Page 13 of The Mistletoe Countess
“Make certain all of your other kisses are reserved for your bride, won’t you?”
His very nice lips crooked to one side. “I can assure you, Miss Grace, I will make quite certain the next woman I kiss is the right one.”
Chapter Five
How on earth had he kissed the wrong woman? When he returned to the Music Room and found Lillias at a table with her father and friends, he wondered if his mistaken encounter with the little fairy Ferguson could have been a dream—he’d hoped it had been a dream.
Then the scene rushed back to his mind with every touch magnified, every scent of rosemary and soap, and the heat of his rash choice burned a bright trail through his chest and into his throat.
Lillias later apologized for missing their meeting, explaining that her friends had kept her engaged and she was unable to get away.
And Grace? She’d returned to the room a full fifteen minutes after their inadvertent rendezvous as if nothing was amiss, though she touched her lips too often.
He didn’t sleep one wink the entire night, tossing between the memory of Grace’s warm mouth against his and the utter humiliation of his mistake. By dawn he was in the saddle of one of Whitlock’s white stallions, pouring his energy into a fierce ride across the countryside.
The morning mist wet his face and hair, but he drove the stallion harder, farther away from the house. Before his brother died, he might have dismissed the mistake as easily as Grace—oh good heavens, he kept referring to her by her first name—but he couldn’t seem to help it. Her lack of pretense left little room for ceremony. He’d never met anyone like her.
Young, yes. Much too outspoken. And wholly unspoiled, which his mother would find positively atrocious, yet shelivedevery moment with a joy and curiosity that almost made him smile, even in his agitated state of mind.
And she kissed with the same enthusiasm.
Good night! He had to erase his thoughts or he’d never look at Grace Ferguson as Lillias’s younger, almost childish sister again.
The sunrise made a failed attempt against the dark clouds in the distance—only enough to splice the gray and crown the deep purple mountains with amber strokes. The scene proved to distract his mental derailment with a sense of wonder at such divinely crafted beauty. How long had it been since he’d appreciated such a scene? Certainly not in the last six months, if not longer. Edward’s unexpected death—deepened by Blake’s doubts at the cause—shifted everything in Frederick’s future and thrust him into the role of savior for a flailing estate he loved and rescuer of a long-lived legacy.
A single sunray split through the distant clouds and fell to earth in resplendent magnificence, transforming a river in the distance to liquid gold. Frederick drew in a long breath and closed his eyes. The man he used to be would have stopped and pondered the ineffable artwork of the Almighty, but the new Earl of Astley could not afford such luxuries.
The wind against his ears voiced a protest.Where was God if not in everything?
The awareness grated against his choices, against the helplessness in his situation. Didn’t Frederick deserve to pay for his ill choices from the past by sacrificing his future? Isn’t that how the game of life worked?
His heart pulsed in objection, but he pushed the stallion forward, as if to outrun the past, the future, and every other sour decision in between. All of a sudden, the trail took a sharp turn, catching Frederick off guard. The horse slid against the damp earth. Frederick moved his body with the beast, but the saddle turned beneath him in an unusual shift. He grappled for the reins, but they slipped over his damp gloves as his body flew in one direction and the horse turned in the other. In slow motion, Frederick flew through the air, turning his body so his shoulder might take the brunt of the fall, but somewhere along the way his foot twisted free too late from the stirrup. A sharp pang shot from his ankle up his leg.
The grass provided a merciful pillow for his landing but failed to dampen the ache in his ankle or the thud his shoulder took against the cold earth. He hadn’t fallen from a horse in years.
Frederick clenched his teeth against the pain and pushed himself to a sitting position in time to see his steed race back toward the house, following instinct instead of the needs of his rider. This part of the trail hovered on the edge of a steep drop down to a roaring riverbed, perfect for an excellent prospect of the horizon but not for a riding accident. If he’d fallen any closer to the edge…
His gaze shifted back to the house. Another accident?
He caught a last glimpse of his horse disappearing into the wood and a prickling of warning raised the hair on the back of his neck. His fingers slipped down to his boot, skimming the hilt of his dagger to ensure its position. He kept his attention fixed on the wood’s edge as he pushed to stand.
A swell of pain wilted him back to the earth. A severe sprain. He frowned. He wouldn’t be walking back to the house until the pain lessened.
Whitlock’s towers rose above the tree line in the distance. He groaned his displeasure. He’d ridden much farther than he’d planned, proving distraction a very unhealthy traveling companion in an unfamiliar place.
Casting a glance heavenward, he raised his brow. What sort of plans did the Almighty have in store for him with this wretched beginning? Surely the fall was nothing more than God’s disapproval at Frederick’s impulsiveness last evening.
With a series of painful moves, he made his way to a nearby tree that afforded him a better prospect of the house as well as a prop for his back.
All he could do was wait until the pain eased a little or someone came looking for him.
His gaze shifted back to the view. The dark clouds had snuffed out the sunbeams, leaving little of the molten sunrise on the horizon. What if—like his grandmother often said—God used everything as a building tool of character? And if God was the Father he’d always heard his grandparents profess, thelovingFather, would he love Frederick enough to mold his character, even after so many mistakes?I’ve fallen so far.A sad grin tilted his smile as he reviewed his current predicament.But I want to do right. You know I do.He leaned his head back against the tree.Help me become the man I’m meant to be.He paused, doubt plaguing his prayer—guilt pausing his request.And would You help with this marriage too?
His happiness was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He knew, yet so did God, and the mental assent gave some relief in the truth that Frederick wasn’t alone. God could help Frederick cultivate a solid relationship with Lillias Ferguson, couldn’t he? The foundations of a better future for his children than the one he’d known?
A sudden movement from the direction of the house caught his attention and had him reaching for his dagger again. He used the tree as a crutch to rise to his full height, despite the stabs of pain coursing up his leg. Over the hillside glided a black horse, moving at a fantastic pace with his horseman. An experienced rider—at ease astride the midnight animal—moved near enough to perhaps hear Frederick’s call.
He waved and finally succeeded in gaining the rider’s attention. Could it be one of the guests from the house party? The formal riding uniform suggested such.
