Winter’s Desire

by Amanda McIntyre, Charlotte Featherstone

  He dragged up his trousers, fastening them as she pulled up her drawers and shoved down her skirts. Once she was done, he reached for one of her hands, cradling it in his own. “I should never have agreed to this,” he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips and feathering kisses across her irritated skin. “I would not hurt you for the world.”

  She smiled up at him, her eyes aglow. “Of course you wouldn’t, Will.” He released her hand, and she reached up to stroke his cheek. “I think you could use a shave,” she said, rubbing her palm back and forth across the stubble outlining his jaw. Her touch was so familiar, so intimate—like a longtime lover’s.

  Without saying a word, he captured her hand, laying his overtop her smaller one and holding it there, against his cheek, rubbing his face into her palm. For a moment they stood like that, silent but for the sound of their breathing, slow and easy. Comfortable.

  Will swallowed a painful lump in his throat, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions that made his chest ache, his eyes burn. If only this moment could go on forever, this tender little tableau. But it couldn’t. Of course it couldn’t. “Can I get you something?” he said at last, his voice unnaturally gruff. “Some tea, perhaps?”

  She nodded, reaching up to tidy her hair as she did so. “That would be lovely, actually. I’m quite parched.”

  “How do you take it?” he asked, amazed that he didn’t know, despite their intimacy.

  She smiled at him, a tiny dimple in her left cheek. “Two spoons of sugar and a dash of cream. Should I go down and help?”

  “Of course not, you’re my guest. Sit—” he gestured toward the chair in the corner “—and I’ll be right up with it. I can manage, I swear,” he added when he saw her look of surprise.

  Aisling nodded, her legs feeling strangely weak as Will hurried out. She could hear his footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs, fading away, and she sighed heavily. So many emotions flickered across her consciousness, all jockeying for position. Her feelings were such a jumble that she couldn’t make out a single one—except perhaps satisfaction. Yes, that was it. Will left her satisfied, entirely sated.

  When she was with him, everything felt strangely right. For the first time in all her life, she felt truly alive. Animated. Fulfilled. She shook her head, feeling foolish. I’m making too much of this.

  She turned toward the desk, thinking to straighten the stack of books and move them safely from the edge. Only she moved too quickly and her elbow caught the edge of the topmost volume, sending it flying to the ground where it lay, open. Stooping down, she retrieved it. As she did so, a folded page fell out, fluttering down to the floorboards where the book had lain only seconds before.

  Sighing in exasperation, she bent down and retrieved the letter, noticing Will’s name written in a decidedly feminine script at the top of the page. Curious, she unfolded it, smoothing it down with damp hands. It was a recent letter, dated a fortnight ago. Her eyes scanned down to the bottom of the page, seeking a signature. Entirely yours, Helena, it read.

  Her stomach pitching, she hastily shoved the letter back inside the book. I should not have looked, she told herself. She’d invaded his privacy, and there was no excuse for it. Shame mixed with something else—something unsettling—made her cheeks flush hotly.

  For a full minute she stood there, drumming her fingers on the desk, staring down at the edge of paper that stuck out from between the book’s gilt-lined pages while she waited for Will to return. And then, as if of their own volition, her fingers moved closer, slid along the cover’s edge, itching to snatch back the letter. The curiosity was positively eating her up inside. Who was Helena? Were they friends? Lovers?

  Aisling looked toward the empty doorway, listening to the sounds of rattling dishes and footfalls below. She tapped one foot impatiently, unable to stanch her growing curiosity. The letter was recent, and Helena had signed her first name—a sure sign of intimacy.

  Glancing furtively one last time at the doorway, she made up her mind even as guilt ate away at her conscience. She had to know—otherwise she’d go mad, supposing the worst, imagining that Helena meant more to him than she did. For all she knew, they were engaged. The teakettle downstairs whistled plaintively, and Aisling knew it was now or never.

  Taking a deep breath, she reached for the edge of the letter and pulled it out, unfolding it as quickly as possible.

