Page 1 of Everything But the Earl
Chapter One
London, 1817
Grace Midwood stoodjust inside the Rutherford ballroom, trying to process what she had just seen.
The man she’d been betrothed to since their youth had been kissing—
“Grace!”
She looked up and saw that her dear friend Penelope Thistledown was approaching.
“You look stricken,” said Penny. “Are you all right?”
Something about Penny’s tone helped Grace snap out of her stupor. “I must speak with you quietly. Perhaps we can go out into the hall. To, er, get some air.”
The Rutherford ball was in full swing. It was one of the largest crushes of the Season. Dozens of couples danced, a few hundred other people milled about in the ballroom, and mamas were throwing their daughters at all of the eligible bachelors. The room was hot and oppressive, the sort of space that made it hard for the ladies laced tightly into their stays to breathe properly.
Grace led Penny into the hallway outside the ballroom, where several other small groups of people lingered, having hushed conversations.
“My mother intends for me to marry the Marquess of Beresford,” Grace whispered.
“I thought that was common knowledge.”
“I do not wish to marry Beresford. Nor do I believe he wishes to marry me.”
“Fiddlesticks. Who would not want to marry you? Why, Grace, you are beautiful and intelligent and—”
“I just spotted him kissing another.” Grace opted to leave out the part where she had spotted him kissing the Earl of Waring. That was too much of a scandal to even say aloud.
“That is damning evidence,” said Penny. “Well, that’s simple enough. Tell your father that you and Beresford do not suit and therefore you do not wish to marry him.”
“Beresford may be easily dispatched, but Father will insist I marrysomeone. Both of my parents have repeated that this will be my last Season.”
Penny nodded. She was fully aware that Grace’s main issue was that she did not wish to marry at all. She had no interest in becoming the property of any man. Her own parents had a dreadful marriage, in which her mother often quashed her own misery to defer to her husband, and expected Grace to do the same. On top of that, Grace loathed the city, loathed the Season, and wanted mostly to have a nice home in the country that she could manage as she saw fit. She wanted a place her friends could visit and space to work on her pottery.
One of her pieces, a large ceramic vase, sat on a pedestal in this very hallway. She recognized it, and so did not need to see the maker’s mark on the base, a stylized GM for “Grace Midwood,” though the world thought the sculptor was a man named Gerard Makepeace. The only people in the world who knew Grace’s hands had molded that clay were Penny and her dealer, Mr. Rhodes.
“Maybe you should marry Beresford and let him carry on with whatever chit he is so enamored with, and then establish your studio in the country somewhere. He’s likely got a country estate he’d let you run.”
Anthony Pearson, the Marquess of Beresford, a tall, willowy manwith loose, curly hair that fell to his shoulders, rounded the corner and strolled toward the ballroom beside Larkin Woodville, the Earl of Waring, a dark-haired gentleman who, if Grace was not mistaken, was heir to a dukedom. Their heads were bent close together as they walked, clearly engaged in a serious conversation. Then Beresford looked up and met Grace’s gaze.
“Ah, Lady Grace,” he said. “’Tis a pleasure to see you.”
“My lord, may I have a word?”
Beresford glanced at Waring, who raised an eyebrow at him. “Of course. Please excuse me, Waring.”
“I shall escort Lady Penelope back to the ballroom. Perhaps I will seek out the Duchess of Swynford and ask her to dance.”
“The duke may not appreciate you dancing with his wife,” Beresford said.
“Yes, but she is a much better dancer than he is. Unless Lady Penelope would like to dance.” Waring winked and offered his arm to Penelope.
“I should be delighted, my lord.”
They disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving Grace and Beresford alone.
“My lord,” she began, not entirely sure what to say. “I believe we have reached something of an impasse.”
