The Mistletoe Countess Read online

  “I’m not concerned about his heart.” Lillias pulled away and walked toward the door, her whisper so soft Grace wasn’t certain she heard clearly. “Not his.”

  The riffling of book pages hushed through the silent library, pulling Grace from the delights of Jane Eyre. She hadn’t been able to locate Fire in Stubble, so she’d settled for a beloved favorite, determined to get in a few pages before the social tornado began. Had someone else eluded the cacophony of arriving guests too? Not that there was a scheduled event yet. Everyone planned to gather for the party and then dinner, but still, the expectation of mingling hovered in the air like Great-Aunt Eloise’s potent perfume.

  Grace shuddered and pulled the book into her chest, peering over the balcony to the library’s lower level in search of another stealthy rebel. Not one burgundy seat stood occupied. A sound creaked from behind her in the direction of the guest bedrooms through the secret stairs.

  Grace bit her bottom lip and froze—waiting—until the sound dissipated.

  Oh, if Lillias found out she was in the library instead of taking a bath, she’d never hear the end of it. But who wouldn’t delay bubbles for a conversation featuring the dastardly Mr. Rochester?

  With quiet steps, she tucked her book beneath her arm and hur-ried down the winding staircase toward the secluded window seat of the Mahogany Room—and ran directly into the chest of someone ascending. A strong someone, whose arms wrapped around her to keep her from tipping over the stair railing in an indecorous heap of blue velvet and Irish lace. The faintest hints of leather and amber teased her senses deeper into the sturdy embrace to ensure proper identification of the aromas. Yes, decidedly amber. She smiled her appreciation. Such a delightful scent.

  “Pardon me.”

  English?

  Grace looked up from her cocooned place within the man’s arms and met a pair of eyes so dark they reminded her of chocolate. The bronze hues of his skin gave off a toffee glow. Oh heavens! A man who reminded her of chocolate-covered English toffee. Wouldn’t Lillias adore him! She loved toffee!

  “You’re English!”

  He tilted his head, examining her with a most intense stare. “I am.”

  “I’m so sorry. Not that you’re English, of course. But that I nearly derailed you off the stairs.” She shifted back a little to get a better look at him. “You see, I was reading up on the balcony and thought I heard someone.” She gestured toward him. “And you must be that someone. How delightful to meet you.”

  A quizzical look crossed his features. “And you are?”

  “Oh, of course. Introductions.” Grace righted herself—as much as the tiny stairs allowed—and offered her hand. “Miss Ferguson.” “You’re Miss Ferguson?” His dark brows rose almost to his hairline, and Grace realized her mistake with a laugh.

  “No, I’m not that Miss Ferguson. I’m her younger sister, Grace.”

  His expression softened a little, and he backed down the stairs, taking her hand until her feet settled firmly on the floor. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Grace Ferguson.”

  “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.”

  “Oh yes, my pleasure as well.” She grinned and started to disappear toward the secret stair but then turned back to him. “Please don’t tell Lillias I met you first. It’s not every day a woman meets her future husband.”

  Chapter Two

  Marrying for mo
ney left a sour taste. Frederick Percy, Earl of Astley, had pursued every option other than a marriage contract, but nothing else served to save his future with such expediency. His mother had arranged it all, after an unexpected introduction in London between both sets of parents led to a speedy decision of the perfect match. Frederick reined in a sigh.

  His family’s legacy hinged on a respectable exchange. His title. Her dowry.

  Respectable. He stayed the grimace waiting to curl behind his smile. The agreement had sounded simple enough two months ago when an ocean separated him from the reality of it, but now, with the signatures’ ink still wet on the contract and a mere week until the wedding, the decision weighed upon him with treacherous foreboding. Was this truly the only way to make amends for his past and save his family’s estate? And what of the girl?

  He glanced down at the woman in his arms as they danced together across Whitlock’s marble floors, the glow of Christmas lights casting an otherworldly hue against the soft folds of her golden hair and glimmering off the silver-blue headband set like a crown among her curls. Her gown matched the headband, a sleek display of the latest fashion, or so that is what Frederick presumed. Cinched at the waist, slim skirt, and an open neckline above a beaded bodice to reveal an ample amount of her milky skin.

