Page 23 of The Trouble with a Dare

I hope you will come and visit, though not just yet. Please do not think me unkind or that I do not wish to see you. It is only that everything is so new, and I am adjusting to my circumstances still. Give me a month or two to discover just who Mrs Oak is, and then I shall greet you with open arms and a happy heart.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Grace Oak to her brother, The Hon’ble Mr Larkin Weston (children of Baroness and Baron Rothborn, Jemima and Solomon Weston).

5th of September 1839, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

Grace drew her mouth away from her husband’s, wondering how she dared meet his eyes. He was staring at her, mute with shock. Not that it would take much to render the man speechless, as he was hardly loquacious to begin with. She’d probably frightened anything resembling a conversation from him for the foreseeable future. Good Lord, what had she done? Worse than that, she’d probably made him think he’d mistaken her. He’d been kind to her up till now, believing she had been led astray and was not simply a bold, wicked girl who got herself in the family way by behaving like a tart, as most would assume. Perhaps now he would think otherwise. Yet, he was her husband and this distance between them was so ridiculous and—

And he was breathing very hard, she realised now. She allowed her gaze to travel over him, to the large hand clutching the gate in a death grip. His forearms were bare, powerful, and covered in dark hair. Something deep inside quivered, a pleasant, anticipatory sensation that startled her. She had spoken the truth to him though. She had admired him the first time she’d seen him, even though he’d seemed so very intimidating.

Grace jumped a little as he lifted his hand to her cheek. He stopped at once. She let out a breath, disappointed when he did not close the distance and his hand stilled beside her. Grace reached out and covered it with her own, pressing it to her cheek.

He let out an unsteady breath.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice rough.

She stared up at him, trying her best to figure out what he found so difficult to accept.

“For you to be my husband,” she said, thinking that was simple enough.

His dark brows drew together even as his thumb slid over her cheek in a gentle caress. “And what will your fine friends think when they come and visit you here? When you introduce me as your husband? Is it not better that… that I keep my distance?”

Grace stared at him, bewildered. “You think I would be ashamed of you?”

“And why not? Your friend married a marquess recently. Henry Stanhope is fine catch too, not to mention Cassius… a viscount, that one.”

“Sterling Oak, you are a snob,” she said, glaring at him.

He dropped his hand, his frown deepening. “I am not!”

“Then why would you think they disapprove of you?” she cried in frustration. “They have invited you to Saxenhurst and to Holbrook many times. Cassius and Henry are your friends, are they not? And I know for a fact Bainbridge doesn’t give a brass farthing for the nobility, most of whom he thinks—and I quote—are mad as badgers. My friends will care for nothing past the fact that I am happy, and currently I am not at all happy because you will not spend over two minutes in my company, let alone speak to me.”

Sterling had taken a step back during this diatribe, as well he might. Grace took a breath and composed herself. Well, perhaps he might realise she had been honest with him. She was not made of spun sugar.

“You are angry with me,” he said, watching her warily.

Grace bit back a sarcastic retort with difficulty and made herself reply with something close to her normal speaking voice instead of a shrill shriek of irritation. It wasn’t easy. “Yes. I am.”

He walked away from her, frowning all the while, hands in his pockets. She watched as he stopped and stared out at the countryside before them, waiting for him to come back to her. There was a great temptation to stand beside him, interrogate him, but she felt Sterling was a man who did not like to speak unless he had considered his words. So, she waited, doing her best not to fidget with impatience. Finally, he returned to her side by the gate, his gaze falling to her hand, which rested on the top bar, as his had done. Tentatively, he placed his hand beside hers, their fingertips almost but not quite touching.

“Tell me what you want,” he said and, as Grace looked at him, she saw he was serious.

His dark eyes were still somewhat wary, but the frown had gone, and she felt there was a hopeful note to the question. Or perhaps she only wanted to hear it. Grace swallowed. Well, he’d asked, so she had better be clear.

“I… I would like for us to get to know each other properly. I would like to be a help to you, not just an ornamental wife who sits at home and looks pretty, for I will run mad if I have nothing more to do than design the garden or take tea with my friends. I want to be a comfort to you when things go wrong, the person you wish to tell of your triumphs. I hope to be your friend and your ally, and… and m-mother to your children.”

She knew she was blushing now, her cheeks burning with everything she had just implied.

“Truly?” he asked, leaning towards her, the question intent, almost urgent. “This is what you want? Not what you think you owe me out of some misplaced sense of gratitude?”

Grace felt her eyebrows go up. “Well, in the first place, it would not be the least bit misplaced. I am grateful to you. You saved me from shame, and for that I shall always be thankful, but I am selfish enough to wish to be happy too, despite the mess I have made of things so far, and I know I cannot be happy with a husband who will not allow me to share his life.”

He held her gaze and Grace realised she was holding her breath under the weight of his scrutiny. His eyes were so dark, and so very hard to read. It was difficult not to look away from him, and then his hand, warm and rough, slid over hers and he took a step closer.

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat as she stared up at him and his free hand cupped her cheek, this time with no hesitation. He trailed his fingers along the line of her jaw and tilted her chin before leaning down and pressing a kiss to her mouth. It was careful, tender and sweet, so very sweet, and yet the feelings it engendered were not sweet at all, but hot and demanding. Too quickly he drew away from her and yet she was relieved too, finding herself unprepared and startled by the intensity of feeling.

“You want to know me,” he said, his mouth close to hers.

Somehow, Grace gathered up her scattered wits and made her tongue work. “I do.”