Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Sunlight filtered through leafy oaks among the quiet graves on either side of the cobblestone path to St. James. Frederick cast an apologetic look back to Grace as he escorted his mother ahead up the path to the church. The walkway only accommodated pairs. In Frederick's defense, Grace had suggested he help his mother since she wobbled precariously against her cane when she stood for long. But the shift only pinned the truth deeper that Grace lived outside their world, their story.

The chasm of an ocean between England and home tripled in size, but Grace shook off the melancholy. If David in the Psalms had to remind himself of the truth when his heart trembled with fear, Grace could do no less. "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance. "

Her thoughts clung to the truth. Hope in God. Perhaps God was using these lonely moments to remind her that He was enough and that He'd made her just as she was, for His glory. Even if she'd never know which shoes to wear with a summer suit!

She drank in the sight of the beautiful old church. Its vine-covered rock walls and stained glass nestled between mature trees welcomed her with a sweet reminder—God was here, no matter where she moved among the world.

He was everywhere. Certainly He could help her find where she belonged.

"I hope you'll allow me to play escort, my lady." Blake came up behind her and tipped his head in her direction, offering his arm to walk.

"I didn't know you were attending church with us this morning, Mr. Blake."

"I'm a regular church attender, Lady Astley." He tugged at his collar and shot her a wink. "But I usually arrive late and leave early. Too many marriageable ladies desperate to entrap a single man."

Grace's smile bloomed for the first time that morning. "I can think of worse places to find a future bride than in church."

Blake shook his head, feigning a grimace. "Not to contradict your ladyship, but I've yet to find a perfect combination of devout, engaging, and somewhat easy on the eyes, present company excluded, of course."

"I see where the direction of my prayers for you must go in the future."

"Please allow me at least another year before you begin such entreat-ies, if you don't mind. I'm inclined to appreciate my current status for a bit longer."

It felt good to laugh.

"I hear you are in charge of decorating Havensbrooke for Christmas." Blake's brows rose in question.

"I am. Brandon and Mary searched for as many ornaments as they could find within the recesses of the house yesterday. And Elliott is helping me gather garland." It had all been a very good distraction until lunch with Lady Moriah. "I just have to find a tree."

"Might I offer a suggestion?"

"Please."

"When I would spend time at Havensbrooke as a child, Grandfather would take us to the vista to locate a proper tree for the house. We never failed to discover an excellent choice."

"The place where Frederick used to go with his grandparents?"

"Exactly."

"Thank you for the advice, Mr. Blake." Grace squeezed his arm. "And the company."

Morning birdsong and the din of voices from the church ahead quieted their walk. The morning chill in the air held the scent of snow.

"I know it's been a rough go since you arrived. And Lady Moriah, the dowager," he corrected while covering her hand on his arm, "she brings more storm than sun into everyone's lives. But Freddie will do right by you. He may not have his best foot forward in the beginning, but he'll find the steps soon enough."

Grace turned her attention back to her husband as he helped his mother through the church's entry. Grace didn't question his goodness, only his absence. And perhaps his priorities—especially since she didn't seem to be part of them. "I want things to go well between us, Blake. Truly."

His gaze softened into uncharacteristic sincerity. "I know you do, and so does Freddie, once he takes a hard look at things. To be honest, he's rather dumbstruck by you."

"By me? What on earth do you mean?"

"Your generosity of heart is an anomaly to a man who has always had to prove himself to the people who should have loved him best, only to have them reject him." Blake gestured forward with his chin. "Freddie and Havensbrooke, they're a lot alike, if you think about it. Both left to the weeds of the world and in need of patience and a tender hand to help them bloom again." He wiggled his brows. "They may even need some unexpected creativity too."

Her gaze followed his to the pair disappearing into the church. Tending hearts? What a beautiful idea.

She offered Blake a grin. "My good Mr. Blake, if I didn't know better, I'd take your statement as almost sentimental."

"Nonsense. A quote from the paper or some such, but regardless, Lady Astley, I have every faith in you. Weeds will have no power against your sunshine." He tipped his hat and paused at the church door. "Now I shall leave you to meet the honorable Reverend Marshall."

He spun away, nodding to a man wearing a white cassock and black preaching scarf as he passed.

