Page 23 of The Mistletoe Countess
Grace’s gaze traveled the length of the table and settled on the man seated next to Mrs. Whitlock. Frederick Percy, Lord of Astley. Perhaps thinking of good things would help.
For instance, what did she know of this future husband of hers?
As far as husbands went, he had an excellent list of attributes to recommend himself. Handsome, in a dark, mysterious sort of way. A thrill of warmth splashed over her skin at the very idea. Of course, looks weren’t everything, but they certainly made staring much easier.
She cleared her throat and diverted her rather unruly inner assessment.
He enjoyed reading fiction—a definite benefit where she was concerned.
He appreciated a woman’s mind, or so he’d said, which only proved to highlight his own.
His sense of humor seemed a bit lacking, but in all honesty, she’d caught him at the worst possible times. A mistaken kiss. Falling off a horse. Murder attempt.
He enjoyed the outdoors. Her grin bit into her face at the memory of them riding Nightshade together. And he’d been kind to everyone he’d met at Whitlock.
Her smile softened. Kindness was a most attractive feature, especially for a husband, she imagined. And somehow the idea made him a little handsomer.
Her gaze dropped to his lips as he took a drink from his glass. He kissed like a rogue. Her fingers flew to her own lips. Well, Grace assumed he did, but since she’d no experience kissing rogues—or anyone else for that matter—Lord Astley kissed exactly the way she imagined a rogue should kiss, which then inspired all sorts of curiosities about how very roguish he might be in other ways.
Perhaps readingThe Mysteries of Udolphobefore bed proved detri-mental to her ladylike sensibilities.
“Grace, dear, are you feeling well?”
Grace snapped her attention to Mrs. Whitlock, the woman’s acute perception not helping Grace’s plight at all. “Excuse me? Yes.”
“You look flushed, dear.”
“Ah…um,” Grace’s gaze slid back to Lord Astley, who studied her. She should add fascinating eyes to his list of attributes. Her face blushed hot. “Actually, I am feeling a bit warm. Perhaps it was all the walking I did today in your lovely gardens. Too much sun.” She cleared away the tickle in her throat, but it returned.
“The gardener said you gave him some excellent suggestions on arrangements.” Lady Whitlock smiled her appreciation. “You’ve always had a clever head.” Mrs. Whitlock turned to Lord Astley. “I should think she’d enjoy your grounds at Havensbrooke when she travels next week, Lord Astley. She’s forever coming up with ideas for them.”
Lord Astley’s attention fastened on her so intently she felt sure he’d read every thought in her head, including the roguish ones.
“You enjoy gardens, do you?”
“Clearly, too much enjoyment of them today.” Grace’s face grew warmer, her breath shorter.
“Rest is what you need, dear girl.” Her father chimed in with his usual charisma. “You mustn’t become ill before the wedding.”
The wildest urge to laugh scratched at the back of her throat. She shot to her feet and placed her napkin on the table. “Very true, Father.” She met Lillias’s wide eyes, and her throat constricted with another tickle. “Excuse me.”
The sooner Tony and Lillias disappeared, the sooner she could get this secret out in the open. She loved her sister, but she couldn’t avoid a group of thirtysome people in a house for much longer without confess-ing everything she knew.
Lillias was gone.
She’d left a letter and her trousseau, but somewhere in the early morning, she and Mr. Dixon must have disappeared into their future together. Grace closed the letter and stared out the bedroom window at the vast view of morning mountains on the horizon. Reality sobered her to the core, and her eyes fogged with a sheen of tears.
How did everything get so muddled? Her? A countess? Or even a wife?
What didsheknow of marriage? The slips of memories of her parents gave little to go on. Grace barely remembered her mother. Her portraits showed an extravagant beauty with the same unruly red hair as Grace.
Her father’s recollections waxed with sweet sentimentality, and of course Grace enjoyed romanticizing it all, but her parents hadcreateda romance together, not fallen into one. They’d married because of prestige and money, not moonlit walks and romantic prose.
Which gave Grace a great deal of hope.
Her mother came from the nouveau riche and her father excelled in the business world—a combination of affluence, the right connections, and two amiable personalities that turned into a true partnership. But having lost her mother so early, Grace couldn’t recall what the actual everyday life of their marriage looked like. Had they teased one another? Held hands? Secluded themselves in the garden to kiss?
Had they discussed books or passionately argued? Doubtful, since her father rarely seemed to hold a strong conviction for long before acquiescing to the other party. And fiction wasn’t any help at all in deciphering the quandary of married life, since most heroines appeared to be orphaned.