  Lillias Ferguson met every requirement on his mother’s extensive list, and her father’s money met every necessity on Frederick’s.

  Appearance? Almost angelic. Demeanor? Aloof. Affections? Tempered. Carriage? Flawless. Conversation? As expected, a command of the weather, local news, and the art of diversion from herself. Miss Ferguson presented as the very portrait the Countess of Astley ought to depict.

  In fact, she exerted such control over her emotions and facial features, Frederick felt as though she’d arrived with prescript discourse down to the very breath. Perhaps she was nervous. What woman wouldn’t be at the prospect of marrying an utter stranger? They’d barely had two conversations before Mr. Ferguson produced the contract and sealed their fates.

  Frederick gave a mental shake to dislodge his unease as he moved with Miss Ferguson in graceful unison across the Music Room floor. The space teemed with at least two dozen of the Fergusons’ party guests, some sitting in conversations while a few chose to dance, the holiday festivities encouraging more gaiety than Frederick could muster, though he was well equipped to play the part. He met Blake’s gaze through the expanse of enthusiastic dance partners, as his cousin waltzed with a woman twice his age. A Mrs. Seaton, was it? Frederick almost grinned. Stephen Blake and his avoidance of matrimony had become almost leg-endary. Ah, the liberty of being the third son of a baron. The very idea nearly vaulted Frederick into a foul mood. His days of liberty had ended six months ago when his older brother suddenly died, leaving Frederick as the sole rescuer of an entire legacy.

  He stiffened his resolve. There was nothing else to be done. And he would see it through.

  He returned his attention to the lovely inducement in his arms, her countenance as controlled as his. They both knew their roles and—God help them—the consequences.

  “Is it true, Lord Astley, that you were almost overrun by an autocar in the village upon your arrival today?”

  A most unfortunate introduction, for certain. Frederick forced a smile. “A simple case of someone mishandling their new automobile, I’d imagine. Finicky machines, they are.”

  Instead of being appeased, she blanched, her hand tightening against his shoulder. “When I overheard Father speaking about it only a few moments ago, it sounded terrifying. It’s lucky you were not injured or worse. After all the plans and expectations…” Her brow furrowed for an instant and cleared so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined the tightening around her eyes, the fear trembling over her countenance. “For your dear Havensbrooke, of course.”

  His stomach clenched at her subtle shift. He searched her face a moment longer to no avail. Nerves most likely. Blast his own suspicious nature! The poor woman didn’t deserve it.

  Despite his best efforts, his gaze sought Blake’s, as if the man could overhear their conversation above the exuberant thrums of the piano. His cousin was already on edge about the entire affair with the autocar, and Frederick half wondered if Blake had been hidden among the shrubberies of the gardens earlier while Frederick took Miss Ferguson on a private stroll.

  “This was not an accident, Freddie. And neither was the docks.”

  Blake’s words cast a shadow over the festive evening with its Christmas lights and cheerful holiday decor. A residual throb from Frederick’s sore shoulder provided the tactile memory of barely dodging a falling tower of freight upon disembarking their steamer in New York. Had it not been for Blake’s quick movements by slamming his body against Frederick’s…

  “Yes, Havensbrooke.” Best navigate the discussion away from uncontrolled autocars and his possible demise. “I understand you enjoyed your most recent visit to England. September, wasn’t it?” And the catalyst for this choice.

  Her gaze flickered to his, golden brow arched as if perfectly aware of his careful topic shift. “Yes. The countryside was beautiful.”

  A response without feeling but perfectly executed. It’s exactly what Frederick needed and should have desired. No scandal. Low attention. “Were there any places you particularly enjoyed visiting?”

  “We spent two weeks in London, and it was thrilling. I adore the exciting opportunities the city provides, don’t you?”

  London! His least favorite place in all of England. “It is most diverting.”

