Don’t be so dramatic, she chastised herself as she peered inside. It’s only a box, for God’s sake, with nothing inside but a folded slip of paper. She almost laughed aloud at her own ridiculousness as she set the box on the ground by her feet and unfolded the page. On what appeared to be a very old piece of parchment were lines of neat, precise script, looking much like a poem. She read aloud,
“Hope reborn, come with the sun
dispel the chill of darkness
bright fire of dawn
reach to our hearts
burn bright of winter’s desire.
“Enchanted stream of brilliant light
amid the crystal ground
dark traverse blending of the night
bring sweet lover’s kiss
burn bright of winter’s desire.
“No wanderer’s curse
be he thus beckoned
a slave to passion’s fire
return his head, upon my breast
burn bright of winter’s desire.”
Aisling hadn’t realized she’d read it aloud until the last word echoed off the stones, reverberating to where she stood. Such beautiful words! Winter’s desire. But whatever did it mean?
And then her heart swelled with it—her own winter’s desire, a wish held so close to her heart that she’d never before acknowledged its existence.
I wish for someone to awaken my cold, frozen heart, to make me feel things I’ve never felt before—longing and desire, passion and love, hurt and hate, all at once. I wish for a man who appreciates words as I do, an educated man—an artist, perhaps—whose hands are strong and rough and callused. A man who will worship me, yet treat me as an equal.
A painful lump formed in her throat as she realized exactly what she’d wished for—the impossible. A man who did not exist. What a fool she was, hoping for things she could never have, feelings she’d never experience. All these years she’d convinced herself she was satisfied with her choices, trapped as she was between her own ideals and society’s dictates. But now she’d allowed doubts to creep into her consciousness, upsetting her entire sense of self, and all because of a silly poem.
Stuff and nonsense, she told herself as she briskly refolded the slip of paper and shoved it back inside the box, then refastened the lid. Tucking the box beneath her arm, she headed toward Wainscott House without a backward glance, refusing to let herself think about what had just happened there in the circle of stones.
Instead, she concentrated on getting home before darkness fell.
2
FOR PERHAPS THE TENTH TIME IN SO MANY minutes, Aisling furtively glanced at the man seated across the table from her, and then dropped her gaze as quickly as she’d raised it. Heat flooded her cheeks, no doubt staining them red as she twisted the napkin in her lap. Whatever was the matter with her?
It’s just Will Cooper, she told herself angrily. And yet it wasn’t Will; at least, not the Will she remembered. No, the Will Cooper she remembered was slight, not much taller than she was. His face was pale, rather unremarkable, his eyes a shade she could not recall.
This Will was tall—not quite six feet, she’d guess, but close to it. His shoulders were broad, his skin browned, his eyes a startling shade of blue. She watched as he lifted his glass to his lips, her gaze inexplicably drawn to his hand, a hand that appeared strong, callused and entirely masculine. Just imagining those hands on her body made her tremble, made her clench her thighs together.
“So, Mr. Cooper,” she heard her mother ask, “when must you return to Cambridge?”
“Just after the new year, ma’am,” he answered.
Cambridge? What was he doing at Cambridge? By her own calculation, he should have left university long ago. He was a year her senior—the same age as Jack.
Jack turned toward the elder Dalton brother—Edmund, perhaps?—who was seated to his right. “Cooper here has a position at the Botanic Garden at Cambridge,” he clarified.
“Of course, a botanist.” Aisling hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words aloud ’til all eyes turned toward her. “I…that is to say, you did study botany at university, didn’t you?”
Will’s eyes met hers. “Indeed. I was lucky to find a post there once I finished my studies. Have you seen the Botanic Garden’s new glasshouse?”
Aisling shook her head, feeling slightly breathless. “No, I…I don’t believe I’ve been to Cambridge in quite some time.”
“Well, we must rectify that at once, mustn’t we? Jack, surely you can spare the time to accompany Aisling and Mrs. Wainscott up to Cambridge. The winter gardens are spectacular.”
