Mercy “Oh God, look at you. Look at me!” I cried. Grant froze as he exited our closet, one hand still adjusting the knot on his de ep-blue tie. I almost w ept because it looked so good against the charcoal vest he was wearing over the starched white of his oxford. “This is going to be a disaster, isn’t it?” “What are you on about?” he asked, gaze swe eping over my clothing choice. “You look lovely.” “You’re wearing black tie and I’m in jeans. They’re going to judge.” “This is not black tie and you know it.” He leaned closer to the mirror over the dresser, squinting slightly at the perfectly even knot at the base of his throat. “Grandmother will comment on my lack of a dress coat, but given they’ll likely be in bed early, I didn’t want to be too formal.” Just as I was about to have a mental breakdown at his idea of too formal—likely spurred on by the utter disaster that was my sle ep last night in pr eparation for this, and the fact that I was wearing jeans and didn’t have time to change because they’d be here any minute—Grant pulled open the top right drawer of the dresser and selected a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, sliding them onto his face like he wasn’t the most attractive person in the history of the world. Then his eyes met mine in the mirror. My knees almost fucking gave out. “What are those?” He blinked. “I believe Americans call them the same thing we Brits do.” Grant had glasses. He had slutty little glasses that made him look dashing and smart with his perfectly windsw ept hair that always stayed in place, and it was cruel. “No.” I crossed my arms. “Take them off.” “I beg your pardon,” he said, completely affronted. “When my eyes are tired, I need them. I didn’t sle ep much last night.” “Well then, take a fucking nap,” I snapped. “I can’t focus with you wearing those.” It was important to note that I found myself very on edge that morning. Not just because of the lack of sle ep, or because my house was about to be overrun by the ruling class who wanted me gone, or even because of the Swiss cheese brain. Grant and I would be sharing a bed for the first time since all . . . this. Well, first time for me. My darling husband probably had all sorts of fun memories of us in a bed, and I had nothing exc ept a restless stomach and a jumpy pulse. He’d be right there. Limbs and all major appendages within touching distance.
Understanding filled his gaze, and the corner of his lips turned up in the beginnings of a smug, dangerous smile. “Ahh. You did have a very visceral response to them before too.” “I did not.” In my head, this came out firmly. Decisively. Instead, it was all breathy and unsure, and I wanted to slap myself. Of course I’d had a visceral response. Any human being in possession of a pulse and an attraction to the male species would have a visceral response to this freak show of hotness. Grant closed the dresser drawer and took a st ep closer to me, then another, until I found myself backed up against the bedroom wall. He braced a hand on the wall and leaned down, surrounding me with the crack smell of his cologne and the wall of heat generated by his body. “You told me to take them off or you couldn’t be held accountable for your actions.” I tried to focus on the knot of his tie. The glasses and the eyes and the face were just too much. Honestly, the tie didn’t help. Because the tie was around the throat, and he had a really great throat. “That’s a little vague.” “Believe me, the threat turned to rather explicit violence shortly thereafter.” His nearness made my skin hum. “I’m guessing you didn’t listen.” “Wasn’t particularly in the mood, no.” I snorted. “That tracks.” Finally, I steeled my resolve and lifted my eyes to meet his. “What happened?” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “Right,” I answered shakily. Grant shook his head, like he was trying to clear his vision, and pushed away from the wall. The last forty-eight hours had been a bit like this. Trading bits of information in a way that didn’t upset the proverbial apple cart. His new car had been delivered—a big shiny Mercedes G Wagon. Grant didn’t find it funny when I told him it looked like a LEGO car. His previous vehicle, I’d learned, was a small, sporty little thing with a fancy name that I’d already forgotten. After it lost the battle with the deer, he wanted bigger. Safer. Once I knew that, it was hard to tease him. While Grant was working, Rae had come over for coffee, her plaguelike sickness finally gone, and together we devised a plan for me to come back to school for a visit. One where I actually left the car and walked through the doors and saw people. She’d be able to talk to my class beforehand, make sure they were pr epared. I’d come weighed down with book recommendations and feel like I was accomplishing something other than being a sideshow act. But that would come later. After this lunacy we were attempting. Tearing myself away from our closet, I turned to Grant. “Are we ready?” I asked. His expression caught mine. “I honestly couldn’t say.”
