She kissed him.
Oh, God. For one moment, he was riveted in place by that single, solitary point of contact. Her lips on his—how long had he envisioned this moment? Long enough that he let his eyes flutter shut, let himself fall into the feel of it. That light caress, the brush of her lips against his…
He’d have called it bittersweet, but all the sweetness came from her, the bitterness from him. Her kiss didn’t sweep away the dark anguish he felt in his heart. Instead, it embraced it. It acknowledged it. This is real, her kiss said, your hurt is real. It is real and important. So let me share it with you.
It was a kiss like dark chocolate, a heady mix of cacao and sugar, each ingredient imperfect on its own, but breathtaking when mixed together. And when he tasted her, when he nipped at her lips and she opened up to him, she was sweet and tart, like cherries in brandy.
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her more deeply. “Lydia.” Her name was perfect on his lips, perfect whispered against hers.
And God, she knew how to kiss. A man could fall into a kiss like this and never want to leave. Her body molded itself to his, giving up all its secrets. The warm flush of her chest as she slid more deeply into sexual arousal; the perk of her ni**les, felt only dimly through the layers of fabric between them. Her hips pressed against his, acknowledging his growing arousal with her own.
He’d wanted a kiss for midwinter. But secretly, he’d wished for this—that she might not only see him, but like him. Maybe love him.
“Jonas,” she whispered, opening up for him. He leaned forward and set his hands on the rough plaster to either side of her head. Pine needles tickled his legs, but none of it mattered. He couldn’t have been more comfortable in a feather bed surrounded by pillows than he was at this moment.
He wasn’t sure when her hands started roaming, when his own moved in response. He only knew that it seemed right to bring his hand to her ribs. He could feel the shape of her corset, the boning, the grommets and laces hidden behind fabric and ribbons. The thick fabric of her undergarment nestled just under her br**sts, leaving the shape of her bosom for his exploration. He ran his thumbs along her ni**les, until her breath came in gasps, until they hardened to aroused peaks under his touch.
She was so responsive, so passionate. As much as he’d ever imagined, pressing against him, opening her mouth to him, meeting his tongue stroke for stroke.
“Lydia,” he said. “Lydia, darling.”
On those words her eyes opened. They opened wide. Her breath stuttered out from her in little white puffs. How could it be so cold when he felt so warm?
He struggled for the words to give her.
She pulled away. “No.” But he wasn’t even sure she was talking to him. “No.” She took two steps back.
He felt pole-axed with his own lust.
“Don’t tell me this is normal,” she said. “It isn’t. It isn’t.”
“Lydia.”
She didn’t look at him. Her lips were pressed together.
“Lydia,” he said. “I want to marry you. I want to have you by my side forever. I know it’s far too soon to ask. But, Lydia, darling—”
“Don’t call me that.” Her voice was shaking. “I don’t want to hear it. Not ever again.” She put her hands to her head. “Oh, God,” she said. “Look at me. Just look at me.”
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Even with the tree glistening with new ornaments, she was the most lovely thing around, her lips still pink from their kiss.
“You can’t walk away from me after this,” he said.
She looked up, and what he saw in her eyes brought him to a standstill. Her eyes were wide, the pupils shrunk to pinpoints.
She took a few steps back. “You’re very good,” she said. “Very good. I had no intention of… But you made me forget.” Her voice shook. “You made me forget what could happen.”
“Lydia. It doesn’t have to be that way.”
He took a step toward her. She flung an arm out at him, pointing, and he halted. “There,” she said. “You’re honest. You’re surprisingly sweet, when you wish to be. And…and I think you could tempt any woman you chose.” He’d thought her so sweet just moments before, but there was a bitterness to her voice now. “So I do see good in you. That was the wager, was it not?”
“Hang the wager,” he swore.
“You promised,” she said. “You promised that if I won, you would never talk to me again.”
He swallowed. “Only if that’s what you wanted. Lydia, you can’t mean to kiss me and then walk away.”
“I mean it.” Her voice was shaking, and he thought she was on the verge of tears. “I really mean it. I don’t want to talk to you ever again.”
He took a step toward her. “Lydia.”
She flinched back. “Your word,” she said. “You gave your word.”
But it wasn’t the promise he’d made that stopped his tongue. It was the look in her eyes—that black, dark look, that fear that only intensified as he came closer. He shut his mouth, pressing his lips together, searching for something to say…
There was nothing. He’d promised not to speak to her any longer.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t. I simply can’t.”
She backed away from him. And when she was six feet away, she turned and ran, leaving him alone with the evergreen and the ornaments.
Chapter Eleven
THE FIRE IN HER FATHER’S STUDY WAS HOT, but Lydia could scarcely feel it against her skin. She wasn’t sure why she’d fled here—why she sat here fiddling with the holly on his desk. She felt empty and hollow, and she didn’t want to think. Not at all.
“So,” her father said, setting down his pen after she rearranged the ribbons for a fourth time, “am I going to have to have words with Grantham after all?”
She jumped back, stricken. “No! Why would you say that? I don’t want to talk about him.”
He smiled faintly. “I’ve made three errors in this last column, Lydia, and you haven’t caught a single one.”
“I have to get this holly right.” She didn’t look at him.
He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t the sort to say things, to cajole her into giving up her fears. He just…was.
“Why didn’t you put me away?” she asked.
His eyes widened.
“You should have. Parwine told you to do it. Anyone would have done it in your place. But you act as if nothing happened, as if I were the same person I would be if I’d never met Paggett.”