She looked down at her lap, fidgeting with her gloves as a swell of heat rose up her neck. “Another vice to add to the list, I’m afraid.”
“Or virtue?”
Yes, he did keep growing handsomer, especially when he spoke sweetly. Amazing how kind words could impact one’s appearance. “Please hold to that interpretation as long as you can. Then perhaps I won’t become such a nuisance.”
He chuckled, a warm sound that awakened wonderful tingles across her shoulders. “I can be rather gruff at times, and Havensbrooke hasn’t afforded many happy memories for me, I’m afraid, but I’ll endeavor not to bring such shadows into your life, if I can.”
She studied his profile. He carried a heaviness she could almost see. She had the greatest urge to cover his hand with her own. It waited on the cushion between them. Was it proper for a fiancée to take such liberties? She had no idea! She sighed. This attraction and marriage business was mentally taxing. “I can become cross when I’m stuck indoors for too long.”
His grin crooked. “Is that so?”
She traced a finger along the cushion nearest his hand, trying to work up the courage to touch him. He had such nice hands. Strong with long fingers. “My father used to call me his fairy child because I was drawn to nature like a creature of the forest.” Her attention came back to his face, searching his unreadable expression. “But I will try my best to learn what I must for Havensbrooke…and for you. I do so want you to like me for more than my money.”
His smile flashed for a second before he quelled it. “And I should hope you’ll like me for more than my title.”
“I don’t know a great deal about titles, so you’re already at an advantage.”
He turned toward her, close, studying her face with such intensity she thought…maybe…he’d kiss her again. If she was prepared this time, she’d do a much better job of responding in kind. She’d imagined a second chance over and over and felt certain she’d sorted out where her hands should go.
“Grace.” Her name radiated across the inches between them, somehow touching her pulse. How had her simple name suddenly taken on feeling? “I want this marriage to be more than an exchange of money and titles. We’ve both been thrust into positions we were never meant to fill, and I don’t take your choice lightly.”
She stared at the bowed head of this dashing man and, paired with little glimpses and phrases he’d mentioned of a childhood much less happy than her own, some untouched part of her heart opened to him. What would it be like to really feel loved by him? And to love him in return? If she looked close, beyond the grand earl and all of those connections, she had the slightest inclination Frederick Percy was in as much search of happiness as she. With a timid hand, she slid her fingers across the cushion to wrap around his.
His gaze shot to hers, the faintest hint of a smile touching his eyes, and without breaking his focus on her face, he turned his hand to envelop hers. Sparks erupted in her chest at the warm touch of his skin against hers.
“I’m certain it will take all of my money to match your forbearance, but I assure you, when I stumble it will be from the very best intentions to do right by you.” His thumb moved across her knuckles, and she nearly forgot what she was saying. “I…fumble often but almost always from good intentions.”
“Almost?” His dark brow rose, his question a mere whisper.
“I have red hair.” She unleashed her smile. “You can’t expect me to have perfect intentions all of the time.”
His grin flashed as if he wanted to laugh, and then a tenderness fell over his features, somehow drawing her closer to him. Or was he moving toward her?
His fingers tightened around hers, and he brushed a palm against her cheek. Air whooshed from her lips at the unexpected touch. With a trembling breath, she copied his movement, pressing her hand against his face, the angle of his strong jaw fitted inside her palm. In an achingly slow approach, his mouth found hers. Gentle, a whisper of a touch, but it shook through her, pooling a warmth in her chest and dispersing it in waves through her body. His free palm slid to curl around the back of her neck, his thumb grazing her ear. Nothing in any novel ever described such a delicacy as this. A sudden sense of belonging washed through her.
Oh heavens! If this was a foretaste of marriage to Frederick Percy, then bring on the wedding bells.
He pulled back, and she blinked open her eyes, a surprising sheen of tears invading her vision of his face. “Thank you, Lord Astley.”
His breath quivered slightly, as his palm slipped over her cheek. “And to what do I owe your gratitude?”