  “Father said that your estate of Havensbrooke is in Derbyshire.” Her smile clung to her lips but failed to surface in her eyes. “We passed through that region on the train. It’s lovely but…rather remote.”

  Remote? The word brought unvoiced criticism with it. “We are only a few hours from London by rail, and there is an estate village with all the necessary comforts.”

  “Ah, that’s good news.” Her body stiffened ever so slightly, but otherwise nothing changed. “And does Havensbrooke have telephones? Electricity? I’ve heard from my great-aunt who married an earl some ten years ago that she moved into an estate house that had been nearly untouched for a hundred years.”

  Frederick’s stance tightened along with hers. If her expectations for Havensbrooke matched the modern elegance of Whitlock, Miss Ferguson was doomed for disappointment. “Part of the house has electricity, a new feature in the past year.” His brother’s addition, despite depleting funds for the estate. “As well as a telephone. And I do have a townhome in London.”

  “A townhome?” Her gaze shot back to his, brightening. “That is good news.”

  He felt his defenses rally. “And once we’re married, I would appreciate your involvement in deciding how to best improve Havensbrooke, to see it modernized for our benefit as well as the next generation’s.”

  She studied him, her delicate chin tipping in assent. “I am no architect, but I have studied some of the more modern conveniences and, of course, will delight in hosting your parties.”

  “Our parties.”

  Her gaze darted away and back, her smile not quite right. “Yes, of course.”

  Oh, this was a disaster. God help him. God help them both.

  Another sweep of silence stilted their dialogue. Frederick raked his thoughts for further questions. “Are the gardens at your Rutledge House of similar style as those here at Whitlock?”

  “They are much smaller. We haven’t the grounds as Whitlock, of course, but Mother took painstaking care to ensure Rutledge’s beauty, so Father has made it his purpose to maintain them to the highest standard to preserve her memory.”

  A tender sentiment. “And do you have a hand in designing them?”

  “Heavens, no.” She laughed, shaking her head, her periwinkle gaze meeting his. She did have the most engaging eyes when she smiled. “I enjoy their beauty for as long as it lasts, but attempt to sort them out? That’s for the gardener, don’t you think? Their work and our
pleasure, so to speak.”

  “Yes, of course.” Despite being second-born, the love for his land forked into his very nature, braiding through his bloodline. He lived for country air and open vistas, dirtying his hands alongside the gardeners at times to feel the earth of Havensbrooke beneath his fingers. He steadied his breath and gave another try. Surely there had to be some interest they shared. “And what do you enjoy, Miss Ferguson?”

  Her manner maintained a tempered expectation. There was nothing for which to find fault, yet Frederick, who had no false fancies of romance, had hoped for something…more.

  “I’m quite fond of music and dancing.” She tilted her head as a gesture toward their current movements, her expression the most animated he’d witnessed thus far in their acquaintance. “And fashion, of course. I’m rather adept at it.”

  Fashion and dancing? Perhaps benevolent indifference was to be their lot in life. “You and my mother will have a great deal to discuss. She was quite the expert in her day.”

  The strains from the piano took a more turbulent turn, snagging Frederick’s attention. Grace Ferguson—dark green evening gown spilling around her—sat poring over the keys in a fury, eyes closed, brow clenched in concentration. Frederick tightened his lips against a growing grin. The poor girl had no reserve whatsoever.

  “Your sister plays with a great deal of…energy.”

  “Energy?” A welcome glow warmed the social veneer of Miss Ferguson’s expression as she followed Frederick’s gaze. “I’m afraid my sister isn’t meant for a life of refinement, and there’s no training her. Father and I have tried without much luck.”

  “She appears quite lively of mind and spirit.”

  “That is a very kind way to speak of her. She is the most generous-hearted person.” Miss Ferguson’s entire countenance gentled. “Though among our social circles, she’s a disaster.”

  “I believe she’s found a way to live above such disappointment.”

  Miss Ferguson laughed, a light airy sound, and her entire face bloomed with a beautiful genuineness. Frederick’s chest expanded. Perhaps this relationship only wanted time and understanding.