Page 72 of The Mistletoe Countess
“She’s also devoted to seeing you succeed, but to do that she needs you to trust her.”
He ran a hand through his hair, shifting his feet. “I just wanted to hold on to her good opinion of me. She has this notion that I’m a hero, and for a moment, I wanted to live asthatman, not the one with the past I have.”
“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. Heneededan ally for the journey, and hewantedthat 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.