“For that lovely kiss.”
“I’ve kissed you before, if you remember.” He studied her, his thumb trailing to her chin, brow raised. “And more thoroughly.”
“But this time you knew who you were kissing and continued to do so anyway.”
His lips tipped ever so slightly, and he gave her hand another squeeze. “My dear Grace, it seems that my mistaken kiss wasn’t so mistaken after all.”
Chapter Ten
“This isn’t like showing up late at Lord & Taylor for a fitting, Grace.” Her father’s face flared red above his tight, fitted shirt collar as he ushered her into the Model T with a huff. “It’s your own wedding! And to an earl!”
She cringed at the accusation in his voice and nodded to Ellie, her lady’s maid, as the rosy-cheeked woman pushed a warm cloth into Grace’s hand and disappeared to take her place in the following carriage. “Not too late. Only a little. I had no idea there were so many plant varieties in the Peak District of England, Father, or I never would have started the conversation with Mr. Leeds to begin with.”
“You know better, Grace. The Whitlocks’ gardener is many things, but succinct is not one of them, and hours before your wedding? Most women wouldn’t even have left their rooms. What time did you descend into the gardens to find him? Eight o’clock?”
She took the cloth and scrubbed at the remaining dirt beneath her fingers that a quick bath hadn’t removed. “Or seven.”
“Seven? Good grief, girl. You are about to become a countess. You cannot keep flittering about like a country schoolgirl.” His eyes nearly bulged. “Don’t you understand? You will become Countess of Astley this very day. You must at least attempt to be a lady.”
Grace sat up straighter and pushed back the nuisance of a veil as it kept tangling against her attempts to clean her hands. “Mr. Leeds is from Derbyshire, Father.”
Surely that would help him understand, but he only stared at her with eyes growing increasingly wider.
“He’s from the same area as Lord Astley.” She spoke more slowly to help with comprehension, since her father appeared bewildered beyond intelligent conversation. “So of course I had to try and talk to him about gardens, and this morning was my last chance.”
Father groaned back against the leather seat, his head in his hands. If Lord Astley wanted her insights for Havensbrooke—and if loving his land led to his heart—then Grace very well planned to douse the poor man with ideas, and she had to start somewhere.
With a sigh, she moved to Father’s side, twining her arm through his and settling close. The dress gleamed in white satin decorated with a beautiful lace inset at the knee to the floor. A matching sash cinched Grace’s waist, pinned in by Ellie’s expert handiwork to fit a very different bride than intended.
She fought against the resurrection of doubt knotting her stomach, her father’s words tightening the pinch. How much would she have to change to “become” the grand Lady Astley? If looks transformed anyone, perhaps she could play the part. Grace had barely recognized herself in the mirror before leaving her room. Ellie had set her hair in a pompadour-style bun, very much the Gibson girl, leaving a few extra strands of auburn curls unfastened around her face. An immaculately embroidered veil framed her from head to toe. Oh, she’d looked lost among the fabric and expectations of this day.
But God would give her strength. He promised.
Grace closed h
er eyes to memorize the feel of her father’s warmth at her side, the sweet smell of cigar. As driven and gregarious as he was, leaving for months to undertake another grand and glorious business venture, he’d always surrounded her with such happy love and many times had indulged her unconventional whims. Even now his fit of frustration smoldered with more smoke than fire.
And they weren’t going to be terribly late. Brooks, the chauffeur, took remarkable liberties at the wheel of the car to make up any lost time.
“You know I shall write you so many letters you won’t feel I’m gone at all.”
He nodded, casting her a glance, his lips pressed so tight his chin puckered. Her heart broke at the sight, and she ignored every rule about dis-rupting her veil or the orange-blossom wreath wrapped around her head, and lowered her cheek to her father’s broad shoulder. “I love you, Father.”
He sniffled and continued to nod, placing his hand over hers against his arm. “You’ve always been such a good girl. Such a joy.”