"Lady Astley, welcome to St. James." The reverend bowed his bald head in deference. "We are delighted to have you in Astlynn Commons."

"Thank you, Reverend Marshall. What a beautiful day for worship."

"Yes, it is." The man's gray eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. "I would suspect you appreciate it more than most."

"I do. Most assuredly." A wash of gratitude nearly brought her to tears. "A familiar place among the unfamiliar can provide a great deal of comfort."

"You are always welcome. Kindred hearts find their place within these walls."

She bit her wobbling lip. Why was she so quick to doubt that God heard her? He'd placed yet another person in her wake to remind her of His nearness. "Thank you."

"Your fame precedes you." He leaned forward with a twinkle in his pale eyes. "I've heard you're an excellent swimmer."

Grace blinked back her tears, her grin swelling to proportions Charles Bingley would appreciate. "You should see me at lawn tennis."

Reverend Marshall raised a hand to his lips to brace the edges of his smile. "Yes, I think you will do quite well for Havensbrooke."

With that added vote of confidence, Grace crossed the threshold into the church's narrow entry, only to find Frederick lying in wait. Without a word, he pulled her aside into an alcove barely large enough to share, his gaze searching hers. "I know the service is ready to begin, but I had to speak with you."

She searched his sober face. "Are you all right?"

" You are concerned for me?" He sighed and studied her, shaking his head. "Oh Grace, I have so much to learn." He wrapped his fingers around hers for a brief embrace. "I'm afraid I've not been a very good friend of late, and I wish to make amends."

Her bottom lip dropped at his declaration before she recovered. "I've missed my friend immensely."

"And I've been an imbecile." He groaned as if her words inflicted pain. "Forgive me, darling?"

There was something disarming about a man who framed an apology with a truth on one end and a darling on the other. "Would you help me find a Christmas tree today? It would be a very friendly thing to do."

His quick smile smothered her previous doubt quite soundly, and he gave her fingers another squeeze. "I'd love to find a Christmas tree with you."

Just then Reverend Marshall dipped his head into the alcove, his gaze glimmering as it passed from Frederick to Grace. "We are ready to begin."

"Begin?" Grace's attention shifted from the reverend to Frederick.

"As the newest Earl and Countess of Astley, we sign our name to the family registry." Frederick offered her an encouraging nod.

"A tradition that has continued for over a hundred fifty years," added Reverend Marshall.

"And today, we add ours as the newest stewards of the people of Astlynn Commons and Havensbrooke." Frederick offered his arm, his tender gaze pulling at her hope. "Together."

She drew in a breath, slipped her arm through his, and followed Reverend Marshall into the ancient sanctuary. Stone pillars lined the middle aisle, ushering them toward an upraised wooden lectern area bathed in variegated color from sunlight through the intricate stained glass windows. What a magical backdrop for worship!

With great pomp, Grace stood beside Frederick at the front of the church as he added their names beneath a long row of Percys. Her smile softened. Together.

Frederick and Gracelynn Percy, Lord and Lady Astley.

A sudden gravity landed on her shoulders, as if generations of unseen men and women crowded around them in the church to wager how they'd measure up.

Was this a small taste of what Frederick felt? A tiny glimpse into centuries of lives lived for this legacy?

"May God bless this newest generation of Percys of Havensbrooke Hall and Astlynn Commons for His own glory," Reverend Marshall announced to the crowded church. "Let us pray."

Once the prayer ended, Grace attempted to follow Frederick to his seat, but he stopped her with a gentle hand. "I must take a special place in the lord's box today." He nodded toward a seat framed in by a dark-stained wooden fence. "My great-grandfather began a tradition years ago that the lord of the manor would lead prayers once a month when he was in town." His gaze turned apologetic. "I asked Mother to save a place for you in our usual seat."

Patience, Grace. You're tending a heart.

Grace stiffened. "Of course." She moved to stand beside Lady Moriah.

Reverend Marshall's deep and exuberant voice pealed directly into Grace's heart.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope."

Abound in hope? Her attention riveted to the man as if he'd spoken directly from heaven, and being a cleric and all, that's exactly what he was supposed to do. The Bible proved incredibly poetic and poignant at the most opportune times. Like now, when she needed poetic and poignant the most.

