The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  He’d watched her during supper with that piercing gaze of his, an inscrutable expression on his face. What did he see when he looked at her? Likely anything but a countess.

  Grace sighed and pressed her palms into the rough cement of the terrace wall. What had she done wrong? She’d witnessed a few of her father’s business conversations—mostly from the safe distance of a crack in the door—and her offer to the reluctant earl held as many solid arguments as any of those. Even more than some.

  Yet he’d refused her.

  Though she wasn’t as socially equipped as her sister, surely she came with a few virtues of her own. She couldn’t really help her hair color, and she wouldn’t apologize for her vigorous imagination—it had proven indispensable on many occasions. But she did come with a great deal of money, which seemed more important than her penchant for speaking before thinking and riding astride.

  She held her shoulders a bit straighter. And she was quite pleased with her own eyes. They were like her mother’s, a fact she clung to with gratitude. Her gaze lingered on the halo of gold still gripping daylight.

  Perhaps Lord Astley’s rejection was for the best. Being married for one’s money instead of oneself couldn’t be the best start to a lifelong romance.

  She raised her eyes to the growing splattering of stars, vast and innumerable in the fading night. “Dear Lord, what do You want from me? I’ll happily oblige, if You’ll let me know. I understand asking for an overt sign feels rather faithless, but I’d be content with a shooting star or a voice from heaven or even a message scrawled on a wall as long as it didn’t mar the beauty of Whitlock’s marble walls. Something fairly obvious, if You please, because I’m quite a distractible creature, as You well know, and…I only want to do the right thing, whatever that right thing may be.”

  “Is talking to yourself one of your vices as well, Miss Ferguson?”

  She spun around to find Lord Astley approaching from the Music Room doors, the lights framing his silhouette like a shadow from a dream.

  “Actually, I do talk to myself quite often, but in this particular instance I was praying aloud, so unless you’re one of the growing number of atheists in the world, you were interrupting a quite honest conversation for guidance.”

  “I’m acutely aware of my need for divine intervention, and I do hope the Almighty will forgive my interruption.”

  She couldn’t make out his expression with the light behind him, so she turned back toward the horizon. A pleasant tingle skittered up her spine at his nearness in the dark. No, no. She shouldn’t like his presence. He’d rejected her, even with her dowry, her ready smile, and her somewhat aver-age beauty. “He’s known for being slow to anger, from what I understand.”

  Lord Astley slipped up beside her, his amber scent not far enough behind to keep her from turning to breathe it in. Rebel senses. No man should smell good enough to eat, especially one who refused to marry quite marriageable ladies.

  “Abounding in love too, I believe is the way of it.”

  She looked up at his profile, attempting to make out his approach. Was he trying to dismiss her gently? Reject her in a kind way on a lan-terned terrace surrounded by mountains and starlight at Christmas? That was too cruel. Clearly, he’d been reading all the wrong books.

  “Well, it’s good someone is abounding in love.” She clenched her hands in front of her and noted a few moonlit clouds passing in the darkening sky. “Generous hearted, willing to take the quite shameless overtures of a sweet young lady without dismissing her outright.”

  He chuckled. Chuckled. “You are simply the most unique woman I’ve ever met.”

  She glared at him, and his expression sobered.

  “I’m sorry to have offended you, especially since you have also borne the burden of this broken situation. And I do mean unique in the most delightful of ways.”

  She sighed out her frustration. A heartfelt apology killed her anger every time. “I’m sorry for my sister’s selfishness.” Her gaze returned to the sunset, which had almost flickered into night, the weight of her sister’s guilt, her thoughtless actions, swimming in the same heart pool as Grace’s wounded pride. “After this horrible fiasco, it’s no wonder you wish to end the entire arrangement. You expected a refined and elegant lady. Not me.”

  “No, I never expected you.” His voice brewed over the night air, warm and enticing.

