Page 38 of The Mistletoe Countess
“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.”
