The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  She was beautiful. Dazzling, even. The entire ambience of the setting brewed with the amber hues of a dream. He eased his approach, waiting for her to turn, but she appeared lost in thought—gaze trained toward the dark outline of the distant mountains. Her shadowed profile intrigued him most of all. There was a gentleness to her thoughtful features that tugged his heart more than his desires. He’d witnessed her compassion toward her sister and father. She’d softened at the idea of having caused him to doubt her sincerity. Yet here, in this intimate moment, he’d never anticipated Lillias Ferguson to look almost hallowed, basking in moonlight and dusk. Seductive? Yes. Intriguing? Perhaps. But angelic? Innocent even?

  On a whim, he swept his arm around her slim waist and pulled her against him, catching her gasp with his lips. An immediate jolt shot through his body at the connection. A first kiss often gave away many hints, but this one surprised him. She tasted of strawberries and smelled like mint and rosemary. A tremor shook from her body into his, as if this kiss was wholly unexpected, but just as he thought to pull away, she relaxed. Her pliable, warm mouth contoured to his in such a tantalizing way, it encouraged him to linger. He tightened his hold, confirming his intentions without reservation.

  Her soft curves melted against him and a gentle moan purred up from her throat like a request for more. He gladly complied. Her cool fingers slipped up his chest to graze his cheek. The gentle touch—more curious than seductive—sent an almost maddening battle to his raw emotions. She felt so small in his arms, so perfectly fitted. A sudden rush of protectiveness gripped him. There was an indefinable sweetness in her caress, and her almost innocent response wrung his heart with tenderness. Hope.

  Was this the woman she hid from the public? This moonlit creature?

  In the quiet of their intimate moment—this first kiss—he vowed to endeavor to win her, if he could. Even if it meant staying in London more than he wished or hosting more parties than he cared for. He had to try.

  With the slightest hesitation and a sigh from his beautiful companion, he drew back, the full glow of the moon lighting her face.

  But it wasn’t Lillias Ferguson he’d kissed with such devotion.

  Staring back at him, bright eyes as wide as saucers and lips swollen from his thorough assault, stood Gracelynn Ferguson—his bride’s sister.

  That was singly the most invigorating moment Grace had ever known. Her entire body hummed alive, warmed by some internal light radiating heat through every fiber of skin.

  Her eyes fluttered open and met Lord Astley’s somewhat horrified expression. The moonlight gave him a mysterious, vampire-like appearance, which reminded her to reread Dracula at her earliest convenience.

  She blinked a few more times to clear her head, then glanced around the room, her imagination pulling all the pieces together. He’d meant to meet her sister here.

  A clandestine meeting? A shiver incited gooseflesh at the enticing thought. How romantic!

  She raised her fingers to her lips, investigating their reaction to her first kiss as her breath continued to pulse in halts and stops. “You…you didn’t mean to do that, I don’t think.”

  He shook his head a solid five seconds before any words emerged. “Indeed no.”

  “You thought…I was my sister?”

  “Yes.” His answer scratched through ragged breaths like hers. So perhaps the intensity of the reaction was normal.

  Her gaze dropped back to his lips, and hers tingled afresh. Kisses told a tale of Lord Astley she’d not anticipated. Tenderness, passion. Her breath grew short again as something in her awakened to the awareness of their intimate encounter. Not nervous, exactly. She pressed her hand against her stomach, her face warming. “Well, I would convey your message to her, but I don’t believe it would have the same impact.”

  A shaft of air burst from his lips, a sound between a cough and a laugh. “You are positively unexpected.”

  “Obviously.” She attempted a grin, but her lips tingled so much she wasn’t sure of the effect. Oh my, what a glorious endeavor. “But a secret rendezvous is a perfectly amorous undertaking. I didn’t take you as the sort.”

  “The…the sort?” He still seemed utterly discombobulated.

  “To indulge with such determined passion and spontaneity. Not that I’m complaining, you understand. I’m certain Lillias will find every bit of it breathtaking.”

