The Mistletoe Countess

by Pepper Basham

  “A hero is never who he was.”

  Frederick looked up at her.

  “It’s who he becomes.” She clicked her tongue. “Don’t demean your bride by treating her as if she can’t see the man you were meant to be. If you mean to make a change in your generation of Percys, you need to start with openness and honesty.”

  “I…I know.”

  Her warm palm, crinkled with time, cupped his cheek. “Don’t continue the family tradition of secrets. You’ve witnessed its poison. And don’t stifle Grace’s potential to be exactly who you need her to be. She is your partner and equal. Allow her to be both.”

  His eyes burned with uncustomary tears, and he swallowed through the emotions rising in his throat. Fear stalked his every step, but—God help him—it would not guide his future. He needed an ally for the journey, and he wanted that ally to be Grace.

  Grace attempted to hit another croquet ball toward the hoop but only succeeded in shaking the wire arch with an impressive clod of grass. This sport was too much like golf to be enjoyable.

  Shouldn’t Frederick have shown up by now if he felt sorry for his grumpiness?

  She shot another clod toward the hoop. Despite her frustration, her heart ached for her cranky husband. Had Frederick only known the harshness of his mother? The distance of his father? Rejection and ridicule?

  Her mother had shown such love early in Grace’s life that every memory seemed shrouded in a golden hue. And her father kept a hopeful countenance, always willing to trust quickly, which in some cases proved disastrous in the business realm. Still, he loved large.

  If Frederick grew up on stingy love, which wasn’t love at all, wouldn’t that alter a person’s views on trust and hope?

  She supposed it was one thing to give kisses but quite another to give your heart.

  A sound from the house pulled her attention to the rectory’s back door.

  Her husband wore penitent well. Shirt with loosened collar. Hair unkempt, most likely from his wild drive in the roadster to find her. She held back her smile at the thought of his desperate search. No, she shouldn’t give in too quickly, as Aunt Lavenia had said. She must stand her ground for a solid apology.

  He kept his distance, stopping several feet from her, but she focused on the mallet in hand, barely attending to her task of hitting the croquet balls poorly.

  “Grace.”

  His voice pleaded the word in a whisper. She braced herself against the empathetic pang. “Lord Astley.” Ah yes. Her voice didn’t quaver as much as she thought it might.

  “I didn’t know where you’d gone. I searched the whole house.”

  Which was terribly dashing of him.

  “You can’t leave without alerting me of your plans.”

  And that was how he wished to start this conversation? She pulled the mallet’s handle into a tighter grip, shooting him a mild glare before hitting another piece of grass—and the ball—toward him. “Then don’t give me reason to.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said.” He approached another step. “You sac-rificed a great deal to leave all you knew and marry this misplaced earl.”

  She looked away, trying to hold to a thread of her hurt for Aunt Lavenia’s sake. “I did.”

  “I am grateful for your willingness and kindness, and…and for you.”

  Oh, her heart melted into a puddle. It was much harder to stay angry than she’d thought.

  He took another step closer, his presence so close she felt it. “Please forgive my harshness.”

  Tenderness proved a difficult weapon to battle against, and she’d promised Aunt Lavenia she’d hold her ground for at least ten minutes. Had it barely been three? “I know I said I found brooding heroes appealing, but they’re tiresome in actuality.” She raised her chin to continue her argument, moving away from him to hit the ball poorly again. “I prefer a more open-minded hero.” She looked up and pointed her mallet. “One willing to consider other points of view.”

  “You’ve never played croquet, have you?” The gentle humor in his voice pearled over her skin like a magnet drawing her to him, baritone and tenderness.

  She fought the tug. “No, but I was introduced to baseball last year, so I feel I have a pretty solid swing with the right target.” She needled him with a look, which was a bad idea, because her gaze fell into his. Oh, she did care about him. Immensely.

