Page 32 of The Trouble with a Dare

Grace allowed herself one last look in the full-length mirror of her dressing room and had to agree that the material was splendid. The gown had a dramatic line of black lace that marched down the left side of the skirts and was very dashing.

“You may look and admire my work,” Maggie said with amusement. “Set with those primrose yellow gloves and bonnet, you look in prime twig, and the first stare of fashion. Mr Oak will burst with pride, having you on his arm, you mark my words.”

Grace was saved from trying to find a modest response to this great praise as she heard the phaeton approaching and hurried downstairs. She flew out of the door, startling Sterling, who was already walking up the path. He must have returned to the house whilst she was fussing with her own attire as he was beautifully turned out in a snuggly tailored dark blue coat, and fawn trousers that clung to his long muscular legs like a second skin. Grace’s mouth went dry, and she stammered as he stopped in his tracks.

“I-I saw you from the window and didn’t wish to keep you waiting. I’ve been looking forward to this all morning.”

Sterling did not answer. He was staring at her so intently Grace looked down, suddenly afraid she had torn her petticoat or committed some other sartorial crime that would shock him. All appeared to be in order, so she glanced up again to see him swallow hard, as if he might say something, but he remained silent.

“Er… shall we go, then?” she asked brightly, for it appeared they might stand staring at other for what remained of the morning if she did not say something.

Sterling snapped out of whatever stupor had taken hold of him and hurried forward, offering her his arm.

“Thank you,” Grace said, accepting his help to climb up into the high seat of the phaeton. “I think we shall be lucky with the weather.”

“Yes,” Sterling said, before climbing up into the carriage and urging the horse to walk on.

Aware that he was not in a mood where she could urge him to converse, Grace settled back to enjoy the ride into Tunbridge Wells.

Sterling dared another sideways glance at his wife, experiencing another jolt of shock as he took in the sight of her. She looked as if she’d walked straight out of a fashion plate, or possibly sprung fully formed out of a clam shell like Venus herself.

Damn.

That had not been the correct image to fix in his mind, for then his wicked self-imagined her standing naked like Botticelli’s masterpiece, with her long golden hair and a strategic hand the only things covering her modesty. Hell. Don’t think of it, you fool, he cursed, trying to keep his attention on the road ahead. Yet soon enough he found his gaze drawn back to her, as if he believed she might disappear in a puff of smoke if he didn’t keep an eye on her.

She smiled as she caught him looking.

“Thank you for this,” she said, looking so happy that Sterling was glad he’d remembered his promise to take her shopping. “I know you are dreadfully busy and have far better things to be doing, but I am grateful.”

“Not better,” he corrected, though he could not look at her any longer for fear he’d be tempted to drive them off the road and take the kiss he’d denied himself that morning.

Just a kiss. Nothing more. A kiss was not much to ask. Was it?

“I know we go to Tunbridge Wells, but where precisely? May we visit the Pantiles?”

Sterling forced his mind back onto less improper lines and attended the conversation. “Of course. Can’t visit the Wells without the Pantiles. Will you take the water?”

Grace pulled a face, wrinkling her nose in disgust, which delighted him, making him laugh.

“Not got a taste for it, love?”

She darted a quick glance at him and smiled shyly. “It’s revolting.”

“I’ll not disagree.”

“Where will have lunch?”

“The Duke of York. If that pleases you?” he added, giving her an enquiring look.

To his surprise, she slipped her hand about his arm, her fingers resting on his sleeve and the sensation gave him such pleasure, not to mention a possessive sense of pride, that he could not help but smile at her.

“Everything about this day pleases me,” she whispered, before turning her attention back to the road ahead.

Sterling had little experience of shopping, unless livestock of some variety or purchases for the farm were on the list. He appreciated beautiful things and enjoyed having them around, but it had never seemed worthwhile to make his home more comfortable as his fortunes grew. Once upon a time, his home had been filled with books and pictures, but his mother had seen to that.

Sterling’s father had died when he was in his last year of university. His mother had insisted he forget his studies and return to run the farm, for he was needed. Sterling knew that was true—up to a point. His father had been a good and fair man, and his staff were loyal and knew their jobs. He thought they could fend for themselves for a while whilst he finished his degree. It had been the worst row he had ever had with his mother in his life, but he’d held firm. Sick with grief for the only person who he had ever felt cared for him, Sterling would not give up on his father’s dream. He had wanted this for Sterling, for his son to be educated, to be a gentleman, so his children might aspire to even higher heights.

In punishment, Sterling had returned to discover his mother had sold most of the books and paintings his father had acquired over the years. She had presented him with the money which she said he must invest in the farm, in his future. Only his sorrow had eclipsed his rage at having lost so much of his father’s legacy for a bag of coin. What little remained he had locked in his study, so she could not touch it.