  “Are you not disarmed in the least by this turn of events?” He narrowed those dark eyes of his and surveyed her from top to bottom as if she’d gone mad.

  Ridiculous man! He was the one who’d kissed the wrong woman, not her.

  “I kissed you as if you were my fiancée!” He pinched his eyes closed and shook his head. “My sister would have puddled to the floor in a mortified heap if such an exchange happened to her.”

  “Well, it was quite a shock!” Her lips still prickled in appreciation. “But why waste such a beautiful blunder on mortification? And what an unpleasant word that is. Mortification. No wonder the preacher says it with a scowl on his face. Oh no, I would never place the word mortification and your lovely kiss into the same sphere, let alone the same sentence.”

  “I mistakenly kiss you in a dark room in a way to possibly ruin your reputation and you’re concerned about the word mortification?” His brow furrowed and he raised his hands in exasperation. “You really are the most peculiar creature.”

  Well, that certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been called peculiar, but the way his deep tones spoke the word, in slight fascination, didn’t make it sound as unkind as how others had used it. “Come now, my lord, it was an honest mistake, and I was just pondering how the dastardly Mr. Rochester must have kissed Jane Eyre when he declared his love for her, so when you came out of the darkness and swept me into your arms, I was fairly certain my imagination had gotten away with me, which isn’t an uncommon occurrence, you understand, but never quite so”—she slid her finger over her lips again—“tactile. I’d always considered a kiss to be an extraordinary thing. I’m so glad you proved me right.”

  “I offer my sincerest apologies.” He released a slow breath and took a step back. “I would never have presumed… Wait. This was your first kiss?”

  “Well of course! You don’t suppose I’m off kissing men on a regular basis, do you? Fantasy and reality are not the same thing, and despite my love of fiction, I don’t confuse them. Often.” Her attention drifted back to his mouth. A well-formed mouth, now that she thought about it. “We shouldn’t tell Lillias about this. Even though it was an honest mistake, she’d find the idea—”

  “Intolerable.”

  “I was going to say uncomfortable, but intolerable may be better, or perhaps even such a delightful sounding word as reprehensible.”

  He stared at her to the point his very strong chin slacked a bit.

  “Please don’t look so distraught. I’m unharmed, as you see.” She gave his arm a stiff pat. “If it’s any consolation, I can tell you with certainty my sister will enjoy your kisses. I can’t think of one woman who wouldn’t, but I suppose we shouldn’t be caught in this dark room alone.”

  He blinked to attention. “Indeed.” He took her by the arm and gently guided her to the doorway. “Perhaps you should rejoin the party first?”

  Grace shook her head. “I can sneak through the breakfast room and then the servants’ corridor, and return to the party without anyone seeing us together.”

  “Please accept my most ardent apologies, Miss Grace.” His dark gaze found hers again, so filled with remorse she gave his arm another touch, less stiff this time.

  “No harm done, my lord, but do promise me one thing.”

  He nodded.

  “Make certain all of your other kisses are reserved for your bride, won’t you?”

  His very nice lips crooked to one side. “I can assure you, Miss Grace, I will make quite certain the next woman I kiss is the right one.”

  Chapter Five

  How on earth had he kissed the wron
g woman? When he returned to the Music Room and found Lillias at a table with her father and friends, he wondered if his mistaken encounter with the little fairy Ferguson could have been a dream—he’d hoped it had been a dream.

  Then the scene rushed back to his mind with every touch magnified, every scent of rosemary and soap, and the heat of his rash choice burned a bright trail through his chest and into his throat.

  Lillias later apologized for missing their meeting, explaining that her friends had kept her engaged and she was unable to get away.

  And Grace? She’d returned to the room a full fifteen minutes after their inadvertent rendezvous as if nothing was amiss, though she touched her lips too often.

  He didn’t sleep one wink the entire night, tossing between the memory of Grace’s warm mouth against his and the utter humiliation of his mistake. By dawn he was in the saddle of one of Whitlock’s white stallions, pouring his energy into a fierce ride across the countryside.

