A few minutes later, Ian entered the drawing room in his dressing gown. "Dylan, what are you doing here?"

"I need something." He looked his brother in the eye. "I need the services of a diplomat."

Chapter Twenty-One.

Grace tried to like living in Wales. As weeks went by, she tried not to compare it to Devonshire. Her cottage was small but cozy, nestled in a rocky cliff by the sea. It had a garden and a thatched roof. It even had furniture, something she had not expected. If she was thrifty, she could live for a long time on the thousand pounds Dylan had given her. Best not to think of Dylan. Grace stopped snipping the dead flowers off the rosebush in her garden and closed her eyes, trying to force him out of her mind. He would not go. He was there, like a shadow over everything she did, like an open wound that would not heal. When she had left Etienne, she had never looked back, for in her heart she had left him long before she'd packed her things and departed. Dylan was different- she looked back dozens of times a day. It hurt every single time.

It was September now, and a chilly wind was in the air today. Two months since she had left Nightingale's Gate. It seemed like years. Never had days and nights been so long.

She should hate him. She tried, but hate was such a hard emotion to sustain. Especially when there were so many things about him that she loved. His creativity, his energy, the way he listened to what she said and remembered it, his love for his daughter and the way he had met that responsibility. She missed his charm, the way he could make her laugh, the way he had taken her side completely in her feud with her family. She missed his kisses; in fact she missed him so terribly that she ached with it. If she hated him, it would be so much easier to bear what he had done.

Grace gave up deadheading roses. It was silly to be doing it now, when she should be letting the last ones set hips, but she had needed something to do. Perhaps she should go for a walk instead.

She glanced back at the green, misty hills behind her, and up at the sky. It was going to rain again. It seemed to rain every day in Wales. She shoved the pruning scissors into the pocket of her ap.r.o.n and started up the hill. Yes, she decided, a walk would be better. What did a little rain matter?

A carriage came into view along the road and turned down the lane toward her cottage. Surprised, Grace watched as the closed traveling coach circled to her front door and pulled to a stop. She turned and retraced her steps down the hill, watching as the coachman opened the door and a man stepped down, a tall, thin man with fair hair.

She took a tentative step down the hill. "James?" she cried and began to run to the coach, staring at her brother as she approached. "James, it is you!"

Her brother stared back at her as she halted in front of him. He took in the threadbare maroon dress, work ap.r.o.n, and white kerchief tied round her hair. Some nuance of feeling touched his face, a hint of regret, something she had not seen the last time they'd met. "Grace."

"Oh, James, I cannot believe it!" They had not parted on good terms a year ago, but in her loneliness, she was glad to see her brother, more glad than she would have thought possible. She held out her hand, and more astonishing, he took it.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I received a visit from a friend of yours, a Sir Ian Moore."

"What?" she cried, more astonished than before. "Why on earth would His Excellency come to see you?"

"It is a rather long story." He gestured to the cottage. "Perhaps we should go inside?"

"Of course!" She led him into the cottage and into her small parlor. She reached for the poker and started to stoke the fire, but her brother took it from her hand and did it for her.

"Would you like tea?" she asked, and he shook his head. She sat down on her small settee, and her brother took the opposite chair.

"How are you, Grace?" James asked her.

"Well enough," she answered, looking into eyes as green as her own. "But quite bewildered, I confess. What are you doing here?"

"As I said, I received a visit in Stillmouth from Sir Ian. He came at his brother's request, and that prompted my trip here."

"What?" Something wobbled inside her, threw her off kilter, and she swallowed hard. Dylan had sent Sir Ian to her brother? She told herself she didn't care.

"Sir Ian and his brother were both very concerned for your well-being. You were governess to Mr. Moore's daughter?" her brother asked, a tiny hint of disapproval there. How could there not be, given her brother's fastidious nature and Dylan's wicked reputation?

"Yes, I was." She could not believe Dylan was concerned about her. Why should he be? Dylan had no interest in her any longer, and she could not fathom why on earth he would send Sir Ian to go to James about her. "Did Sir Ian indicate how Isabel fares?" she asked, stalling as she tried to get her bearings.

"He said his niece is perfectly well, but that she misses you terribly."

"And Dylan-" She stopped. So painful to say his name, but she wanted that sort of pain, she welcomed it and the exquisite hint of pleasure that came simply with saying it. "Was Mr. Moore well?"

"Sir Ian indicated that Mr. Moore was in excellent health. The reason His Excellency came to see me was that he and his brother were devastated to know of your estrangement from your family. He said they were both fully aware of the circ.u.mstances, and that it wounded them deeply that something which happened so long ago should still be causing all of us such sorrow. He explained that you were such a wonderful governess to Isabel, and they could not help but be concerned for your welfare. He came to Cornwall in hopes of facilitating a reconciliation between you and your family. Needless to say," James added, "I was astounded."

