Chapter 5

Chapter Five

How on earth had he kissed the wrong woman? When he returned to the Music Room and found Lillias at a table with her father and friends, he wondered if his mistaken encounter with the little fairy Ferguson could have been a dream—he'd hoped it had been a dream.

Then the scene rushed back to his mind with every touch magnified, every scent of rosemary and soap, and the heat of his rash choice burned a bright trail through his chest and into his throat.

Lillias later apologized for missing their meeting, explaining that her friends had kept her engaged and she was unable to get away.

And Grace? She'd returned to the room a full fifteen minutes after their inadvertent rendezvous as if nothing was amiss, though she touched her lips too often.

He didn't sleep one wink the entire night, tossing between the memory of Grace's warm mouth against his and the utter humiliation of his mistake. By dawn he was in the saddle of one of Whitlock's white stallions, pouring his energy into a fierce ride across the countryside.

The morning mist wet his face and hair, but he drove the stallion harder, farther away from the house. Before his brother died, he might have dismissed the mistake as easily as Grace—oh good heavens, he kept referring to her by her first name—but he couldn't seem to help it. Her lack of pretense left little room for ceremony. He'd never met anyone like her.

Young, yes. Much too outspoken. And wholly unspoiled, which his mother would find positively atrocious, yet she lived every moment with a joy and curiosity that almost made him smile, even in his agitated state of mind.

And she kissed with the same enthusiasm.

Good night! He had to erase his thoughts or he'd never look at Grace Ferguson as Lillias's younger, almost childish sister again.

The sunrise made a failed attempt against the dark clouds in the distance—only enough to splice the gray and crown the deep purple mountains with amber strokes. The scene proved to distract his mental derailment with a sense of wonder at such divinely crafted beauty. How long had it been since he'd appreciated such a scene? Certainly not in the last six months, if not longer. Edward's unexpected death—deepened by Blake's doubts at the cause—shifted everything in Frederick's future and thrust him into the role of savior for a flailing estate he loved and rescuer of a long-lived legacy.

A single sunray split through the distant clouds and fell to earth in resplendent magnificence, transforming a river in the distance to liquid gold. Frederick drew in a long breath and closed his eyes. The man he used to be would have stopped and pondered the ineffable artwork of the Almighty, but the new Earl of Astley could not afford such luxuries.

The wind against his ears voiced a protest. Where was God if not in everything?

The awareness grated against his choices, against the helplessness in his situation. Didn't Frederick deserve to pay for his ill choices from the past by sacrificing his future? Isn't that how the game of life worked?

His heart pulsed in objection, but he pushed the stallion forward, as if to outrun the past, the future, and every other sour decision in between. All of a sudden, the trail took a sharp turn, catching Frederick off guard. The horse slid against the damp earth. Frederick moved his body with the beast, but the saddle turned beneath him in an unusual shift. He grappled for the reins, but they slipped over his damp gloves as his body flew in one direction and the horse turned in the other. In slow motion, Frederick flew through the air, turning his body so his shoulder might take the brunt of the fall, but somewhere along the way his foot twisted free too late from the stirrup. A sharp pang shot from his ankle up his leg.

The grass provided a merciful pillow for his landing but failed to dampen the ache in his ankle or the thud his shoulder took against the cold earth. He hadn't fallen from a horse in years.

Frederick clenched his teeth against the pain and pushed himself to a sitting position in time to see his steed race back toward the house, following instinct instead of the needs of his rider. This part of the trail hovered on the edge of a steep drop down to a roaring riverbed, perfect for an excellent prospect of the horizon but not for a riding accident. If he'd fallen any closer to the edge…

His gaze shifted back to the house. Another accident?

He caught a last glimpse of his horse disappearing into the wood and a prickling of warning raised the hair on the back of his neck. His fingers slipped down to his boot, skimming the hilt of his dagger to ensure its position. He kept his attention fixed on the wood's edge as he pushed to stand.

A swell of pain wilted him back to the earth. A severe sprain. He frowned. He wouldn't be walking back to the house until the pain lessened.