  The morning mist wet his face and hair, but he drove the stallion harder, farther away from the house. Before his brother died, he might have dismissed the mistake as easily as Grace—oh good heavens, he kept referring to her by her first name—but he couldn’t seem to help it. Her lack of pretense left little room for ceremony. He’d never met anyone like her.

  Young, yes. Much too outspoken. And wholly unspoiled, which his mother would find positively atrocious, yet she lived every moment with a joy and curiosity that almost made him smile, even in his agitated state of mind.

  And she kissed with the same enthusiasm.

  Good night! He had to erase his thoughts or he’d never look at Grace Ferguson as Lillias’s younger, almost childish sister again.

  The sunrise made a failed attempt against the dark clouds in the distance—only enough to splice the gray and crown the deep purple mountains with amber strokes. The scene proved to distract his mental derailment with a sense of wonder at such divinely crafted beauty. How long had it been since he’d appreciated such a scene? Certainly not in the last six months, if not longer. Edward’s unexpected death—deepened by Blake’s doubts at the cause—shifted everything in Frederick’s future and thrust him into the role of savior for a flailing estate he loved and rescuer of a long-lived legacy.

  A single sunray split through the distant clouds and fell to earth in resplendent magnificence, transforming a river in the distance to liquid gold. Frederick drew in a long breath and closed his eyes. The man he used to be would have stopped and pondered the ineffable artwork of the Almighty, but the new Earl of Astley could not afford such luxuries.

  The wind against his ears voiced a protest. Where was God if not in everything?

  The awareness grated against his choices, against the helplessness in his situation. Didn’t Frederick deserve to pay for his ill choices from the past by sacrificing his future? Isn’t that how the game of life worked?

  His heart pulsed in objection, but he pushed the stallion forward, as if to outrun the past, the future, and every other sour decision in between. All of a sudden, the trail took a sharp turn, catching Frederick off guard. The horse slid against the damp earth. Frederick moved his body with the beast, but the saddle turned beneath him in an unusual shift. He grappled for the reins, but they slipped over his damp gloves as his body flew in one direction and the horse turned in the other. In slow motion, Frederick flew through the air, turning his body so his shoulder might take the brunt of the fall, but somewhere along the way his foot twisted free too late from the stirrup. A sharp pang shot from his ankle up his leg.

  The grass provided a merciful pillow for his landing but failed to dampen the ache in his ankle or the thud his shoulder took against the cold earth. He hadn’t fallen from a horse in years.

  Frederick clenched his teeth against the pain and pushed himself to a sitting position in time to see his steed race back toward the house, following instinct instead of the needs of his rider. This part of the trail hovered on the edge of a steep drop down to a roaring riverbed, perfect for an excellent prospect of the horizon but not for a riding accident. If he’d fallen any closer to the edge…

  His gaze shifted back to the house. Another accident?

  He caught a last glimpse of his horse disappearing into the wood and a prickling of warning raised the hair on the back of his neck. His fingers slipped down to his boot, skimming the hilt of his dagger to ensure its position. He kept his attention fixed on the wood’s edge as he pushed to stand.

  A swell of pain wilted him back to the earth. A severe sprain. He frowned. He wouldn’t be walking back to the house until the pain lessened.

  Whitlock’s towers rose above the tree line in the distance. He groaned his displeasure. He’d ridden much farther than he’d planned, proving distraction a very unhealthy traveling companion in an unfamiliar place.

  Casting a glance heavenward, he raised his brow. What sort of plans did the Almighty have in store for him with this wretched beginning? Surely the fall was nothing more than God’s disapproval at Frederick’s impulsiveness last evening.

  With a series of painful moves, he made his way to a nearby tree that afforded him a better prospect of the house as well as a prop for his back.

  All he could do was wait until the pain eased a little or someone came looking for him.

