No wonder his gorgeous ex-fiancée had grown tired of it, Grace mused. She had waited years for him, poor woman.
Then Grace wondered uneasily if Lady Laura was still in love with him. Surely a woman that beautiful would only have to snap her fingers to get him back.
Maybe she’d jilt her new fiancé to honor her original betrothal. Maybe they’d reunite.
The thought depressed Grace though she knew it shouldn’t. It was really none of her business.
At length, the sky began to darken to a deep rich blue; the chill of evening crept into the air; and the night birds warbled. It was eight in the evening when the two hungry Kenwoods finally gave up on their guest and sat down to dinner.
Mrs. Flynn, their cook and housekeeper, served a fine country meal of roasted chicken with buttered red potatoes and turnips, along with a side helping of string beans sprinkled with delicious-smelling bacon.
Grace masked her disappointment, keeping a smile on her face by dint of will as her father led a quick prayer before the meal.
“Amen.”
“Perhaps he feared he’d inconvenience us by coming late,” Papa spoke up, “and decided to eat at the Gaggle Goose. I would expect that he’s staying the night there.”
Grace stopped, startled by this possibility. It promptly wound her stomach in a knot.
Dear God, she thought. Marianne.
If his encounter with the bubbly, golden Callie had not been hard enough to watch, Grace did not even want to contemplate him meeting the sultry Marianne, who worked in the tavern at the coaching inn.
The ex–soiled dove had talents, Grace surmised, that no decent woman could compete with. Indeed, she had been the cause of Callie’s fight with George.
Grace took a sip of her wine to calm her fleeting, panicked reaction to the likelihood that Marianne was probably waiting on Lord Trevor even at this moment—in whatever capacity.
“Yes,” she forced out at last with admirable calm. “You’re probably right.”
After that, it was easy to becalm herself by simply giving up on him. He wasn’t coming, and that was that.
He was probably rolling around in bed with Marianne already.
For her part, it was time to stop acting like another cake-head, Grace thought sternly. Bad enough that a belle of eighteen like Callie should make such a henwit of herself over a handsome neighbor who might or might not be moving in. In her own, older, wiser self, such flutterings were disgraceful.
Inexcusable, really. Yes, he was handsome, worldly, kind to children, but so what?
And yet, she had to admit, it did seem quite his style to leave like a rudesby without even saying good-bye, especially after he had smiled at her so fondly. Of course, he had told Callie that he barely remembered meeting her . . .
Grace did not know what to think, but she hated that it mattered so much to her.
Thankfully, her father’s soothing presence and ordinary conversation about simple things restored a sense of normality to her overwrought day. After a while, she became herself again in the sheer routine of the evening.
Silly, girlish suspense had nearly robbed her of her appetite, but once she had concluded that the worldly ex-spy had forgotten about two such inconsequential folk as a country pastor and his too-tall daughter, then she made a decision to forget about him, too. Finally, she was able to eat. No man was worth such giddiness when there was such tender, juicy chicken on one’s table. He could go hang.
She felt let down, of course, and foolishly neglected, but disappointment was better than nerve-racking obsession over a man she barely knew. His decision about the Grange was his own affair.
Where the wandering ex–Order agent chose to put down roots at last—if he ever did—had nothing to do with her. If he moved in, she would be a good neighbor, but this sort of reaction to him was idiotic on her part and must stop.
Back to her calm, grounded self, she made a point of enjoying the meal she had ordered especially for their absent guest. The food was delicious, and too bad for him that he was missing out. Still, it amazed her that a duke’s son should have such shockingly bad manners.
At last, she and Papa finished their meal and repaired to the terrace to enjoy the evening air. They sat in their usual, outdoor, wooden chairs, chatting idly and watching the moths throng the lantern hung nearby on a shepherd’s hook.
“I wonder if George is behaving himself after your last lecture,” she remarked, and it was at that moment, just when she finally managed to distract herself altogether from the topic of Lord Trevor Montgomery, that, naturally, he arrived.
