Mercy sat beside her small work table, the fabric for her new green gown heaped negligently on the floor at her feet, her pretty face surrounded by its halo of blond curls pale and worried, and with her slender hands clasped together on her lap.
With dismay, Grace guessed that Sir Donald had told her about the rent. She hurried to her sister, taking her cold hand in her own, even colder one.
“What is it?” she demanded, although she knew very well what was the matter and she hated Donald Franklin even more. “What has happened?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Barton,” Sir Donald said loftily, and there was an angry expression in his gray eyes which Grace couldn’t help thinking was an improvement over that other, lustful look she had last seen there.
“Oh, Grace!" Mercy whispered. Then she pulled away from Grace’s grasp, put her face in her hands and started to weep. “He’s…he said…”
Grace cast an accusing look at Sir Donald before putting her arms around Mercy’s slender shoulders. “I think I know what this is about,” she said. “Don’t cry, dear. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does!" Mercy wailed. “We’ll be thrown out of our home! We’ll have to go to a workhouse!”
In her mind’s eye, Grace could see both of them lying on the side of the road the way the stranger had been-hurt, hungry and sick. Perhaps some kind unknown person would take pity on them, but perhaps others would assume that they were no more than tramps or, considering they were women, something worse.
Grace rose and looked steadily at Sir Donald. “You are raising our rent,” she said flatly.
“There is no need for this emotional display,” Sir Donald blustered, spreading his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. “It is a most unfortunate necessity”
“Necessity?” Grace declared as her sister continued to sob. “It’s greed!”
“Please, my dear Miss Barton!”
“I am not your ‘dear Miss Barton,’ ” Grace answered, fighting to regain control. She wouldn’t let this man upset her. He mustn’t be able to dismiss her as simply an emotional female. “By how much do you intend to raise it?”
“Fifty pounds per annum.”
“Oh, Grace!" Mercy whimpered.
“That’s more than twice what we pay now,” Grace replied, achieving a dispassionate tone with great effort. “You know we cannot afford that much.”
Sir Donald flushed, and then shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I have a position to maintain.”
Grace would have liked to ask exactly how he had come to be knighted-who he had bribed, or by what secret means he had managed to get it done.
“The increase will not come into effect for three months,” Sir Donald said placatingly. “In that time, you may pursue other opportunities--”
“Opportunities!” Grace interrupted angrily. “What opportunities? You will take away our home and cast us out to-what?”
“You have no family to whom you could appeal?”
“No, we do not, or at least none close enough that we would beg of them,” Grace retorted.
Sir Donald looked as if he were trying to appear sorry, but he couldn’t quite manage the subterfuge. “I understand how difficult this must seem to you, because of your family’s connection with the county, but I have been holding off raising your rent out of respect long enough." He smiled. She would have preferred an angry frown, for that, at least, would have looked natural. “I deeply regret the effect this must have upon you.”
Liar! Grace thought angrily.
“I think it would be wise of me to take my leave of you,” he said, glancing at Mercy.
“So do I,” Grace retorted. “Good day.”
She watched him turn on his heel and suddenly remembered that he must not find the stranger in the shed.
“No, wait!" she cried in a most undignified manner. “There is much more to be said!" She started to follow him to the door.
Mercy grabbed hold of her hand. “Oh, Grace,” she pleaded softly. “Let him go. He won’t change his mind. He’s so mean and hateful!”
“I must speak with him,” she replied hurriedly, freeing herself gently from Mercy’s grasp and rushing after Sir Donald.
“But your cloak-!" she heard Mercy cry as she closed the front door behind her. It was still raining; nevertheless, Grace didn’t have the time to fetch her cloak. Sir Donald was nearly at the cow shed.
Sir Donald paused at the entrance, looking back at her with an interrogative smile. “Yes, Miss Barton?” he inquired as she joined him at the door. “Please, come inside out of the wet.”
He pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter, which she did, although that meant she had to push past him, her shoulders brushing his immovable chest. A quick glance around the cow shed revealed Daisy, still chewing, and the stallion, still waiting. There was no sign of any other human there, and for a moment, Grace wondered if the stranger had awakened and left.
“How can I help you, Miss Barton, who only moments ago was so anxious to have me gone?”
She whirled around to face her landlord, noting the smug amusement in his heavily lidded eyes.
“You must reconsider,” she began. “You must be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” he countered. “I am being reasonable. I either need money from you, or from someone who can provide it.”
Grace took a deep breath and struggled to remain composed. She wouldn’t beg. Not of him, not even for Mercy’s sake.
Sir Donald’s smile grew broader, and his gaze more intense. “I could perhaps be persuaded to reconsider,” he mused, his voice low and uncomfortably intimate. “You are a remarkable-looking young woman, Miss Barton.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and disgust. “I hope what you are about to propose is not going to insult me,” she warned.
“Believe me, Miss Barton, when I tell you that nothing could be further from my mind.”
This time, Grace did not try to hide her skepticism.
“Oh, do not frown so, sweet lady! It quite mars your loveliness.”
“If you don’t mind, Sir Donald, say what you have to say at once. I’m rather cold.”
He ran his gaze over her in a way that reminded her of the damp clothes clinging to her body and she hugged herself. “I see that you are,” he said. “Therefore, although I would much prefer to take my time about this, I will be brief and to the point.”
Suddenly, and to Grace’s utter amazement, Sir Donald Franklin dropped to one beefy knee. “Miss Barton, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Chapter Three
Utterly dumbfounded, Grace stared at Sir Donald, convinced she couldn’t have heard him correctly. “I…I beg your pardon?” she gasped.
Sir Donald reached out and took her fingers in his large, damp hand. “My dear Miss Barton--and I do mean dear--I am asking you to marry me.”