Chapter 13
LORD ELLISON—BENEDICT—took up far more space on the small couch than Mrs. Turner had.
He leaned forward, setting his plate on a low table close to the fire. When he sat back again, he seemed closer than before. His head tilted to where the Turners had disappeared. “What did Mrs. Turner have to say of your relationship?”
Grace adjusted her skirts around her knees, unaccountably nervous.
“Oh, it was a delightful conversation. She said we met three years back at the harvest ball and then nearly every month since. She was very complimentary of me. She, at least, did not seem to think I was always a… what was it? Statue?”
“There is accusation in your voice, my dear. I have already admitted I was wrong.”
Her lungs missed an entire breath. “That you did. I should not tease you.”
“No, I hope you always will. I love it.”
“Very well,” she said. “But do not grow to regret that request.”
He grinned at that, but her mind was occupied by his words.
Love. Always.
She’d grown quite attracted to Lord Ellison—to Benedict—over the last two weeks, had found him charming and handsome.
But this. This man with his intent eyes and flirtatious words… she might not escape a courtship with him unscathed. Certainly, she would be lacking in proper air supply if she could not get her heart to cease its thumping.
He joined his cup to his waiting plate, turning even more of his focus on her as he pulled off his gloves. Likely so he might eat the light spread he’d been given by Mrs. Turner.
Except, he didn’t pick up the plate.
He picked up her hand, instead. In one deft movement, he slid strong fingers below her palm and interlaced them with her own. She felt every inch of contact despite her gloves. It sent vines of pleasure up her forearm.
Could he care for her as she did him? He must, unbelievable though it may be.
Unless… Mama’s words slunk in the back of her mind, like a cough she could not shake. Her dowry. He’d admitted wanting to take a different direction with their estate than his father wished. Was her dowry the key to his autonomy?
No. That was ludicrous. She may not know a great deal, but she knew Benedict, and he would not falsify his interest in her for money. There was the issue of her past though; so many unanswered questions.
“Do I wish to know what that crease between your brows is indicative of?” Lord Ellison asked.
She was strangely nervous to look him in the eye, as if he might read her concerns in them.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“No, you—” but her voice faltered.
“You are not regretting allowing me to court you, are you?” The words were said lightly enough, but an intensity was beneath them.
“No.” Her voice was quiet.
“Good.” But his eyes remained on hers. He drew in a slow breath. “I care for you a great deal, Grace.” He squeezed her hand in his much larger one.
“And if my memory is returned to me and it turns out that I was actually a bore? If I do prefer singing and embroidery to horse rides?”
His eyes were focused on their hands, and her heart was nearly in her throat.
This, truly, was the crux of it all. Because unsettled though her mother’s comment on her dowry had made her, strange as it was to know she’d been betrothed to a nameless man, and sudden though this courtship might seem…
she had come to know Benedict Ellison over the last fortnight.
And though the strength of her feelings was shocking given the short timeframe, her own sentiments were not what worried her.
It was his. She’d come to see him as an honorable, hardworking, amusing man, but how did he see her? Her memory would return to her—she had to believe it would—and would he feel trapped in a marriage with a woman who evolved into something else after her recollections were reinstated?
“Everyone changes, Miss Whitmore,” he said, meeting her eye.
“Tendencies, interests, even some personalities. We grow, we experience new things, and we change. No one falls out of love simply because their spouse gained a new skill or lost interest in an old one. I imagine that I would find embroidery, singing, even daily shopping trips fascinating with you by my side. I am not interested in courting you for your hobbies. But for you. For the way you tell a story and the perpetual lift of your lips. The way you care for your siblings and try new things and listen when I speak to you. Everything about you.”
His gaze was steady, his strong jaw set as he slowly wrapped his second hand around his first, trapping her hand quite effectively.
But was it trapped if she was happy to be there?
The door opened, and one of Benedict’s grooms cleared his throat. “Lord Ellison, the rain is picking up. I think we’d best be on our way, my lord.”
Benedict did not look away from Grace. His eyes flicked between both of hers as if searching for something.
“We will be out momentarily,” he said, his hands loosening.
Her hand felt cold when at last he let go.
But her heart. Heavens, it was nearly aflame.