Chapter 12
Grace twisted one of her red curls as she tried not to look across the drawing room at Lord Gladsby.
He’d been late for dinner, but at least he’d come.
Now, seated with them around the large hearth that burned the yule log, they all listened to Bradley tell a story of a young girl and a clumsy ghost. As Prudence predicted, it was far more comedic than ghastly as the specter knocked the mistletoe into the plum pudding while hiding from the family dog.
Everyone else in the room smiled, and some even chuckled, but Lord Gladsby’s face remained impassive, his eyes not even focused on the storyteller. What must he be thinking?
When his eyes flicked in her direction, she dropped her gaze to her lap and berated herself for thinking he’d not see her staring. Bradley’s voice faded into the background as her embarrassment fueled her thoughts.
She’d already made Lord Gladsby uncomfortable in his own home and now she was making his Christmas Eve awkward. Poor man couldn’t even listen to a story without her ogling him like the delicious plum pudding from Bradley’s story.
Using two fingers, she picked at an embroidery thread that had come loose on her cream gown. She’d not taken as much care with her appearance this evening, not wanting to appear desperate for attention as she was certain she must have earlier that morning.
Applause caused her to jerk her head up as Bradley took a ridiculously dramatic bow. Lord Gladsby clapped politely, but his unimpressed expression did not change.
Prudence popped up from her seat ready to take her brother’s place, gently pushing him out of the central storytelling spot before he’d finished receiving his accolades.
Diana cast Grace an amused glance and Grace smiled back.
Her parents really had missed the mark when they’d named her sister Prudence.
Then again, she was not really all that graceful either. More than once she’d toppled both her and Lord Gladsby into the snow. Again, her eyes strayed to him, but this time he was examining the tips of his shoes, a very clear frown evident on his face as Prudence began her tale.
“Once upon a Christmas Eve, in the dark of northern France, a haunting moan filled the trees where the spirits like to dance.” Crouched like a cat slinking through the woods, Prudence paced with her hands outstretched like claws.
“December’s bite rested on the wind, ready to claim another wandering soul.
Boy or girl, it mattered not, nor if they were young or old. ”
A chill ran over Grace’s skin, causing goose pimples to emerge.
Prudence’s sing-song words rose and fell as she spoke of a lonely traveler lost and searching for a safe place to lay his head.
She always had been a marvelous storyteller, but tonight she was outdoing herself as she spoke of a child’s haunting wail and the man’s frantic search to find the poor soul.
Only Grace had heard this one before.
There was no child. Only the wind.
In the end, the man would go mad and be found frozen next to many others who never made it through the haunted Christmas wood.
When Pru reached the part of the story where the man ran from tree to tree searching for the child, the creak of a chair stole her attention.
Lord Gladsby was leaning forward and for a moment she thought him transfixed with the story.
Then the flicker of a candle illuminated the sweat clinging to his brow.
His jaw was set but his eyes were unfocused.
Something was wrong.
Slowly she rose from her chair, not wishing to disturb anyone else.
The pull to be near him, to make certain he was well, propelled her forward as she crept to his side.
Prudence was nearing the part of the story where the man’s madness would be revealed.
Grace crouched down by Lord Gladsby’s chair, hoping to relieve a bit of his distress.
The movement made him startle and one hand shot to the side of his leg as the other roughly grabbed her wrist. She let out a cry of alarm at the climax of Prudence’s story.
The others jumped in their seats.
Lord Gladsby’s eyes widened, panic filling their blue depths, and he immediately let go of her wrist. Grace shot to her feet to keep from falling over.
Everyone laughed and clapped.
“Well done, Pru,” Bradley said. “I wasn’t certain how you’d improve upon that story since you’ve told it before, but having Grace scream at the climax was masterfully done.”
Grace’s brow furrowed, but Prudence didn’t even appear confused. She just beamed at her success and gave a flourishing bow. The others clapped louder.
Still a bit shaken from her interaction with Lord Gladsby, Grace tried to leave, but her gown was caught. Glancing down, she discovered Lord Gladsby still clutching the side of his leg. Instead of his trousers, however, his hand grasped the part of her skirt that had brushed against him.
The pull on his fingers must have brought him to his senses, because he finally focused on the cream velvet and silk in his hand. His nose scrunched and his gaze followed the fabric up her body until his eyes landed on her face.
Quickly he released her, a tinge of color dusting his cheeks. “My apologies.” He blinked at her a time or two more, then shot to his feet. “Please excuse me.”
