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His Grace Forgiven

By Tammy Kirby

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London, England
Spring, 1855
iss Beth Darnley pulled her serviceable, though
frayed, navy-blue cloak tighter around her neck. Eerie
shadows encroached upon the unfamiliar streets of
London’s lower East End. Raucous laughter filtered from the
open doorways of the crowded taverns lining the rubbish-filled
street. Rotting garbage and human as well as animal excrement
permeated the air. She placed her handkerchief to her nose to
block the acrid stench. Drunken sailors, seemingly impervious
to the putrid smells, staggered through the refuse with wanton
women in merry abandon.
Perspiration trickled along her spine, brought on by her efforts
to dodge grasping hands and flee coarse suggestions as she
raced along cobbled streets. Lungs burning from her sprint, she
scanned the approaching darkness.
Oh, God, please let me see something familiar.
Where was Edward? Her brother should have picked her up
hours ago at Whitlow’s Tailoring Shop. She’d been forced to
leave when they closed for the day. The fact that she’d waited
on him showed her naiveté. Her safety would never be his first
priority. His thoughts were only to send her to beg for an extension
on his credit. He would be frightfully angry to find she’d
been unsuccessful. An uncontrolled shiver rippled through her.
No doubt, another furious tirade awaited her.
~
The Duke of Briarcastle donned a crimson silk robe with the
help of his man, Timms. The quiet of the night intensified the
M
TAMMY KIRBY
• 2 •
restlessness bedeviling him. Perhaps someone to share his loneliness,
if only for a while would ease this unrest. Though many
would love to satisfy his quest for companionship for no other
reason than to take advantage of his substantial wealth, tonight
Greyson wanted none of the duplicity of the beau monde. He’d
grown weary of husband-hunting mamas whose principal aim
was to tie him to one of their milk-faced daughters. Were he of a
mind, he had at his disposal a host of women he could call on, a
bevy of artless chits with nothing more intelligent to converse
about than the latest fashion. A shudder racked him. What a life
of boredom such an alliance would bring.
He could always accept the company of one of the many manipulative
females who prowled the halls of every ball or soiree
during the Season. They waited for a chance to get their hooks
into the unsuspecting flesh and abundant finances of those lacking
the vision to see them clearly for who and what they truly
were. Greyson’s vision had been honed at the age of nineteen by
the unfaithful wife of his youth. Flashes of unwelcomed memories
tore through his mind. His beautiful, adulterous wife’s
mocking laughter ripped through his soul again. Her words still
had the ability to scar.
I cannot wait for your father to die and you to become duke. I
need pretty things now. Colonel Yancy is very generous. Surely
you did not think you paid for all my lovely possessions on your
paltry income.
He pushed the demons away and emptied his glass of brandy.
Never again would he be taken in by feminine wiles. His title
was an attractive incentive, even if his finances were in a precarious
state. It would be a cold day in the netherworld before he
gave his name and title to a feckless female.
With one hand braced against the casing of his bedroom window,
he surveyed the busy street. Carriages swished through the
darkness, the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves audible in the quiet
room.
Invitations to at least five balls and three dinner parties lay
unopened on his desk downstairs. Every night the same thing,
HIS GRACE FORGIVEN
• 3 •
the same people. He walked to an ornate table and poured another
drink of his favourite spirits from a crystal decanter. The
fiery liquid burned his throat with a familiar sting and turned his
muscles liquid. He glanced at the empty snifter. Why not? The
amber fluid splashed into the glass as he spoke to his valet.
“Timms, I should like for you to acquire a bit of softer entertainment
for me this evening.”
His manservant inclined his head. “As you wish, Your
Grace.”
~
The filthy streets gave way to a quieter neighborhood. Though
cleaner than the docks Beth had left behind, it was apparent
she’d found her way into a less fashionable part of London than
where the beau monde resided. Her footsteps slowed and soon
breathing became easier.
Whatever was I thinking to take a shortcut home? Thank
You, Lord. This area is unfamiliar, but it is so much better than
where I’ve been this eve.
The clatter of carriage wheels on the stone blocks drew her
attention. Edward! She waited beside the curb and allowed her
angst to abate.