  Oh, the comparison between her and her sister was too awful to imagine. Poor Lord Astley. No wonder he’d rejected her. “And instead of the excellent conversationalist that my sister is, you’re offered someone who rattles off about the silliest things and has a tendency to talk to fictional persons.”

  “Grace.” There was a smile in his voice when he said her name, and the sweetness of the sound almost distracted her from her defense against herself.

  “And you’re right, I’m not the best candidate to be an earl’s wife. In fact, I’m probably the worst option as a whole.” She sighed forward, the case against her building to mind-numbing proportions. “What does an earl need with a bookish chatterbox who rides astride when no one is looking?”

  “Grace.” He took a step closer, and she turned to him, tilting her head to make out some of his features.

  “But I feel certain I can learn to be the wife you need.” She shrugged and pinned on a smile. “There have to be books about it somewhere.”

  With a gentle move, he gathered one of her hands into his warm ones, drawing her close enough to wrap her breath in delicious amber. “You forget, I’ve never been a husband before. We both may need to locate the proper books.”

  “Well, you have an enormous library, I’m sure—” What had he said? Her attention shot to his. “What did you say?”

  “Miss Gracelyn Ferguson, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” His gaze, as black as the night, stroked her face with an expression she couldn’t decipher but very nearly brought her to tears.

  A lantern-lit terrace probably helped matters a little.

  “Oh, it sounds very different when you say it.” The words slipped out, her breath lodged around any reply. The tenderness of the request housed in such a baritone blend swept any response clear from her head. She kept staring, replaying the lingering sound of his voice in her mind. Amber and that voice? A cello in a fragrant wood.

  Proposals were very romantic things when done properly.

  “This is the part where you give me an answer, Grace.”

  “Oh,” she laughed, and her cheeks bloomed with enough heat to make her eyes water. “An answer.” She looked down at their hands, braided together in the night as if…as if they belonged. Could he learn to love her for more than money? Even if he didn’t, holding hands with a man who smelled of amber, looked like a dashing villain, and kissed like a rogue couldn’t be the worst of futures. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  She felt his devastating smile all the way to her heart.

  “But remember, I’ve been sure to list off my many vices, so whatever awaits us, prepare yourself for the need of a great deal of fortitude.”

  He raised his brows and squeezed her fingers, his expression creasing with a little uncertainty. “I’m looking forward to the journey.”

  The man was delusional, and the very thought made her like him even more. Perfect and dashing caused too much intimidation, but delusional and dashing? She could fit into a world with a man like that—maybe—if she could just figure out what exactly a countess was supposed to do.

  Chapter Nine

  Her father had wept when he learned of the engagement.

  Wept and apologized while holding her within an embrace Grace had known her whole life. It had all seemed rather lovely last evening on the terrace, but now, in daylight? The truth settled with finality over her heart. All the plans she’d made for her future, all her daydreams, plummeted into a monotony of social expectations and fashionable conversations. What about her own adventures? Her passion for becoming a daring heroine in possible life-threatening sit
uations?

  She wiped a hand over her damp cheeks and dropped down at her bedroom window seat to rest her forehead against the cold pane. The horizon of mountains and sky beckoned her heart to trust in One who weaved the patterns of life and death and adventures and romances together in the tapestry of eternity. Would He work this decision out for good? He knew she had done it all for the right reasons.

  She breathed out a long breath and sat up. She’d made her decision, and crying didn’t help. But the ache reverberating through her chest found no other release except through her eyes. God, help me.

  “I see reality is settling in, my dear.” Grace looked up to find Mrs. Whitlock entering the room, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a becoming way.

  The illustrious mistress of the manor offered a gentle smile and took a seat beside Grace. The Whitlocks had been one of the few in the wedding party who’d learned the whole truth of Lillias’s situation. Otherwise, the simple narrative had been shared that Frederick’s affections had transferred to the younger Ferguson daughter and an amiable transition had taken place for the wedding. It had sounded so simple and, in many ways, true. Lord Astley desired a wife who didn’t already belong body and soul to someone else, but the lingering awareness that love was nowhere in the decision weighed upon Grace.

