She pursued the kiss as he turned her on her side and proceeded to move his hand over her shoulder and down her back. With an easy introduction, he slid his lips from her mouth and began a gentle descent of kisses over her jaw to her ear. She gasped, her fingers grabbing at his shirt, and nearly undoing his careful control. Slowly. Not too much—and certainly not in this tiny bed.
Her skin, smooth and warm beneath his lips, heated to his touch, carrying with it the sweet scent of rosemary. He left her ear and moved his kisses down her neck until she moaned against him, her fingers fisting his shirt in both hands. No one had ever kissed her like this. He was the first, and the realization tempered his desire with something deeper and sweeter.
He slipped his kisses back to her mouth and ended by tucking her against his side, her chest pumping shallow breaths. Her body trembled as he pushed back her hair from her face. She opened those glossy eyes, foggy from the effects of his mouth’s attention to her neck.
“Please tell me that’s a common occurrence in marriage,” she rasped.
“I certainly hope so.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I think it ought to be.”
“Oh yes, most certainly.” She sighed against him and then, without warning, pushed back up against his chest. “Do you mean to tell me, you could have been kissing me like that from the first day?”
Her fiery hair fell around her shoulders, a shocking contrast against her white dressing gown, tempting him to finish the blaze he’d started. “I didn’t want to frighten you, darling. We’ve gotten to know one another better since, but we are still quite new friends.”
She studied his face, gaze a little suspicious, then slipped back down beside him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and resting her palm on his chest. Close to his heart. Sheltered in his arms.
“Will you let me stay here beside you all night?”
“If you want to stay.” His breath lodged in his throat. Nothing prepared him for her. For this. He wanted to keep her right there, all soft and sweet and his, for as long as he could.
She snuggled closer in answer. “Oh yes, this is much better than by myself.”
Indeed.
“And you smell of amber. I love amber.”
He reached to wrap the blankets around her, cocooning her in with him. “And I love rosemary and mint.”
He could feel her smile press in against his shoulder. “You really are the most delightful man.”
If she only knew the truth. Oh, he’d cling to this view she had of him for as long as possible. “I find you quite delightful too.”
“Well, it will be a saving grace that you do when I show up to some social event wearing a spring dress during a winter ball.”
“What would you say if I told you that your smile is always in fashion.”
She smoothed a hand over his chest, completely unaware of the effects of her touch on his internal temperature. “I’d say your answer reminds me of another quote in favor of kindness.”
“Of course, it does.”
She yawned, but he was far from sleep. “Mm-hmm, by Jane Austen.”
“Yes?” His fingers threaded through her hair, as soft as he’d imagined.
Her smile grew wide, warming his shoulder. “There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.” She yawned again. “And you, my dear Frederick, are certainly charming.”
The way her voice lilted on his name nearly had him kissing her senseless again. “Hmm…and what is it you find most intriguing about Jane Austen’s heroes, Lady Astley?”
“Oh well,” she murmured, her voice sluggish with growing sleep. “All of them are rather steadfast, aren’t they? Beneath their fumblings, at times, all of them beat with true hearts.”
True hearts.
With God’s help, he’d have a true heart with her—steadfast. And hopefully she’d forgive the past when it blew into their lives.
Chapter Twelve
Frederick kept to Grace’s side the entire transition from the docks to the car to the train, Elliott and Ellie ever present nearby. Whether it was the closeness of their new sleeping arrangement or just the fact that Grace could easily get lost among the crowds and baggage of the Liverpool docks, she wasn’t sure, but she rather liked having Frederick’s hand on her back or her arm through his. It made the whole marriage idea more believable, as if he might actually like her.
The unpleasant Captain Hook man appeared several times in her periphery among the crowds in coal gray and bushy brows—or so she thought—which only added to the otherworldly dynamics of her present state. Every good fiction needed a villain or two. If Grace hadn’t been attempting to navigate her new environment without losing her posture, she might have pointed the man out to Frederick, but as it was, she didn’t even have a free hand or moment to reach for her hatpin.
The stench of smoke and dead fish gave a very unappealing introduction to England, with Grace’s bright blue gown a beacon among the gray world as they transitioned from boat to car and finally parted ways with Blake at the train depot. Her aunt Caroline’s infrequent letters mentioned England’s general dreariness, with its shorter days in winter and narrow city buildings, but Aunt Caroline, Duchess of Keriford, had never been particularly trustworthy. From the stories she’d heard from her father, Grace had gleaned that her mother and aunt had opposite personalities, with Aunt Caroline possessing extroversion and imagination, while Mother, with her winsome elegance, happily kept to the quieter side of society.
Aunt Caroline had married a duke fifteen years earlier, during the popular days of American heiresses uniting with poor aristocracy. And though Lady Keriford proved a much more daring personality than her niece, there was something comforting in the fact that a family member lived relatively close by. In fact, the Earl and Countess of Keriford had already invited the Astleys to their upcoming Christmas party at Keriford Hall, Frederick and Grace’s first public appearance in England.
