The regret in his eyes was almost enough. “Yes, you will.”
* * * *
“You were certainly right about us being below the salt.” Mark picked the olives out of his salad.
Grace glanced around the table, which they shared with Paddy’s old nanny, Emma’s former ballet teacher and a confused old man who appeared to have been someone’s riding instructor.
“Yes. It appears that Pippa is a cow.” She glared across the marquee at the top table. Next to Christopher, Pippa was doing a reasonable impression of a coquette, complete with fluttering eyelashes and little pawing touches.
“Don’t let her get to you.” Mark murmured in Grace’s ear. “She’s doing all of this because she’s jealous. I bet as soon as she heard about you and Chris, she set her little scheme in motion.”
“Why?” Grace picked at her salad. “Why would she do that?”
“Well, apart from Chris being a captain, she’s probably put out that he’s seeing someone she feels isn’t ‘suitable’.”
“You mean someone from the lower classes.”
“Yeah.” He sipped his water. “Plus, now that she’s seen the two of you together, she’s not at all happy.”
“Because she’d have to get through me to get to Chris?”
“No, because she now knows she hasn’t a chance.” Mark grinned.
Grace hoped he was right. Her confidence wasn’t helped by Pippa’s constant invasion of Christopher’s space. There were still two more courses and the speeches to get through before they could decently escape. She tried to think beyond the reception, to home and peace and quiet. “I’m still finding it hard to believe they were ever an item.”
“It was a long time ago. You can’t tell me you haven’t done things you regret in your past.”
Grace thought of the dreadful, unsuitable boyfriends. The Cirencester College Estate Management graduates who’d be better off with the likes of Pippa. “I’ve made a few cock-ups.”
“I hope that pun was unintentional.” Mark smirked into his beer.
She laughed, earning a sharp glance from Paddy’s former nanny. Someone came and took the salad bowls away and someone else handed round plates of chilled salmon, tiny new potatoes and asparagus. Grace found herself wondering about the catering bill. The confused old man demanded tomato sauce while everyone else made do with the dill and lemon mayonnaise.
“Cheer up, Grace, at least the grub is good.”
She picked up an asparagus spear and nibbled at it. “It is, but I’d murder for pie and chips or a nice, spicy tikka masala and I bet Chris would like nothing more than a steak and a big pot of French mustard.”
“He’s still addicted to the stuff, eh?”
“Yes he is.” She watched Christopher push the potatoes around his plate while Pippa tried to make eating asparagus look seductive, tilting her head back slightly while she lowered it into her mouth.
Oh, please.
The toasts seemed interminable, especially to Grace who’d heard them all at the dinner table the night before. When the speeches were over, Emma’s father nodded toward the DJ.
“Christ, not the bridal dance.” Grace glanced at the top table, at Pippa who was already taking Christopher’s arm when Emma and Paddy took to the dance floor. “I don’t think I want to watch this.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll soon be over. You can both escape and never have to see Pippa again.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I think I’m just letting my temper get the better of me, or the green-eyed monster.” Grace couldn’t help looking.
Pippa draped her arms around Christopher’s neck and rested her head against his shoulder.
“Poor lad,” Mark chuckled. “Just look at his face. He looks like he’s found a viper in his pocket.”
“That’s not a bad description.” Grace’s fingernails bit into her palms. “She’s about as subtle as a charging rhino.” She watched Pippa’s hand, watched her fingers tickle the back of Christopher’s neck. “What a bitch.”
He said something to her. Grace couldn’t read his lips, but his expression was enough. His eyes snapped with annoyance. Pippa laughed and her fingers stilled. The dance seemed to last an age and Grace shook with relief when it was over. The DJ immediately started with another song, another slow one. Christopher said something else to Pippa and left the dance floor.
“There, it’s over. You can unclench your fists now. He’s headed this way.”
