If he moved in, she would be a good neighbor, but this sort of reaction to him was idiotic on her part and must stop.
Back to her calm, grounded self, she made a point of enjoying the meal she had ordered especially for their absent guest. The food was delicious, and too bad for him that he was missing out. Still, it amazed her that a duke’s son should have such shockingly bad manners.
At last, she and Papa finished their meal and repaired to the terrace to enjoy the evening air. They sat in their usual, outdoor, wooden chairs, chatting idly and watching the moths throng the lantern hung nearby on a shepherd’s hook.
“I wonder if George is behaving himself after your last lecture,” she remarked, and it was at that moment, just when she finally managed to distract herself altogether from the topic of Lord Trevor Montgomery, that, naturally, he arrived.
Grace went rigid and felt her heart give a kick like a mule in her chest at the distant sound of a polite knock on the front door. She gripped the chair arms to stop herself from leaping to her feet and rushing to answer it personally. That would not do. Heart pounding, she reminded herself sternly of her decision to keep her head about her; she also recalled his aversion to overly forward women. Indeed, a decorous cordiality was a more fitting reception for a national hero come to call.
Mrs. Flynn went to answer the door and a moment later, showed their visitor out onto the terrace.
Papa rose to greet him. “Aha, Montgomery! There you are at last! We’ve been expecting you. Good to see you again, m’boy.”
“I’m so sorry to call on you so late, Reverend. I don’t wish to disturb you and Miss Kenwood at this hour, but I at least wanted to stop by—”
“Nonsense,” Papa cut him off. “No apologies needed. We are happy you could join us. Have you eaten?”
“Actually, no,” he admitted ruefully, “I haven’t had a chance—”
“Ah, lured in from the darkness by the smell of a good meal,” Grace teased with an arch of her brow. “Mrs. Flynn, would you bring our guest his plate?”
“Honestly, I don’t wish to be a bother—”
“No trouble at all, sir,” the sturdy old woman told him. “Miss Kenwood had me put a plate of food together for you, just in case.”
He paused, as though startled to be treated more like family than a guest. “You’re too kind,” he said to them all with a tentative smile.
“Sit, please.” Her father gestured toward the chairs.
Grace had remained seated and inclined her head when Trevor bowed to her. “Miss Kenwood.”
“My lord,” she answered, fighting for all she was worth against the instant return of her wild overreaction to this man. “Would you like to dine al fresco or shall we return to the dining room?” she asked.
“This is perfect,” he replied. “Beautiful night.”
“Indeed. Do bring his plate out here, Mrs. Flynn, would you?”
“Aye, Miss.” The cook nodded, beaming at their handsome visitor, then she went to get his waiting, covered plate back out of the cold cellar.
Papa returned to his seat again, and Lord Trevor took the chair opposite Grace.
She was grateful that the moonlight hid her usual blush, a pattern that was getting rather tedious by now, yet she was acutely aware of him, his magnetic presence, the broad-shouldered size of him, the warmth that emanated from his big, muscled body. His scent, too. He smelled of sunshine and hard, dusty masculinity.
“Well, young man? Don’t keep us in suspense. What is your verdict on the Grange? I fear my daughter will burst if you don’t tell us.”
“Papa!”
Trevor leaned back in his chair, obscuring his wry smile with his hand for a moment as he held her gaze in amusement. “Will she, indeed?”
“No! I’m sure it’s of no consequence to me,” Grace averred, but she saw that he saw the sparkle in her eyes.
He just looked at her as if he had all the time in the world.
“Oh, come!” she ordered at length.
He
Back to her calm, grounded self, she made a point of enjoying the meal she had ordered especially for their absent guest. The food was delicious, and too bad for him that he was missing out. Still, it amazed her that a duke’s son should have such shockingly bad manners.
At last, she and Papa finished their meal and repaired to the terrace to enjoy the evening air. They sat in their usual, outdoor, wooden chairs, chatting idly and watching the moths throng the lantern hung nearby on a shepherd’s hook.
“I wonder if George is behaving himself after your last lecture,” she remarked, and it was at that moment, just when she finally managed to distract herself altogether from the topic of Lord Trevor Montgomery, that, naturally, he arrived.
Grace went rigid and felt her heart give a kick like a mule in her chest at the distant sound of a polite knock on the front door. She gripped the chair arms to stop herself from leaping to her feet and rushing to answer it personally. That would not do. Heart pounding, she reminded herself sternly of her decision to keep her head about her; she also recalled his aversion to overly forward women. Indeed, a decorous cordiality was a more fitting reception for a national hero come to call.
Mrs. Flynn went to answer the door and a moment later, showed their visitor out onto the terrace.
Papa rose to greet him. “Aha, Montgomery! There you are at last! We’ve been expecting you. Good to see you again, m’boy.”
“I’m so sorry to call on you so late, Reverend. I don’t wish to disturb you and Miss Kenwood at this hour, but I at least wanted to stop by—”
“Nonsense,” Papa cut him off. “No apologies needed. We are happy you could join us. Have you eaten?”
“Actually, no,” he admitted ruefully, “I haven’t had a chance—”
“Ah, lured in from the darkness by the smell of a good meal,” Grace teased with an arch of her brow. “Mrs. Flynn, would you bring our guest his plate?”
“Honestly, I don’t wish to be a bother—”
“No trouble at all, sir,” the sturdy old woman told him. “Miss Kenwood had me put a plate of food together for you, just in case.”
He paused, as though startled to be treated more like family than a guest. “You’re too kind,” he said to them all with a tentative smile.
“Sit, please.” Her father gestured toward the chairs.
Grace had remained seated and inclined her head when Trevor bowed to her. “Miss Kenwood.”
“My lord,” she answered, fighting for all she was worth against the instant return of her wild overreaction to this man. “Would you like to dine al fresco or shall we return to the dining room?” she asked.
“This is perfect,” he replied. “Beautiful night.”
“Indeed. Do bring his plate out here, Mrs. Flynn, would you?”
“Aye, Miss.” The cook nodded, beaming at their handsome visitor, then she went to get his waiting, covered plate back out of the cold cellar.
Papa returned to his seat again, and Lord Trevor took the chair opposite Grace.
She was grateful that the moonlight hid her usual blush, a pattern that was getting rather tedious by now, yet she was acutely aware of him, his magnetic presence, the broad-shouldered size of him, the warmth that emanated from his big, muscled body. His scent, too. He smelled of sunshine and hard, dusty masculinity.
“Well, young man? Don’t keep us in suspense. What is your verdict on the Grange? I fear my daughter will burst if you don’t tell us.”
“Papa!”
Trevor leaned back in his chair, obscuring his wry smile with his hand for a moment as he held her gaze in amusement. “Will she, indeed?”
“No! I’m sure it’s of no consequence to me,” Grace averred, but she saw that he saw the sparkle in her eyes.
He just looked at her as if he had all the time in the world.
“Oh, come!” she ordered at length.
He
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