She speared him with her gaze. “Please understand. The pleasure I experience doesn’t come from a place of ignorance. I have suffered my share of hardships in life. Joy is an active choice for me. I choose to be thankful that today I get to savor life when so many others… do not.”
Her words trailed off and her countenance fell. His pride warred with his compassion. She was obviously hurting, but she’d struck him a heavy blow. How dare she accuse him of being ungrateful! Several defenses formed in his mind, and one almost rose to his lips when she spoke again.
“My father died three days after Christmas—”
Discordant notes echoed through the room, startling them both.
Miss Prudence abruptly stood from the piano. “Forgive me. I find myself far more fatigued than I realized.”
Grabbing her skirts, she rushed from the room. Alan stared after her, wondering what had caused her to flee like a specter was chasing her.
Grace’s quiet voice answered as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “She hates talking about Papa’s death. He died the day after her birthday from a lingering sickness. That was six years ago, but sometimes it is still as raw as yesterday.”
“I can understand that. It’s been years since my father’s death. There are days the pain is overwhelming.” Her big brown eyes drooped and he stiffened. “Perhaps it is not very masculine to admit such things.”
“On the contrary.” She stretched a hand between them as if to stay his words. “It takes great strength to admit something Society scorns.”
Alan chuckled quietly. “Mr. Clayton would agree with you.”
She smiled. “Another reason to like him. I do find your uncle a delight to be around.”
“As do I.” He rubbed his hands together. His anger had faded, but he was hesitant to ask the question that burned in his mind. What if her answer challenged the last vestige of his pride?
He took a deep breath and finally said, “What did you mean when you said I wasn’t grateful?”
Her features softened. “I did not mean you were not grateful as a person, only that you were struggling to find gratitude. When my father died, I too lost my joy in life. Every day seemed like the same old drudgery. Only one day, while picking a few spring flowers for my mother, just as my father used to do, I realized how sad it was that I was not grateful for the experience. My father would have given anything to pick my mother one more bouquet, and yet I barely even looked at the blooms, my mind still firmly in the past.”
She glanced down at her hands neatly folded in her lap. “I decided to never take an experience for granted again. I would count my blessings and find the joy that my father could no longer experience.”
Silence descended between them as Alan let her words sink in. Harvey had been a jolly fellow, always pointing out little things he missed. The color of sunsets, a bee on a flower, even the way the sun glinted off a puddle of water after a rainstorm. Howwould he feel knowing his dearest friend barely noticed the food in his mouth, let alone his good fortune?
Grace cleared her throat. “My apologies.”
“For what? You have just dropped a gem of knowledge in my lap. What have you to feel sorry for?”
“I…” She closed her mouth and dropped her gaze to the floor.
He scooted to the edge of his seat and clasped his hands. “I appreciate your candor. As a military man, I respect straightforwardness, and you have opened a whole new view to me. I do not think my father or my friend would appreciate knowing how little I take note of the blessings I have been given. I shall endeavor to do better.”
She ducked her head, a pleased smile on her lips. The firelight glinted off her curls and highlighted the curve of her neck. Slowly, her eyes rose to meet his, and he stilled. She was so beautiful.
The fire crackled, much like the tension that filled the room. There was an unusual heat in her dark brown eyes. Lifting a hand, she tucked a curl behind her ear, her fingers slowly trailing along her jaw and curling softly at her chin. The unconscious movement drew his gaze to her soft pink lips and Alan was not certain he could resist the pull much longer. When had their friendship shifted to this intense game of cat and mouse?
A creak at the door drew his attention as Mrs. Lenning entered. Gratitude warred with disappointment. A few moments more and he would have slipped on to the settee next to Grace to see if a second kiss could be as exhilarating as their first. But his head was not clear, and he knew it. Best to leave important decisions, such as crossing their friendship barrier, for the clarity of morning.
“Forgive me,” Mrs. Lenning said, her blue-green eyes flicking about the room. “I seem to have left my shawl somewhere.”
He stood and glanced about. Moving to the seat she’d occupied earlier, he pulled a thick wool shawl from the creases of the chair.
“Is this it?”
Mrs. Lenning took it from him. “The very one. Thank you, Lord Gladsby.”
Grace rose. “I am glad you could find it, Di.” Then turning to him, she said, “I believe I will turn in as well. Thank you for a lovely Christmas.”
He gave a tiny bow. “Thank you for seeing the loveliness in it.” Then he stepped closer, dropping his voice so only she heard. “And for reminding me to appreciate it.”
She shifted, rubbing her hands together in obvious embarrassment. Her gaze flicked over her shoulder at Mrs. Lenning, who was retreating from the room.