He was not the only one. Grace stood up and moved across the room to stand by the fire. Her back to her brother, she spread her hands before the blaze, so thoroughly confounded that she did not know what to say. She could not understand what would prompt Dylan to such actions after the cold, cold way he had treated her.

"Sir Ian a.s.sured me that your other friends, including Lady Hammond and her brother, the Duke of Tremore, were also very concerned to know of the sad situation of your disgrace and our estrangement."

Grace froze, not turning around. What was he talking about? From the society papers, she knew those people were friends of Dylan's, not hers. She had never met them. Well, except the duke. She'd met him that night in Dylan's room, but they hadn't even been introduced. She'd only known his ident.i.ty from the servants the following day.

"My dear Grace, I had no idea you moved in such high circles," her brother said, interrupting her disjointed thoughts.

"I don't," she whispered into the fire.

"Eh? What was that?"

"Nothing." Grace pressed her fingers to her forehead, hying to think this out. If Sir Ian had said such a thing, it must have been to impress James, to increase the chances of reconciliation. "I am-" She coughed. "I am amazed that... they... should... umm... take such keen interest in my situation."

"They do. They are, in fact, working to amend your reputation and that of our sisters, now that they know of it. They all seem to be patrons of the arts, and were admirers of your... late husband." Those last words were said with such venom, and it saddened her. Etienne had been a lousy husband, true enough, but he had loved her as best he had been able, and he had given her so much happiness in those early years.

"Sir Ian asked if I was open to reconciliation," James went on. "The fact that you have such influential friends to plead your case is more than enough proof your reputation is not beyond amendment."

She bit her lip. Why were Dylan and his brother trying to save her reputation?

Whatever the reason, it seemed to be working. She could hear the impressed note in her brother's voice, but then, James had always been a bit of a prig. It wasn't his fault. He had been born that way. t.i.tles, connections, and things like that had always impressed him. And she fully understood the pain he and their sisters had suffered because of what she had done so long ago. Grudges were a waste of time. If he was willing to make peace, she was as well. She turned around. "James, you are my family. I would like nothing better than to reconcile our differences. But what of our sisters?"

"They are amenable. Sir Ian offered to introduce them if they should go to town in the spring. Lady Hammond, as well as the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Tremore, have offered to do the same. No doubt the season would be a delightful one for them, and Sir Ian commented that if they were as beautiful as their elder sister, they would have suitors lined up at their door in a week."

How could they not with a charming amba.s.sador to help them, along with dukes and viscountesses?

"You seem bewildered by all this, Grace," James commented, "but this can bridge our estrangement, can it not? I hope so."

"Oh, James." Her voice broke. Turning around, she ran to her brother. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. "I am so sorry about everything, especially Elizabeth! I know how much you loved her, and I know she broke your engagement because of me."

"It was a long time ago," he said, enough stiffness in his voice to reveal that it hurt him to this day, "but I am quite content with my wife, Marianne." He did not hug her, exactly, but he did pat her back in an awkward sort of way just as he had done when they were children, and she remembered he never had liked being hugged. He stepped back with a little cough, clearly feeling uncomfortable. "Grace, do not distress yourself about me, not after so many years. It is our sisters we must think of."

They sat back down, and James leaned forward to take her hands in his. As if she had not had enough surprises today, he squeezed her hands with what might have been a sign of genuine affection. "I am glad this has happened, Grace. Truly." Still holding her hands, he looked away, and a dark flush came into his cheeks. "Our last meeting was most unfortunate, and I deeply regret that I was so cold and unforgiving."

"I am glad of this, too," she said and meant it. "How fare our sisters? So much time has pa.s.sed, and I should dearly love to know what has happened to them and to you."

"Certainly, where would you like me to begin?"

"At the beginning. Tell me everything."

Dylan lay stretched out in the gra.s.s at the crest of the hill, looking down at Grace's cottage, his chin propped in his hands as he waited. Her brother had been in there for well over three hours before he finally came out. Grace followed him to the carriage in front of the house as Dylan watched.

He had been here before Lawrence's arrival, knowing the other man would come today. He wanted to see for himself how things turned out. He had come early, torturing himself by watching her as she pruned roses. She looked so lovely, and so alone, that it made him ache. His fault. He had forgotten how desolate a spot this was, a perdition to which he had sent her. He hoped her visit with her brother was going well and a reconciliation could be effected. Her family had treated her as cruelly as he had done, and she did not deserve it. She did not deserve to be alone. She deserved to be safe and secure.

