His Christmas Countess
That was perfectly, unarguably, reasonable. Kate tried another tack. ‘I’m shy of London. I won’t know how to go on there.’
‘Of course you will.’ Grant was beginning to look impatient now. ‘You are quite at ease with company in the neighbourhood, you are well informed on the issues of the day, you make excellent conversation and you dance very well and you’ll have fashionable gowns—there is nothing at all to be alarmed about.’
‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘I am.’
He was puzzled now, she could tell, and in a moment he was going to move from puzzlement to suspicion. ‘Where is the courageous woman I found in that bothy?’
There was nothing for it. Unless she developed a disfiguring rash or broke a leg, she was going to have to face London society. ‘Facing critical leaders of fashion is far more alarming than giving birth, believe me,’ Kate said with a laugh that she hoped rang true.
Grant visibly relaxed. ‘I will be there by your side.’
That is what I am afraid of. ‘Of course.’
Chapter Seventeen
Something was wrong with Kate. Grant paced along the terrace, welcoming the cold, rolling his shoulders to relax them after two hours of solid work in the study with his bailiff and secretary, sorting estate matters out so that he could safely go away for a few months. Was whatever had made her so wary of London related to the reserve that was always present just below the surface, however cheerful she seemed, however lost in the passion of their lovemaking?
He wanted to trust her totally and yet, somehow, he could not. Was it the ghost of his first marriage haunting him, holding him back from that complete act of faith? He only wished she would tell him what it was that put the shadow in her eyes, those moments of constraint when he sensed she was holding back from telling him...something. It was hard not to think, Confess something. He told himself it was not jealousy that he felt, that she was not still pining for Anna’s father. After all, she had told him she had not loved the man, and besides, what did it matter if she had? Theirs was a practical, companionable marriage, not a love match. Kate was passionate and responsive in bed, and that was what a man needed, not some foolish romantic fantasy with moonlight and roses. And heartbreak.
‘My lord?’
He turned to find Jeannie standing outside the long window to the drawing room, Anna in her arms. ‘Yes?’ He strolled across to tickle the baby under her chin and she laughed at him and held out her arms.
‘Could I leave Lady Anna with you a moment, my lord? I brought her down for an airing, but there’s much more of a nip in the air than I realised and I want another shawl for her.’
‘Of course. I’ll wait with her in the drawing room.’ He took Anna, who immediately fastened both chubby hands on his neckcloth and proceeded to demolish it as he carried her into the warmth.
‘You, madam, are a menace to any gentleman with pretentions to elegance,’ he chided and held her away while he went to examine the damage in the mirror. Not so bad, at least she hadn’t chewed it this time. Anna laughed up at him and he smiled back, then sobered as a thought struck him. What if Kate’s reluctance to go to London was a fear that a lack of resemblance between her husband and the child might be noticed? After all, Anna had reached the age when a proud mama might be expected to produce the child for a few minutes for morning callers to admire.
Their local acquaintance had known Anna as she grew up and, presumably, were used to her and accepted her as Grant’s child without question. Now he shifted Anna until he could hold her up facing the mirror beside his own face and compared their features—straight brown hair in a shade nearer his dark tones than Kate’s lighter tresses. A face that would, he was sure, echo her mother’s as she grew out of babyhood and the promise of height that would fit well with both her assumed parents.
And green eyes. He shifted her round again so he could study them more carefully. Several doting matrons had remarked on those eyes—‘Green, just like her papa’s!’ That was useful.
Anna was watching him now, eyes wide, and he realised that her eyes were not like his after all. They were a paler, clearer green with gold flecks and a dark rim around the iris. The effect was beautiful and unusual and when she grew up he imagined they would give her a unique charm. He checked his own eyes in the mirror—a darker green that verged towards hazel when he was tired or angry, so he’d been told. No gold flecks, no dark ring. But that was not a problem, Anna was like enough in various characteristics to both of them not to raise the slightest suspicions. It might be a different matter if she was a redhead or a pale blonde. He was conscious of disappointment that he had not found the reason for Kate’s anxiety.