She squeezed in close to him, offering him a smile despite the rush of tears to her eyes. “It’s much more polite to agree with someone else’s assessment than admit it oneself, you know.”
His smile held a ghost of some unvoiced grievance, “My girls will be looked after. No father could wish for anything more.”
“Of course we will.” She patted his arm.
He reached over and touched her face, pressing the veil into her cheek with a gentle brush. “I’ve never wanted to change your eccentric ways. You’ve always been authentically…you. So much like your mother, and I’m proud of you.”
Frederick stood in complete control before the small crowd of strangers at St. Michael’s Episcopal Church. Poised on one of the large steps of the altar, he waited through yet another classical interlude from the organ, Blake at his side.
He refused to look at his watch, though he could tell by some of the glances among the guests that something wasn’t right. He’d set his mind to this choice, even convinced himself after last night that Grace Ferguson could very well be someone with whom he might share his heart as well as his future. But now? Was she nothing more than another woman to choose something or someone else besides him?
He cast a look to Blake, who only raised a brow.
Suddenly a hush fell over the room and the organ music shifted to the bridal march. Frederick released his clenched breath and turned. The crowd stood, and everything faded into the periphery. Walking toward him down the long aisle came Mr. Ferguson and Grace, his bride. Despite his expert attempts at training his expression, his chest squeezed.
Grace Ferguson looked radiant. Those glowing eyes—the hope waft-ing off her like a perfume—doused his tainted views of love and tempted to resurrect the romantic he’d once been.
He couldn’t look away from her. He didn’t want to look away.
He welcomed her forward with a smile inspired by much more than a business agreement, the hallowed place stamping his intentions with an even truer understanding. This was his second chance—his second chance to restore a hope buried beneath bitterness and grief. A second chance to discover what true love was. He’d misconstrued romance in his mind with the paltry deception of Celia Blackmore and the shallow attempts afterward to assuage his physical needs. But here? Now? Did he really have the opportunity for a fresh and beautiful start?
He didn’t deserve this…grace. His stifled chuckle almost shook out like a sob. Grace. No, the more he learned about her, the more he felt quite certain he didn’t deserve her. Her gaze sought his, timid, trusting. How long would it take him to sort out the color of those eyes? Sometimes dark blue, sometimes gray blue. He studied her. Such a child in a woman’s body. So untouched by the darkness of his past and present. A deep surge of protection rose within him. He hadn’t been able to shield his own innocent heart, but he could attempt to protect hers.
He offered his hand. With a slight hitch in her breath, she released her hold on her father’s arm and slid her fingers into his, the simple action securing an internal determination. He would endeavor to give her the romance she craved, even if it meant fighting past his own demons, his mother’s indifference, and the expectations of society to do so, and if love followed for them, then they’d win their fairy tale too.
Married nightclothes were very different from unmarried nightclothes.
Grace tugged the silky robe more tightly around the equally smooth gown beneath, feeling both uncomfortable and exhilarated at the touch of satin against her bare skin. In fact, the two words—uncomfortable and exhilarated—summed up the last twelve hours to perfection. A reception filled with well-wishers who attempted to sort out the “scandal” of Lord Astley’s Ferguson bride, a teary goodbye at the station, a few stops along the way to tour a town here or there, and finally sharing a “room” with her…husband.
Her husband? What a thought!
Lord Astley—Frederick—had been the very model of an attentive groom, especially with all the guests swarming in to, as Mrs. Whitlock whispered, ascertain whether the rumors of transferred affections were true. With a touch of her hand here and a gentle smile there, Grace was inclined to believe the rumors too.
Though she knew the truth. Love rarely happened so quickly in real life, and she felt fairly certain she didn’t love Lord Astley quite yet. She hadn’t felt like swooning once, and she wasn’t even certain what pining looked like.
Lord Astley sat up in bed, book in hand, without looking Grace’s way, so she slipped into the berth directly across from his, separated by an aisle and a curtain, if she chose. Their conversation during dinner consisted of books and Grace’s limited traveling experiences. Of course, she’d been on trains, but despite her sister’s extensive travels, Grace had never gone across the ocean. She’d chosen to stay behind to care for her aging grandfather when her father and Lillias traveled, a delight that easily overshadowed any regret.