  My dearest William,

  I hope you will forgive this letter, but I could not let you leave for Dorset without having my say, as you left my flat so hurriedly last night. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable, surely you realize that? But after what we’ve shared, can you simply throw it all away so easily? So carelessly?

  I should never have lied to you—I know that now. Still, it does not lessen what I feel for you. I want you, William. Back in my life. My bed.

  Think on it, my sweet William. I will have your answer upon your return to Cambridge. Perhaps then we will have reason to celebrate the new year.

  Entirely yours,

  Helena

  She had her answer: Helena had been his lover. Was perhaps still his lover. How would he answer her when he returned to Cambridge? Would he simply forget Aisling, forget this, and return to this woman’s bed? That thought alone made bile rise in her throat, made her blood run cold even while her skin flushed hotly.

  An uncomfortable knot had formed in Aisling’s stomach, making her feel queer, almost queasy, making her chest ache and her breath come fast—far too fast. And then she heard it—footsteps, on the stairs, getting louder.

  Moving quickly, she refolded the letter and stuffed it back inside the book it had fallen from, straightening the stack and moving it toward the center of the desk with clumsy, awkward hands.

  She turned back to the doorway just as Will strode in smiling, a tray with two steaming cups of tea and a plate of biscuits in his hands. She could only stare at him as he set the tray on the bed, reached for one of the teacups, and held it out to her.

  She took it with visibly trembling hands, feeling like a damn fool.

  The smile on his face vanished at once. “Good God, Aisling, what’s wrong?”

  Dear Lord, was she that transparent? “Nothing at all,” she said, cradling the steaming cup in both hands. “I…I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You’re a terrible liar. You’re white as a ghost, and positively trembling. I wasn’t gone but ten minutes. What can possibly have happened in so short a time? You’re not thinking about that poem again, are you? Having regrets?”

  “I’m…no.” She set the teacup down on the desk behind her, her gaze straying guiltily toward the book with the folded letter inside.

  She had to know, had to have answers. Even if it meant exposing her guilt. “Who’s Helena?” she asked, refusing to turn and meet his eyes.

  “Helena? How did you…” His voice trailed off, and she heard him move closer, toward the desk. “The letter,” he said matter-of-factly. “Of course.”

  Her cheeks burning with shame, she turned to face him. “I was trying to straighten the books, that’s all. It fell out. I know I shouldn’t have read it.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” he answered, sounding slightly amused now. “But since you did, I must tell you that she means nothing to me. Helena was…someone with whom to pass the time, nothing more. We had an understanding of sorts. No strings attached, as they say.”

  “What did she mean about lying to you?”

  “She was married. Separated, but married. When I found out, I ended it. And that’s all there is to it.”

  “Not from her point of view. She wants you back, Will. Back in her bed.”

  “There’s no chance of that,” he said tersely.

  “So she was just…just a casual lover? Had you many of those?”

  “I’m not a monk, Aisling,” he snapped. “I never claimed to be one.”

  “And did she…did she please you? In bed?”

  A flush climbed up his neck. “Why are you asking these question
s? What does it matter—to you, to us?”

  Because she could not stop thinking about it, that’s why. Because she couldn’t get the image out of her mind—Will, in bed with another woman, kissing her, loving her, touching Helena the way he’d touched her. She rubbed her eyes with her fists, wishing she could stamp out the images, banish them forever.

  This was jealousy, she realized. Pure, unadulterated jealousy. And it hurt—oh, how it hurt. She knew it was ridiculous, knew that Will had every right to his past. She hadn’t come to him a virgin, and she’d known full well that he was likely far more sexually experienced than she was. It was only natural, after all. And yet…there was something about reading that damn letter, about seeing the woman’s hand. And the worst part? She called him William.

  Her Will. Hers.

  Hot tears filled her eyes, scalding her eyelids. Aisling spun back toward the desk just as they spilled over, pounding her fists on the blotter in frustration.