Grace went rigid and felt her heart give a kick like a mule in her chest at the distant sound of a polite knock on the front door. She gripped the chair arms to stop herself from leaping to her feet and rushing to answer it personally. That would not do. Heart pounding, she reminded herself sternly of her decision to keep her head about her; she also recalled his aversion to overly forward women. Indeed, a decorous cordiality was a more fitting reception for a national hero come to call.
Mrs. Flynn went to answer the door and a moment later, showed their visitor out onto the terrace.
Papa rose to greet him. “Aha, Montgomery! There you are at last! We’ve been expecting you. Good to see you again, m’boy.”
“I’m so sorry to call on you so late, Reverend. I don’t wish to disturb you and Miss Kenwood at this hour, but I at least wanted to stop by—”
“Nonsense,” Papa cut him off. “No apologies needed. We are happy you could join us. Have you eaten?”
“Actually, no,” he admitted ruefully, “I haven’t had a chance—”
“Ah, lured in from the darkness by the smell of a good meal,” Grace teased with an arch of her brow. “Mrs. Flynn, would you bring our guest his plate?”
“Honestly, I don’t wish to be a bother—”
“No trouble at all, sir,” the sturdy old woman told him. “Miss Kenwood had me put a plate of food together for you, just in case.”
He paused, as though startled to be treated more like family than a guest. “You’re too kind,” he said to them all with a tentative smile.
“Sit, please.” Her father gestured toward the chairs.
Grace had remained seated and inclined her head when Trevor bowed to her. “Miss Kenwood.”
“My lord,” she answered, fighting for all she was worth against the instant return of her wild overreaction to this man. “Would you like to dine al fresco or shall we return to the dining room?” she asked.
“This is perfect,” he replied. “Beautiful night.”
“Indeed. Do bring his plate out here, Mrs. Flynn, would you?”
“Aye, Miss.” The cook nodded, beaming at their handsome visitor, then she went to get his waiting, covered plate back out of the cold cellar.
Papa returned to his seat again, and Lord Trevor took the chair opposite Grace.
She was grateful that the moonlight hid her usual blush, a pattern that was getting rather tedious by now, yet she was acutely aware of him, his magnetic presence, the broad-shouldered size of him, the warmth that emanated from his big, muscled body. His scent, too. He smelled of sunshine and hard, dusty masculinity.
“Well, young man? Don’t keep us in suspense. What is your verdict on the Grange? I fear my daughter will burst if you don’t tell us.”
“Papa!”
Trevor leaned back in his chair, obscuring his wry smile with his hand for a moment as he held her gaze in amusement. “Will she, indeed?”
“No! I’m sure it’s of no consequence to me,” Grace averred, but she saw that he saw the sparkle in her eyes.
He just looked at her as if he had all the time in the world.
“Oh, come!” she ordered at length.
He grinned. “My friends, you are looking at the new owner of the Grange.”
Grac
e let out a wild gasp, lifted her fingers to her lips, and stared at him in amazement.
“Excellent! Well done, sir!” As Papa rose from his chair to shake his hand and officially welcome him to Thistleton, she felt the very earth tilt on its axis.
It was really happening. She couldn’t believe it.
After ten days of waiting and wondering if she would ever see him again, not to mention the past couple of hours of agonizing anticipation, she could hardly believe that Lord Trevor Montgomery was about to become her next-door neighbor.
To be sure, life in Thistleton would never be the same.
When he turned to her, his brow furrowed in curiosity at her silence, she abruptly found her tongue.
“Congratulations,” she forced out calmly.
“Why, thank you, Miss Kenwood.” Then he turned to her father. “A few of the old documents we needed were missing. That’s what took so long. But I think we’ve got it all sorted now.”
