Page 29 of The Mistletoe Countess
She held her shoulders a bit straighter. And she was quite pleased with her own eyes. They were like her mother’s, a fact she clung to with gratitude. Her gaze lingered on the halo of gold still gripping daylight.
Perhaps Lord Astley’s rejection was for the best. Being married for one’s money instead of oneself couldn’t be the best start to a lifelong romance.
She raised her eyes to the growing splattering of stars, vast and innumerable in the fading night. “Dear Lord, what do You want from me? I’ll happily oblige, if You’ll let me know. I understand asking for an overt sign feels rather faithless, but I’d be content with a shooting star or a voice from heaven or even a message scrawled on a wall as long as it didn’t mar the beauty of Whitlock’s marble walls. Something fairly obvious, if You please, because I’m quite a distractible creature, as You well know, and…I only want to do the right thing, whatever that right thing may be.”
“Is talking to yourself one of your vices as well, Miss Ferguson?”
She spun around to find Lord Astley approaching from the Music Room doors, the lights framing his silhouette like a shadow from a dream.
“Actually, I do talk to myself quite often, but in this particular instance I was praying aloud, so unless you’re one of the growing number of atheists in the world, you were interrupting a quite honest conversation for guidance.”
“I’m acutely aware of my need for divine intervention, and I do hope the Almighty will forgive my interruption.”
She couldn’t make out his expression with the light behind him, so she turned back toward the horizon. A pleasant tingle skittered up her spine at his nearness in the dark. No, no. She shouldn’t like his presence. He’d rejected her, even with her dowry, her ready smile, and her somewhat aver-age beauty. “He’s known for being slow to anger, from what I understand.”
Lord Astley slipped up beside her, his amber scent not far enough behind to keep her from turning to breathe it in. Rebel senses. No man should smell good enough to eat, especially one who refused to marry quite marriageable ladies.
“Abounding in love too, I believe is the way of it.”
She looked up at his profile, attempting to make out his approach. Was he trying to dismiss her gently? Reject her in a kind way on a lan-terned terrace surrounded by mountains and starlight at Christmas? That was too cruel. Clearly, he’d been reading all the wrong books.
“Well, it’s good someone is abounding in love.” She clenched her hands in front of her and noted a few moonlit clouds passing in the darkening sky. “Generous hearted, willing to take the quite shameless overtures of a sweet young lady without dismissing her outright.”
He chuckled.Chuckled.“You are simply the most unique woman I’ve ever met.”
She glared at him, and his expression sobered.
“I’m sorry to have offended you, especially since you have also borne the burden of this broken situation. And I do mean unique in the most delightful of ways.”
She sighed out her frustration. A heartfelt apology killed her anger every time. “I’m sorry for my sister’s selfishness.” Her gaze returned to the sunset, which had almost flickered into night, the weight of her sister’s guilt, her thoughtless actions, swimming in the same heart pool as Grace’s wounded pride. “After this horrible fiasco, it’s no wonder you wish to end the entire arrangement. You expected a refined and elegant lady. Not me.”
“No, I never expected you.” His voice brewed over the night air, warm and enticing.
Oh, the comparison between her and her sister was too awful to imagine. Poor Lord Astley. No wonder he’d rejected her. “And instead of the excellent conversationalist that my sister is, you’re offered someone who rattles off about the silliest things and has a tendency to talk to fictional persons.”
“Grace.” There was a smile in his voice when he said her name, and the sweetness of the sound almost distracted her from her defenseagainstherself.
“And you’re right, I’m not the best candidate to be an earl’s wife. In fact, I’m probably the worst option as a whole.” She sighed forward, the case against her building to mind-numbing proportions. “What does an earl need with a bookish chatterbox who rides astride when no one is looking?”
“Grace.” He took a step closer, and she turned to him, tilting her head to make out some of his features.
“But I feel certain I can learn to be the wife you need.” She shrugged and pinned on a smile. “There have to be books about it somewhere.”
With a gentle move, he gathered one of her hands into his warm ones, drawing her close enough to wrap her breath in delicious amber. “You forget, I’ve never been a husband before. We both may need to locate the proper books.”
“Well, you have an enormous library, I’m sure—” What had he said? Her attention shot to his. “What did you say?”
“Miss Gracelyn Ferguson, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” His gaze, as black as the night, stroked her face with an expression she couldn’t decipher but very nearly brought her to tears.
A lantern-lit terrace probably helped matters a little.
“Oh, it sounds very different when you say it.” The words slipped out, her breath lodged around any reply. The tenderness of the request housed in such a baritone blend swept any response clear from her head. She kept staring, replaying the lingering sound of his voice in her mind. Amber and that voice? A cello in a fragrant wood.
Proposals were very romantic things when done properly.
“This is the part where you give me an answer, Grace.”
“Oh,” she laughed, and her cheeks bloomed with enough heat to make her eyes water. “An answer.” She looked down at their hands, braided together in the night as if…as if they belonged. Could he learn to love her for more than money? Even if he didn’t, holding hands with a man who smelled of amber, looked like a dashing villain, and kissed like a rogue couldn’t be the worst of futures. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
