blinked as a handkerchief came into view. Mr Oak held it out to her, his expression as dark and forbidding as always, despite the kind gesture.

  “Well then,” her mother said, forcing a tremulous smile. “I think we had best get to know our new son-in-law. I, for one, believe I am going to like him very much.”

  Despite everything, Grace almost laughed at the sceptical look in Mr Oak’s eyes. He looked quite horrified by that statement. No doubt because it appeared to mean he must endure a conversation, of all things. Grace bit her lip and sent him an apologetic glance. He held her gaze, but his expression was as unreadable as always.

  “Grace, darling, why don’t you run upstairs and freshen up? I shall ring for tea, and Papa and I shall have a quiet chat with Mr Oak.”

  Grace looked to Mr Oak, wondering if it was safe to leave him alone with them or if the prospect would have him changing his mind and running for the hills. He gave a brief nod and some of the tension left her shoulders. Of course he wouldn’t back out. Mr Oak might be an odd duck, but he was an honourable man. Of that much, she was certain.

  Chapter 2

  Dear Arabella,

  I am to be married to Mr Oak. He is a stranger to me, and I am sick with nerves. I have not the slightest right to repine, for this situation is entirely of my own making, but I am afraid all the same. He is so very stern and unsmiling and though I wish to be a good wife to him, I do not know what he will expect from me.

  I know Bainbridge was quite a stranger to you too, Arabella, and that your marriage is wonderfully happy, so if you have any advice for me, I beg you will be frank and tell me how I ought to go on.

  Excerpt of a letter from Miss Grace Weston (daughter of Solo and Jemima Weston, Baron and Baroness Rothborn) to Arabella Grenville, The Most Hon’ble, The Marchioness of Bainbridge (daughter of Mrs Alice and Mr Nathanial Hunt).

  1st of September 1839, Holbrook House Estate, Sussex.

  Sterling took his time walking back to the farm, watching his feet move across the ground rather than looking ahead. The distance between him and his hom
e did not seem far enough, and he concentrated on his boots as they took him closer, sometimes through meadow grass that swished and whispered against his legs, sometimes upon the dirt road, moving around puddles from last night’s shower of rain.

  His mind was as tangled as a bramble bush, catching momentarily on something before breaking free with a painful wrench. Hopes and fears and a dozen or more questions tumbled through his mind. Each one clamoured for his attention, but he seemed unable to concentrate on any one of them. All he could see was Miss Weston’s wide, grey eyes when he had first told her he would marry her. It had been the way she had looked at him when he had promised to treat her baby as his own child. She had been so terribly afraid—terrified—but then she had stared at him, stared at him as if she could see into his heart, into the farthest corners of his soul, and she had believed him.

  Grace Weston had put her trust in him.

  Of course, she had come back days later and asked if he meant to lock her in an attic or feed her to his pigs, but still. He snorted at the memory. Good Lord, but she had an imagination. His mother would not like that. His mother would not like any of this one bit, for anything resembling a creative spirit would be ruthlessly crushed. In her eyes, imagination was fatal flaw, one that Sterling had learned to keep hidden since he’d realised how she feared it, and Grace....

  He sucked in a breath. No. Grace would not be crushed, Grace would not have her love of beautiful things and her flights of fancy chased from her. He would protect her from that.

  The knowledge that he must face his mother now, tell her he was getting married, and that she must move out of his home and into the cottage he had prepared for her was not pleasant. There would be a scene. Sterling hated scenes. Especially her scenes. Her spiteful fury rubbed against his skin like nettle rash, making him all on edge. It made him want to lash out, but he’d never lose his temper with a woman, not even one who provoked him beyond bearing. There was no escaping it, though. Things were going to be hard enough for Grace without having in his mother living in the same house as her.

  Grace.

  The name suited to perfection. She was slim and elegant as a reed, her features so delicate they might have been painted on porcelain. Sterling had ventured to consider what it might be like to take her in his arms and found the idea so audacious he wondered if he would ever dare, or if he’d be able to do it without bruising her. She seemed too delicate for such earthly pleasures.

  Without really considering where he was going, he found himself in the churchyard next to Saxenhurst Hall, standing by his father’s headstone. He laid a hand on the thick engraved stone, warm from the afternoon sun.

