Page 9 of The Mistletoe Countess
“You seemed the sort.” She nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, for opposites attract, I understand, and my sister adores socializing.” She sighed. “Yet I do envy your advantage over mine.”
“And what advantage is that?”
“Everyone expects you to sweep my sister into your arms and have whatever conversations you like. I, on the other hand, must make do with some of the dreariest rhetoric with whoever pins me into a corner. What is so interesting about the weather, a certain breed of cattle, or a person’s social status, I have no idea! One is so obvious it seems redundant; the second is…” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I cannot find a comment, and the third is relatively meaningless to the real stuff of a person.”
“Spoken like a true philosopher.”
She snapped her book closed and stepped forward, sapphire orbs alight. “You tease me, but I have an inkling you know I’m right.”
“And I’m enjoying the dialogue.”
She rewarded him with a full smile. “Well, we can continue this conversation as long as you like. Besides it being one of the best I’ve had this week, I can also blame you for my tardiness, and everyone will forgive me because you are an earl.”
“Surely it hasn’t been so bad, Miss Grace.” He studied her, working hard to keep his lips steady. “We’ve only had two nights of dancing. Last night was games and conversations.”
“And I was stuck at the card table with Father’s business associate Mr. Douglas Porter, who talked for half an hour about the differences between the climate of Virginia as opposed to your home in Derbyshire. A half hour?” One of her ginger brows rose. “In case you weren’t aware, my dear Lord Astley, let me sum it up for you. Your environment is decidedly wetter than mine.”
He lost the fight against his smile. “Indeed.”
Her expression bloomed, as if she’d solved some great mystery. “Youdohave a devastating smile.”
He gestured toward the book in her hand and ignored the warmth rising up his neck. “That sounds suspiciously like something an author would write about a hero.”
“And why not?” She laughed. “Don’t you know? You are the hero of your own story.”
“Me?” The response spoken so carelessly took surprising root. A swell of purpose straightened him to his full height. “A hero?”
But he’d always been the black sheep—second best, the one passed over. What would it be like to view himself as a hero? Of his own life? He shook the thought away, too sensible to be drawn into one of Miss Grace’s fictions.
“God has given you a life, and you’re the only one who can decide how to write it.” Her eyes grew wide. “Daring adventure?” Her gaze slipped to the curtain with a wiggle of her brows. “Grand romance? Your choices all factor into the novel of your life. So do you plan to be a hero, Lord Astley?” Her eyes narrowed, playfully baiting him. “I have no doubt you are capable.”
Her question followed by her ready confidence pierced deep, gripping at his core to such an extent he almost lost control of his emotions as readily as his smile. Could he become much more than a victim of his cir-cumstances? The challenge settled, secured. He could certainly try. Starting now. He drew in a deep breath and offered his arm. “At the moment, my plan is to escort you into the dreaded house party.”
She exaggerated her sigh and took his offering. “I suppose we must.” She leaned close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But thank you for the repartee. I shall be much better prepared to face the tedious meteorological conversations in my future, knowing I had at least one tête-à-tête of interest.”
They slipped through the curtain, and Frederick’s gaze searched the room until it landed on his bride. She sat at a table near the piano, a look of unbridled pleasure on her face as she stared over at her partner, a man Frederick hadn’t been introduced to as yet.
Frederick’s newfound peace plummeted. Miss Ferguson clearly pos-sessed a great deal of feeling, but how could Frederick win such looks from her? Gain her trust and heart? At least her allegiance. Blake’s kissing idea emerged unbidden, but Frederick shoved it to the back of his mind.
Lillias’s gaze met his across the room, and her smile stilled. She stood, expression trained to cool welcome as she approached. “We wondered where you’d disappeared, but I see my sister monopolized you, Lord Astley.”
“Oh yes, Sister dear.” Miss Grace released his arm and offered a mock-sober expression. “I was practicing the art of conversing, just as you suggested.”
“That sounds…entertaining?” Her expression softened and the concern faded. “But now that you are back, I should like some of my own conversation with my future husband, though I doubt my discourse will sparkle as brilliantly as yours.”
Grace offered a wrinkle-nosed grin at the compliment. “I have no doubt yours will be less shocking, and thus more to Lord Astley’s tastes.”
“Not at all.” He held on to the joy in her eyes, hoping his sincerity nudged away her doubts. Oh for the days when he’d lived in the carefree world of the second-born! Though suffice it to say, he’d never worncarefreeas brilliantly as the younger Ferguson.
“Miss Grace, I was wondering where you’d got off to,” Mr. Porter called from across the room, his pudgy face filled with ruddy animation.
“Ah, Mr. Porter, you are just the person I was hoping to see.” Grace shot a helpless look over her shoulder before her countenance stiffened with resilience. “Have you any idea of the weather patterns in Italy? I hear it’s rather dry.”
Frederick swallowed his laugh and turned his attention back to the beauty on his arm. The cobalt gown trimming each part of her figure brought out the brilliant color of her eyes. A dazzling beauty. The savior of Havensbrooke.
“She is hopeless, yet one cannot help but love her.”
“Indeed, Miss Ferguson.” His heart softened to the compassion gentling Lillias’s features. “Your sister will certainly make an impact on Havensbrooke’s gray world, as will you.”