Jack grunted noncommittally as he took a sip of sweet, mulled wine.
Mother folded her napkin and set it on the table beside her plate of uneaten sweets. “So, Mr. Cooper, what exactly is it that you do there at the garden?” she asked.
“I mostly catalog the species. Draw them, label them.” He shrugged, an easy smile on his lips. “Though I don’t mind getting my hands dirty now and then, either.”
“Why, that sounds like fascinating work,” Mother replied. “Your mother is so proud, you know. It’s lovely to hear her speak of you. I saw her just yesterday, when I picked up some mending.” She then turned her attention back to the Dalton brothers. “So, Mr. Dalton—Roger, is it? Do you spend all your time in London, or have you taken a property in the country, too?”
As the topic of conversation shifted, Aisling continued to stare across the width of the table, wondering how Will had grown so handsome without her noticing it. Perhaps it was the lines around his eyes that crinkled when he smiled that made his face so intriguing. Or was it the hint of a beard that shadowed his face, making his jaw appear so strong, so defined?
She shook her head, hoping to clear it, hoping to distract herself from such troubling thoughts so that she could concentrate on their other guests, instead.
As the dinner conversation buzzed on around him, Will continued to watch Aisling, wondering, as he always did, just what was going on in her mind. It was a sharp mind; of that he was certain. But beyond that, she was mostly a mystery to him. They’d been playmates as children—friends, even. But as they’d grown older, she’d become cold, distant. An ice queen, if ever there was one. The last time he’d seen her, she’d mostly ignored him.
And yet, inexplicably, she was not ignoring him tonight. In fact, he’d felt her eyes on him since the moment they’d sat down to dinner. Aisling had breezed in, smelling of violets, wearing a wispy, pale rose-colored gown that fluttered behind her like gossamer wings. She’d kissed her mother on the cheek while apologizing for her tardiness, and then taken her seat at the long table, directly across from him.
It was only when she’d raised her goblet to her lips that she’d seemed to notice his presence. She’d looked startled, almost astonished, and he could not credit why. Surely, Jack had told her he was joining them tonight. Hell, even if Jack hadn’t, his appearance there at the Wainscotts’ dining table was a common-enough occurrence. Yet Aisling’s apparent discomfiture hadn’t lessened throughout the interminable meal—five full courses in all.
In the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her so discomposed. It was disconcerting, and yet somehow arousing if his cockstand was any indication. It would prove embarrassing as hell if he couldn’t rein it in before they finished with dessert.
“I say, Cooper, you’ve not listened to a word I’ve said, have you?” Jack asked, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry?” he asked distractedly. Aisling had taken a bite of pastry and a dollop of chocolate cream remained on the plump center of her lower lip. His pulse began to race as her tongue darted out, licking it away. Good God, that mouth of hers…a perfect, pink bow, just begging to be kissed. And that tongue…just imagining how she could use it, how—
“Bloody hell, Cooper, snap out of it.” Jack tossed his napkin to his lap. “If you’ll pardon my language, Mother.”
“Might I remind you that there’s another lady pres
ent besides Mother,” Aisling said sweetly. “Honestly, Jack, have you no manners at all?”
Mrs. Wainscott arched a brow in censure, though the woman could not entirely conceal her smile. “Indeed,” she murmured.
“Indeed?” Jack sputtered. “Why, Aisling curses more than I do, the hoyden.”
“Fascinating,” the elder Dalton said with a leer that made Will’s skin crawl. “A gently bred lady who curses?”
Aisling just shrugged. “I only do it to get under my dear brother’s skin. He’s just ill-tempered because my curses are far more original than his own. I’d be happy to demonstrate—”
“You most certainly will not,” Mrs. Wainscott interjected, shaking her head. “Honestly, it’s as if I’ve raised a pair of apes.”
The younger Dalton grinned, looking much like an ape himself. “I beg to differ, ma’am. Your daughter is quite the original. A breath of fresh air, if I might venture to say so.”
Which meant he wanted to fuck her, Will realized, balling his hands into fists.