All this worry for nothing. I should have trusted You, Lord.
A stylish, black-and-gold conveyance halted beside her. Not
Edward to be sure, but perhaps they can give me directions.
Before she could form her request, a burly man came from
behind the carriage and heavy hands grabbed her waist. Her
scream pierced the empty street as she fought for freedom. She
clawed at the hands, twisting away from their punishing grip.
One of her assailants grasped her arm. Before he captured her
other one, she aimed for his face, leaving a bloody gash on his
cheek. He cursed, and the other man lifted her legs. Together
they tossed her inside. The blows she aimed with her feet tangled
in her skirt, causing little or no damage. One of her nails
had been torn into the quick and throbbed in cadence with her
pounding heart.
TAMMY KIRBY
• 4 •
Velvet squabs cushioned her stumbled fall into the unlit interior.
By the time she regained her footing, the door had slammed
shut. A voice called out, and the carriage lurched forward. The
muscles in her throat tightened, turning her screams to whimpers.
Her hands scrabbled along the walls of her rolling prison,
searching for a way out. The shades were secured blocking all
light. Chilling shadows surrounded her. In her mind an unknown
creature lay in wait in every direction. Her breaths came in rapid
gasps. Dizziness and colorful sparks edged her vision and she
gave in to spiraling darkness.
Beth didn’t know how long she’d lain against the seat when
the carriage drew to a halt. A light shined into the interior, harsh
and glaring. On instinct, she flung a hand in front of her eyes.
Without a word, the men grasped her arms and dragged her from
the carriage. She struggled to free herself from them, though her
actions were sluggish. Their immaculate black-and-gold uniforms
sparked a distant memory. Familiar colors, but her
disoriented thoughts couldn’t grasp where she’d seen them.
The brick outline of a fashionable townhouse characteristic of
London’s privileged class loomed above her, cutting off the
small bit of moonlight peeking through the cloudy sky. They
dragged her through a servants’ entrance and up the back stairs.
This residence had to belong to someone of means. Surely, they
would realize the mistake they’d made.
“Please, what are you to do with me? Where are you taking
me? I must return home at once.” The fear in her voice seemed
to penetrate one captor’s thick mind.
He stopped and favoured her with a placating expression.
“Don’t worry, miss. His Grace’ll make it worth your while. One
thing you can count on is the duke bein’ fair. That is, if ye don’t
rile him.” A look of uncertainty crossed his pockmarked features
as he hesitated a moment and scratched his chin with his free
hand. “’Himself can get ugly when he’s riled.” He bobbed his
head at her and with the help of the other man, rushed her up the
stairs.
HIS GRACE FORGIVEN
• 5 •
Beth tried to grasp the man’s words, but her mind wouldn’t
cooperate. Too soon, the servants’ stairs opened onto a hallway.
Wainscoted walls passed in a blur, then she was thrust through a
heavy oak door. The click of its closing behind her resonated in
the stillness.
A spacious bedroom dominated by a massive bed crafted of
dark mahogany was her destination’s end. Turbulent green eyes
stared at her through silk bed hangings the color of her cloak.
Who was he? She knew that face. He lounged against a maroon
bolster. A newspaper fluttered to his side. His heavy-lidded gaze
traveled the length of her. A shiver tripped along her spine. Raven
hair, black as the devil’s heart, fell in smooth waves to his
broad shoulders. Chiseled lips curled in a rakish smile as he rose
upon one elbow and murmured, “Well done, Timms. I must remember
to reward the man.” With a lazy wave, he motioned her
closer. “Come.”
Beth’s mind told her to run, but her trembling legs refused to
obey.
A frown pleated his handsome face for a moment, then
smoothed as his piercing gaze roved over her again. This time
he offered her a feral smile and a lazy wink. “Ah, a game player.
Excellent.”
When he stood with fluid movements, his silk robe rippled
over his muscular body. He sauntered toward her on long legs,
moving with panther-like grace. Beth trembled as the image of a
tiny mouse being stalked by a hungry cat crossed her mind. His
great height reduced the grand room to minute proportions with
every step. Narrowed eyes told her he was unaccustomed to having
his orders disobeyed.