From his position at the top of the hill, hidden in the gra.s.s, he watched as she wrapped her arms around her brother's neck and how the other man returned her embrace by putting his arms around her waist. Ian had done his job with his usual diplomatic skill, and as Dylan watched brother and sister, the sight twisted something inside his heart. He was glad, so glad, for her. She had been in such sorrow about her family and their estrangement, and now, with the help of Ian, Tremore, Daphne, and Viola, her reputation and that of her sisters would be saved.

She was wearing one of her old dresses, the red one, with an ap.r.o.n, and there was a white kerchief wrapped around her gold hair. It hurt to look at her, hurt deep in his soul to watch her from up here, unable to touch her and hold her. The money he had paid her would eventually run out, and her pride would never allow her to take more money from him, but as he watched her with her brother, he knew that now she would be taken care of. With her family, she would never have to sell oranges on the street or work herself to death as someone's charwoman or play music for anyone's pleasure but her own. Now, she could truly start a new life, the life she deserved.

He glanced beside him at the bouquet of roses he had brought. He was going to take Isabel's advice, but he doubted it would help. Roses and an apology meant nothing. She would never take him back. How could she? She did not love him. Now she did not need him. She certainly could not want him, not after the cruel way he had set her aside.

His gaze slid past the bouquet to the large, flat package he had also brought with him. The roses she would throw in his face, but that package was different. He didn't know what she would do with that.

Dylan returned his attention to the scene below, watching as James got into his carriage and brother and sister said their good-byes. Like himself, her brother was staying in the village of Oxwich nearby, though the other man did not know he was here. No doubt Grace would return with her brother to Cornwall; she would sell this cottage, and earn herself a dowry. She might then be able to marry. A good man, a respectable man who would take care of her. A man who deserved her.

The ache that had been in his chest ever since she'd left twisted, deepened. He could not bear to think about her marrying any other man. G.o.d, he was selfish to the end, even in his love for her.

Dylan waited until Grace had gone back inside, then he watched James's carriage pull into the lane and circle around to the road. He turned his head, looking down the other side of the hill at his own carriage parked by the side of the road. He watched James's vehicle pa.s.s it, going toward the village. Once the other carriage was out of sight, Dylan stood up. He rucked the roses under one arm, picked up the large, burlap-wrapped bundle in his hands, and walked down to Grace's stone cottage at the bottom of the hill.

He set the flowers on the ground beside her front door, propped the package against the stone wall of the cottage, and tapped the door knocker. He heard footsteps approach the door, and his heart began to pound in his chest as if he were a lovesick suitor. He rubbed his palms over his face and took a few deep breaths. He had never been more nervous in his life, and he fully expected her to slam the door in his face the moment she saw him, but he could not let her. He had to give her what he had brought with him, and he had to explain, he had to apologize. Then, when she told him to leave, he would go.

The door opened, and she froze, staring at him with all the stillness of a statue. Her lips parted, those pretty green eyes went wide, and her hand rested motionless on the door handle.

"Hullo, Grace." He tried to smile, a charming smile, the one he had always used to woo and placate women, but he couldn't manage it. Not with Grace. Not anymore.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her hand lifting to her throat. She tugged at the worn white collar of her dress and looked away, as if unable to bear the sight of him.

"I came to bring you something."

That returned her attention to his face, though she did not quite meet his gaze. "What?"

"Something that belongs to you." He bent down and picked up the shallow package four foot square. Over the top of the burlap wrapper, he looked into her eyes. "May I bring it in?"

She did not move. "That doesn't belong to me," she said. "I have all I own right here."

"I vow it is yours. Please, Grace. Let me bring it in."

She hesitated, and he held his breath, waiting, but she stepped back and opened the door wider for him to enter. He tipped the package sideways to get it through the doorway, and she let him into the small parlor, where he crossed to set it on the table in the corner.

She followed him over to the table, placed her hand on the burlap, frowned, and glanced at him standing beside her. "I left nothing behind in Devonshire, certainly not something of this size. Whatever this is, it cannot possibly be mine."

"It is yours. Now."

"A gift from you?" Her voice and her eyes were so cold. "I do not want it."

He raked a hand through his hair, not knowing quite how to do this. He had never truly been in love before, not like this. All he knew was the game. He didn't know how to set about the real thing. "I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I am asking you to accept it." He could hear the desperate edge coming into his own voice. "I know it won't change anything, but please, Grace. Open it."

She could not imagine what he had brought her, but whatever it was, she would not accept it. She bit her lip, glancing from the package to him and back again. He stood there, his beautiful, powerful body framed by the doorway behind him, his long hair disheveled by the wind outside. The tenderness was there, too, that tenderness he could paste on his face anytime he liked, with any woman he was with to get whatever he wanted.

But what did he want? Why had he sent his brother to reconcile her family, and why had he asked his friends to save her reputation? Why had he come all the way to Wales to bring her a present? There was nothing in this for him.