Whitlock's towers rose above the tree line in the distance. He groaned his displeasure. He'd ridden much farther than he'd planned, proving distraction a very unhealthy traveling companion in an unfamiliar place.

Casting a glance heavenward, he raised his brow. What sort of plans did the Almighty have in store for him with this wretched beginning? Surely the fall was nothing more than God's disapproval at Frederick's impulsiveness last evening.

With a series of painful moves, he made his way to a nearby tree that afforded him a better prospect of the house as well as a prop for his back.

All he could do was wait until the pain eased a little or someone came looking for him.

His gaze shifted back to the view. The dark clouds had snuffed out the sunbeams, leaving little of the molten sunrise on the horizon. What if—like his grandmother often said—God used everything as a building tool of character? And if God was the Father he'd always heard his grandparents profess, the loving Father, would he love Frederick enough to mold his character, even after so many mistakes? I've fallen so far. A sad grin tilted his smile as he reviewed his current predicament. But I want to do right. You know I do. He leaned his head back against the tree. Help me become the man I'm meant to be. He paused, doubt plaguing his prayer—guilt pausing his request. And would You help with this marriage too?

His happiness was a luxury he couldn't afford. He knew, yet so did God, and the mental assent gave some relief in the truth that Frederick wasn't alone. God could help Frederick cultivate a solid relationship with Lillias Ferguson, couldn't he? The foundations of a better future for his children than the one he'd known?

A sudden movement from the direction of the house caught his attention and had him reaching for his dagger again. He used the tree as a crutch to rise to his full height, despite the stabs of pain coursing up his leg. Over the hillside glided a black horse, moving at a fantastic pace with his horseman. An experienced rider—at ease astride the midnight animal—moved near enough to perhaps hear Frederick's call.

He waved and finally succeeded in gaining the rider's attention. Could it be one of the guests from the house party? The formal riding uniform suggested such.

The horseman was barely a slip of a person. Lithe. Petite. Who from the party fit such a description?

"Oh, my dear Lord Astley." The voice coming from the rider sounded oddly familiar—and not at all like a young gentleman. Heat rushed from his body as the stranger swished off the riding cap, releasing a bountiful swath of fiery hair.

Grace Ferguson! His mind drew a complete blank in response.

"What sort of mess have you gotten yourself into this morning?" Her breath puffed into the cool air.

She rode closer, examining him from her perch. All thoughts of her being a young man fled his mind at the sight of her fitted riding suit. "What are you doing all the way out here on foot?" Her gaze widened, and she slipped from the horse. "Oh dear, are you hurt?" Her riding breeches offered a view of her slender legs as she approached. Frederick's mouth went dry. He averted his gaze.

Grace Ferguson is not Lillias. Grace Ferguson is not Lillias.

"Of course I'm not my sister. She hates riding."

Had he spoken aloud? Clearly, he was going mad. "You're…you're riding astride?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock know my bad habits, but like the best of people, they keep my secrets safely hidden from my father." Her grin crinkled her nose. "He finds the whole idea of riding unsavory. I'm not sure why. It's one of the most exhilarating experiences in the whole world."

His mind shot directly back to their kiss. He cleared his throat. "How is it that you are out so early?"

She gestured toward her breeches, an invitation his wayward gaze didn't need. "As I said, to truly ride the way I love best, I must do so early enough not to humiliate my family, so as you see, here I am." He attempted to stand up straighter as she approached, but the shift in weight produced a wince.

"You are hurt." She rushed forward but came to a stop just before touching him. He could tell she wanted to, not as a romantic reaction, but in complete abandon to assist. The woman kept him in as much uncertainty of the next action as a feral horse in training.

"I'll ride to the house for help and be back in half an hour."

He pressed a hand to his head in a vain attempt to recollect himself. "You can't get to the house and back in half an hour."

Her grin took such a playful turn it almost inspired his. "I'll bet all your pocket change I can."

He shouldn't indulge her, but the glimmer in those eyes teased him into action. "I'll take that wager, Miss Grace."

She rewarded him with her dazzling smile, pushed the hat back on her head, and with the ease of familiarity—and the assistance of a nearby tree trunk—swung herself back on the horse.