She should say something! Tell him who she was. Surely, he
would cease if he knew.
Only a gasp escaped her frozen throat when he tugged on the
ties securing her cloak. Silvery-blonde curls spilled from the
cowl neck as the fabric gave way, and long, slender fingers
nudged it from her shoulders to form a dark puddle at her feet.
TAMMY KIRBY
• 6 •
Tremors shook her so hard she almost collapsed, and her
tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. The Duke of Briarcastle.
What could he want with her? Whispered rumors of his
arrogance preceded him. His name was linked with a multitude
of unsavory practices—drinking, gambling, and wenching,
among other things. Unexpectedly the groom’s comments about
the duke came back to her.
Himself can get ugly when he’s riled.
His temper—Jesus help me, the duke was famous for it as
well!
She searched his face for the smallest hint of kindness. What
she detected was hunger smoldering in his eyes.
Why did I not run? It was stupid to think Edward would send
a coach for me.
She licked her dry lips. “Your Grace, there has been a mistake.
I do not know why I am here.”
A chuckle rose from deep within his throat. The blue satin
ribbon constraining her hair gave way with a tug, and blonde
curls slid over his arms, contrasting sharply with his dark skin.
His fingers plundered the silken tresses, gliding through the
strands at her temples and ending at the base of her neck. Gentle
stroking movements when she expected to feel pain confused
her.
“Maidenly innocence. I like it. With those thick black lashes
framing such expressive grey eyes and your little chin trembling
in excitement, you almost make me believe it, my sweet. Almost.”

His sensual, rumbling voice heightened her vigilance.
Excitement? Did he think she wanted to be here?
God, help!
His thumb played over her lower lip and he winked, then
stepped over to the bedside table and lifted a snifter of ambercolored
liquid. He retraced his steps to her side and slid an arm
around her waist. The material of his robe glided across her skin
in a cold ripple of silk. Lifting the glass smelling strongly of
spirits to her lips, he tilted it.
HIS GRACE FORGIVEN
• 7 •
“Drink,” he commanded.
“Oh, Your Grace, I do not…”
“Drink. It will help relax you.” A sardonic smile quirked his
chiseled lips.
To keep from choking on the amber liquid that he tipped into
her mouth, she had no choice but to comply. The liquor’s fire
burned throughout her empty stomach, taking her breath. Her
thoughts reeled, and nausea rebounded then mellowed to a warm
glow in the pit of her belly.
Admiration lit his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. “You
are absolutely exquisite, my dear. I don’t believe I have ever encountered
such soft, unblemished skin.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. Beth closed
her eyes and fought the dizziness that pushed her toward darkness.
The duke swept her into his arms and kissed her with deep,
demanding intensity.
Her first kiss. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!
Some deep, intrinsic sense of self-preservation tried to make
itself known. She struggled in his embrace, trying to push him
away, but the liquor he’d pressed on her slowed her movements.
Her arms gave out and his shadowed chin scraped the delicate
skin of her neck, leaving a trail of fire.
“Your Grace, you must listen.” She gasped. “I am not …”
Soft lips smothered her pleas. Her head buzzed and the liquid
warmth from her belly extended to her limbs weighting them as
if she held a seven-stone burden. Unable to remain standing on
her own, she grasped the lapels of his silk robe with tight fists as
he continued to pillage her swollen lips.
God, help me.
~
Beth awakened in the predawn hours with a monstrous headache.
Her stomach crawled as if she’d committed a grievous sin.
She delved into her thoughts, searching for the culprit. Something
was dreadfully wrong. An unfamiliar weight pressed her
into the downy softness of the mattress beneath her. She turned
TAMMY KIRBY
• 8 •
her head, and a small gasp escaped, as the events of the previous
night came rushing back. The duke lay beside her. How could he
appear as innocent as a small boy? Soft ebony waves curling
over his forehead gave credence to the lie, yet it was her slumbering,
arrogant captor she would never forget.
Hot acid met the back of her throat. She swallowed hard.
With slow movements, she eased from under the heavily muscled
arm and gathered her scattered clothes and slippers. On
softly padding feet, she crept to the adjoining dressing room.