  “You’d like her,” he said. “But Mother is going to pitch a fit the likes of which we’ve not seen since you sent me to university.”

  Sterling smiled and let out a slow breath before giving the headstone a fond pat.

  “Ah, well. Worrying is for the living. You rest easy, Pa.”

  Though he knew he was killing time, putting off the inevitable, he took the long way around. He checked fences as he went, spoke a few words to some of his men and bided for a time at the hogpound talking to the duchess. She was a fine fat pig, a Gloucestershire Old Spot, and Sterling enjoyed conversing with her, reckoning her the most intelligent creature on the entire farm. The duchess huffed out a sigh, her vast belly quivering and one large ear twitching as she reclined in all her porcine majesty on a bed of clean straw.

  “I know, I know,” Sterling grumbled. “There’s no need to nag me. I’m going.”

  He took off his hat, tapping it against his thigh as he turned to look at the farm. It was a handsome building, very ancient in places, though his father had modernised it a good deal, extending it and making it grander. It had belonged to his mother’s family. Her father had been the local squire and father had courted her with high hopes, his ambitious eye on moving up in the world. Sterling laughed softly. The best laid schemes of mice and men.

  He walked to the front door and pushed it open, setting his hat aside and ensuring his best boots weren’t mucky after his excursion through the yard. He made his way to the kitchen, knowing this was where he’d find his mother. His housekeeper and cook, Mrs Gladwish, looked up as he walked in, her pinched expression telling him that his mother had been there for some time.

  “Ma, you’ve staff for that,” Sterling said, though he knew he was wasting his breath.

  His mother looked up from the pot she was stirring, one chapped, work-worn hand fisted on her hip. “I can’t stop you wasting good money on help we don’t need, but I’ll earn my keep.”

  Sterling bit back the words brewing on his tongue. It was as well to pick his battles, and there was a fine war to wage before dinnertime. He’d do well not to get distracted by the same old skirmishes.

  “A word,” he said shortly, jerking his head towards the door.

  His mother’s pale blue eyes narrowed upon him. “Out with it, then.”

  Sterling sighed. She had to make every blasted conversation a battle of wills.

  “In private,” he said, and walked out before she could find something else to say.

  She made him wait, but Sterling had grown too used to having his patience tested to allow that to set up his bristles. Instead, he considered the parlour, with its large inglenook fireplace and low, timbered ceiling. This was the oldest part of the house and, even though they’d lowered the floor, Sterling could not stand without crooking his neck. He liked it all the same. It was familiar and cosy.

  He tried to imagine Grace here. Grace, with her slender white hands and eyes full of clouds. Would she despise him? Gratitude could fester into loathing, and resentment for all she had lost might make her bitter. He’d been to university, been educated like a gentleman, and could pass in that world if he must, but he always felt an imposter, as if at any moment someone would point at him and turn him out for aping his betters. Not that he thought them his betters. He counted Henry Stanhope and Cassius Cadogan, Viscount Oakley, as friends. Sterling had been at Oxford with Cassius, and he’d never felt himself anything but his equal, but a woman might not look at him that way. Ladies—that fine breed of creature that his father had wished him to marry—did not look at him that way. If they looked hard, they saw his rough edges and heard the slight burr to his accent that crept in now and then, the words and phrases his father told him to forget, but that slipped out when he was either fully at ease or all on edge.

  The door opened and his mother came in, still wiping her hands on a cloth she tucked under her apron strings. She folded her arms. It was all nicely calculated to remind him of what they were and their place in the pecking order. Once upon a time, his mother had been a handsome woman and might have married up. It had been her father’s ambition, but the old squire’s extravagance and folly had given her a disgust of anything she deemed unnecessary or frivolous. So here she was, in a gown that was years old and faded, still working in the kitchens, and wearing an apron as though Sterling needed her to work her fingers to the bone to keep bread on the table. Not now, he told himself.

  “I’m to be married.”

  Sterling did not consider himself a spiteful man, but there was a small part of him that enjoyed the jolt of shock that made her eyes grow wide and her mouth drop open. She had not expected that.

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “No one you know.”

  “No. You’ve not thought to bring her to meet your mother. Ashamed, are you?”

  There was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes at that.