Page 60 of The Mistletoe Countess
“My lord?”
Frederick turned to Elliott’s call, Mary, the housemaid at his side by the east wing entrance. “Might you be in search of Lady Astley, sir?”
“You’ve seen her?”
“She asked about the footpath to the vista,” Elliott offered.
“The vista?” Frederick’s attention moved to the nearest window, where a swirl of flurries danced just beyond the pane.
“She waited for half an hour before dashin’ off, sir,” Mary added, her lips grappling with her smile. “It seems she went in search of a Christmas tree.”
“Of course she did.” Frederick half laughed, half coughed out the question. “By herself, I presume?”
“She took Zeus with her, sir,” Elliott replied, and if Frederick didn’t know better, he’d even say his valet had a twinkle in his eyes. “Though I don’t think he was too keen on going into the cold.”
“Clearly, Lady Astley doesn’t have the same repulsion.” Frederick reached for the coat Elliott offered.
“No sir. She was fairly giddy at the notion of choosing a tree in the snow.” Elliot’s lips twitched.
Mary’s smile held nothing back. Elliott’s emerged with a bit more subtlety. Both proved that Lady Astley had already worked her magic upon these two servants.
“Well then, I suppose I ought to go find my wife.”
Grace increased her pace up the forested hillside, breathing in the earthy scents of moss and hints of mint. Flurries swirled all around her, enticing her to spin once or twice out of pure delight. Zeus pranced along at her side, his golden-red coat a wonderful contrast to the frosty surroundings. What better way to brighten up Havensbrooke than with a Christmas tree? An enormous one.
The hymn at church, the reminder of the vows she’d made over two weeks ago, and the sweet look of confidence Frederick sent her in the car on the ride home all pointed to a clear choice: fall beneath the weight of her regret and lose her own story, or grasp with both hands and full heart the story God had placed before her. She may not have control over Lady Astley’s sour demeanor or Frederick’s willingness to spend time with her, but she had power over her own response, her own heart.
And she would choose hope instead of despair, because she refused to be anything less than a heroine in her own life.
She grabbed the front of her skirts and climbed higher up the hillside, pausing at a tree now and then to get Zeus’s opinion on the matter. He seemed to understand perfectly, because he led her forward to the very spot where an elegant and enormous spruce stood regent over the trail as if it had spent its whole existence waiting for her arrival.
She tied her scarf around the tree and stepped farther into the clearing, her smile spreading so wide it pressed into her chilly cheeks. An evergreen forest framed the clearing on three sides, but on the fourth the world opened to a rocky outcropping and a magnificent view of frosted countryside for miles.
Grace ignored the frigid wind whooshing up from the valley and stepped toward the ledge. Nestled below, surrounded by white-dusted rolling hills, sat the sprawling estate of Havensbrooke. Its jutted roofs and spires spread out to form an H of gray-tan stone. Walled gardens framed the house on three sides, lifeless and waiting for a creative, loving hand. A river carved an S on the far side of the house, with icy hillsides rolling as far as the eye could see, and in the distance, Grace caught sight of St. James’s steeple.
Havensbrooke didn’t appear as foreboding when dusted in a wonderland hue. It was as if God had painted the world with hope just for her to make certain she’d been listening in church that morning. Grace raised her arms to embrace the beauty, wind billowing about her with enough force to unknot her hair from its clips.
“Great things are done when men and mountains meet,” Grace called to the wind. Zeus’s ears perked, and she offered the dog a grin. “Or in this case, women and mountains.”
The William Blake quote disappeared into the snow-coated air.
“I see you found the vista.”
Grace turned to see Frederick stepping from among the trees, his black coat and tall frame standing out from the frosty scene. He looked rather dashing with flurries in his dark hair. Grace wagered he’d age remarkably well.
“It’s such a good place to gain perspective…and find a tree, I hear.”
He came to her side, giving Zeus a pat on his head before slipping his arm around Grace’s waist. “You are too good.”
She looked up at him, searching his dark eyes as he searched hers. Oh, there was such remorse there. Such tenderness.
He lowered his forehead to her temple and sighed. “My mother is a harsh, bitter woman, and I left you alone to face the wolf. I’m sorry, darling.”
“No one can be that horrid without a very good reason, don’t you think?” Grace leaned into him as his lips slipped to her cheek. “How very sad she must be to cause everyone around her to dislike her so much.”
“You’re more generous in your assessment than I am.” He turned to look over the view, his profile delightfully Grecian and angled.
Her gaze focused on his very kissable mouth. What a shame that perfectly placed lips were not written about with more thoroughness in literature. They proved deliciously attractive to her mind. Or at least Frederick’s lips did. Perhaps the use of those lips had something to do with it.
