Page 121 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
They halted in the hall, and he shrugged on his coat and picked up his hat.
She cleared her throat. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll call for you at eight. In a hackney. Dress for the train.”
“The train?” She sent a surprised look his way.
He caught her hand, raised it, and kissed her fingers. “Yes, the train.” With a grin that plainly stated he wasn’t going to tell her anything more, he released her, opened the door, cast one last look her way, and said, “Until tomorrow.”
Then he left.
Gray felt Izzy’s gaze as he walked along the pavement. Only once he’d turned the corner and was out of her sight did he allow himself to think of how much he had riding on tomorrow.
If he’d thought of that earlier, she would have seen just how nervous he was over how his last ploy and his looming revelation would play out—for them both.
Gray managed to buy the train tickets without Izzy overhearing their destination.
She sat by the window in the first-class carriage; the constant rattling of the wheels made conversation too difficult, so he sat opposite her and watched her face as she gazed at the passing fields.
As the train slowed to draw into Stamford, he rose and offered her his hand.
She looked up at him in surprise. “Here?”
He grasped her hand and, as the train hissed to a halt, drew her to her feet. “Ancaster Park isn’t far away.”
She allowed him to lead her out of the compartment and down the corridor to the carriage door. “Your parents’ estate?”
He nodded, went down the steep steps to the platform, and held up his hands to help her down.
She joined him and glanced around, but didn’t say anything.
He wound her arm in his and led her out of the station to where a groom was waiting with a hired curricle. “We’ll be returning to catch the afternoon train.”
He helped her into the curricle, then took the reins, tipped the groom, climbed up, and sat beside her. From the station forecourt, he tooled the curricle north, over the bridge across the river Welland, and on through the town, eventually striking west along the main lane that led to the Great North Road. On reaching the highway, he turned the horses’ heads north and flicked the reins, setting the curricle bowling along.
Izzy hadn’t said a word, but she was gripping her hands tightly in her lap.
They rattled across the bridge over the river Gwash and came to the tiny hamlet of Tickencote. Gray slowed and turned onto the lane signposted to Empingham. Almost immediately, a pair of gateposts appeared on their left, the wrought-iron gates between them set wide, and he turned the horses through.
Izzy was so preternaturally still, he would have sworn she’d stopped breathing.
He kept the horses to a walk until they rounded the bend and the stately bulk of Tickencote Grange faced them.
Abruptly, Izzy reached over and closed her fingers tightly about his wrist.
He drew the horses to a halt and looked at her.
She was staring at the house, then she turned her head and met his eyes. “What are we doing here?”
Her voice was weak, thready.
Izzy looked back at the house; she could barely breathe past the hard knot that had formed in her chest.
Joy, sadness, relief the house still stood, and countless other emotions and memories warred within her.
She glanced at Gray, and he met her eyes.
“I searched for months for the house that would suit me and whoever I married. Of more than fifty houses, this is the only one that called to me.”