As the congregation stood for the first hymn, Grace stared down at the words. She'd not heard this hymn before.

O love that wilt not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in Thee.

Weary? She'd wrestled with weariness of spirit, but the words soothed over her fear with divine reminders. No matter where she went or how lost she felt, God's love would never let her go.

I give Thee back the life I owe,

That in its ocean depths its flow

May richer, fuller be.

She closed her eyes, envisioning the ocean waves that propelled the Aquitania across an endless sea. The idea poured over her wounds. Her life, her hopes overflowed with the fathomless love of God. He cradled her dreams and her future in His care. She was never alone or lost to despair. The harmonies of voices all around swelled through her, reverberating with truth like an embrace from above.

She belonged to Him.

God had placed her here as she was, knowing exactly what Havensbrooke and Frederick needed most. She was not a victim of cir-cumstance, and she would not kowtow to the fear. As any heroine worth her own story, Grace claimed her future—Frederick, Havensbrooke, even her malevolent mother-in-law.

It was time to begin living the newest chapter of her life.

Frederick's desire for a private conversation with his wife was ceremoni-ously thwarted by his mother's sudden need for assistance to her room. He should have known her well enough to recognize the ploy, because after taking much longer than necessary to reach her room, she turned on him as soon as the door closed.

"Did you see your wife in church? Are we to become accustomed to these fits of passion?" His lips tilted at the memory of Grace's "fit of passion" in the church.

Angelic. Her gaze to the heavens. Her smile, glowing. The unidentifiable feeling that had percolated in his chest throughout the entire service as he gazed upon his unconventional bride pearled into recognition.

Love.

He loved Grace.

Even if she loosened every gossiping tongue in town by swimming across a river or standing radiant during a somber service. She kept doing that. Entering his world of gray places and bringing light and…and he'd want her no other way. He needed her no other way.

"I shouldn't be surprised, with your history of fumbles and mistakes, that Mr. Ferguson fooled you into marrying his emotional waterworks daughter. And since you've no mind to control her, I'll have to take her in hand."

"Grace is not the problem, Mother." Her continual guilt-laced manipulation played a dull refrain he'd outgrown. "And mistakes? My brother made as many as I did. Look at the state of our home. If he'd loved this land at all instead of being controlled by his petty interests, then Havensbrooke—"

Her slap came without warning, a weak sting, but humiliating nonetheless. "You know nothing of it. He was twice the man you are. Always had been. We would never know of his illegitimate child or his decadent lifestyles, because he had the respectability and control to house his passions with discretion. You, however, flaunted your recklessness like a badge of honor."

"I'm not that man anymore, and whether you like it or not, Edward is gone. I'm the future of Havensbrooke. And we have an opportunity to start over—"

"Start over with her?" She released a humorless laugh. "How could this ginger-headed trinket of yours do anything to mend the embarrassment you've—"

"That is enough." Frederick walked toward the door. "I will begin seeking suitable housing for you in town—somewhere you will be close to Havensbrooke and well cared for—but I will not have you undermine my future any longer."

"You—" Her hand reached for her throat. "You would cast me out?"

"You will always be a part of the Percy family, but you are no longer mistress of Havensbrooke, and I will not allow your toxicity to continue its assault upon me or my wife."

His mother slipped down into her chair, black gown billowing around her, eyes wide. "How dare you speak—"

"I've attempted to open your heart to me. Spent years trying to make you care for me a little. You were never willing. Grace is more than willing. I will capture the happiness available to me and attempt to redeem what was lost."

Frederick's wife had disappeared. He searched her room, the library, his study, even had the vain hope of finding her in his room, to no avail. The thought that she might have run away flickered to mind, a notion he'd never consider for anyone else. But Grace? With his bumbling of her heart over the past few days, it was a distinct possibility, but he knew better now. Understood better now.

"My lord?"

Frederick turned to Elliott's call, Mary, the housemaid at his side by the east wing entrance. "Might you be in search of Lady Astley, sir?"

"You've seen her?"

"She asked about the footpath to the vista," Elliott offered.

"The vista?" Frederick's attention moved to the nearest window, where a swirl of flurries danced just beyond the pane.