"I shall wait under the shelter of this tree, in the instance the storm arrives before you return."

She followed his gesture to the horizon, and her face paled. "Oh dear. I…I hate storms, especially thunderstorms." A flicker of worry puckered her brow. "And it's coming rather quickly, isn't it?"

"I'll be fine with a little rain." Frozen rain, more like.

"I'm sure you will." She slid from her mount and marched over to him, lips pierced with purpose. "But I won't, because then I'll worry about you. So let's ride back together."

"Ride together?" And his thoughts plummeted to holding her in his arms again. He shook his head. "I don't think that would leave the best impression with your sister."

Grace glanced back to the house, her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip. He could almost see her mind working up a solution. She liked solving things, which could be either an asset…or utterly terrifying. "We'll take the forest trail all the way to the stables." She tipped a smile over her shoulder. "Besides, why would she ever be jealous of me?"

The poor girl really didn't see herself as viable competition at all, but with a kiss between them, her presence took up much more residence in his thoughts than it ought. No, she wasn't as exquisite as her elder sister, but there was a prettiness about her, an intelligence in her expression—and those eyes? They nearly sparkled with, well, he wasn't certain, but whatever it was, it drew him toward her.

She moved to assist him onto the horse.

"I can mount on my own, Miss Ferguson." He growled out the words. The very idea of her pushing on any part of his person in assistance made him want to attempt to hop all the way to the house on one leg in escape. He gentled his voice. "If you'll bring the horse around."

Gritting his teeth to keep from moaning, he placed the weight on his good leg and slung the painful one over the horse. He gave his throbbing ankle time to settle by adjusting himself in the saddle, and then he turned to his companion, offering his hand. She grinned up at him with such unfurled joy, his lips responded quite helplessly.

With a firm tug, he brought her up to sit in front of him. Wafts of rosemary and mint hinted from her hair, and he almost leaned into the scent, but that meant he'd squeeze even closer to her, and the intimacy of their situation was already nigh unbearable.

"Would you like to take the reins or"—her light voice flittered on the breeze—"I can take the reins and you can…um…hold on to me."

The very idea of putting his arms around her small waist had him nearly inching off the backside of the horse. "I'll take the reins."

She sighed, keeping hold of them as if she hadn't heard him.

"Miss Grace?"

"Oh! I'm sorry." Her body straightened, and she turned just enough for him to see her profile, handing him the reins. "I was quite distracted by your wonderful scent of amber."

He squeezed his eyes closed. The girl's directness was positively maddening. With a forced swallow and a deep breath, his arms hemmed her in on either side as she relaxed back against him.

"Ah. Now we're snug." Her pitch slid up an octave, hiding nothing.

His throat nearly sealed altogether as the full fragrance of her hair assaulted his senses. All the world conspired against his good intentions.

He pinched his eyes closed, a laugh waiting to explode from the entire ridiculousness of the scene. After playing the social game for so long, Grace's evident inability to do so offered a comical, and somewhat disconcerting, change.

They followed a trail through the wood, trees filtering morning light across the path ahead as they moved in silence. The tickle of laughter waited, itching for release, until Frederick forced dialogue into the still-ness. "I suppose you were afraid you'd lose the bet, so you compromised with this decision."

She shook her head sending more mint his way. "I couldn't lose."

"You couldn't lose?" The woman was baffling. "And why is that?"

"I have no pockets, thus no pocket money." Her laugh lilted, as if at home in this morning wonderland as any fairy's.

"That isn't quite fair, Miss Grace."

Her shoulders slumped from the truth, and his grin teased for release. "You're right, and I considered what I could give you if you won." She turned slightly, lips tipped. "Which you wouldn't have, because I'm a very good rider."

Watching her glide across the countryside confirmed it. She might even best him. His grin won. What a fun competition it would be to race her!

He shook the vision from his head. "In the instance you'd lost, what would you have offered?"

"Well, I was going to offer a chaste kiss." Her smile slid wide from her profile. "But that seemed fairly anticlimactic after last night."

He grunted a response and pulled his attention away from her lips and toward the path ahead. Five years ago, he'd have been her equal in lively sparring and hopeful optimism, but too many losses and betrayals marred his vision.