I let out a shocked laugh. His gaze lingered on my mouth, then he gathered himself. I turned to leave the bathroom, and his hand shot out to grip my wrist. “Wait.” His hand was so warm. Why did he have calluses? That was . . . unexpected. “What?” Grant let out a slow breath, releasing my hand and using his to open the top bathroom drawer underneath his sink. Without making eye contact, and ignorant of the thrashing of my pulse, he removed a small black velvet box. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. My thumb rubbed against the divot of skin. “Oh yeah,” I said weakly. “That.” I’d thought I was pr epared. I’d thought I’d given myself enough time and mental fortification to be ready for anything at this point, but I was not ready for what I saw when he opened the box. “Oh,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.” I couldn’t look into Grant’s eyes as he carefully removed it from the padded slot made of white velvet. There was no tearing my eyes away from the prettiest ring I’d ever seen in my entire life. It was big. I’d expected that. But it was black. A giant black diamond, easily three carats, cut in a pear shape, surrounded by small pavé black diamonds. The two bands of the ring were wrapped in them too. The metal was dark and moody, like nothing I’d ever seen. Actually, no . . . that wasn’t true. My eyes flew to the plain band on Grant’s finger. The black band. It matched. Our rings matched. “Is that . . . black gold?” I asked, my free hand reaching out to touch my thumb to his ring. His chest rose and fell before he answered. “We wanted something different. Because this was different. We weren’t doing what was expected of us.” My gaze rose slowly, dragging over his chest. The base of his throat. His chin. The line of his jaw. Past the firm, unsmiling mouth. Then his eyes. His eyes. Bright. Fierce. Overwhelming. It was the way he’d looked at me in the hospital. Right after I’d woken up. My skin hummed. Pulse raced. “You felt safe marrying me because neither of us particularly wanted the risk of falling in love,” he said, voice a pleasant rasp in my ears. I was surrounded by Grant. Drowning in whatever this moment was. In him. “And these rings . . . they r epresented that, in a fashion. Our own little joke that no one else would understand.”
I held out my hand, fingers shaking visibly. The metal was cool, his fingers warm, as he slid the ring into place. The divot was filled. Covered. Everything put to rights. He let out an unsteady breath, bringing my hand to his mouth, where he placed a soft, lingering kiss on my knuckle. I was ready to mount him on the bathroom counter. Before either of us could do something extremely ill advised, the doorbell rang. Grant closed his eyes, hanging his head for a moment before st epping back, his mask firmly in place again when he glanced in my direction, then left the bathroom. With a hammering heart, I cleared my throat, smoothing my hands down the front of a pretty black silk blouse I’d found in the closet. I’d left my hair down today and added some layered necklaces and a few gold bangles that I’d found in a drawer. I could do this. We’d pr epped. The bag of questions had been a godsend, but we’d eventually set it aside for easier conversation about his relationship with his family. They wouldn’t expect me to remember them, so that helped, but I would still be inspected. Put under a microscope and pinned beneath a harsh, unforgiving light meant to amplify my flaws. Felt real good, let me tell you. “Are you coming?” Grant asked from the family room. I pressed my fingers to my temples and took a de ep breath, shooting one last look at the ring adorning my finger, then exiting the room with a forced smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Grant didn’t look nervous at all, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why. He extended his hand, and I stared at it for a beat, then wound my fingers through his while we walked to the door. Instead of his family on the other side, we found a tall man with pale, freckled skin in a black suit, holding his matching black cap in his hands. “Sir. Your family has arrived.” “Thank you. You may bring their bags in through here.” Grant st epped back and gestured to the stairs. “The guest rooms are on the lower level. You can put my grandmother’s things in the blue room.” The driver’s facial expression never moved from its polite mask. “I believe your grandmother is staying elsewhere.” I looked up at Grant, who betrayed nothing as he answered. “Very good.” There were two cars in our driveway—sleek and black and expensive. The logo on the front of the cars had my stomach bottoming out. Bentleys.