  “Bloody hell, Aisling. Are you crying? About Helena?” His disbelief was evident in his voice. In seconds he was standing directly behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his arms wrapped protectively about her waist.

  “I can’t change my past,” he murmured against her hair. “I don’t know what to say, but please, please don’t cry.”

  “I never cry,” she blubbered foolishly. “Never. Not once, ’til these last few days. Not ’til you and I…” She trailed off, shaking her head. She swallowed hard, trying to rein in the humiliating tears. “It’s all too much, these feelings. Too much at once. I…I can’t bear it.”

  She twisted from his arms, still blinded by the tears that refused to stop falling. “I must go.”

  “Don’t go, Aisling. Not like this. Not over Helena, for Christ’s sake,” he pleaded while she retrieved her coat and muffler.

  “I must,” she repeated, refusing to look at him.

  “But I told you, she means nothing to me. Nothing. Not like you, Aisling. Damnation, I think I’m falling in—”

  “Don’t say it!” she interrupted, before it was too late, before he said the words he could never take back, forcing her to face them, to face her own feelings. “Please. I can’t hear it, not right now. Don’t you see? It’s just too much, too overwhelming.”

  “No, I don’t see. Not at all. I never took you for a coward,” he said coldly, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he stared at her, piercing her with his vivid blue gaze.

  “Oh, but I am a coward. The worst sort of coward. I’m so sorry, Will. Please forgive me.” Without awaiting his reply, she fled from the room, hurrying down the stairs on legs that felt as if they might give out at any moment.

  In seconds, she made her way out the front door, nearly bumping into a woman on the walk as she headed toward the shops in the distance, toward her little motorcar.

  “Miss Wainscott?” a voice called out, but she dared not turn around.

  Instead, she simply hurried on, shivering as her boots beat a quick staccato on the cobbled walk, the winter sun blindingly bright to her swollen eyes.

  Will stood at the bottom of the stairs for several minutes, debating whether or not he should go after her. Before he’d made up his mind, his mother came in, a puzzled look on her face as she pulled off her gloves and rubbed her hands together.

  “Wasn’t that Miss Wainscott I just saw leaving here?” she asked with a scowl.

  Good God, how to answer that? “What are you doing home so early?” he asked instead. “I thought you’d be at Mrs. Brandon’s ’til well after teatime.”

  “I thought so, too. Turned out her sick housemaid made a remarkable recovery and she didn’t particularly need my help, after all. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you ignored my question, Will Cooper. Was it or wasn’t it Aisling Wainscott that nearly bowled me over on the walk just now?”

  “It was,” he hedged, casting about desperately for an explanation. “It seems that I…I left something at Wainscott House when I dined there earlier this week. My gloves,” he finished lamely.

  His mother’s faded eyes narrowed as she shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the peg by the door. “So I’m to believe that you left your gloves, and Miss Wainscott delivered them personally? What kind of fool do you think I am?”

  He sighed heavily, knowing he’d lost. His mother was far too sharp. “I don’t think you’re a fool at all, Mum. But that’s all I’d like to say on the matter, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, Will, darling. Please tell me you’re not trifling with Aisling Wainscott. Not with the likes of her. Nothing good will come of it. Surely you must know that.”

  He held his ground. “As I said, I’d rather not discuss it.”

  She shook her head, her mouth drawn in a tight, angry line. “I thought you were smarter than that, Will. Smarter than me. Don’t you see? People like that—like the Wainscotts—they use people like us. Use us, then cast us aside. Aren’t I proof enough of that?”

  “You’ve done well enough for yourself, Mum,” was all he said in reply, his windpipe suddenly tight, as if he were strangling. How he hated to be reminded of the cocksucker who’d fathered him, who’d deceived his mother with false promises just to get his rocks off, and then abandoned her. He knew his mother had been the victim, had been cruelly used, and yet sometimes he couldn’t help the niggling doubt that she should have fought harder for the man she loved, the father of her child. And how he hated himself for such treacherous thoughts!

