Compromising Kessen (The Vandenbrook #1)(55)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

“Grandmother, you are not senile.”

Lady Newberry shrugged. “I do sometimes forget myself, but no matter. I have you here now to keep me company.”

Kessen felt a twinge of guilt shoot through her chest as she realized this was only the second time in her life she had visited her grandmother. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her, but she had been so focused on her own life and getting through college, she hadn’t had time for family, especially family which she assumed sang “God Save the Queen” every five minutes like her father.

“I’m sorry, Grandmother,” Kessen said quietly.

Lady Newberry looked up. “For what, my love?”

“Not visiting. Not being here for you. I don’t know—everything.” Kessen slouched into the chair, feeling like the worst sort of granddaughter.

“First of all, lovey, sit up. Your American posture is enough to send me into a fit. Secondly, planes travel both ways, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s not waste time worrying about the past.” She kissed her on the cheek. “After all, we do have a lovely future ahead of us, do we not?”

Kessen grabbed her grandmother’s hands and kissed them. “We do.”

“Good, now put on your dress and mask. It’s time I present my granddaughter to the ball.”

Kessen did as she was told.

Her grandmother led her outside the chamber doors to the top of the stairs. Kessen barely had time to whisper before they were announced, “How will I find him?”

“Who, dear?”

“Christian. How do I find him if everyone is in a mask?”

Lady Newberry gently laid her hand across Kessen’s arm. “Follow your heart, my dear. It won’t lead you astray.”

“Lady Newberry and Miss Kessen Newberry of Lord Newberry.” The man took their cards and allowed them entry into the room.

Every eye in the room shifted toward Kessen and her grandmother. It felt good to walk arm-and-arm with her grandmother, knowing that somewhere in the crowd was the man she was to marry, the man who despite all his negative comments about romance novels, put together a perfect recreation of Kessen’s favorite one that night.

How he knew it was her favorite novel, she would never know. Most likely, Nick spilled the beans about her staying up during finals week in college to finish the book. She nearly failed her business ethics class, but it had been worth it.

It was her favorite book of the Vandenbrook series. If memory served correctly, the love story started at a masquerade and ended at a masquerade in the Vandenbrook country house—the same country house where the ball was being held.

She was the star of her own novel and wonder of all wonders, her love interest was a Vandenbrook. The thought made her suddenly nervous. What was she doing? She was marrying her dream and falling in love with him at the same time. What if he didn’t feel as strongly? What if he got bored or worse yet, what if he resented Kessen’s independence?

Her incessant worrying did nothing for her already churning stomach. She walked toward the refreshment tables in search of a glass of wine, when suddenly she felt an electric pull to turn around.

“Christian,” she said, without looking.

A delicious laugh danced around her ears. “How did you know?” he whispered, his breath tickling the curve of her neck.

“Sixth sense.” Her answer was breathless, without the usual air of confidence.

“Dance with me.” Christian put his hands on her hips and slowly turned her around to face him. He was wearing a midnight black mask that did wonders for his piercing eyes.

He looked like the Phantom of the Opera, only darker and more mysterious if it were possible.

It wasn’t until he led her to the dance floor that she noticed he was also wearing a cape. The man was full of surprises. He pulled her tightly against his body and began a slow waltz. She instinctively leaned in. The desire to smell his skin and touch him all over set her nerves on fire. The hunger to be alone with him nearly undid her on the dance floor.

Out of options and clueless as to what to do with her hands, she began having trouble breathing. When had his presence ever set her off this much?

It had to be the wine.

She had had at least three glasses, but it had been over the course of two hours. Her nerves were absolutely shot. Maybe it was the dancing, or the feeling they weren’t living in 2012 anymore, but during the 1800s and at a masquerade ball. Would this feeling be the same if the century were different?

Upon looking at Christian’s smile, she highly doubted it. It was odd seeing such perfectly straight white teeth on a British man. Her dad had once told her the Brits drank so much tea it was a wonder they had teeth at all.

Christian’s teeth were perfect. As was his body and smile and eyes. Goodness, she needed to find something wrong with him before she went completely mad. Granted, he could be infuriating, and he did need to be brought down a few notches, but who didn’t?

“Kessen?” Christian whispered into her hair.

“Yes?” Her breathing stopped altogether.

“Shall we take a stroll into the garden?”

“Now?”

“Now,” he whispered into her hair.

“But…” She looked around to see if anyone was watching them. Of course people were watching them; they were the stars of the show.

“I don’t care what people think,” he said, reading her thoughts.

“Okay.”

He cupped her face with one of his hands and gently leaned down to brush his lips across hers. “Let’s go.”

She’d be a fool not to follow. Keeping silent as they walked outside was relatively easy, considering the drug-like effect she experienced the minute he kissed her.

They walked in silence all the way through the back garden until they came to a small blanket with champagne and bread.

“Sit,” he ordered softly.

She obeyed.

He poured two glasses of champagne, and then reached into the picnic basket. “Close your eyes.”

“But—”

“Close them.” His voice was sterner this time.

She did as she was told and waited, but nothing happened. Then she heard the rustling of pages and Christian clearing his throat.

“It wasn’t that George was particularly fond of Miranda; he merely had a mild interest in her welfare. At least that’s what he told himself every time he followed her into the garden. And every time he left to go his separate way, he would say it would be the last time.

“This pattern continued for two years. Each night he would follow her into the garden, and each night he would return alone.