“Holy shit,” I whispered as the driver walked back toward the first car. “I can’t do this.” His hand squeezed mine. “Of course you can.” I glanced up. “You’re so sure.” “As you so aptly put it when you turned twenty-one, you’re Mercy fucking Kincaid. You can do anything.” Then he gave me a tiny wink. My chest swelled, coming dangerously close to cracking wide open. His mother, Caroline, exited the first vehicle—tall and almost painfully elegant, her auburn hair sw ept back in a sleek chignon. She wore ivory cashmere top to bottom, a camel-colored leather clutch in her hand and matching heels on her feet. Rose was next, with hair the same color as her mother’s, in a de ep-blue cashmere sweater and tweed wide-leg pants. “Okay, so you’re all models. Good to know.” Grant let loose a restrained sigh but didn’t seem inclined to argue. Rose broke out in a wide smile, striding toward me with her arms open. She had bright-blue eyes and a tiny gap between her front teeth that was probably the most adorable thing I’d ever seen. “Bloody hell, look at you.” Then I was crushed into her embrace, my hand ripped from Grant’s because, holy shit, she was strong. I let out a helpless laugh and patted her back. “Hi, Rose.” “God, I missed you. And you don’t even remember me, how fucking tragic is that?” Somehow she gripped me even more tightly. “Did he tell you I’m your favorite? Because I am and I won’t hear of anything different.” “Gently, sister,” came Grant’s dry voice from beside me. “I just got her back. I’d like to ke ep her in one piece for the time being.” My eyes cut to his, and he was watching with a faint smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. Rose released me with a warm laugh, gripping my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length so she could study my face. “Yeah, she’s in there, all right,” she said quietly. “I still see that fire in your eyes.” She turned to her brother. “Get over here, you speccy git.” “I missed you, too, sister,” he drawled. Rose hugged him. “You’re wearing those to drive her mad, aren’t you?” Over her shoulder, Grant’s eyes found mine, amusement making the silvery color lighter. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes, you fucking do.” “Rose, do remember your manners.” “Sorry, Mum. You can have a turn now.” Caroline Hastings waited patiently behind her daughter, a warm smile playing around her lips. “Hello, dear,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
She held out a hand, and I was strangely relieved at the formality of the greeting. I clasped it and let out a strong exhale. “A little overwhelmed. But fine, physically.” “My son was a wreck before you woke.” Before I could clock my body’s response to that—sharp and intense—she k ept speaking. “We’re very glad that you’re here with us.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Grant tuck his hands into his pockets and rock slightly on his heels, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m sorry I don’t remember meeting you. My brain hasn’t been cooperating in the way I’d like.” She assessed me quickly, a glance from top to bottom that lingered on my face much in the way her daughter’s had. Then she nodded. “It’ll come.” Caroline moved toward her son and greeted him with an air-kiss on either side of his face, then held his hands in hers. “Are you ready for her?” Grant cleared his throat. “Tea and sandwiches are waiting inside. We have a local place that does a lovely high tea, and they pr epared everything exactly as requested.” “Using the tea set she gave you?” “Naturally.” She nodded. “Excellent. That should suffice.” Caroline gave me a conspiratorial smile. “It’s darling, isn’t it? She loves him terribly to give it up.” I knew this. “Meissen, correct?” I said. “From the early 1900 s.” Her eyes lit up. “Exactly. Quite a prize for the collector.” Grant and I shared a quick look when she turned her attention to the house. “I am so thrilled to finally be here. I only wish your father could’ve joined us.” “He’s busy.” His tone was loaded, his eyes blank. She patted his arm. “Someday, my dear.” “The house is adorable,” Rose gushed. “I can’t wait for Granny to see it.” Caroline’s eyebrows lifted briefly. “Rose . . .” she said in a warning tone. His sister’s face was the picture of innocence. “What?” Caroline turned to speak with the driver, instructing him quietly about the bags, when the second driver emerged and opened the back door of the other car. My stomach was in danger of lurching up my throat. Grant set his hand on my lower back and leaned down to speak in my ear. I tried to hide my shiver and failed. “You remember Margaret Thatcher?” My brow furrowed. “The former prime minister? Yes.” “Legend has it that if my grandmother had been born already, the nickname Iron Lady would’ve been reserved for her. Good ol’ Margaret would’ve had to figure something else out.” “You’re helping so much, thank you.”
