Page 32 of The Mistletoe Countess
She stared at the bowed head of this dashing man and, paired with little glimpses and phrases he’d mentioned of a childhood much less happy than her own, some untouched part of her heart opened to him. What would it be like to really feel loved by him? And to love him in return? If she looked close, beyond the grand earl and all of those connections, she had the slightest inclination Frederick Percy was in as much search of happiness as she. With a timid hand, she slid her fingers across the cushion to wrap around his.
His gaze shot to hers, the faintest hint of a smile touching his eyes, and without breaking his focus on her face, he turned his hand to envelop hers. Sparks erupted in her chest at the warm touch of his skin against hers.
“I’m certain it will take all of my money to match your forbearance, but I assure you, when I stumble it will be from the very best intentions to do right by you.” His thumb moved across her knuckles, and she nearly forgot what she was saying. “I…fumble often but almost always from good intentions.”
“Almost?” His dark brow rose, his question a mere whisper.
“I have red hair.” She unleashed her smile. “You can’t expect me to have perfect intentions all of the time.”
His grin flashed as if he wanted to laugh, and then a tenderness fell over his features, somehow drawing her closer to him. Or was he moving toward her?
His fingers tightened around hers, and he brushed a palm against her cheek. Air whooshed from her lips at the unexpected touch. With a trembling breath, she copied his movement, pressing her hand against his face, the angle of his strong jaw fitted inside her palm. In an achingly slow approach, his mouth found hers. Gentle, a whisper of a touch, but it shook through her, pooling a warmth in her chest and dispersing it in waves through her body. His free palm slid to curl around the back of her neck, his thumb grazing her ear. Nothing in any novel ever described such a delicacy as this. A sudden sense of belonging washed through her.
Oh heavens! If this was a foretaste of marriage to Frederick Percy, then bring on the wedding bells.
He pulled back, and she blinked open her eyes, a surprising sheen of tears invading her vision of his face. “Thank you, Lord Astley.”
His breath quivered slightly, as his palm slipped over her cheek. “And to what do I owe your gratitude?”
“For that lovely kiss.”
“I’ve kissed you before, if you remember.” He studied her, his thumb trailing to her chin, brow raised. “And more thoroughly.”
“But this time you knew who you were kissing and continued to do so anyway.”
His lips tipped ever so slightly, and he gave her hand another squeeze. “My dear Grace, it seems that my mistaken kiss wasn’t so mistaken after all.”
Chapter Ten
“This isn’t like showing up late at Lord & Taylor for a fitting, Grace.” Her father’s face flared red above his tight, fitted shirt collar as he ushered her into the Model T with a huff. “It’s your own wedding! And to an earl!”
She cringed at the accusation in his voice and nodded to Ellie, her lady’s maid, as the rosy-cheeked woman pushed a warm cloth into Grace’s hand and disappeared to take her place in the following carriage. “Not too late. Only a little. I had no idea there were so many plant varieties in the Peak District of England, Father, or I never would have started the conversation with Mr. Leeds to begin with.”
“You know better, Grace. The Whitlocks’ gardener is many things, but succinct is not one of them, and hours before your wedding? Most women wouldn’t even have left their rooms. What time did you descend into the gardens to find him? Eight o’clock?”
She took the cloth and scrubbed at the remaining dirt beneath her fingers that a quick bath hadn’t removed. “Or seven.”
“Seven? Good grief, girl. You are about to become a countess. You cannot keep flittering about like a country schoolgirl.” His eyes nearly bulged. “Don’t you understand? You will become Countess of Astley this very day. You must at leastattemptto be a lady.”
Grace sat up straighter and pushed back the nuisance of a veil as it kept tangling against her attempts to clean her hands. “Mr. Leeds is from Derbyshire, Father.”
Surely that would help him understand, but he only stared at her with eyes growing increasingly wider.
“He’s from the same area as Lord Astley.” She spoke more slowly to help with comprehension, since her father appeared bewildered beyond intelligent conversation. “So of course I had to try and talk to him about gardens, and this morning was my last chance.”
Father groaned back against the leather seat, his head in his hands. If Lord Astley wanted her insights for Havensbrooke—and if loving his land led to his heart—then Grace very well planned to douse the poor man with ideas, and she had to start somewhere.
With a sigh, she moved to Father’s side, twining her arm through his and settling close. The dress gleamed in white satin decorated with a beautiful lace inset at the knee to the floor. A matching sash cinched Grace’s waist, pinned in by Ellie’s expert handiwork to fit a very different bride than intended.
She fought against the resurrection of doubt knotting her stomach, her father’s words tightening the pinch. How much would she have to change to “become” the grand Lady Astley? If looks transformed anyone, perhaps she could play the part. Grace had barely recognized herself in the mirror before leaving her room. Ellie had set her hair in a pompadour-style bun, very much the Gibson girl, leaving a few extra strands of auburn curls unfastened around her face. An immaculately embroidered veil framed her from head to toe. Oh, she’d looked lost among the fabric and expectations of this day.
But God would give her strength. He promised.
Grace closed her eyes to memorize the feel of her father’s warmth at her side, the sweet smell of cigar. As driven and gregarious as he was, leaving for months to undertake another grand and glorious business venture, he’d always surrounded her with such happy love and many times had indulged her unconventional whims. Even now his fit of frustration smoldered with more smoke than fire.
And they weren’t going to be terribly late. Brooks, the chauffeur, took remarkable liberties at the wheel of the car to make up any lost time.
“You know I shall write you so many letters you won’t feel I’m gone at all.”