"She waited for half an hour before dashin' off, sir," Mary added, her lips grappling with her smile. "It seems she went in search of a Christmas tree."

"Of course she did." Frederick half laughed, half coughed out the question. "By herself, I presume?"

"She took Zeus with her, sir," Elliott replied, and if Frederick didn't know better, he'd even say his valet had a twinkle in his eyes. "Though I don't think he was too keen on going into the cold."

"Clearly, Lady Astley doesn't have the same repulsion." Frederick reached for the coat Elliott offered.

"No sir. She was fairly giddy at the notion of choosing a tree in the snow." Elliot's lips twitched.

Mary's smile held nothing back. Elliott's emerged with a bit more subtlety. Both proved that Lady Astley had already worked her magic upon these two servants.

"Well then, I suppose I ought to go find my wife."

Grace increased her pace up the forested hillside, breathing in the earthy scents of moss and hints of mint. Flurries swirled all around her, enticing her to spin once or twice out of pure delight. Zeus pranced along at her side, his golden-red coat a wonderful contrast to the frosty surroundings. What better way to brighten up Havensbrooke than with a Christmas tree? An enormous one.

The hymn at church, the reminder of the vows she'd made over two weeks ago, and the sweet look of confidence Frederick sent her in the car on the ride home all pointed to a clear choice: fall beneath the weight of her regret and lose her own story, or grasp with both hands and full heart the story God had placed before her. She may not have control over Lady Astley's sour demeanor or Frederick's willingness to spend time with her, but she had power over her own response, her own heart.

And she would choose hope instead of despair, because she refused to be anything less than a heroine in her own life.

She grabbed the front of her skirts and climbed higher up the hillside, pausing at a tree now and then to get Zeus's opinion on the matter. He seemed to understand perfectly, because he led her forward to the very spot where an elegant and enormous spruce stood regent over the trail as if it had spent its whole existence waiting for her arrival.

She tied her scarf around the tree and stepped farther into the clearing, her smile spreading so wide it pressed into her chilly cheeks. An evergreen forest framed the clearing on three sides, but on the fourth the world opened to a rocky outcropping and a magnificent view of frosted countryside for miles.

Grace ignored the frigid wind whooshing up from the valley and stepped toward the ledge. Nestled below, surrounded by white-dusted rolling hills, sat the sprawling estate of Havensbrooke. Its jutted roofs and spires spread out to form an H of gray-tan stone. Walled gardens framed the house on three sides, lifeless and waiting for a creative, loving hand. A river carved an S on the far side of the house, with icy hillsides rolling as far as the eye could see, and in the distance, Grace caught sight of St. James's steeple.

Havensbrooke didn't appear as foreboding when dusted in a wonderland hue. It was as if God had painted the world with hope just for her to make certain she'd been listening in church that morning. Grace raised her arms to embrace the beauty, wind billowing about her with enough force to unknot her hair from its clips.

"Great things are done when men and mountains meet," Grace called to the wind. Zeus's ears perked, and she offered the dog a grin. "Or in this case, women and mountains."

The William Blake quote disappeared into the snow-coated air.

"I see you found the vista."

Grace turned to see Frederick stepping from among the trees, his black coat and tall frame standing out from the frosty scene. He looked rather dashing with flurries in his dark hair. Grace wagered he'd age remarkably well.

"It's such a good place to gain perspective…and find a tree, I hear."

He came to her side, giving Zeus a pat on his head before slipping his arm around Grace's waist. "You are too good."

She looked up at him, searching his dark eyes as he searched hers. Oh, there was such remorse there. Such tenderness.

He lowered his forehead to her temple and sighed. "My mother is a harsh, bitter woman, and I left you alone to face the wolf. I'm sorry, darling."

"No one can be that horrid without a very good reason, don't you think?" Grace leaned into him as his lips slipped to her cheek. "How very sad she must be to cause everyone around her to dislike her so much."

"You're more generous in your assessment than I am." He turned to look over the view, his profile delightfully Grecian and angled.

Her gaze focused on his very kissable mouth. What a shame that perfectly placed lips were not written about with more thoroughness in literature. They proved deliciously attractive to her mind. Or at least Frederick's lips did. Perhaps the use of those lips had something to do with it.