Rose overheard and laughed in delight. “Stop teasing her. You’ll be fine, Mercy. She’s not that scary.” Exc ept she was. She really, really was. Not because she was tall or imposing. If anything, Lady Elizabeth Hastings looked like she could fit right into my pocket. But the way her eyes, the same cold gray as her grandson’s, were trained on me, I was ready to melt into the sidewalk. She wore a slate-blue set—Chanel, maybe. Perfectly coiffed white hair and sedate heels on her feet. A giant sapphire brooch on her lapel caught the light, as did the rock weighing down her finger. Her features were severe, too sharp for her petite frame, and my skin seemed to shrink around my bones simply because her study of me was so intense. Grant’s hand on my back was the only thing ke eping me in place. I wanted to fucking bolt. Grant greeted her first with a deferential nod. “Grandmother. Welcome to our home.” She hummed, her gaze flitting briefly to the house and property, then back to me with a slight tilt to her head. “If I’m to believe what I’ve been told, you don’t remember meeting me.” “No, ma’am.” She looked so unmoved by this that I panicked and did the only thing I could think of. I curtsied. Fucking curtsied. Grant glanced up to the sky. Rose cleared her throat, trying to hide a laugh. And his mother gave me a sympathetic smile that made me want to die. His grandmother simply narrowed her eyes. “And you’re wearing denim. How very American.” “I told her to be comfortable in our own home, Grandmother,” Grant said, a steely edge to his voice. “And I like her denims.” “Of course you do.” I bit down on the tip of my tongue so hard I tasted blood. He gestured toward the house. “Would you like to come in for some tea and sandwiches?” “Not yet. I’d like to check into my suite and get freshened up.” “Of course,” he said smoothly. “We do have a room ready for you here, should you change your mind.” “I prefer a suite with turndown service and a five-star chef. You know that quite well.” She gave me another narrow-eyed, considering look. “I’ll return in a couple of hours. Fresh hot water for the tea. If you use that blasted microwave, I’ll know.”
Then she turned and marched back to the car with her chin in the air. I let out a gust of air. Caroline touched my back. “She’s not all bad, I promise.” The sk eptical look I gave her made her laugh lightly. “She was the same with me at first too.” “That’s not very comforting, Mother,” Rose said, then hooked her arm through mine. “Come on, sis, give me the full tour, then show me where I can take a bloody nap while the queen is gone.” “Oh, Rose,” Caroline sighed. “Don’t call her that.” “Never to her face,” she said gravely. Grant cleared his throat. “May I have a moment with my wife?” They nodded, following the driver into the house, and as soon as we were alone, the tension bled from my body. “That was so much worse than I thought.” His hands coasted up and down my upper arms. “You did well.” Then his eyes gleamed. “Other than the curtsy.” “Kill me now.” “I shan’t.” He touched my jaw with his thumb. “Chin up. The worst part is over. Just don’t let her bully you about.” I took a de ep breath, filling my lungs with him more than anything. “Okay. But I’m microwaving her water just because she said not to.” “From you, Kincaid, I would expect nothing less.”