  “Oh, Will,” his mother said on a sigh. “It’s too late, isn’t it? How could you be so stupid? So foolish?”

  He looked toward the window, where the late-afternoon sun shone brightly through the glass. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go out for a bit.”

  “You’re stubborn as a mule, aren’t you? Always were. Fine, then. Go.” She threw her hands in the air in frustration. “Learn the hard way, if you must. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Mark my words, she’ll use you, then toss you aside like yesterday’s rubbish.”

  Judging by Aisling’s hasty exit, perhaps she had already done just that. Clenching his hands into fists by his sides, Will took a deep, calming breath, then reached for his overcoat and gloves. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice deceptively calm and collected.

  He had no idea where he was going, but he needed to get out, to get some air. Clear his head. Only then could he consider what his next move would be, as far as Aisling was concerned.

  The only thing he was certain of was that it wasn’t over, not yet. At least, not from his point of view. And if she thought it was, well…

  He would fight for his woman.

  8

  IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE. THE CALENDAR ABOVE Aisling’s writing desk was insistent upon it, no matter how hard she tried to ignore the holiday, to eschew the good cheer and jollity she knew she was supposed to feel this time of year but never did. And this year the melancholy was worse than ever.

  She laid her head back on the chaise longue’s tasseled pillow and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of bustling activity below. Her father had arrived home that very morning, Jack the day before. The entire household was now in a tizzy, preparing for the Wainscotts’ annual Christmas Eve open house.

  At that very moment, Aisling’s mother was downstairs with the housekeeper, making certain that every little light on the Christmas tree was twinkling brightly, that every red velvet bow was straight, that the eggnog was perfect and the wassail just so.

  In no time, their guests would begin to arrive. A buffet supper would be served, followed by a pantomime, and then a concert featuring traditional holiday music. The evening’s festivities would conclude at the stroke of midnight when the musicians played “Silent Night.” Each guest would light a taper and form a processional through the house and out the front door, where they’d all gather in the driveway and stare up at the night sky for a few moments before blowing out their candles, gathering their coats and heading back to their own homes.


  These events had happened in precisely that order as far back as Aisling could remember. Everyone in Bedlington was invited, and for weeks afterward the entire village would discuss the food, the decor, the table linens—every little aspect of the evening dissected in minute detail. Never in her presence, of course. In fact, in the weeks following Christmas it generally seemed that all conversation ground to a halt whenever she entered a shop. But Louisa, the shopkeeper’s daughter, always shared the gossip with her over tea, embellishing each tale to such grand proportions that Aisling couldn’t help but laugh about it.

  The clock downstairs chimed the hour and Aisling sighed, turning her head to glance over at the amethyst velvet gown hanging beside her bed, the matching velvet slippers sitting at the ready beneath it. The ensemble was new, specially bought in London for this occasion. Her mother had thought the neckline scandalous, and even more so the back, which dipped far lower than anything Aisling had ever worn before. But Madame Aubergine had insisted it was the height of fashion in Paris, and Lady Wainscott had reluctantly relented.

  At the time, Aisling had adored the gown, thinking it entirely perfect. But now the very idea of putting it on and going downstairs to greet guests seemed unpalatable at best. Mostly, of course, because Will would be one of those guests.

  What he must think of her!

  Two full days had passed since she’d run out of his mother’s cottage. She’d spent those days at home, refusing to go out lest she run into him. She’d claimed a stomach malady had incapacitated her, and kept almost entirely to her room. There, away from prying eyes, she’d spent a good portion of the time crying like some sort of silly, lovesick schoolgirl while she examined her situation from every possible angle.

  When she’d first let Will make love to her, there in Jack’s study, it had been an impulse, nothing more. She’d wanted him, and so she’d had him. She’d acted out of curiosity, a desire for experience beyond what she’d had with Thomas Esterbrooke. It had been as simple as that.