He caught her staring, and his expression softened as he attempted to capture some of her blowing hair to tuck behind her ear. "I should have taken you with me to town, but I was so focused on meeting with the inspector and then securing your comfort that I didn't consider the consequences. I allowed my concerns for what I thought you needed to outweigh the true needs of your heart, and I'm sorry."

The wind tousled his dark locks over his crinkled forehead in a dashing sort of way. Oh, he looked handsomer when he was penitent than in any other posture—except maybe roguish.

"What you thought I needed?"

"The lavatory. The one for your room." His gaze searched hers, and he ran a palm over his shaking head. "I didn't tell you why I stayed in town so long, did I?"

"No." She replayed his words, attempting to decipher them, a steady warmth branching all through her. "That's why you were gone? For me?"

"You were used to better accommodations and privacy, something I couldn't afford before you came, but I have the resources to change that now and rushed ahead to—"

"You weren't annoyed by me? Embarrassed?"

He turned toward her, holding her shoulders. "Good night, Grace, is that what you thought?"

"I've read that some men see their wives as a regret, so they resort to escaping in their work or improvements or whatever. I just didn't imagine it would happen so soon—"

"Nothing of the sort." He framed her face with his gloved hands. "In fact, I was reminded all the more this morning how very grateful I am that you are my bride, and I wish to leave you with no doubt of my affection for you."

"Your affection for me?" That sounded very close to love, didn't it? Her smile trembled wider.

"I want you to be happy here with me. But my world is not a kind one, and you are so inexperienced—"

She touched her fingers softly to his lips, bringing his words to a halt. There was something so powerful in this man that it quivered through her with a mixture of awe and curiosity. His heart, his passions, and life-line were somehow intricately tied to this land—just as Mrs. Whitlock had said—and in the beautiful stone walls and vast countryside pulsed her future as much as Frederick's, if she'd let it. But she would need to embrace it all and release her fear. "I'm stronger than you think I am. I may be stronger than I think I am, but one thing I want you to know is that you and Havensbrooke are my home now too, and I mean to take care of what is mine."

The faintest smile touched his mouth, his thumb tracing her chin, before he sealed her declaration by placing his lips on hers. Warm and strong, his kiss swirled pleasant heat up through her, dashing away the cold. She held to his jacket and her promise. Ready or not, she was Countess of Astley, and God had chosen her for this task, so she would make it her own.

Gracelynn Percy presented the perfect portrait of his new beginning with her untamed hair flying around her face, his home as the backdrop. His past and future situated together. He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear in a vain attempt to control the wind-frenzied locks, the intimate touch bringing him closer to those azure eyes.

He loved her.

The feeling, the realization filled every space in his chest with a desire to shout to the heavens.

"I see you found your Christmas tree," he murmured against her cheek as she faced the view, snow dancing about them like some magic was at work.

"You saw my scarf then?"

"Indeed. A good choice for the Great Hall."

She pressed in a little closer to him in gratitude, and he tightened his hold, their faces pointed toward the view. "I'm sorry I left you alone, Grace."

"I hope you've learned your lesson," The teasing in her voice peaked his grin.

"Yes, but I hope I'm a faster learner in the future." He unwound his scarf and tucked it around her neck before placing another kiss to her lips. He looked back to the estate, a memory she'd particularly enjoy coming to mind. "Do you see that garden on the east side? The small one near the edge of the river?"

"The one with the tall evergreen growing out of it?"

"Yes, that one." He closed his eyes, his cheek against her head. He'd never known such an unadulterated sense of rightness, such clarity in a choice. He almost chuckled out of sheer astonishment. He'd never have chosen Grace, but God knew what he'd needed. What his heart, future, and even Havensbrooke needed.

Frederick would make up his fumblings to Grace. He would show her a pure, faithful heart, if God gave him time. "It was my grandparents' garden. My grandfather built it for my grandmother upon their marriage as a little haven for them. Mr. Archer, our gardener for decades, said the two of them would disappear into the garden for hours together with only the sound of birdsong and laughter."

She turned her face toward him, her eyes, her lips enticingly close. "I read a book about a lovers' garden once."

"Of course you did."

"It was very romantic."