“Old as that property is, I’m not surprised,” Papa said. “The Grange needed someone like you, Montgomery. With the energy of youth, adequate resources, and the time for such a project.”
“Thanks. The house needs a lot of work, of course, but I’m really looking forward to the challenge. You’ve got a lovely little village here.”
“It is very dear, isn’t it?” her father fondly agreed, the lines in his smiling face illumined by the lantern. “Of all the parishes where I’ve ministered, this one has truly become home to us more than the rest did. Isn’t that right, Grace?”
“Yes, Papa,” she said faintly, nodding. But she still could not escape her disbelief. Was this a dream? It felt unreal.
“Now, you know, of course, that anything you need, we’re glad to help. We’re just across the road. Come over anytime.”
“And you, as well, Reverend, and your daughter. In fact, that’s part of why I’m here. I’ll be heading back to Town to make the arrangements for my move. I wondered if either of you might need anything from London.”
“Why, that is terribly thoughtful of you, but I think we are all right. Grace?” her father prompted.
His considerate and highly practical offer snapped her out of her daze. “Er, no. Thank you.”
“Well, if anything occurs to you after I leave, you’re welcome to write to me. Here is my address in Town.”
As he handed her father a small slip of paper from his breast pocket, Grace caught her new neighbor’s glance—and held it a little too long.
“Well!” said the reverend. “This calls for a celebration. You both will join me in a glass of wine, won’t you?”
“Gladly,” Trevor assented.
Grace nodded, and Papa left them alone to fetch the wine.
Trevor turned and smiled at her when they were alone. Naturally, Grace blushed. It was all she ever seemed to do anymore, at least where he was concerned.
“Your father seems the best of men,” he informed her.
Grace smiled warmly. “He is.”
He sat back in his chair. “I don’t usually like most people right away.”
“Really?” she countered in amusement. “Well, he loves everyone. Even you.”
He gave a small half shrug, lowering his gaze. “I’m not sure he would if he knew what I did on my last mission.”
She met his probing glance with a questioning look.
“You do know what I am by now, don’t you, Miss Kenwood? You’ve probably heard. I mean, what I was.”
She managed an awkward nod. “George—Lord Brentford—told me.”
“Yes.” He let out a sigh, staring at his boots with his long legs outstretched before him. “The whole world seems to know the story of my life now, much to my dismay.”
Grace chose her words with care. “You must be very brave—”
“Oh God, don’t—please.”
The fleeting hint of desperation in his glance made her pause. “Pardon?”
“I was only doing my duty. And it usually wasn’t pretty, to say the least. Don’t give me praise I don’t deserve.”
She studied him, unsure what to make of the man. “Were you really recruited as a boy, like they say?”
“Yes.”
It was difficult to imagine. He was staring at her guardedly, his elbow resting on the chair arm, his chin propped on his thumb while his long, manly fingers obscured his lips.
“George said you know nine different ways to kill someone with your bare hands.”
He scoffed quietly and looked away.
“Is it true?” she persisted in a low tone.
“I never actually counted,” he said dryly.
She furrowed her brow, studying him. “You didn’t like working for the Order?”
“Sometimes it was fun.” His vigilant gaze scanned the tree line, as if out of habit.
“I see.” He was quite fascinating, she had to admit. “So, what did you do on your last mission that would make my father disapprove, dare I ask?”
“Accidentally blew up a church,” he replied. “But it was Catholic, if that matters.”
Grace looked at him in wry amusement. “At least it was an accident.”
“True.” He gave her a smile with a flash of relief in his eyes. “Usually, I enjoy the chance to blow things up, but that was most regrettable.”
Grace gazed at him in a mix of intrigue and humor. She had never expected to make a friend who enjoyed setting off explosives or had even one method of killing a foe with his bare hands.
“What?” he murmured, casting her an intimate smile.
Grace shook her head. “After the sort of adventures that you’re used to, I fear you are going to find our quiet country life extremely dull.”