  His lips twitched into that crooked grin she couldn’t quite sort out but found rather fascinating. “I believe there’s something wrong with your grip.”

  “My grip?”

  Before she could move away, he’d captured her left hand. “Ah, yes.” He took her fingers gently into his warm ones and examined her hand with such intensity, her frustration diminished into curiosity. “I see the problem. Your hand isn’t balanced properly.”

  “My what?”

  With a quick movement, he slipped her wedding ring back on her finger and tugged her closer to him. “Forgive me?” His brow crinkled into a dozen wrinkles, his dark eyes searching hers. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  All her defenses crumbled, and she hadn’t even succeeded in making it to five minutes. Oh, she’d never been very good at holding grudges. “I forgive you.”

  “You know, I will disappoint you again.” He captured a stray strand of her hair between his fingers, staring down at it with such intensity. “I’m a broken man, an aspiring hero, at best, but hopelessly flawed.”

  Aunt Lavenia’s words took deeper root, and Grace saw Frederick as a little boy searching for someone to love him. Pain squeezed her heart. The burden he bore took on a greater weight when viewed from the eyes of a child who wanted to earn favor from unforgiving parents.

  A harrowing feat she’d never known.

  “Perfect heroes are boring.” She touched his cheek, bringing his attention to her face. “The only heroes worth reading about are the broken ones. They have the greatest potential because they’ve learned what it takes to be truly strong. And seeking forgiveness is certainly the act of a hero.”

  He lowered his forehead to hers. “I wanted to remain your noble knight as long as possible, but I seem adept at falling off my steed.”

  “That’s all right.” Her smile broadened as her fingers grazed his cheek. “As I recall, I’ve helped you back on a steed before.”

  He stared at her, gaze roving her face in almost wonder. “How can you be so—” His breath caught, or was it a sob? His hands cupped her face, and he took her lips in a slow, tantalizing kiss that reverberated through her with much more than desire—tenderness.

  Her dear, wounded hero had excellent potential.

  “Come.” He brought her hands to his lips, his expression all teary-eyed and grateful. “We need to talk.” He took the mallet from her hand with a raised brow, then guided her through the back of the rectory to a small sitting room, a cheerful fire aglow.

  Without releasing his hold, he led her to the couch and settled next to her. “You are very clever, so you’ve probably surmised my past choices have led to certain scandals for our family.”

  She’d anticipated this great unveiling of his past. In fact, she’d conjured up enough possibilities to write a three-volume novel herself. Secret wife? Diamond thief? Mercenary? Pirate? She fought her grin. Well, pirate wasn’t so bad, but she didn’t like the secret wife scenario at all. No wonder Jane was so upset.

  Grace steadied her shoulders, readied for the revelation.

  “I was left to my own devices early in my youth and quickly became enamored with the daughter of one of our tenants.” He smoothed his thumb over her knuckles, his brow a fury of creases. “At the time, I didn’t know it was her design to entrap me into a financial obligation by carrying my child.”

  Secret child? Oh, she’d left that one off the list. “Your…your child?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “The woman died in childbirth, to my father’s relief because it averted further scandal, but the rumors were not kind, though I attempted to make amends w
ith her family.”

  He wore the weight of his past with such penitence, shoulders stooped, gaze turned down toward their braided hands. Her chest squeezed with pain. “Oh Frederick, your tender heart.”

  “Yes,” he growled, in a very un-Frederick-like way. “A tender heart is all well and good, but without wisdom it leads to folly.” His eyes wilted closed. “Such folly.”

  Grace squeezed his hand. “And you’ve grown in wisdom?”

  “Now?” His gaze found hers, the tension around his eyes softening a little. “Perhaps now, but not soon enough.” He stroked her hand almost methodically as he spoke. “I had a weakness for women who appeared to need me and who would at least pretend to adore me.” His expression hardened. “I wanted to prove myself, to feel strong and important.”

  And find love.

  Grace’s heart ached with pain again. For him. For the loneliness he must have known.