Grace remained in her seat and watched Christopher weave his way between the tables toward her. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was set in a grim line. Only when he bypassed the final table did his expression soften. Grace uncurled her fingers and managed a smile.
“Miss Webb, would you do me the honor of this one dance, before we get out of here?”
She rose. “I’d be delighted.” The warmth of his hand around hers was almost worth the annoyance of the meal when he led her back through the tables.
“God, I’ve missed you, Gracey.” Christopher’s arms settled around her waist when they reached the dance floor. “That was the longest fucking meal of my life.”
“Mine too.” Grace rested her head on his shoulder.
“This feels right.” He sighed into her hair. “This is how it should be.”
She hoped Pippa was watching. “Yes.” She let her fingers drift to the nape of his neck.
“Ah, Gracey. As soon as this dance is over, we’re getting out of here. If that’s all right with you. I just want to be alone with you.”
“I’d like that.”
Christopher’s lips were soft on her earlobe. “Can we get a takeaway and lock the door until Monday morning?”
“Yes, and I have a surprise for you.”
“What? Have you been looking at naughty online catalogues again, Miss Webb?”
She giggled. “No, you dirty bugger, nothing as interesting as that. I have steaks in the fridge.”
“Ah, woman, what have I done to deserve you?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not sure I’m in my right mind with you.” Grace knew the song, knew it was coming to an end. When the last notes faded away, she was sorry when Christopher’s arms fell away. He kept hold of her hand. “We’d better go and say goodbye to Mark. I hate to leave him here, but he’ll be fine. He’ll have a woman or two under his thumb by the time this is over.”
They threaded their way back through the tables. Mark was charming the confused old man, talking about cricket.
“Let me guess. You’re making your escape.”
“Yes we are.” Christopher shook his hand.
“I don’t blame you, mate. I’ll catch up with you another time.”
“If you think you can stand it, Grace and me will come and visit and take you for lunch.”
“Oh, I think I can bear more time in Grace’s company.” Mark took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It’s a date.”
Grace kissed his cheek. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
He winked. “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Webb. You two behave yourselves and get out of here before Pippa tracks you down.”
* * * *
It was a relief to be back in the house, in the stillness and quiet. Grace sat on the stairs and waited for Christopher to fetch their bags. Snatches of conversation drifted down the shadowy hall from the drawing room.
“Well, Ems, I tried. I really did.” Pippa’s voice was a grating whine.
Grace strained to hear Emma’s response but heard nothing more than a soothing murmur.
“I can’t understand what he sees in her. She’s so…so…common. I mean she works with horses for heaven’s sake. Did you see her hands?”
Grace looked at her hands, at the calluses, the tracery of veins and the blunt, unpainted nails. No one could ever accuse her of being idle.
“Yes, I know, but I can still hope, can’t I? Perhaps he’ll get bored of the novelty.”
He’d better bloody not.
“Here we are, darling.” C
hristopher hurried down the stairs. “Are you ready?”
“Yes please.” Grace managed a smile. He’d discarded the jacket, waistcoat and bow-tie. His shirt was open at the collar.
“Come on, then.”
“Are you leaving already?” Pippa called from down the hall.
“I don’t bloody believe it.” Grace wheeled around. “Yes, we are.”
“How very antisocial of you both.” Pippa appeared to be doing a very bad job of keeping it light.
“Needs must, Pippa.” Christopher’s voice was tight. Grace watched a muscle twitch in his cheek. “We’d like to have a bit of peace and quiet while we can.”
“How sweet.” Pippa shrugged. “Ah, well. It was nice to see you again, Chris. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”
“I doubt that.”
Her laugh sounded like broken glass. “Look after him, Faith, won’t you.”
Grace took a deep breath. “It’s Grace, you’d do well to remember that.”
“Ooopsie.”
Bitch. “I suppose it can’t be helped. You should really lay off the sherry, you know.” Grace turned and followed Christopher out into the golden afternoon light.
