Page 3 of The Mistletoe Countess
“And you, Lord Astley.” She curtsied, her mind buzzing with a million questions for this future brother-in-law of hers, but first things first. “How do you like Whitlock’s library?”
His lips made as if to smile but stopped before giving the room a steady look of appreciation. He stood at least four inches taller than Grace, wearing his gray sack coat and matching trousers with a sense of refinement her father failed to accomplish. “It’s an excellent library.”
Grace decided she liked him quite well.
“Almost as large as mine at Havensbrooke.”
“Almost as large?” Her bottom lip came unhinged, and every envious bone in her body stiffened.
His attention dropped to the book in her hand, one dark brow dart-ing skyward. “I suppose you are an avid reader?”
“Oh, I devour books.” She tugged the novel against her chest. “It’s a disastrous habit for being productive, I’m afraid.”
Humor lit the darkness of his eyes and made him a little less impos-ing. “And is that the extent of your vices, Miss Grace?”
“I’m afraid, Lord Astley, my vices are too many to name, only one of which is a proclivity for disappearing from large crowds at the first availability. My sister, however, has very few vices and only ones I feel certain you will find endearing.”
“The dutiful, indulgent younger sister, I see.”
He did have fascinating eyes. Dark and alive. Lillias was sure to like them. “Indulgent, yes, but I fail quite miserably at dutiful. You see, if I was truly dutiful, I wouldn’t be hiding in the library.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and gestured toward her book. “Trying to uncover the mystery in Mr. Rochester’s attic.”
His brows rose.
“But instead, I’d be upstairs helping my extravagantly beautiful sister prepare to meet you.”
One corner of his lips twitched. “Extravagantly beautiful?”
“Oh yes! We look nothing alike. She has an Athena profile and the most exquisite golden curls.” She sobered, holding his gaze to add solemn reassurance. “Nothing as red and terrifying as mine.”
“Terrifying?” His dark gaze examined her hair with such concentra-tion, her head started to tingle. “Red is unique.”
She twisted a loose lock through her fingers, peering down at it with a sigh of resignation. “Well, unique is a much better word than what some of my governesses called it. The sixth one said I was nothing more than a—”
“Sixth?” The word burst out on something remarkably close to a laugh. “Sixth governess?”
Wasn’t an earl supposed to be aloof and somewhat disgruntled? Perhaps fiction didn’t always get it right. “I’d blame my imagination, but that would imply I don’t take responsibility for my actions. Unfortunately, governesses—or at least the ones I’ve known—are terribly short on imagination and could never understand how I’d find myself inside attic chests or up trees or swimming in the—”
“Gracelynn Amelia Ferguson!” A harsh whisper burst from the corridor through the secret stairway. “If you’re in the library instead of the bath, you’d better have an excellent excuse.”
Grace gasped and met Lord Astley’s wide eyes.
“You told her you were taking a bath?” The brooding earl blinked a few times in quick succession as both sides of his lips tipped in unison. A bit crookedly, but it suited him.
Grace offered a helpless shrug and backed toward the winding staircase, holding up her book as leverage. “I got distracted on the way, you see. Honest mistake.” She made it halfway up the stairs before she turned. “If you enjoy Charles Dickens, Mr. Whitlock has a full collection on that shelf.” She reached the top and grinned back down at him with a shrug.
“Grace!”
Grace jumped at the increased edge in her sister’s voice and slipped a few more steps toward the secret corridor. “Oh, and there is a fabulous selection of architectural and landscape books on the other side of the fireplace.”
He stood below her, by the mantel, hands on his hips, everything about him boasting refinement and excellent grooming. His smile was probably devastating. She’d read about a devastating smile once in a three-volume novel and thought it a wonderful description for a roguish sort of man in a smart gray suit with eyes the color of chocolate truffles.
Oh, wouldn’t he and Lillias make a fabulous couple! Her imagination indulged for a moment as her feet faltered in her retreat.
“Grace Ferguson,” Lord Astley’s deep voice pulled her attention.
She peered over the balcony railing, pushing back a rebel strand of hair. “Yes, my lord.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you.”