  “Along came Celia Blackmore. She had the right connections to impress my mother and a family history to impress my father. All she lacked was money, and I had no idea she’d do anything to obtain it.”

  “She sounds like Milady de Winter from The Three Musketeers. Villainous, beautiful, and a devastating temptress.” Grace shook her head. “She was able to seduce a priest, for goodness’ sake. Of course you couldn’t withstand such deviousness.”

  “And much like Athos, I thought myself in love with a woman whose heart belonged to her own chicanery. Once she realized she could gain a title and fortune through my brother, her affections conveniently transferred to him.”

  She thought about the portrait she’d seen of Frederick’s brother, Edward, then looked back at her roguishly handsome husband. “What a poor choice on her part.”

  “Darling.” His smile flickered, and he slid his knuckles against her cheek, eyes glistening bright again before he sobered. “It seems Father was somehow involved in the entire affair with Celia, but I was never privy to the nuances. Celia and Edward were married, and by all accounts quite happily until before Father’s death. I tried to stay away in London as much as possible, but when Father became ill, I returned home. He was a shadow of his former self. Agitated. Delusional. Grabbing my hands and calling out, ‘My son,’ as he’d never done before. Perhaps regret tendered his heart toward me near the end, but I cannot know.”

  “And you had no comforting mother to help you.”

  His gaze gentled on her. “No, in fact, she barely left her room the last two weeks of Father’s life, living like a recluse in her apartments with only her maid as company.” His brows knit tightly together as he tilted his head in some sort of deep contemplation as he looked at her. “Your presence is a comfort, though.”

  “As yours is to me.”

  He kissed her hands, shaking his head as the conversation fell silent.

  “What happened that sent you to India?”

  His smile faded, his gaze distancing in memory. “I’d learned caution around Celia, but in my grief, I’d forgotten to keep up my guard. With the desire to be of assistance to my brother, I stayed on at Havensbrooke for a few months, and with each passing week, Celia’s attentions toward me became more demonstrative.”

  Grace’s palm came up to cover her mouth. “Oh, she is perfectly Lady de Winter.”

  “One night I woke, and she was in my bed. I was grieving, lonely, and when she began to make advances, I lost my senses for a moment.” His gaze bore into Grace’s. “But only a moment, and then I moved to get out of the bed, but Edward must have suspected something, because he arrived and saw us together.”

  “Poor Edward,” Grace pressed her hand to her chest.

  “Yes.” Frederick groaned. “Of course, Celia turned the story around, claiming I’d been the pursuer.”

  “And Edward believed her,” Grace whispered.

  “She was his wife.”

  “Someone needs to challenge her to a duel.” Grace growled. “If I ever meet her in person and learn to use pistols, I may challenge her to a duel myself.”

  “I appreciate your protectiveness.” He offered a weak chuckle and cradled Grace’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “But I hope you never meet her. She is neither safe nor kind, and no amount of your sunshine will change her.”

  “Is that why you were sent to India?”

  He sighed. “I joined a military outfit. I’d never gone from home for so long, and it pained me in a way I hadn’t expected. This place, this land, is a part of me, and to leave in such a shameful fashion?” His shoulders sagged, feeling the weight. “I wrote to Edward several times, begging his forgiveness, attempting to explain, but he never replied. I remained in India until I received a letter from Mother about my brother’s illness. He died the day I arrived. I’m the one who discovered him.”

  “How horrible for you.” She touched his cheek.

  “It was horrible. He must have died in such agony, from the way I found him.”

  Grace’s thoughts spiraled back to the state of the east-wing study. Had Edward known he was dying? Is that why he wrote the letter? “Then what happened?”

  He came out of his trance-like state. “I attempted to sort out our family’s finances, which had been left in ruin from both Father’s and Edward’s misuse. I’m still trying to place some order into their tangle of debt. Then Mother met your sister and father in London, suggested the proposal to me, and the agreement was struck.”