Before anyone could say another word, he left the room.
Grace stared after him, her brow furrowed. He’d never been rough before. She’d seen him jumpy often enough, but never this disconnected and disoriented. Somehow, she did not think he even knew what had transpired.
She wanted to follow him, to ask after his behavior, but that would be far too forward.
A hand settled on her sleeve, and she glanced at its owner.
Prudence’s pretty dark eyebrows lowered over her brown eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”
Grace settled her hand over her sister’s. “No. Lord Gladsby appeared ill while you were speaking. I think he has simply retired early for the evening.”
Whether it was true or not, she did not want their host’s behavior to ruin the evening for Prudence and make her think something was amiss with her performance. Thankfully, she accepted the explanation without question, but when Grace glanced around the room, the others were staring at her.
“He felt poorly,” she stammered out, uncertain if they’d heard her earlier statement.
A few nodded, but Lady Hamdon still held her gaze. What did the lady mean by such a stare?
The doors to the drawing room opened and for a moment Grace hoped Lord Gladsby had changed his mind, but a footman entered carrying steaming mugs that emitted the most wonderful citrusy aroma.
She smiled. Wassail was a favorite of hers.
Lady Hamdon took over as hostess and began dispersing the drinks. When she came to Grace, she handed her two.
Glancing down at the mugs, Grace murmured, “I do love wassail, but I think one should suffice.”
Lady Hamdon’s tiny hand settled gently on her arm as she leaned close. “Take it to the study on the second floor in the family wing. Fourth door down.”
Grace’s eyes widened, understanding her intent immediately.
“But I…” she began, then stopped when the corners of Lady Hamdon’s icy blue eyes drooped, a pleading in their depths that she could not ignore.
Either she was a wonderful actress and this was part of her matchmaking ploy, or she was equally worried about her brother’s odd behavior.
Grace chose to believe the latter.
She searched Lady Hamdon’s face. What sort of faith did the woman have in her to think she could make it better?
Her kiss with Lord Gladsby had begun this discord. Maybe if she apologized, let him know she understood its insignificance, perhaps he would not closet himself away from everyone.
Slowly, she dipped her chin in acceptance and moved to the door. A footman opened it and she made her way up the stairs, careful not to spill the warm, spicy mixture. As she reached the open corridor on the east side of the house, her heart pounded in her chest.
Would he think it impertinent of her to intrude on his solitude? What if he refused to speak with her? Why had he appeared so far away while listening to Pru’s story?
The last question rolled around in her mind, her curiosity propelling her forward.
She counted each door as she passed. At the fourth one, she stopped and glanced down at the two silver handled mugs.
She couldn’t knock and there was no footman to open the door for her.
If she used her elbow, it would likely slosh the liquid all over her hands and stain the beautiful sage and coral carpet beneath her feet.
Her lips twisted to the side. There was only one thing for it. Using her slipper-covered foot, she tapped the bottom of the dark wood door.
“Come in,” a firm voice commanded.
She stared at the door. Now what? She could not open the door herself, so she tapped again.
“I said enter,” Lord Gladsby snapped from the other side of the door.
Maybe this had been a bad idea. It was inappropriate, at the very least. She nibbled on the inside of her lower lip, hesitating between darting down the hall to the closer servants’ staircase and returning the way she’d come.
Before she could decide, however, the door swung open. Lord Gladsby glowered. He opened his mouth no doubt ready to scold her but stopped.
“Grace.”
Her name came out as a whisper, but it trailed over her skin like a warm breeze heating her far more than the sun and bringing color to her cheeks. It was the second time he’d forgone formality. What did such lapses mean?
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss Lenning.” His gaze dropped to the mugs in her hands. “Has my sister lowered you to that of a maid now? Not the way to treat a guest of Engalworth, is it?”
She smiled and extended a mug, which he took. “I don’t mind. I’m used to attending to others’ needs.”
The mug stopped halfway to his lips, and he frowned. “I am not an invalid who needs tending to.”
The warmth of the quiet moment fled with his returned displeasure.
She’d not meant to make it sound like he was incapable, only that she often anticipated others’ needs before they voiced them.
Mama’s need for someone to complain to, Pru’s need for a companion, Diana’s need for a shoulder to cry on, even Bradley’s need for someone to laugh with.
“I only wanted to help,” she said softly, her chin tucked so she could not see his narrowed eyes. “If you’d rather I go, I understand.”
She stepped back, prepared to leave, but his hand shot out, stopping short of touching her. “No, please stay.”