Page 33 of The Mistletoe Countess
He nodded, casting her a glance, his lips pressed so tight his chin puckered. Her heart broke at the sight, and she ignored every rule about dis-rupting her veil or the orange-blossom wreath wrapped around her head, and lowered her cheek to her father’s broad shoulder. “I love you, Father.”
He sniffled and continued to nod, placing his hand over hers against his arm. “You’ve always been such a good girl. Such a joy.”
She squeezed in close to him, offering him a smile despite the rush of tears to her eyes. “It’s much more polite to agree with someone else’s assessment than admit it oneself, you know.”
His smile held a ghost of some unvoiced grievance, “My girls will be looked after. No father could wish for anything more.”
“Of course we will.” She patted his arm.
He reached over and touched her face, pressing the veil into her cheek with a gentle brush. “I’ve never wanted to change your eccentric ways. You’ve always been authentically…you. So much like your mother, and I’m proud of you.”
Frederick stood in complete control before the small crowd of strangers at St. Michael’s Episcopal Church. Poised on one of the large steps of the altar, he waited through yet another classical interlude from the organ, Blake at his side.
He refused to look at his watch, though he could tell by some of the glances among the guests that something wasn’t right. He’d set his mind to this choice, even convinced himself after last night that Grace Ferguson could very well be someone with whom he might share his heart as well as his future. But now? Was she nothing more than another woman to choose something or someone else besides him?
He cast a look to Blake, who only raised a brow.
Suddenly a hush fell over the room and the organ music shifted to the bridal march. Frederick released his clenched breath and turned. The crowd stood, and everything faded into the periphery. Walking toward him down the long aisle came Mr. Ferguson and Grace, his bride. Despite his expert attempts at training his expression, his chest squeezed.
Grace Ferguson looked radiant. Those glowing eyes—the hope waft-ing off her like a perfume—doused his tainted views of love and tempted to resurrect the romantic he’d once been.
He couldn’t look away from her. He didn’twantto look away.
He welcomed her forward with a smile inspired by much more than a business agreement, the hallowed place stamping his intentions with an even truer understanding. Thiswashis second chance—his second chance to restore a hope buried beneath bitterness and grief. A second chance to discover what true love was. He’d misconstrued romance in his mind with the paltry deception of Celia Blackmore and the shallow attempts afterward to assuage his physical needs. But here? Now? Did he really have the opportunity for a fresh and beautiful start?
He didn’t deserve this…grace. His stifled chuckle almost shook out like a sob.Grace.No, the more he learned about her, the more he felt quite certain he didn’t deserve her. Her gaze sought his, timid, trusting. How long would it take him to sort out the color of those eyes? Sometimes dark blue, sometimes gray blue. He studied her. Such a child in a woman’s body. So untouched by the darkness of his past and present. A deep surge of protection rose within him. He hadn’t been able to shield his own innocent heart, but he could attempt to protect hers.
He offered his hand. With a slight hitch in her breath, she released her hold on her father’s arm and slid her fingers into his, the simple action securing an internal determination. He would endeavor to give her the romance she craved, even if it meant fighting past his own demons, his mother’s indifference, and the expectations of society to do so, and if love followed for them, then they’d win their fairy tale too.
Married nightclothes were very different from unmarried nightclothes.
Grace tugged the silky robe more tightly around the equally smooth gown beneath, feeling both uncomfortable and exhilarated at the touch of satin against her bare skin. In fact, the two words—uncomfortable and exhilarated—summed up the last twelve hours to perfection. A reception filled with well-wishers who attempted to sort out the “scandal” of Lord Astley’s Ferguson bride, a teary goodbye at the station, a few stops along the way to tour a town here or there, and finally sharing a “room” with her…husband.
Her husband? What a thought!
Lord Astley—Frederick—had been the very model of an attentive groom, especially with all the guests swarming in to, as Mrs. Whitlock whispered, ascertain whether the rumors of transferred affections were true. With a touch of her hand here and a gentle smile there, Grace was inclined to believe the rumors too.
Though she knew the truth. Love rarely happened so quickly in real life, and she felt fairly certain she didn’t love Lord Astley quite yet. She hadn’t felt like swooning once, and she wasn’t even certain whatpininglooked like.
Lord Astley sat up in bed, book in hand, without looking Grace’s way, so she slipped into the berth directly across from his, separated by an aisle and a curtain, if she chose. Their conversation during dinner consisted of books and Grace’s limited traveling experiences. Of course, she’d been on trains, but despite her sister’s extensive travels, Grace had never gone across the ocean. She’d chosen to stay behind to care for her aging grandfather when her father and Lillias traveled, a delight that easily overshadowed any regret.
She pulled out her own set of books, one on Italian gardening and one of D. H. Lawrence’s newest, calledSons and Lovers.It was a fascinatingly sad book, which seemed particularly interesting in her current situation. Lover? Clearly, from some of the books she’d read,lovermeant a wealth of heated kisses, sometimes in a bedroom and other times…various other places, but further than that her imagination drew a blank.
She couldn’t think of anything quite as lovely as spending an evening kissing Frederick, just to experiment some more. Did a kiss always bring about a swell of warmth in her stomach? A rise in her pulse? How many ways could one kiss, because she’d already experienced two very different ones. She bit back a grin. She dearly loved the mystery of it all.
Frederick didn’t look up.
“What are you reading?”
He raised a brow but kept his gaze on the book. “Mrs. Whitlock allowed me to borrowThe Riddle of the Sands.”
Ah! Her suggestion. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s quite engaging.”
Of course. That’s why he kept staring at the book instead of looking at her.
She regarded her own pages but couldn’t focus on any of the words. Very odd. She arranged her blankets around her, flipped through a few of the drawings in the gardening book, and then looked back over at Frederick. “Do you feel different?”