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand and then groaned at forgetting to use her handkerchief like a lady. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Mrs. Whitlock tipped her chin in a thoughtful manner. “And why do you suppose you can’t?”

  Grace stared at the dear woman as if she’d lost her mind. “I know little about what life is like as an earl’s wife. I’m not worldly and elegant and witty. What if I ruin his entire legacy?”

  “I have known you your whole life, Grace.” Mrs. Whitlock chuckled. “And I don’t believe you have the ability to bring down the entire Percy family.”

  Grace sighed with a sudden sense of relief. If Mrs. Whitlock said so, it had to be true. She’d been raised among the aristocracy.

  “You don’t recognize it, my dear”—she took Grace’s hand, her smile kind—“but you already possess the tools within you not only to survive but to thrive in this choice, perhaps even more so than your sister.”

  Mrs. Whitlock spoke with such confidence that there had to be a semblance of truth somewhere in her optimistic ravings, and Grace adored optimism in any form.

  “How can that be? Lillias had training to become a countess. I can’t even remember which fork to use at dinner.”

  “My dear Grace.” Mrs. Whitlock’s gentle countenance smoothed away even more of Grace’s worry. “Embrace his world as your own, and in doing so, you will find your place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Despite your misgivings, you make a fine match. Your optimism suits his reserve. His thoughtfulness compliments your action. The pair-ing is far from hopeless.” Her brow rose. “But as is true of any marriage, you will have to work for your happily-ever-after. Noblemen carry a burden far beyond themselves, so to win his favor, you must learn to love his land, his home.”

  “Havensbrooke?”

  “He shoulders the weight of generations. It is a heavy burden, so if you support him—love his world as freely and fully as you love so many other things—he will respond to you.” Her smile softened. “With as full a heart, if I am any judge of men.”

  “So by caring for Havensbrooke, I could nurture a friendship with Lord Astley?”

  “I have every faith you’ll nurture much more than friendship.” She raised a finger in warning. “But it’s no easy feat, my dear. You will be faced with trials from a dowager mother who, by all accounts, is not even-tempered and has had her way with the place for years now. The servants may be rigid in their ability to see you as their mistress, and Lord Astley will feel the pull of conventions and expectations of his rank and station. His world will be very different than yours. But you are strong, brave, and filled with imagination. Remember who you are and what you believe. You were made for this moment, Grace.”

  Mrs. Whitlock’s smile offered such tender encouragement that Grace almost started crying again. The woman had witnessed Grace’s childish misadventures and triumphs and had watched her grow into the distracted, whimsical young lady she’d become. And being from England herself, Mrs. Whitlock brought a unique view into a world Grace had only glimpsed through the pages of books. Could dear Mrs. Whitlock be right?

  Despite a tremor in her chest, Grace smiled. If God chose her for this task and knew she stepped into it with all the best intentions, wouldn’t He also provide everything she needed to fulfill it?

  “You’ve never been the pampered, indulgent sort. And you have an amenable and adaptable demeanor, which will prove indispensable to your and Lord Astley’s happiness. So many of the less successful American brides in the past failed to reach beyond their differences and disappointments or failed to employ their imaginations to assist them in the transition from our world to Britain. Continue in your kindness, even when it’s not returned. Sprinkle your very special type of joy on the shadowed parts of his world, and you will glean more than I think even you can imagine, my dear girl.”

  Grace wiped away the remnants of tears from her cheeks and sat a little taller at the compliment. Why, if what Mrs. Whitlock said was true, Grace had plenty of resources from which to draw at least an adequate amount of courage. “More than I can imagine? It sounds like an adventure worth the risks.”