  That was all? Since she’d imagined him murdering his father, joining some slave trade in India, and harboring a secret wife, the truth proved much less shocking.

  “Why were you so afraid to tell me this, Frederick? You desperately sought love because your family didn’t give it and lost your heart to a vile woman who didn’t recognize what a very good man she’d rejected.” She shook her head. “I imagined much, much worse.”

  He paused, his gaze shifting back to their hands, and a sudden foreboding caught in her throat. “There is one more thing.”

  She braced herself. He had killed someone! And he was rather roguish. Perhaps he truly was a pirate, but then he wouldn’t have to marry a rich woman, would he?

  “I have a daughter.”

  “You…you have a daughter?”

  “She’s five years old. She was the child born to the tenant’s daughter. Her name is Lily, short for Elizabeth, and she lives as a ward of my estate.”

  The idea settled through her. Frederick had a daughter. “Do you see her?”

  “Regularly.”

  Did she look like her mother or Frederick? Oh, a little girl with his eyes would be adorable. “Does she know you are her father?”

  “I cannot claim her as such, Grace. It’s not the way things are done.”

  Grace didn’t like that at all. She knew a life without a mother’s presence, but to be raised bereft of both mother and father? She stood from the bench and paced a few steps. “We should include a nursery in our improvements.”

  “That’s a bit premature—”

  “For Lily.” She turned back to him as he stood. “Surely we can bring her inside the house so she’ll have people nearby to love her. You may still claim her as your ward, but no child should bear the absence of loving parents, if possible.”

  “What about when our children come?”

  What a ridiculous question. “Then she’ll have playmates.”

  “You wouldn’t resent this reminder of my past?” He shook his head, staring at her, and a weak laugh erupted as he shook his head. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  She took his hands back into hers, attempting to wrap her mind around his hesitation. “We all live with reminders of the past, dear Frederick. We cannot escape them. There are plenty of regretful ones, I’m sure, so why not celebrate the sweet ones? Lily had no hand in your choices. She certainly shouldn’t bear the shame in your regret.”

  “Grace.” He took her face in his hands, thumbs trailing over her cheekbones. “Can you truly be this…this generous?”

  His kiss caught her by s
urprise, slow and deliciously tantalizing. She hummed a sigh and pulled back to see his face. Dark eyes swam with a glossy luster. He’d laid his wounds bare before her, his past raw and open.

  But no matter how intimidating his former life might be, she would embrace it all. All of him. The bravest of heroines love with eyes open.

  “You don’t need to grieve for love anymore, Frederick. I will love you.” She ran a finger down his cheek and kissed him, her smile stretching with possibilities. “And I will be the best sleuthing partner you could ever imagine.”

  He blinked at her. “Sleuthing partner?”

  “To find out what happened to your brother.”

  “Grace.”

  “What if we can do much better than Dickens’s Christmas ghosts?”

  His mouth fell agape and he squinted. “I don’t—”

  “They only changed the present and future, but what if we can reach back into the past and set things right?”

  “What?”

  “Your name has been maligned for years, and rumors have been left to run rampant. If we can prove what happened to your brother, perhaps your mother and others she’s influenced will see you in a different light. As the hero you are now.” She leaned close, hoping her enthusiasm softened his rather shocked expression. “And I’ve always wanted to solve a real mystery.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The last time Frederick had visited the east wing, he’d found his brother on the floor in his office, his face frozen in some retracted and haunting distortion, as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

  Frederick cringed from the memory.

  Why hadn’t he considered something underhanded at the time?

  Because his mother had insisted his brother had struggled with a weak heart. Because he’d inherited a failing estate. Because he’d stepped into the place of earl—shoes he’d never intended to fill—and suddenly he needed to prove he could succeed at any cost.

  Scandal-free.

  And somehow he’d missed the clues that his brother had died alone in a way very similar to their father.

  Like Father.