Unless he wanted her back. She felt the icy hardness she'd been building around her heart for two months cracking, sliding away. She began to quiver deep inside with stupid, stupid hope. She felt her foolish heart trying to overrule her head yet again. Where was her pride? He had abandoned her so cruelly, without a thought, with no explanation. If he did want her back, it was to be his mistress until he got tired of her or had a change of mood. She had lived for six years with an erratic man like that. She would not do it again.

"Is that why you came?" Furious with him and even more with herself, she gestured to the package on the table. "To give me a present like any man would give his mistress? Are you trying to turn me up sweet? Get me to come back?"

"No. You are already sweet, and-" He broke off, and a shadow of something that might have been regret crossed his face. "I doubt I have a chance in h.e.l.l of getting you back." He gestured to the package on the table. "And this is not a present that a man would give his mistress, believe me. I thought it was very important that you should have it, that's all. So I bought it, and I brought it here to you. What you do with it is up to you."

She made a sound of vexation and turned toward the table. She knew she might just as well open it. Then she would reject it and tell him to take his present and go away. She stared down at the burlap-wrapped package, pulled her pruning shears out of her ap.r.o.n pocket, and cut the twine. She began to unfold the layers of coa.r.s.e fabric wrapping.

When she uncovered what lay beneath the burlap, she gave a gasp of shock, seeing the last thing she would have expected. It was one of Etienne's paintings. The nude of her on the bed.

Grace stared down at her own face laughing back up at her.

The Girl with Green Eyes on a Bed. Nearly eight years ago when Etienne had painted this. She'd been so very young. So terribly in love-as only someone that young could be. Crazy love, immature love, the shallow, worshipful love of a seventeen-year-old girl for a man she had put on a pedestal.

Grace lifted the canvas, revealing a layer of tissue paper, and she could see another painting beneath-the one of her stepping into a bath. Below that was the one of her in the swing. All three of the nudes Etienne had painted of her were here. She laid them back down flat and stared at the top one. Her nude body, half-reclined on the bed, with nothing of her form or her feelings left to the imagination.

She pressed her fists to her mouth, feeling slightly ill.

"Etienne promised to destroy the paintings when I left," she murmured behind her hands. "When they did not appear anywhere after his death, I thought he had kept his word. I had almost forgotten these even existed."

She stood there for a long time, staring at the image of herself from so long ago. She thought of the girl she had been, and she hurt for that girl, who had loved so desperately, who had believed that one could fall in love in an instant and expect it to last a lifetime. But Dylan was proof that even when one took months to fall in love, it still didn't last. A sob caught in her throat.

"Don't cry!" Dylan's hoa.r.s.e voice broke into her thoughts, and before she could turn around, he was behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, holding her tight against him. "Don't cry." he repeated, his lips on her cheek, kissing tears away.

It was so humiliating to cry in front of him. She struggled, but he did not let her go, and she gave it up, sagging in his arms. "Where did you get these?" she choked.

"I bought them." He hesitated, then added, "Grace, they were up for auction at Christie's."

"Oh, G.o.d," she moaned and buried her face in her hands. The idea that her body had been on public display, described and bid on in front of dozens of men was horrifying to her. She remembered that night in London when she had thought she would have to pose nude to a stranger for money, and she thanked G.o.d she had not been forced to that. She had done these paintings for her husband, the man she had once loved. Countless other men had seen them now, and the thought sickened her.

"No one will ever see them again," Dylan whispered fiercely in her ear as if he could read her thoughts. "I told you, they are yours now to do with as you wish."

She lowered her hands, turned around in his arms, and pushed at him. This time, he let her go, taking several steps back. "How much did you pay for them?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter."

"How much?" she repeated. No matter how long it took, she would pay him back. She did not want to owe him, not for these.

"Grace-" He broke off, studying her expression, and she could tell he did not want to tell her, but after a moment, he capitulated. "Eventually you will find out anyway, I suppose, since everything I do is in the scandal sheets," he muttered. "Thirty-six thousand pounds."

"Oh, good Lord," she said, wretched. "I can never pay you back. I will be in debt to you my entire life."

"Grace, d.a.m.n it, you are not in debt to me." He stepped forward and grabbed her arms. "I don't want you to pay me back! I am giving these to you. They should have been yours in the first place, and your d.a.m.ned husband should have destroyed them when you asked him to."

Grace pulled away from him. Seeing him, having him here in front of her, letting him touch her and kiss her tears away, was too much. It hurt too much. G.o.d help her, she loved him too much. She twisted away and crossed the room to the fire. Her back to him, she stared into the blaze.

He had gone to that auction, and he had watched as each image of her naked body had been propped up on a stand and described by an auctioneer. He had bought every one, paying dearly for them, and he had given them to her. A thought struck her, and she whirled around. "I didn't even know these paintings still existed. How did you find out about them?"

"Ian told me."