It was to Grace’s great relief when she and Frederick finally took their seats in their box on the train and watched the drab city buildings thin out and finally disappear altogether. Frederick released a sigh as he relaxed back into the cushioned seat and draped an arm about her shoulders.
“Look,” Frederick whispered, gesturing toward the window as the landscape opened to a vast and glorious emerald countryside. “That’s not so bad, is it?”
She leaned close to the window, her reflection smiling back at her. “The land of Austen and Brontë and Dickens.”
“Keats, Shelley, and Doyle,” he added.
She swung her attention to him, his face so close. “I love it when you speak in fiction.”
The kissable grin of his emerged. “I’ll have to remember to place quotations to memory with more diligence, then.”
Without hesitation, she kissed his lovely lips. Something about sharing a bed with the man changed the nature of their closeness. “Will you let me sleep with you every night if I’m very good?”
“Darling, I enjoyed your company so well, I plan on your sleeping beside me even if you’re very bad.”
“That’s quite gentlemanly of you, my dear Lord Astley.” She attempted to curb her grin with more allure but failed miserably. “With my fidgeting and talking and insatiable curiosity, I am certain to be bad at times.”
“As am I.”
She squeezed his hand, a thrill running through her at the remem-brance of his deliciously dastardly kisses. “Villainously bad?”
The smile waited in his eyes. “There is a distinct possibility.”
“Then you shall most certainly sleep beside me, especially if your villainy involves kisses like last night.” Her face heated at the thought while her whole body gravitated toward him.
“I can assure you, it’s the most rewarding villainy a man can possibly commit with his wife.”
She studied him, his gaze smoldering her burning cheeks. “Oh dear, I might require a distraction or I’ll do something very improper and kiss you until you moan like you did last
night.”
His dark look heated her face even more, and her breath faltered a little in anticipation of possible villainy.
She blinked down at the bag she had in her lap, her notebook poking from the top. “What if we speak of Havensbrooke?”
“What do you wish to know?” The question emerged like a controlled growl, low and deep, doing nothing to distract her from her unruly thoughts.
She drew in a deep breath and attempted a smile. “I feel very much like Jane as she traveled to Thornfield Hall with all its mystery.”
“Fortunately for you, or not so fortunately”—his gaze trailed down to her lips—“you’ve met the master of the hall already. So the mystery is gone.”
“You cannot divert me with your underwhelming attitude. A place with as benign a name as Havensbrooke simply must harbor its own secrets.”
His gaze flicked to her eyes, his features hardening. “You may not enjoy what you uncover, Grace. Not all stories are happy ones.”
The sudden change in his expression evaporated the previous heat of their closeness. Wounds. Grief. They etched lines across his brow and curved his mouth into a frown that pulled at Grace’s heart. “I made a promise before God and everyone I hold dear. Your secrets—all of them—are safe with me.”
He offered a fleeting smile before lowering his gaze to their braided fingers. “I’ve been selfish bringing you here.” His gaze, stormy and crinkle-browed, found hers. “But I believe your heart is strong.”
“And my determination even stronger.”
His gaze caressed her face in a way that appeared to have very little to do with money and much more to do with heart. She wasn’t certain how to speak of secrets. Her deepest, darkest secrets involved simple things like stowing away in the back of a car to ride to town, putting vinegar in her father’s coffee and regrettably having Larson take the blame, trying on her sister’s clothes without asking, and reading books like Udolpho without her father knowing.
She gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze and sat up straighter. “So this new and shadowy home of mine. You and your mother reside in the west wing, yes? And where exactly is the servants’ hall?”
“The servants’ hall?” His smile tipped slightly. Perhaps he already knew it was a lost cause to keep her from learning of their employees. Smart man, and it distracted him from his melancholy thoughts. “It is referred to as the servants’ wing and is positioned at the back of the house with the kitchens.”
“Ah,” she touched her finger to her lips, solutions, ideas, and even more questions firing awake. “So you keep social rooms in the east wing, but sleep in the south wing, yet the servants’ wing is closer to the north and east parts of the house. It all sounds rather convoluted as far as efficiency.”
“That was at my mother’s bidding. The bedrooms on the second and third floors of the east wing were previously those of my brother, Edward, and his wife, Celia, as well as my mother and father. Since my brother’s death, my mother had the rooms closed off and our bedrooms moved to the south wing.”
Grace studied him a moment longer, noting the hesitation in his voice at the mention of his brother and sister-in-law. He’d only mentioned his brother died from a weak heart, but why did she feel something was left unsaid? “And you’ve already installed electricity in the south and east wings but haven’t added extra bathrooms?”
He didn’t immediately answer, his expression stalled in some unreadable way.
“What have I said?”
“I’m not sure what to make of my blushing bride when she’s speaking of improvements instead of vistas and romances.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you think I’m doing with all these books on architecture and design? Merely looking at pictures? Though the pictures are nice.” She shrugged and looked back out the window. “Besides, I’d much rather be at work doing something instead of worrying about fashion designs and house parties.” She flipped her gaze back to his. “I warned you of my dramatic bent.”
“I gathered as much about your dramatic bent upon our first meeting.” His lips spread wide as if he harbored a laugh. “And I’m quite pleased you want to make Havensbrooke your home.”