Jack looked entirely nonplussed. “Suffice it to say that my sister has no equal.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much.” Smiling brightly, Aisling rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Mrs. Wainscott. “I think I’ll leave you gentlemen to your after-dinner smoke. Mother?”
The woman nodded. “Of course, dear.”
“Sure you won’t join us, Miss Wainscott?” one of the Daltons called out, sounding slightly drunk.
“Quite,” came Aisling’s reply. Her skirt’s lace-trimmed hem had caught on a chair’s leg, exposing a good four inches of her stocking-clad ankle. And what a well-turned ankle it was, Will realized with a start. Delicate. Gently curved.
Slowly he slid his admiring gaze up her body, to her face, and he could have sworn he saw her shiver in response, as if she’d physically felt his appraisal. Their eyes met, her hazel ones blinking rapidly, her blond brows knitted in what looked like confusion.
With a silent curse of frustration, he pushed aside his napkin and rose. For the briefest of moments he considered offering to escort her out, but decided it best to ignore whatever impulse was tempting him to do so. After all, no good would come of it.
For what felt like an hour but was likely only a fraction of a minute, they both stood, watching one another in silence. And then, just like that, the spell was broken. She shook her head, reaching a hand to her temple, her fingers trembling.
“Aisling? Dear?” Mrs. Wainscott reached for her daughter’s arm.
Aisling threaded her arm through Mrs. Wainscott’s. “If you’ll excuse us,” she said with a nod. Moving in perfect unison, the pair made their way out.
Will held his breath, mentally willing Aisling to turn around, to glance back just once before departing. Why, he could not say. But when she did just that, glancing back over one finely shaped shoulder, his breath caught in his throat and he stood there gaping like a stupid ox. She’s beautiful, he realized. How had he never before noticed it? He’d always thought her looks to be rather ordinary, her features too sharp, perhaps. But now…now he realized just how extraordinary her hazel eyes were, how her wheat-colored hair was threaded with pale gold strands that sparkled under the electric lights. The urge to follow her out was overwhelming, and he literally had to grip the back of the chair to keep himself from doing exactly that.
Jack tossed his cigarette case to the table. “Good God, Cooper, you look like the devil. Whatever’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered, slumping back in his seat. Exhaling slowly, he raked a hand through his hair. “Perhaps I’m taking a fever.” Or a complete leave of my senses. What the hell had come over him?
“Well, you can’t go now, old boy. You’ll leave us one hand short, and then what’ll we do?” Jack frowned, tapping the end of one cigarette against his palm. “Though I suppose I could ask Mother to join us. God knows she loves to play. Go on, then, if you must.”
“I think I will.” He stood, nodding toward the two Dalton brothers. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. It was a pleasure.”
“Yes, likewise,” they muttered in unison.
“Wait, Cooper,” Jack called out. “Before you leave, I’ve got that novel in my office you insisted I read. Take it home with you, if you like. I vow, I couldn’t get through the damn thing. You really like that rubbish?”
“Very much,” he bit out.
“Well, to each his own, I say. Anyway, it’s on my desk somewhere. Dig around and I’m sure you’ll find it.” He dismissed him with a wave toward the door.
“What about your sister? Won’t she play?” one of the Daltons asked as Will made his hasty retreat, not awaiting Jack’s reply.
Not if I find her first.
He entered Jack’s study and headed for the desk, his mind awhirl in thought. He had to see her again. Tonight. But how? She’d likely retired to her own room, and it wasn’t as if he could just saunter up to the family’s private quarters and knock on doors ’til he found her.
He grunted in frustration; Jack’s desk was a mess, books piled high on the blotter, papers scattered everywhere. Where was the frigging book? He needed to find it, and fast.
In his haste, he knocked a stack of papers to the floor. He bent down to pick them up, cursing as he did so. They were handwritten, numbered pages, and scattered all out of order, damn it. He reached for a page, his brows knitting in surprise as a word written in flowing script swam into focus.
