His Christmas Countess

‘Grant.’ Her face was buried in the angle of his neck, her arms locked around his shoulders as he thrust. ‘Grant, I—’

‘Come again,’ he demanded, controlling, somehow, his own need. ‘Come for me again. Now.’

And she did, pulling him with her into the maelstrom.

* * *

I almost told him I loved him, Kate thought as she cradled her husband in her arms in blissful discomfort. The sofa cushion, a hard, cylindrical bolster, dug into the base of her spine, her corset was doing its best to stop her breathing and Grant, though without any spare flesh on him, was a significant dead weight on top of her. Thank goodness I didn’t.

‘Kate.’ Grant’s voice was muffled and he heaved himself up until he was sitting on the end of the chaise. ‘You were trying to say something just then.’

‘Probably more, or again,’ she temporised. ‘Goodness, after that, how do you expect me to recall my own name?’

He grinned. ‘Flatterer. Kate...’ That change of tone from teasing to serious within the space of two words was ominous. She braced herself. ‘Is the problem about going to London because you fear coming across your brother? I know you haven’t written to him. Perhaps we should make contact now, before we go.’

‘No.’ She pushed down her skirts and scrambled to sit upright at the end of the chaise. ‘Please, Grant. It will be too awkward. I cannot forgive him for how he behaved and he will not forgive me. Let sleeping dogs lie.’ He still looked unconvinced as he refastened his breeches. ‘It isn’t as though my parents are alive, or that I have other siblings.’ Which was true. She had cousins, but they were even more country mice than she was.

‘If it upsets you so much, I will not insist.’ Grant pushed his fingers through his hair, the habitual giveaway that he was frustrated. He would circle round, come back to this, she knew.

‘And Henry would be a most unsuitable uncle for Charlie, a really bad influence.’ That went home, she saw. ‘May I have the carriage tomorrow? I need to go into Newcastle to have my hair done.’

‘Surely the coiffeur will come here, or it can wait until you get to London?’

‘Oh, did I not tell you?’ She had not, quite deliberately. ‘I saw an advertisement in the Newcastle Courier that Monsieur Ducasse, late of Monsieur Maurice’s establishment in Bond Street, has set up in Newcastle. And Monsieur Maurice advertises in all the best journals—La Belle Assemblée and so on. I would feel so much more comfortable with a fashionable style. I wrote to reserve a private parlour at the King’s Head and he will attend me there.’ Grant opened his mouth and she said hastily, ‘Wilson will accompany me, of course.’

‘Then of course you may have the carriage.’ Grant got to his feet and lifted her hand to kiss the tips of her fingers. ‘Not that you need any changes to make you look quite delightful, my dear.’

‘Flatterer.’ She laughed up at him and pulled his hand back to rest fleetingly against her own lips. I love you and now I will lie and deceive and do whatever it takes to get through this ordeal without you ever discovering who the woman you married really is.

* * *

‘Kate?’ Grant stopped dead in the hallway, then advanced slowly, like a cat who has seen something that may be prey, or may be something alien and dangerous. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded as he completed the circle.

Grimswade, who had appeared the moment the carriage drew up, effaced himself, closely followed by Wilson clutching Kate’s bonnet, pelisse and reticule.

‘Monsieur Ducasse gave me a new style.’ She smiled brightly at him and fluffed the soft curls that framed her face. ‘I think it’s very dashing.’

‘He’s cut it.’ Grant’s green eyes were narrowed as he studied the effect.

‘Just the front. I knew it would curl if he did that. The back is still long, so it can be put up. You see?’ Kate turned right round, skirts belling out.

‘It changes the shape of your face.’

She still couldn’t work out whether he liked it or not, or whether he realised that she had plucked her eyebrows into a finer arch. ‘I think it shows off my cheekbones. I didn’t know I had any before.’

‘And the colour...’ Grant was prowling again.

‘Just a shade darker. Monsieur Ducasse said it would make my eyes look bigger.’ He came to a halt in front of her and she widened her eyes at him. ‘And bluer.’ And he had stained her eyebrows to match. Wilson had the little brush and bottle safely tucked away.