Seconds after Beth reached the chamber pot, her stomach rebelled,
and she fell to her knees, remaining there until the
heaving subsided.
Fearful of making more noise and awakening the duke, she
wiped a hand across her mouth and rose. Stiffness in her ankles
made sliding her feet into her shoes difficult. She dragged on her
wrinkled dress. Violent tremors shook her hands as she fumbled
with the buttons. One snapped off and rolled across the floor.
With the need to hurry foremost in her mind, she abandoned the
task and drew her cloak around her shoulders, hiding her disheveled
attire.
Praying she would not encounter anyone, she stole down the
quiet hall to the servants’ staircase. She made it to the kitchen
without incidence. Her heart thundered at the sound of footsteps
behind her and she struggled with the lock on the door that led
to the street.
Father, please don’t let him catch me.
It clicked, and she slid through the opening, closing it softly
behind her.
The jeering voices in her head chased her, haranguing her
with a litany of her sin and shame. Early dawn provided a shield
with its foggy wisps as she fled the elegant London home. She
hoped never to see the detestable face of the Duke of Briarcastle
again. Silent tears slid unheeded over her cold cheeks, soaking
into the frayed collar of her dress.
~
HIS GRACE FORGIVEN
• 9 •
Greyson stretched and yawned in lazy satisfaction. Pure contentment
curved his lips into a smile. One hand rubbed his
beard-stubbled face, producing a rasping sound. He opened his
eyes to find sunlight filtering through a part in the heavy drapes
and his companion from the night before—gone. He sat up and
glanced around the room. When he saw her clothes gone as well,
disappointment replaced his pleasure. Having the chit snuggled
next to him, had brought a peace to his weary soul that had
gained him a night of uninterrupted slumber.
He slumped back on the bed, his actions stirring the scent of
honeysuckle. He reached for the silk-covered pillow on the opposite
side of the bed and buried his face in it. Her scent
bombarded his senses, evoking an image of the silvery-blonde
sprite sleeping peacefully in his arms.
Devil take it, she was lovely and quite a good little actress.
He smiled. She’d played the part of an innocent maiden being
ravished by the big, bad duke with the adroitness of a seasoned
performer. He must have Timms get her back.
He threw off the covers to rise—and stopped. A dark crimson
stain on the pristine sheets glared at him with accusation. He
threw the duvet back over the evidence of his drunken misconceptions.
It could not be. There had to be another explanation.
Nausea contracted his stomach as he recalled the piteous cries
for mercy he’d mistaken for playfulness. Images of their night
flashed before his eyes, and cries of passion to his brandy-laden
senses became cries of fear in the light of his new knowledge.
He yanked his robe from the floor and jerked it over his
shoulders, tying it at his waist. Foul expletives poured from his
lips.
“Timms!”
Quentin Timms arrived with quiet steps. “You called, Your
Grace?” His manservant always wore a placid expression, no
matter what catastrophe he faced.
Greyson towered over him. “Where. Is. She?”
The manservant’s eyes flickered once. “I’m sure I don’t
know, Your Grace. Is there a problem?”
TAMMY KIRBY
• 10 •
The duke’s harsh laugh mocked his servant’s question. “Yes,
there is a problem. Where did you acquire the chit you had
brought to me last evening?”
“According to Smith, they found her walking the streets just
east of the docks, Your Grace.”
Greyson’s eyes narrowed. “Alone?”
“Of course, Sir. She did not meet with your satisfaction?”
“Oh, she was more than satisfactory, Timms. There is but one
problem.”
He jerked the satin coverlet from the bed, revealing the dark
stain. When his valet’s face whitened, his dark brows elevated,
and his lips curled in a smirk.
“I do not know what to say, Your Grace. A maiden without
escort near the docks is inconceivable. Respectable women do
not walk alone in that area. Smith and Kelly assumed the obvious.
Another strumpet out parading her wares and clean as you
ordered.”
Greyson ignored him and bent to retrieve the pale blue ribbon
lying forgotten on the floor. “I never even asked her name.” He
recalled the sensation of her silken curls sliding against his skin,
and his fist clenched around the reminder. Without a doubt, the
previous night’s pleasures would cost him dearly.

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