Cock.
What the hell was this? Overwhelmed with curiosity, he squinted, attempting to make out the words in the dim light.
“On your knees,” he commanded, and she obeyed, sinking to the floor, her fingers wrapped around his thick, corded cock. Her shell-pink tongue darted out, skating across the sensitive tip, lapping up the drop of moisture that seeped out. “Touch yourself,” came his next command, his voice hoarse now. “Finger your sweet cunny while you lick me. Pleasure yourself while you pleasure me.”
Good God! It was some sort of erotica. Handwritten, which was all the more puzzling. What the devil was this doing on Jack’s desk, right out in the open, for anyone to find? And more important, who had written it? He would almost swear that the writing looked like…like a woman’s hand.
“What are you doing with my manuscript?” came a voice from beside him, startling him so badly that he dropped what papers he’d already retrieved back to the floor at his feet.
Aisling. Looking both fierce and terrified all at once.
“Your what?” he asked, his voice rising as her words began to register in his muddled brain.
Her heart thumping madly against her ribs, Aisling snatched the pages from Will’s hands. How could Jack have been so careless?
“Stupid fool,” she muttered, “leaving them lying around like this. I swear I’m going to throttle him.”
She hurried to the door and pushed it closed, turning the key in the lock before striding purposefully back toward the desk where Will stood as still as a statue, looking as if he’d just received a terrible shock.
“You…you wrote this?” he sputtered.
“No, of course not,” she lied. “How much did you read?”
He shook his head. “Only a few lines. But…but you did write it, didn’t you? You called it your manuscript.”
“Well, what if I did?” she snapped, stooping down to retrieve the rest. “You needn’t look so shocked.” Good heavens, what now? What if he told her mother? If word got out, she’d be ruined. Her mind cast about frantically, searching for a solution, searching for something she could say to protect her secret—to protect herself.
“Here, let me help you,” Will said, stooping down beside her.
“I’ll thank you not to make more of a mess than you already have, you clumsy oaf,” she snapped, then instantly regretted it. It wasn’t Will she was furious with, it was Jack. Stupid, stupid Jack.
“Hand me those and I’ll attempt to put them b
ack in order,” Will offered, mercifully ignoring her insult. Their eyes met, and he smiled—a warm, reassuring smile. Something passed unspoken between them, and Aisling nodded in reply, relief flooding her veins.
She stood with a sigh, pressing a messy sheaf into his hands. “Thank you. Truly, I’m going to kill my brother. He’s so damnably careless. What if Mother had found it instead of you? Or one of the housemaids? I must have your promise—”
“You have my word, Aisling.” His gaze traveled back to the stack of papers in his hands, and he began to flip through them, putting them back in order. “But devil take it, there are so many pages here. What were you planning to do with it?”
“Jack sells them in London—my stories. Have you heard of the publication the Boudoir?”
“Of course,” he said with a shrug. “What red-blooded male hasn’t?”
Aisling couldn’t help but smile at his candor. “They’ve published five of my stories so far. Serialized them. They fetch a fair price, too.”
“Surely not under your own name—”
“Bloody hell, of course not. Here, give me that.” She snatched the stack of pages from his hands and hugged them protectively to her breast. “They wouldn’t even consider them if they knew they were written by a woman. I use a pen name.”
“But, good God, how do you even know—” He stopped short. “Never mind. It’s not my business.”
She realized at once the direction his thoughts had taken. “Are you asking me if I’m a virgin, Will Cooper? I should order you out of my house for such impertinence.” She tossed the stack of papers on Jack’s desk.
“I apologize,” was all he said in reply. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he continued to watch her with that same curious stare—the one that, in the past, had made her so uncomfortable.
Only now…now it made her pulse leap, made her skin warm, made gooseflesh rise on her skin. There was something so open, so honest, so entirely lacking of artifice in his countenance. Her chest rose and fell several times as she stared back, finding herself lost in his heated gaze, wanting to tell him the truth—wanting someone to know the real Aisling Wainscott.
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