* * * *
Grace couldn’t shake Pippa’s words. She stared out of the window at the flat, south Lincolnshire landscape and stewed while Christopher drove on, oblivious. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and understood why Pippa found it hard to let him drop. She just wished she could forget how much could keep them apart. Grace hated that Pippa had reminded her of it. Hated that she’d reminded her she was nothing more than a glorified shit-flicker with working hands. The man driving the smart, sporty little car was out of her league. He belonged at dinner parties in big houses, drinking port and talking about rugby. He didn’t belong with her in her little cottage, with a takeaway for dinner and two fillet steaks in the fridge.
“Are you all right?” Christopher turned onto the Fordham Road. They were nearly home.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t worth explaining. Grace knew it would sound stupid. “I think I’ll just be glad to get home.”
His hand was warm on her knee. “Me too. I’m sorry I inflicted that on you. It won’t happen again.”
Grace folded her arms across her chest and watched the road. “Good.”
Back at the yard, evening stable was in full swing. The yard echoed with the sound of slamming buckets and the anxious whicker of hungry horses. Grace hurried into the house and inhaled the familiar scent of home. The faint, smoky scent of bacon lingered in the kitchen and, in the living room, the cinnamon perfume of candles. Grace picked up her bag and took it into the bedroom.
“Grace?” Christopher stood in the doorway. “What’s wrong? You’re very quiet.”
She unfastened her dress and scrambled out of it. “I don’t want to talk about it. It even sounds stupid when I think about it.”
“About what?”
Grace sorted through a drawer for a T-shirt. “Nothing, forget it. I’m fine.”
“Grace, darling, you are not fine. You’re sorting through that drawer as if you’re looking for something to kill.”
She pulled the shirt over her head and paused. “I would like to kill Pippa. How’s that for an answer?”
“She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“No, perhaps she doesn’t, but she doesn’t think I’m good enough for you and maybe she’s right. I’ve just spent the weekend in your world and I didn’t much care for it because it reminded me that I didn’t belong there.” She held out her hands, palm up. “These are my hands, they’re working hands. You said that once, remember? These hands are a constant bloody reminder that I don’t belong in your world. I’m a pretender.”
“Now you’re just being silly.” Christopher took a step toward her. He closed his hands around her shoulders. “The only world that matters to me is the one you’re in. This house, this room, you…this is where I belong, this is where I want to be.”
Grace lifted her chin. “I want to believe that. I really do. But look at us, look at you. You’re an officer in some posh regiment. You visit my world, but you don’t belong here.”
“Grace, stop talking like that. It’s bollocks.” There was an edge to his voice. His grip tightened when he drew her close, one hand cupped her chin. “Just…stop.” His mouth devoured hers, their angry breaths drowned the silence. He consumed her, stoking fires that she thought she’d suppressed. Grace wanted to fight, to remind him that she mattered. Christopher backed her to the wall while Grace braced her hands on his chest. She couldn’t find it in her to push him away, not when he pressed against her, all heat and fury. His tongue swept over hers, drawing her in, demanding her attention until she relented. Her breath fell into sync with his. Her anger shattered with every touch. Suddenly, her hurt feelings seemed little more than a self-indulgent waste of time.
Grace grappled with his shirt, with the old fashioned buttons, until it fell open. She pushed it from his shoulders and sought the silk of his skin beneath her fingers. She slid her hands to his trousers, slipped beneath them. He gasped when she curled her hand around his cock.
“Jesus, Grace.” Christopher wrenched her T-shirt over her head and pulled her toward the bed.
They tumbled onto the duvet. Grace tugged at Christopher’s trousers until he pushed them impatiently out of the way. The regimental belt buckle clinked when it hit the floor. Grace scarcely heard it. She wrapped her fingers through Christopher’s hair, wanting him close, wanting him to reassure her that it was about him wanting to be in her world. His hands were everywhere, sculpting her, following every curve, every hollow, pulling her closer. Skin slid against skin and his breath was a quickening whisper that echoed hers.
