of himself.
She walked to the dresser and placed the neckcloth on the top, distancing herself from the sudden, insane urge to step in close, lay her head on his chest, wrap her arms around the lean, weary body. Why? To comfort him perhaps, or because she wanted comfort herself, or perhaps a mixture of the two.
When she turned back Grant was lying down on top of the covers, still in shirt and breeches. He was deep, deep asleep. She stood looking down at him for a moment, studied the fine-drawn face relaxed into a vulnerability that took years off his age. How old was he? Not thirty-two or -three, as she had thought. Twenty-eight, perhaps. His hair flopped across his forehead, just as Charlie’s did, but she resisted the temptation to brush it back from the bruised skin. The long body did not stir when she laid a light blanket over him, nor when she drew the curtains closed slowly to muffle the rattle of the rings, nor when she made up the fire and drew the guard around it.
My husband is a disturbingly attractive man, she thought as she closed the jib door carefully behind her. Anna was crying in the dressing room, she could hear Jeannie soothing her.
‘Mama will be back soon, little one. Yes, she will, now don’t you fret.’
A husband, a stepson, a baby. Her family. She had a family when just days before all she had was a scheming brother who had always seen her as wilful and difficult and the babe inside her, loved already, but unknown.
Anna, Charlie, Grant. When her husband woke, refreshed, he would see her differently, realise he had a partner he could rely on. She owed him that, she owed Anna the opportunity to grow up happily here. The anxiety and the exhaustion had made her nervy, angry, but she must try to learn this new life, learn to fit in. As the pain of the funeral eased, she would be there for them all. Charlie would learn to like her, perhaps one day to love her. And somehow she would learn how to be a countess. She shivered. How could a countess stay out of the public eye?
When tomorrow comes, it will not seem so overwhelming, I’ll think of something. ‘Is that a hungry little girl I can hear? Mama’s coming.’
Hunger woke Grant. One minute he had been fathoms down, the next, awake, alert, conscious of an empty stomach and silence. Gradually the soft sounds of the household began to penetrate. The subdued crackle of the fire, someone trudging past in the snow, the distant sound of light, racing feet and the heavier tread of an adult in pursuit. Charlie exercising his long-suffering tutor, no doubt. Close at hand an infant began to cry, then stopped. Anna. I have a daughter. And a wife.
There was daylight between the gap in the curtains, falling in a bright snow-reflecting bar across the blanket someone had draped over his legs. Grant pushed the hair out of his eyes, winced and sat up, too relaxed to tug the bell pull and summon food and hot water.
Now, today, he must take up the reins of the earldom. That was perhaps the least of the duties looming before him. He had known for nearly twenty years, ever since his father died, that he would inherit. His grandfather had run a tight ship, but had taught Grant, shared decisions as he grew older, explained his thinking, given him increasing responsibilities. There were no mysteries to discover about the estates, the investments or the tenants and he had inherited an excellent bailiff and solicitor along with the title.
Charlie was going to be all right, given time and loving attention. Which left Kate. His new wife. What had he been thinking of, to marry her out of hand like that? She was certainly in deep trouble, all alone with a new baby and no means of support, but he could have found her a cottage somewhere on one of the estates, settled some money on her. Forgotten her.
His grandfather had been fretting himself into a state over Grant’s first marriage. Blaming himself for ever introducing Grant to Madeleine Ellmont, worrying that Grant was lonely, that Charlie had no mother, that the future of the earldom relied on a healthy quiverful of children. So much so that Grant had come to hate the house that had always been his home. But he could have lied to him, made up a charming and eligible young woman whom he was about to propose to, settled the old man’s worries that way.
What had prompted that impetuous proposal when he already knew his grandfather must be beyond caring about his marital state? Something about Kate had told him he could trust her, that she was somehow right. He had glimpsed it again yesterday when he had looked into her eyes and seen a spark there that had caught his breath for an instant.
A clock struck ten. Lord, he’d slept more than twelve hours. Grant leaned out of bed and yanked the bell pull. He had to somehow get everything right with Kate. She was unsettled to discover she was a countess with a stepson and that was understandable. He had an edgy feeling that he had disconcerted her when she was helping him to undress. He kept forgetting that while she might be a mother she seemed quite sheltered, not very experienced. What had he said? Nothing out of line, he hoped. For the first time he wondered about Anna’s father and just what that love affair had been—a sudden moment of madness, a lengthy, illicit relationship, or…
‘You rang, my lord?’ said Giles the footman.
Grant frowned at him for a second. It took some getting used to, being my lord now. ‘Hot water, coffee. Ask Cook to send up some bacon, sausage… Everything. She’ll know.’
When the water came he washed and then shaved himself while Giles found him clean linen and laid out plain, dark clothes. That was something else to add to the list, a valet.
When he tapped on the jib door and went through into Kate’s suite he found her in the sitting room, the baby in the crib by her side, her hands full of a tangle of fine wool. She was muttering what sounded like curses under her breath.
‘Good morning. Cat’s cradles?’
‘Oh!’ She dropped the wool and two needles fell out of it. ‘Mrs Havers, the housekeeper, brought me this wool and the knitting needles. She thought I might like to make a cot blanket, which was very thoughtful of her. I didn’t like to tell her I haven’t tried to knit since I was six.’ She grimaced at the tangle. ‘And tried was the correct word, even then. Did you need me, my lord?’
‘Grant, please. I came to see how you are and to thank you for persuading me into bed yesterday. I had gone beyond being entirely rational on the subject.’ There was colour up over her cheeks and he remembered making some insinuating comment about luring him into bed. Damn.
‘I hope you feel better this morning.’ She bent her head over the knitting once more, catching up the dropped stitches. ‘Charlie was up and about quite early, testing the bounds of his tutor’s patience. He seems a pleasant young man, Mr Gough.’
‘He’s the younger brother of a friend from university. I thought he would be a good choice as a first tutor—he has plenty of energy and Charlie seems to have taken to him.’
Kate picked up the wool and began to wind it back into a ball, her gaze fixed on her hands. ‘You slept well?’
‘Yes, excellently. How is Anna this morning?’
Grant sat down and retrieved a knitting needle from the floor as Kate answered. He might as well order the teapot to be brought and some fancy biscuits—this seemed like a morning call, complete with stilted, meaningless polite chat, achieving nothing.
‘Tomorrow, I intend going down to London. I must present myself at the House of Lords, the College of Heralds and at Court.’ He was escaping.
‘Oh.’ She set down the wool and sat up in the chair as though bracing herself. ‘I am sorry, I had not realised we would be leaving so soon. I am not certain I feel up to the journey yet.’
Surely that was not panic he saw in her eyes? He shook his head and realised Kate had taken that as a refusal to listen to her objection.
‘But…if