Page 106 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Grace reminded herself that she had not spent a lifetime of Sunday mornings in church for nothing. “I wished to inquire if you needed anything, your grace.”

“Why?”

Good heavens, she was suspicious. “Because I am a nice person,” Grace said, somewhat impatiently. And then she crossed her arms, waiting to see what the dowager said to that.

The dowager stared down at her for several moments, then said, “It is my experience that nice people don’t need to advertise themselves as such.”

Grace wanted to inquire what sort of experience the dowager had with nice people, since it was her own experience that most nice people fled the dowager’s presence.

But that seemed catty.

She took a breath. She did not have to do this. She did not have to help the dowager in any way. She was her own woman now, and she did not need to worry over her security.

But she was, as she had noted, a nice person. And she was determined to remain a nice person, regardless of her improved circumstances. She had waited upon the dowager for the last five years because she’d had to, not because she wanted to. And now…

Well, she still didn’t want to. But she’d do it. Whatever the dowager’s motives five years ago, she had saved Grace from a lifetime of unhappiness. And for that, she could spend an hour attending to the dowager. But more than that, she could choose to spend an hour attending to her.

It was amazing what a difference that made.

“Ma’am?” Grace said. That was all. Just ma’am. She’d said enough. It was up to the dowager now.

“Oh, very well,” she said irritably. “If you feel you must.”

Grace kept her face utterly serene as she allowed Lord Crowland (who had caught the latter half of the conversation and told Grace she was mad) to help her up. She took her prescribed seat—facing backward, as far from the dowager as possible—and folded her hands neatly in her lap. She did not know how long they would be sitting here; the others had not seemed quite ready to quit their lunch.

The dowager was looking out the window; Grace kept her eyes on her hands. Every now and then she’d steal a glance up, and every time, the dowager was still turned away, her posture hard and stiff, her lips pinched tight.

And then—perhaps the fifth time Grace looked up—the dowager was staring straight at her.

“You disappoint me,” she said, her voice low—not quite hiss, but something close to it.

Grace held her silence. She held everything, it seemed—her posture, her breath. She did not know what to say, except that she would not apologize. Not for having the audacity to reach out for happiness.

“You were not supposed to leave.”

“I was but a servant, ma’am.”

“You were not supposed to leave,” the dowager said again, but this time something within her seemed to shake. Not quite her body, and not quite her voice.

Her heart, Grace realized with a shock. Her heart was shaking.

“He is not what I expected,” the dowager said.

Grace blinked, trying to follow. “Mr. Audley?”

“Cavendish,” the dowager said sharply.

“You did not know that he existed,” Grace said, as gently as she was able. “How could you have expected anything?”

The dowager did not answer. Not that question, anyway. “Do you know why I took you into my home?” she asked instead.

“No,” Grace said softly.

The dowager’s lips pressed together for a moment before she said, “It was not right. A person should not be alone in this world.”

“No,” Grace said again. And she believed it, with her whole heart.

“It was for the both of us. I took a terrible thing and turned it into good. For both of us.” Her eyes narrowed, boring into Grace’s. “You were not supposed to leave.”

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