“I was reading from an article another American wrote of her work on her husband’s estate, and she decided to close off some of the unused wings of the house to save money. That may be a first way to conserve space and energy toward refurbishing, don’t you think?”
“Your suggestion is on the nose, and an easy remedy to lower some costs. The south and east wings showcase some of the best rooms of the house, and it makes sense to reduce costs by closing off the north tower rooms as well as the west wing, once we can renovate the east wing bedrooms.”
“I’m afraid your mother won’t like it.”
He slid her a glance, his lips twitching. “She hasn’t liked a great many things I’ve done, so this should prove in line with my usual course. But it is smart and in the long run will save money, resources, and time. I’m certain the servants will appreciate it.” His expression gentled. “Do you always paint the world with such color? It’s difficult to see the gray when you’re a part of the conversation.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “You’re rather enchanting.”
The crinkle in his brow spoke of hardship, of regret, even. Paired with his comments throughout the last week, a vision of a man who’d lost some beautiful part of himself to a dark and dreary past resurrected. Lord Frederick Percy was a lost hero, as only the best fiction provided, and Grace felt certain God had placed her in Frederick’s life to rescue him. After all, few people understood lurid backstories, strong-willed heroines, or happy endings quite as well as she.
And she’d always longed to rescue something or other. It sounded ever so heroic, even as they traveled nearer to a house with secrets, a bitter dowager mother, and a future of uncertain possibilities. Yes, it sounded very much like a novel. “I certainly hope I can continue to add color to your life, Lord Astley.”
“Of this, I have no doubt.”
Frederick patiently endured his role as informant for the continuation of the train ride. Which proved a mercy, since Grace was notorious for questioning people into delirium.
The countryside looked familiar and strange all at once. Here and there among a vast expanse of rolling hills, a beige stone steeple—pic-turesque among the pastures—would dot the scenery like an unexpected find in a painting. Patches of sheep speckled the landscape, as twisty roads carved paths among emerald hills and rock walls. There was magic to it, especially as freezing fog—as Frederick called it—curled over distant mountains like a shroud, leaving behind a wonderland of icy trees and glistening towers.
A village of the most delightful conglomeration of gray brick, tan stone, and cobblestone lanes emerged among the hills as the train slowed. Astlynn Commons. People lined the way, some stringing garland along the outside of the train depot, others—it appeared—keeping watch. As the train came to a stop, the crowd increased with a great deal of commotion, all swarming toward the station, some with little banners, others waving their hats. What on earth was going on?
“Are you greeted this way every time you come home?” Grace grinned up at Frederick as he offered his hand to help her rise from her seat.
“They’re not here to greet me.” His lips lifted with the slightest smile. “They’re here to see the new Countess of Astley.”
“Me?” Her face drained of warmth. “Oh dear.”
“I feel certain it will be relatively painless.” He chuckled and drew her forward to the door of the train. “The older women of Astlynn Commons will send you smiles, the children will wave, the men will dip their chins in acknowledgment, and the young ladies will speak of nothing else but your fine hat and your lovely hair.”
“My lovely hair.” She rolled her eyes and allowed him to guide her through the train.
“It’s as remarkable as its bearer.”
He whispered the sentence, barely loud enough for her to hear, but she
felt it spill through her with the sweetest thrill. He liked her hair. After shouldering years of unkind comments related to her scarlet locks, to have her husband find them—her smile stretched from cheek to cheek—remarkable? Well, that certainly meant something to her.
A young man in a driver’s suit approached as they disembarked, removing his cap to reveal a wild array of curls almost the same color as Grace’s. “Sir, glad to see you’ve arrived safely.”
“Thank you, Patton.” Frederick turned toward Grace. “Lady Astley, this our chauffeur, Mr. Patton. Patton, the Countess of Astley.”
“My lady.”
Grace offered him a not-so-demure smile. She’d been attempting to practice demure smiles, but they never failed to expand to her entire face, despite her best efforts. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Patton.”
His cheeks deepened to match his hair color. “I pulled the car ’round to the side for privacy, my lord, but there’s been a crowd out since mornin’ trying to catch sight of the new lady.” Mr. Patton returned his hat to his head, his gray eyes sparkling. “News of your arrival has caused quite a stir.”
They followed Patton through the station, and Frederick stopped to greet a few people on their way. A Mr. and Mrs. Larson, who were from one of the esteemed families of the parish. Sir Archibald and Mrs. Elaine Withers represented another. By the time Frederick and Grace had made it to the Model T—all outfitted with fur-covered seats and several blankets to keep them warm on their drive—the carriage with Elliott, Ellie, and all their luggage had already disappeared down the road.
As they drove down the cobblestone street, Frederick’s descriptions of the quaint village of Astlynn Commons and its series of perfectly lined, stone buildings came to life. She recognized the white-haired attendant who walked with a limp, and the rambling lane that led alongside a river. The bakery and butcher’s shop. Frederick’s beloved book shop, of which she took special note. A mercantile and millinery.
The Mistletoe Countess Page 13