She pulled out her own set of books, one on Italian gardening and one of D. H. Lawrence’s newest, called Sons and Lovers. It was a fascinatingly sad book, which seemed particularly interesting in her current situation. Lover? Clearly, from some of the books she’d read, lover meant a wealth of heated kisses, sometimes in a bedroom and other times…various other places, but further than that her imagination drew a blank.
She couldn’t think of anything quite as lovely as spending an evening kissing Frederick, just to experiment some more. Did a kiss always bring about a swell of warmth in her stomach? A rise in her pulse? How many ways could one kiss, because she’d already experienced two very different ones. She bit back a grin. She dearly loved the mystery of it all.
Frederick didn’t look up.
“What are you reading?”
He raised a brow but kept his gaze on the book. “Mrs. Whitlock allowed me to borrow The Riddle of the Sands.”
Ah! Her suggestion. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s quite engaging.”
Of course. That’s why he kept staring at the book instead of looking at her.
She regarded her own pages but couldn’t focus on any of the words. Very odd. She arranged her blankets around her, flipped through a few of the drawings in the gardening book, and then looked back over at Frederick. “Do you feel different?”
This brought his gaze to hers. “Different?”
He quickly moved his focus back to his book. Peculiar. She touched a hand to her loose hair. Did having all her hair down and wild about her shoulders shock him? Where was that beautifully endearing look he’d given her during the wedding ceremony? Perhaps it had only been a look of admiration at Lillias’s gown. She gasped. Or a part he played for the crowd? Oh! That didn’t sound loving at all.
She pushed away the thought. Certainly her hair was the culprit. “Now that we’re married.” She exaggerated the word, still a bit in awe at the whole notion. “Apart from having more alone conversations with you, I don’t know that I feel different.”
“I’m certain the feelings will com
e with time and…familiarity.”
She smoothed out her blankets again, fluffed her pillow, and sighed. Why did something seem very wrong? Maybe he had been pretending all along. “May I ask you a question?”
He closed his eyes and grinned before looking over at her, his gaze trained on her face. “Yes, Grace.”
“I’m sorry to keep interrupting your reading. I can tell you are very interested in your book.”
“Not really.” He narrowed his gaze as if pondering his response. “I’ve read the same sentence five times since you entered the room.”
Well, that didn’t sound like pretending. “Because I keep interrupting you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh.” She studied him. “Why?”
He sighed and placed his book down on his lap, turning to face her as much as their beds allowed. “To be perfectly candid, Grace, you are a very beautiful woman and you happen to be my wife. We have a future to build together, and sometimes these close quarters can make it…challenging.”
Her smile faded. Oh dear, he didn’t like her at all. “I talk too much, I know. I even talk in my sleep, but I’ll try to leave you alone so these close quarters won’t be unbeara—”
“Grace.” He shook his head, his lips quirking into a smile that made her have kissing thoughts all over again. “The challenge is not your talking.”
“It’s my fidgeting, isn’t it!” She sighed into a pout. “My chattering away, my distractibility, and my fidgeting. What a horrendous trinity of errors for an earl to have in a wife. Father tried to warn me that grand ladies do not—
“Grace.” He held up a palm to still another excuse. His lips twitched, and then he swallowed so hard she heard it.
Look how difficult it was for him even to find the words to describe her exorbitant number of shortcomings! Poor Frederick needed much more than a Dickens Christmas miracle. He needed a fairy godmother!
“Though there are certain characteristics of an aristocratic lady that you’ll learn in time, some of which you’ve mentioned, I was particularly referencing the fact that…well, simply put…” His pallor flushed with a red hue as he averted his gaze and waved a hand toward her. “Seeing you in your nightgown makes me wish to pull you into my bed and do…more than kissing.”
The Mistletoe Countess Page 11