He touched her chin and tipped her face up to his, dipping to take a longer kiss than he'd taken a few minutes before. She made a sweet, contented hum in her throat as he deepened the kiss, his body warming to the taste and feel of her.

"I think that should be one of the first gardens we recover then."

He nodded and turned with her back to the scene. The snow had increased in thickness, blanketing the world in white and giving a heavenly sheen to the gray stone of Havensbrooke. A good reminder of redemption and hope. "I would wall myself up to read when I was younger. Find nooks, often in my grandparents' garden, because it made me feel closer to them."

"You were not much different than me, it seems." Her statement came with a sadness, a hint of understanding.

"In many ways I wasn't."

Her gaze asked for more information, but her lips did not. That would be for another time. The longer story. But not for today. Today was for making happy memories.

A flash of red in the distance caught his attention among the snow. A red Ford Touring, perhaps? He couldn't quite make it out, but it was leaving from the direction of the old ruins. He didn't know anyone with such a car. Why would someone be near the ruins? Especially someone with such a fine car? A chill settled over his skin.

A rush of protection shot through him as the car turned a bend and disappeared from view. It was likely a driver who'd lost his way among the country lanes. Or some tourist out to discover a grand house open for exploration. He shrugged away the concern, just as a low rumble sounded in the distance.

Grace's head turned toward the sound. "Does the train run near Havensbrooke?"

"Not near enough to hear it."

Another rumble resounded with a bit more clarity. Her back straightened with tension. "Then…then what was that?"

"Nothing but thunder."

"Thunder?" She spun around, her eyes wide. "But it's snowing!"

He placed his hands on her arms and searched her face. "Thunder snow is rare, but nothing untoward. I'm sure it will pass soon enough."

"Thunder snow?" She flinched back from him and then dashed toward the footpath. "Why on earth would England have something as horrible as thunder snow?"

Another round of thunder sounded, this time even closer. She took off at a faster pace, Zeus at her heels.

"What is wrong?"

She didn't appear to hear him, for she had taken off down the path, skirt flying.

"Grace!" He followed in pursuit.

"I'm sorry, my dear Frederick, but I cannot stop," she called behind her. "I'm rather terrified of storms. It's a ridiculous, childhood panic, but there's nothing to be done for it. I'd thought I'd escaped them in winter."

He chased after her down the path, her speed impressive. "What inspired such a fear?"

She flinched as another rumble echoed closer. "Daffodils."

Daffodils?

"It's a rather novel-worthy explanation, actually." She forged ahead, her words coming in broken breaths. "My mother died giving birth to my baby brother when I was seven years old. Lillias was away with Father—and the baby came early. Too early, the doctor said, but I didn't know those facts at seven, of course. All I knew was something was wrong and the terrible storm outside the house seemed to link to the conflict inside the house."

He rushed ahead to help her over a fallen log. "Thank you." She offered a brief smile before taking off again, but he kept hold of her hand. "Icicles in sunlight."

He squinted over at her, but she didn't seem aware of her off-topic words.

"Over the crushing thunder and flashes of lightning, I heard my mother's screams of pain…until they stopped forever."

He squeezed her fingers. "Dear Grace."

"As silly as it sounds, even now, I…I can still hear her screams in the thunder."

"What did you do to find comfort when you were at home?"

She shrugged, keeping her hand in his as she pulled him through the forest, Zeus leading the way far ahead. "When I was younger, Father said I would crawl into the cupboard and bury myself beneath pillows, but as I grew older, I'd sing very loudly to offset the volume of the storm—or I'd crawl into my sister's bed and have her talk me through it."

The snow had thickened, falling with impressive heaviness. Another roar boomed above their heads, louder than all the others. She released his hand and took up her skirt to move faster. "Strawberries, ice cream, ladybugs."

"Ladybugs?" He stumbled and then caught up with her. "What are you doing?"

"Distracting myself with happy thoughts." The house garden came into view, and another swell of thunder rolled close by. "Puppies, horses, babies' feet, children's laughter."

The entire situation struck an alarming mixture of humor and sym-pathy, but the humor was slowly winning as she continued her list.

"The smell of books, Christmas trees, cobblestone streets." Grace's hair had come completely loose and fell about her shoulders in damp ringlets.

