Saving Grace by Michele Paige Holmes

to spread rumors.
    At Miranda’s suggestion, instead of accepting Mr. Preston’s invitation to dine this evening, she’d begged off, claiming she still wasn’t entirely well and needed to reserve her strength for dancing later.
    Another half-truth. Her fever had mostly subsided, though she hadn’t been up and about enough to test her strength. The more worrisome issue had been her ability to handle herself at an intimate dinner of only twelve or so persons — all of whom, by now, had likely heard of her visit to Nicholas Sutherland’s bed.
    “It’ll be in your nature to want to defend yourself,” Miranda had warned when the three of them had met early this morning. “But you can’t. Neither deny nor confirm anything. Remain as vague as you can — noncommittal, if confronted.”
    “It will drive the men mad,” Harrison had said.
    “And make the women loathe you all the more,” Miranda added.
    “Sounds like a perfectly delightful evening,” Grace had quipped, feeling more unsettled by the minute. But better than an evening with Sir Lidgate.
    “Take care,” Harrison had warned. “Those men you’ve driven mad will pursue you more than ever, though it won’t be marriage they’re offering.”
    Remembering his earlier admonitions, Grace leaned forward, resting her head in her hands and not quite suppressing a groan of dread.
    “You’re still far too unwell for this,” Miranda scolded, but a second later she placed a comforting hand on Grace’s shoulder. “You don’t have to, you know.”
    Grace looked up at her. “But I do. For Helen’s sake — and mine. We’ll have no peace from Father otherwise. Hopefully, he’ll be so angry, he’ll disown us both.”
    “If you are fortunate,” Miranda said, expressing the same doubt as earlier. Yet it was the encouragement Grace needed.
    “You look the part anyhow,” Miranda said.
    “What do you mean by that?” Grace asked. “Do I look like a woman who would casually share a bed with a man?”
    “You look like a woman whom a man would wish to share his bed with,” Miranda corrected. Then she continued, speaking over Grace’s shocked gasp. “And that is important if our exaggerations are to be believed. But it is also important for you to feel beautiful tonight, to stand up and be proud, to act like the granddaughter of a duke — a woman whose reputation matters. No one would fret over a washerwoman’s reputation being ruined — it would almost be expected. But the granddaughter of a duke ...”
    “I told you before,” Grace said, recalling those first rocky months with Miranda as her maid, “that I am the same person I’ve always been. Living with Grandfather did not change who I was born to be.”
    “Do not forget the nobility running through your veins,” Miranda advised. “You inherited it from your mother. Whatever you learned at your grandfather’s was nothing more than you already were inside. Now sit up straight and look at yourself once more.”
    Grace obeyed, turning to the mirror. The reflection staring at her was nearly the same as the miniature she kept of her mother.
    And what trouble her beauty caused. Grace’s heart felt heavy whenever she allowed herself to think about her mother’s short life. Beleaguered by a wastrel husband who wasn’t around to care for her during her last days.
    Grace stood abruptly, retrieved her fan from the dressing table, and faced the door. It was better this way, better that no man would ever want her for his wife. She bid goodnight to Miranda and crossed quickly to the door, hesitating only a moment when her hand was upon the knob.
    Closing her eyes, she envisioned a quiet country cottage and the three of them — herself and Helen and Christopher — alone in a life of peaceful days and cozy nights, where no debt collectors came calling, and her father could level his rage on them no more.
    One night , she told herself. Just get through this one night, and you’ll have your freedom. And