He laughed softly, rested his head back against the chair, and gazed at the dark sky. “Miss Kenwood,” he replied, “at this point in my life, I’d welcome ‘dull’ with all my heart.”
Before she could work her nerve up to ask him what he had thought of Calpurnia, Papa returned with the wine, passed around their glasses, and offered up a toast. “To the new owner of the Grange!”
“To Thistleton,” he answered, then added with a brief glance at Grace, “and new possibilities.”
She blushed, of course, and clinked her glass to theirs with a tremulous smile. “Cheers, gentlemen.”
“Cheers,” they replied.
Chapter 7
Trevor was still thinking about Grace when he arrived in London the next morning.
He had stayed for nearly three hours the night before, chatting with the Kenwoods on the terrace. It was midnight when he had finally taken leave, making the drive back to London through the dark. The reverend and his daughter had been alarmed at his undertaking such a “dangerous” journey, but he had assured them he was used to such adventures.
Now that he was back in Town, the clamor, coal dust, and the bustling pace of the city could not have struck a greater contrast from his visit to the countryside. Instead of going home directly, he headed to Mayfair to tell Beauchamp about his purchase.
As he slowed his carriage to a halt before the handsome brick town house that had long been his friend and team leader’s bachelor residence, it still felt strange to him to be welcomed in by Beau’s new wife.
Sebastian Walker, Viscount Beauchamp, and the petite fey redhead, Carissa, had only been married a few months. Thanks to Nick (bastard), Trevor had missed the wedding.
“There you are!” Carissa pulled him fondly by his arm. “Everyone’s been wondering where you were!”
“I thought my days of reporting my whereabouts to the Order were done.”
“Never! Come in. He’s upstairs.”
Trevor followed Lady Beauchamp all the way up to the third floor, where he found his brother warrior in the process of packing his luggage. “Blazes, man, is she already t
hrowing you out?”
Beau glanced over and grinned. “Well, look who it is.”
“Going somewhere?”
“I owe my wife a trip to Paris. We leave in the morning.”
“Oh, I can’t wait!” Carissa flitted over to Beau with childlike excitement. “We’re going to have so much fun! You are the best husband in all the world.”
“Don’t be surprised if I return bankrupt,” Beau drawled. “Shopping, don’t you know.”
“Now, now, you promised me a proper Continental holiday once all this business with the Order was finished,” she chided.
“Yes, I did. And you were actually patient, which was most unprecedented.”
“I beg your pardon!” she retorted, giving him a pinch.
“There, there, I’m only teasing,” he murmured, leaning down to plant a doting kiss on her lips.
Trevor looked away uncomfortably.
Never in all his days could he have imagined that a lothario like Beauchamp would end up an old married man before him.
“So, Trevor, you are coming to our bon voyage feast at Max and Daphne’s tonight, yes?” Beau asked him.
He hesitated.
“Of course he’ll come!” Carissa exclaimed. “He’s not going to see us for three months! Besides, Daphne always gives an excellent dinner party. All our set will be there.”
Trevor had a galling vision of five happy couples, each madly in love, sitting around the table—and him.
Considering recent events, it sounded excruciating.
Indeed, he’d rather take supper alone with Nick in his dungeon cell.
“Be there at eight. Formal dress is obviously not required.” Absently counting the linen shirts his valet had packed in his portmanteau, Beau glanced over and noticed Trevor’s taut expression.
A fleeting look of understanding passed across his face, followed by regret. “You know, Jordan’s wife, Mara, has a charming widowed friend named Delilah, whom we could invite on short notice to be your dinner companion—”
He scoffed and turned away while Carissa let out a gasp of sympathy. “Oh, Trevor, I’m so sorry! How thoughtless of us all! And here, you should have been with Laura. Yes, do please let us invite Delilah—she is very beautiful and witty—or even my aunt Josephine. She’s older than you, of course, but not by much. I wager you’d find her most intriguing.”
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