  His gaze shifted back to the view. The dark clouds had snuffed out the sunbeams, leaving little of the molten sunrise on the horizon. What if—like his grandmother often said—God used everything as a building tool of character? And if God was the Father he’d always heard his grandparents profess, the loving Father, would he love Frederick enough to mold his character, even after so many mistakes? I’ve fallen so far. A sad grin tilted his smile as he reviewed his current predicament. But I want to do right. You know I do. He leaned his head back against the tree. Help me become the man I’m meant to be. He paused, doubt plaguing his prayer—guilt pausing his request. And would You help with this marriage too?

  His happiness was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He knew, yet so did God, and the mental assent gave some relief in the truth that Frederick wasn’t alone. God could help Frederick cultivate a solid relationship with Lillias Ferguson, couldn’t he? The foundations of a better future for his children than the one he’d known?

  A sudden movement from the direction of the house caught his attention and had him reaching for his dagger again. He used the tree as a crutch to rise to his full height, despite the stabs of pain coursing up his leg. Over the hillside glided a black horse, moving at a fantastic pace with his horseman. An experienced rider—at ease astride the midnight animal—moved near enough to perhaps hear Frederick’s call.

  He waved and finally succeeded in gaining the rider’s attention. Could it be one of the guests from the house party? The formal riding uniform suggested such.

  The horseman was barely a slip of a person. Lithe. Petite. Who from the party fit such a description?

  “Oh, my dear Lord Astley.” The voice coming from the rider sounded oddly familiar—and not at all like a young gentleman. Heat rushed from his body as the stranger swished off the riding cap, releasing a bountiful swath of fiery hair.

  Grace Ferguson! His mind drew a complete blank in response.

  “What sort of mess have you gotten yourself into this morning?” Her breath puffed into the cool air.

  She rode closer, examining him from her perch. All thoughts of her being a young man fled his mind at the sight of her fitted riding suit. “What are you doing all the way out here on foot?” Her gaze widened, and she slipped from the horse. “Oh dear, are you hurt?” Her riding breeches offered a view of her slender legs as she approached. Frederick’s mouth went dry. He averted his gaze.

  Grace Ferguson is not Lillias. Grace Ferguson is not Lillias.

  “Of course I’m not my sister. She hates riding.”

  Had he spoken aloud? Clearly, he was going mad. “You’re…you’re riding astride?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock know my bad habits, b
ut like the best of people, they keep my secrets safely hidden from my father.” Her grin crinkled her nose. “He finds the whole idea of riding unsavory. I’m not sure why. It’s one of the most exhilarating experiences in the whole world.”

  His mind shot directly back to their kiss. He cleared his throat. “How is it that you are out so early?”

  She gestured toward her breeches, an invitation his wayward gaze didn’t need. “As I said, to truly ride the way I love best, I must do so early enough not to humiliate my family, so as you see, here I am.” He attempted to stand up straighter as she approached, but the shift in weight produced a wince.

  “You are hurt.” She rushed forward but came to a stop just before touching him. He could tell she wanted to, not as a romantic reaction, but in complete abandon to assist. The woman kept him in as much uncertainty of the next action as a feral horse in training.

  “I’ll ride to the house for help and be back in half an hour.”

  He pressed a hand to his head in a vain attempt to recollect himself. “You can’t get to the house and back in half an hour.”

  Her grin took such a playful turn it almost inspired his. “I’ll bet all your pocket change I can.”

  He shouldn’t indulge her, but the glimmer in those eyes teased him into action. “I’ll take that wager, Miss Grace.”

  She rewarded him with her dazzling smile, pushed the hat back on her head, and with the ease of familiarity—and the assistance of a nearby tree trunk—swung herself back on the horse.

  “I shall wait under the shelter of this tree, in the instance the storm arrives before you return.”

  She followed his gesture to the horizon, and her face paled. “Oh dear. I…I hate storms, especially thunderstorms.” A flicker of worry puckered her brow. “And it’s coming rather quickly, isn’t it?”