  “Indeed it does.” Mrs. Whitlock squeezed Grace’s hand and offered a smile that somehow held power enough to evoke a great deal of confidence. “You hold to the same faith as I, but even more than that, your Creator holds to you. No matter where you go or what the expectations are, you are not alone. Remember who you are, and you will not only survive, but you will flourish.”

  With the flurry of transition in plans and only one day until a wedding, Grace had few opportunities to spend time with Lord Astley more than meals and one turn around the garden with a party of six. He’d remained polite and pleasant enough, keeping his conversation well-honed except for a rather stimulating discussion about their mutual pleasure in reading The Mystery of Innisworth—he’d liked it as much as her, by all accounts—and an enthralling discussion about Havensbrooke and his desire to restore it. Mrs. Whitlock’s words settled deeper into Grace’s spirit. Love his world and win his heart.

  Oh, to win her husband’s heart! Wouldn’t that be a lovely adventure?

  Grace was just contemplating those words on her way to the Music Room for a final evening of conversations and games, when someone grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shadows of the Mahogany Room. Strong arms wrapped around her to keep her from stumbling, and the sudden scent of amber hinted of the identity of her assailant.

  “I apologize for startling you.” Lord Astley’s deep voice pearled a delicious warmth around her as inviting as his scent. “But it is nearly impossible to find some privacy in this house, and I mean to speak with you before tomorrow.”

  She looked up from the cocoon of his arms, his face half hidden in shadow. “Our sudden transfer of affections for one another has caused quite a stir.”

  “Yes, that.” His grin tipped. “I’m afraid it was Blake’s idea to circum-vent a scandal.”

  “I doubt anyone who really knows Lillias or me believes it.” She shook her head, slipping back a step from him. “The very notion that you would choose me over Lillias is beyond imagination, Lord Astley, and I am a great proponent of imagination.”

  “Frederick,” his voice swooped low in a tingle-down-her-neck sort of way. Oh, was this marvelous response attraction? She liked it a great deal. Very magical. “In private you may call me Frederick.”

  Frederick? It sounded lovely in her head. She worked the syllables over her tongue as amber shrouded her in a tantalizing hue. “Frederick…is a very nice name.”

  “I believe Grace is nicer.” His gaze softened, watching her in a most curious way. Wh
at was he thinking? Did he find her pretty doused in moonlight? It probably gave her hair a much less fiery glow.

  “You don’t seem quite so aloof when we are alone.” She swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat at his nearness. “Not that we’ve been alone a great deal, but the few times we have, you’ve been more…approachable.”

  “I want you to feel as though you may always approach me.”

  The quiet room paired with his nearness left her uncharacteristically speechless. She was marrying him in the morning. Surely she could usher up something to say, especially since he was encouraging her freedom to speak and all of that. Her throat tightened around another whiff of amber.

  “Mrs. Whitlock said that you’ve been poring over architecture books in your leisure hours the past two days.”

  “Oh yes! In one of our earlier conversations you had mentioned that you’d welcome my help with Havensbrooke’s improvements.”

  “Indeed I would.” He studied her, his face unreadable in the dark, but then he wrapped his hand around hers and led her to a nearby couch, settling beside her. “My grandmother was an integral part of the estate business with my grandfather.” He had positioned himself so that the firelight played across his strong, angled features and his eyes glowed amber gold. “I should like a similar partnership between us. Something, if you’ll forgive me, your sister would not have offered, I don’t believe. But I hope, perhaps, we can find such an alliance.”

  Was he complimenting her? Even over Lillias? No one had ever done that except her grandfather. She’d flattered herself that she was her grandfather’s favorite, if favorites were to be had, but he was a bit of a trouble-maker too. “I find the entire thought of reworking a house or designing gardens enthralling, like an adventure of sorts. A puzzle to be solved, you know? There are quite a few innovations related to hydraulic-powered fountains. Have you heard of them?”

  A shock of a laugh burst from him. “You do fix yourself to something quite passionately, don’t you?”