Thunder rolled again, louder, quickening her voice pitch. "Chocolate pastries, amber scents." She turned with almost a smile on her pale face as he opened the side door of the house for her and Zeus. "Your kisses are a new one to add to my list."

And he grinned as if God had hand delivered an early Christmas gift to him directly in the middle of a winter thunderstorm. He pulled Grace against him and turned her kissing talk into action. She gasped against his lips at another round of thunder but didn't pull away. Instead, her hands slid up into his hair and held him in place. His wife was a fast and enthusiastic learner. A definite benefit for what he had in mind.

With a gentle break in their contact, he ushered her into the house.

"Oh that was wonderfully distracting. Could we do it again?"

"I have every hope we shall, but in a more private venue." He placed his hands on her shoulders as she moved in for another kiss. "Can you find your way to your bedroom? I'll be up directly."

Those fascinating blue eyes rounded as if wounded.

"I promise, darling. I need to speak with Brandon, and then I will come to you."

She nodded, her bottom lip wobbling before she started toward the grand staircase at almost a run. "Kisses, hugs, laughter, more kisses."

Frederick turned in time to see Brandon beside him, staring at Grace's retreating form, both brows raised to nearly touch the man's hairline. Frederick couldn't tame his grin. "She's terrified of thunder."

Brandon turned his attention slowly to Frederick. "I see, sir."

"With that in mind, Brandon, would you please inform the servants that Lady Astley and I wish not to be disturbed this afternoon."

His brows rose again, and he lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir."

"And once the snow has cleared, would you have someone ride out to the ruins to have a look about? Even hire a couple more men for the grounds, if you will." Frederick surged toward the stairway. "I'd like some extra eyes around the estate."

"Yes, sir."

Frederick bounded up the stairs, intent on providing a thorough distraction for his lovely wife. He could hear her frantic singing from outside the closed bedroom door and struggled to keep his laughter in check before entering. Why, oh why had he been afraid to give his heart to this authentically beautiful creature?

Her hair spun in wet ringlets around her face, and she'd already shed her gloves, taken off her wet coat, and even removed her shoes and stockings.

That made his job much easier.

As he entered, another burst of thunder sounded, and Grace ran directly into his arms, burying her head in his shoulder. "Do you think thunder snow is worse than regular thunder? What a horrible combination of two very different things. Snow is so lovely. Thunder is…" She shuddered and pushed her head into the crook of his neck.

With a gentle touch to her chin, he tipped her face up and took her mouth with his. She groaned into him, inciting his pulse and determination. His hand glided down her back, noting the placement of her buttons. Too many.

His palm slid up her arm and over her neck, before taking a slow detour down the side of her body.

She gasped. The thunder shook again. Her fingers dug into his shirt, fisting with more fervency, her breath a quiet whimper.

She needed something to do.

"Grace, darling, would you do me a favor?"

She looked up at him, half confused, half terrified, her azure eyes so close.

"My shirt is damp. Do you think you could unbutton it for me while I help you with yours?"

Her gaze sharpened with awareness as her pink bottom lip dropped. She nodded and slowly unwound the first two buttons of his shirt, her eyes searching his. Trusting him.

As another rumble roared around them, he kissed away her whimper and her fingers found their way to his other buttons, slowly, bungling through the movements at first, but making excellent progress. He'd never wanted to cherish anything—this moment, her—so much in his entire life.

Without breaking the kiss, he finished the work of her blouse and slid it off her arms, chasing her pearl-like skin with his lips down her neck to her collar bone. He caught her as her knees weakened and her breaths dissolved into a moan.

"Grace," he breathed her name over her skin.

She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, her palm sliding over his chest as if fascinated by the touch. Fire followed the trail of her fingers.

"Kissing is a very good distraction." Her words shook out on a shaky whisper.

He gathered her fingers into his and brought them to his lips, never breaking eye contact with her. "And a very good introduction."

Her brows rose, and he pressed his forehead against hers, his palms sliding down her arms to tug her against him. "Let me love you, Grace, as a husband to his wife."

Her lips took a slight turn, and she brought her palms to his cheeks, their breaths mingling, lips almost touching. "Please do, my dear Frederick. Love me."