"Ever since our book discussion last evening, I've been curious about what you enjoy reading, Lord Astley."

His gaze dropped to her hair as it spilled over his arms in an unruly and fascinating way. He cleared his throat and attempted to distract his wayward musings.

"Oh wait. Let me guess." She sat a little taller, quite proud of herself. He could almost envision the pixie glint in those eyes.

"Biographies?"

His brow twitched. "I do enjoy a good biography."

"And histories, I should think."

His smile faded. "Occasionally."

"Occasionally?" She snorted her laugh and then covered her mouth with one hand. "Come now, what else? Landscaping? Geography?"

Yes and yes. His grimace deepened. He was much too predictable, but then he knew how to tempt her. "Actually, I've discovered a particular interest in adventure stories of late, and mysteries."

Her gasp of delight hit him square in the chest. He'd surprised her. Why did that feel so pleasant? "Fiction?"

" The Count of Monte Cristo and King Solomon's Mines, anything by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

She nearly turned all the way around in the saddle, eyes dancing. " The Count of Monte Cristo was fabulous but horribly sad, and I've never read King Solomon's Mines, but I've heard it's positively delightful. And Sherlock?" She turned back around and giggled. "Oh, I'm so glad you read fiction too. That makes you even more interesting."

And unfortunately, with every conversation she too became more so. Lord, help him! Gracelynn Ferguson didn't come with the dowry to save Havensbrooke. Lillias Ferguson did—and she was his future bride.

He needed to confirm his mental assessment with a strong enough kiss to wipe the memory of Grace's from his mind…before he lost all sense and kissed the wrong sister again.

"Lord Astley!"

The call came from ahead on the trail. A boy, one of the stable hands, dashed toward them with Elliott at the lad's heels. Frederick straightened to alert. He'd never seen his valet move so quickly in all the years he'd known him.

"You…you"—Elliott paused to bend at the waist, panting—"are all right, sir?"

"He has a hurt ankle," Grace replied before he could respond.

"The horse came back without you, sir." The boy rushed forward, barely getting the words out between breaths. "And your saddle. I didn't know, sir. You have to believe me. I didn't know about what happened to your saddle."

"Know?" Frederick looked from the boy back to Elliott. "My saddle?"

"Sir, it seems your saddle was not in the best condition for riding." Elliott tipped his head toward Grace, brow raised in question.

Heat seeped from Frederick's face. "Ah, I see." He shifted his hold on Grace's waist. "Elliott, would you mind escorting Miss Grace to the house while I return her horse to the stables? I'm certain she'd like to get out of the chill."

"Escort me to the—" She turned on him, ginger hair flying around her shoulders as she did. "I think I'd like to know what is going on." Those intelligent eyes examined each face before landing on the weakest link. "Cam, what were you saying about the saddle?"

"That's right, Miss Grace. The saddle. If I'd knowed it was—"

"Come now, Miss Grace." Frederick held Elliott's gaze, and his valet took the hint, stepping to the side of the horse just as Frederick lifted her from the seat. With Elliot's help, she was on the ground before she could protest. "The house will be awake soon enough, and Miss Grace will be missed."

She turned back toward him, rebel brow raised in challenge, pink lips set. "You're the guest of honor, my lord. Perhaps you should go on to the house, have your ankle tended, and I can see to this mess about your saddle."

"Very thoughtful of you." How could he possibly be fighting a smile? "But I believe this situation requires my immediate attention, and I'd prefer you find your way safely back to the house. I feel certain your sister would agree."

"My sister? Of course." She shot Frederick an impressive, though powerless, glare before slipping her arm through Elliott's and pushing on a smile that resembled nothing like the genuine ones he'd seen before. "Lead the way, dear Elliott. What would a young woman know of saddles and mysteries after all?"

"No one said anything about mysteries, miss," Elliott replied with a gentle smile.

She sent a look over her shoulder at Lord Astley, their gazes meeting in an unspoken battle. "Of course not, Elliott," she said, her voice hiding nothing as Frederick rode the horse past her. "No mysteries at all."