Grace looked at Christopher, wanting to remember every moment. A sliver of sunlight fell between the curtains and across the bed. Grace followed the sun with her fingers, across his back and down to his waist. She whimpered when he drove into her with long, slow strokes and every move brought her closer to deliverance, to release. She wanted to absorb him, to keep him close. Grace loved him with a fire she hadn’t known she owned. She hid her face in his neck when she came, muffling her cries against his skin. His scent, his real scent beneath the cologne, overwhelmed her.
“Oh God, Grace.” Christopher grabbed fistfuls of her hair before he delivered one, final quivering push and tumbled into her arms.
Grace held him while he rested against her. His heart hammered against her breast. She stroked his hair and his face while his breathing slowed. His eyes were closed and his lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheeks. She would’ve happily remained that way forever, limbs entwined with his, her blood singing as she found her refuge in him.
After a few moments, Christopher shifted against her and rested his head on her shoulder. “Did you not think to ask why I want to be in your world?”
Grace took a deep breath and tried to read his face. His hair tumbled over his forehead and his lips were parted in anticipation of another kiss.
“All right, why do you want to be here?” She braced herself for the answer, half afraid, half hopeful.
“Because I love you.” His lips brushed hers. “Because I love you, Gracey Webb.”
“You do? You love me?” Grace touched his lips with her forefinger, traced the soft pillow of his bottom lip.
“Oh yes.” Christopher’s hand moved through her hair. “Very much.”
Grace searched his face once more. All those nights really did mean something, every touch, every kiss, every time he moved inside her. “I love you too.”
“Thank Christ for that.”
There should’ve been music. Instead, there was the angry whinny of a horse, and Janey yelling across the yard for Harry to fetch the bloody thing off the walker. It seemed an odd way to herald the start of something wonderful. But it was Grace’s world and it fit.
* * * *
Christopher woke before Grace. The Sunday morning sunlight slip
ped across the bed, finding shadows in the folds of the duvet and touching Grace’s hair with gold. They’d fallen asleep after making love to the late-night program on the local radio station. The radio was still on, a soft hum of music. Christopher smiled and watched Grace stir. She murmured something as she woke.
“Hi.” Her voice had that early-morning huskiness he loved.
“Hi.” He gathered her into his arms, seeking her warmth against the chill. He grew hard when she shifted against him, threading her leg between his.
“This is nice,” she purred.
Christopher brushed his lips across hers, lingering at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, it is.”
She reached across him and turned up the radio. “I like this song.”
He did too. It was just right for a Sunday morning, slow and sweet. He stroked Grace’s hair, winding his fingers through the tumbled silk of it. He loved waking to her drowsy heat, to the scent of her.
Grace’s hand drifted to his chest, her fingers spread wide across his skin. His pulse quickened at her touch.
The three pips announcing the news on the hour disturbed the moment. Christopher covered Grace’s hand with his.
“A soldier from the Coldstream Guards regiment was killed today by a roadside bomb in Helmand province…”
Christopher curled his fingers through Grace’s when she looked at him. Her eyes were huge, her fingers stilled.
“It’ll be all right,” he whispered. He hated the fear in her eyes, the worry she’d always managed to hide from him. “I won’t let it happen to me.”
“I know.” Grace tightened her fingers around his. “I know you won’t.”
He drew her close, covered her mouth with his and sought to comfort them both the only way he knew how.
Chapter Six
“It’s all right, darling, I promise you. They’ll love you.” Christopher brushed her cheek lightly.
Grace peered through the windscreen at the house. At least it was quite a bit smaller than Emma’s was, and a good deal older. The thatched roof was silver with age and the stucco walls between the ancient, curved timbers were painted a muted pink.
“I’ll take your word for it.” She took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. The air was fragrant with the scent of pinks and roses.
Christopher's Medal Page 8
