An Indecent Gambit

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Give a Dog an Ill Name

Over the course of that winter, James sometimes caught himself wondering what he really felt for Grace. With other women, he had always been so very sure about his feelings. Each time he had been in love, it had been as though a spark had been lit in his heart at first sight. When he had merely been dallying, his affections had risen to no more than the level of goodwill and appreciation. With Grace, there had certainly been no spark, but goodwill and appreciation were too cold to describe the growing warmth of his affection towards her.

Perhaps it was loneliness affecting his senses. James had always been close to his father, in an odd, silent sort of way, but after their argument about Mrs Booth, things had not been the same. James was hurt his father did not believe him, and Mr Redwood was angry, and anger made him cold. James felt an absence of someone who understood him. His closest friend was in France, and the spare few other young men whom he trusted were equally out of reach, scattered about England now that London was sleeping for the winter. To be sure, James had other friends in London, but they were friends to have a good time with, to play cards and billiards with, to drink and carouse with, to race and gamble with. There was no intimacy there. Sometimes, there was hardly even liking. Grace was the closest thing he had to a friend all winter. But the affection he felt for her was quite different to what he felt for his male friends. Which was perhaps natural, James argued with himself, as she was not a man, but her sex seemed an inadequate explanation for the warm ache of joy he felt on making her smile. He had made a hundred women laugh a hundred times without feeling that way.

He tied himself in knots trying to untangle the problem. He was more certain about what she felt for him: she was not in love, but she was attracted to him, wanted him, even. She was hungry for his physical intimacy while still skittish of the emotional. It was hardly a solid foundation for a marriage, but, then, as she sometimes told him when she was upset, they were only engaged.

It was an engagement growing more certain as winter passed. Certain practical steps had to be taken before they could marry, after all, and their parents were speedily attending to them. Mrs Follet took Grace to London to order new gowns. Mrs Redwood sent for a book of wallpapers and textiles and squabbled with Grace and James about which they should choose. Mr Redwood commissioned for the London townhouse to be repainted and repapered, and had the upper floors, used for storage, cleared out and cleaned. James went to visit it with Grace one day, and they wandered about the rooms, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness, hardly daring to speak. It was very strange to think they would be living together. Perhaps. They were only engaged, after all.

There was another matter to be attended to. James knew it was coming, and delighted in not mentioning it to his father, so he wouldn't have any opening. One evening in early March, just as James was about to leave the table after dinner so that he wouldn't have to drink brandy in the company of his father's disapproving silence, Mr Redwood called him back.

"Wait a moment, James. We have something to talk about."

"Do we?" James said lazily, sitting down again and leaning back in his chair. "Alright. Pass me the brandy then."

Perhaps Mr Redwood was trying to offer up an olive branch by pouring the brandy himself, but James, eyeing the shortness of the measure, would not have bet upon it. He swirled the glass and watched his father, determined not to speak first and make it easy for him.

Mr Redwood sipped his own brandy slowly, but he was not given to prevarication or side-stepping. After a minute, he said mildly, "It has come to my mind that Grace will desire a coach."

"Has she taken up driving?" James said. "How spirited of her."

Mr Redwood raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "Don't be flippant, James. I refer to your coming marriage. A daughter may beg use of her father's — or mother's — conveyance, but a bride expects her husband to have his own."