But in the following days, everything had somehow changed. She had changed. Feelings beyond lust and curiosity had crept into her consciousness, into her heart, awakening it, awakening her. Before, she’d been an observer of life. Now, she was living life. Experiencing it—painfully so.
If only she’d never found that blasted box, that damn poem! Now she would never know for certain if what they felt was real. If only she could find that mysterious woman in the cloak, the one she’d seen there in the circle of stones on the solstice. Perhaps she had left the box there; perhaps she knew something about the poem. But Aisling hadn’t even seen her face—she’d only seen her hair, whipping about in the breeze. And then she’d disappeared, without even—
A sharp knock sounded on the door, startling her. “Aisling, dear? Are you dressed?”
“Not yet, Mother,” she called out, rising from the chaise longue and reaching for her hairbrush, trying to appear as if she were at least making an effort to get ready.
Her mother opened the door and peered inside. “Good heavens, dear! Whatever are you waiting for? Our guests should begin to arrive within the hour. I’ll send Clarice right in.” Her gaze landed on the dress, and she shook her head. “I’m still not sure about that gown,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s…it’s positively indecent.”
“Oh, hush, Mother. I haven’t anything else to wear.”
“That scarlet-colored watered silk, perhaps? It still fits nicely.”
Aisling sighed, fingering the velvet gown. “I wore the red silk last year. You know how everyone would talk if I wore it again.”
“I suppose. Still, this one shows far too much of your back. People are bound to talk about that.”
“Didn’t Madame Aubergine say it was the height of fashion in Paris this year?”
Her mother rolled her eyes heavenward. “It’s not as if the folks here in Bedlington know what’s fashionable in Paris, dear. Oh, well. I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now. Just…just stand with your back to the wall as much as possible, won’t you?”
“I’ll try,” Aisling answered, though she had no intention of doing so. If she had her way, she’d claim another bout of illness and retire as early as possible—before the pantomime began, if she could manage it.
“Well, hurry, then,” her mother said. “You haven’t much time, you know.” She closed the door, and Aisling heard her call out loudly for Clarice.
Seconds later, the girl burst breathlessly into the room. “I’m so sorry, mum.” With a scowl, she snatched the hairbrush from Aisling’s hand. “Here, sit and let me dress your hair.”
With a nod, Aisling sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection while Clarice began to drag the bristles through her tousled hair.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” The brush clattered to the marble-topped table as Clarice dug inside her pocket and dragged out an envelope. “This came for you earlier this afternoon. Quite mysterious, as it appeared after the regular post had arrived.”
Aisling took the envelope with shaking hands. There was nothing on it but her name, typed.
“Who do you think it’s from?” Clarice murmured around a mouthful of pins, now gathering Aisling’s pale hair up on her crown and securing it.
“I’ve no idea,” she lied.
Will. It had to be from Will. Who else? She took a deep, fortifying breath, willing her racing heart to slow.
“Well, mum, aren’t you going to open it and find out?”
Trying her best to look nonchalant, she laid the envelope down on the dressing table. “Not now. It’s probably just from Louisa Abbott, with some last-minute gossip she felt the need to share before the party. I’ll open it later.”
“Perhaps it’s from a secret admirer,” Clarice said with a dreamy smile. “And perhaps whoever he is will be in attendance tonight. Here, put on some rouge. You’re far too pale.”
Aisling twisted off the cap and lightly dabbed a bit of the cream onto her cheekbones as Clarice wrapped her coiffure with an amethyst velvet ribbon, the same shade as her gown, and secured it with pins.
“There, mum. Just lovely! Now, let’s get you dressed so you’ll have time to read that letter before the guests arrive.”
Will straightened his tie as he stepped into the crowded ballroom. Wainscott house was packed, people standing shoulder to shoulder as servants pushed their way through with silver trays filled with savory canapés and flutes of champagne. Long tables lined the far wall with silver chafing dishes, the delicious aromas wafting over the crowd. On the far table sat a decorated wassail bowl, delicate glass cups stacked in front of it.
Boughs of holly and fir were draped across every available surface, mistletoe hanging in each and every doorway. Wainscott House at Christmastime was definitely a sight to behold. Somehow he’d missed their annual Christmas Eve party the past couple of years—he couldn’t even remember why.
Had his mother been ill last year? Yes, that was it. And he’d spent the previous Christmas in Cambridge. His mother had taken the train up on Christmas Day and they’d spent the holiday touring the Botanic Garden’s glasshouse—a private tour, as it was closed to the public—and then eaten dinner at the University Arms Hotel. Despite her protestations of it being far too fine, he’d made his mother stay the night there at the stately hotel, and he’d taken great pleasure in seeing that she had one of the finest rooms overlooking Parker’s Piece.
This year, he would not have missed the Wainscotts’ open house for the world. His mother had allowed Mr. Beeton to escort her there, leaving him free to search for Aisling among the festive, boisterous crowd. He only hoped she’d received his letter. He’d paid a boy from one of the shops in the village to hand deliver it, and he had no idea if the boy had actually done so, or simply pocketed the money and tossed the letter away.
Either way, he would see her tonight. See her, and speak with her. She could not go on avoiding him. In his letter, he’d asked her to meet him in the library once the pantomime began. They’d have at least a half hour, likely more. Long enough to say what he had to say to her.
He began to elbow his way through the crowd, determined to find her.
“Champagne, sir?”
With a nod, he took a delicate crystal flute and downed its entire contents with one jerk of his wrist. He set the empty flute back on the tray while the serving maid scowled at him, shaking her head in disapproval.
The champagne burned a path down to his stomach, warming him, giving him confidence.
“Cooper, old boy!” someone called out, and Will turned to see Jack Wainscott making his way toward him. “Aisling, come say hello to Will Cooper with me, and try and be jolly, won’t you?” he bellowed, obviously already far into his cups.
“Glad you could make it,” Jack said once he reached Will’s side, clapping him on the back. “Have you had your supper yet?”
“No, I’ve only just…” Will trailed off as Aisling appeared at Jack’s side. She looked positively stunning in a purple velvet gown, her narrow waist accentuated by a wide band of black, the skirt narrow at her hips and only flaring as it reached the floor, trailing out behind her. The deep U-shaped neckline was made modest only by crisscrossing bands of wispy black fabric, exposing a generous amount of skin. Indeed, the gentle swell of her breasts was bared to his hungry gaze.
“Scandalous, isn’t it?” Jack asked, following the direction of Will’s gaze. “Still, it is only Aisling, and let me warn you, she’s as waspish as ever tonight. I suggest you take care where she’s concerned.”
Aisling’s gaze met Will’s in a heated battle, but she remained entirely mute.
“Miss Wainscott,” Will said at last, bowing sharply. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, her face as blank as a statue’s.
“Do me a favor, eh, Cooper? Keep an eye on her and make sure none of the village swains get any ideas, will you? Especially that Lucas James. Oh, come now, Ash,” Jack added, seeing his sister�
��s frown. “Cooper here doesn’t bite. Do you, old boy?”
Will shrugged. “Not unless she wants me to.”
Jack threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I vow, the pair of you! Do try and be civil, won’t you? Ah, look. It’s Mrs. Brandon with her niece. An heiress to a small fortune, they say. Best go inspect.”
With one last clap on Will’s back, Jack left them.
For what felt like a full minute, neither of them said a word. They simply stood, being jostled by the crowd as they stared at one another.
“You look breathtaking,” he said at last, leaning toward her to be heard over the din of the crowd.
Her smile positively lit up her face. “Thank you. You look rather dashing yourself. I can’t remember the last time I saw you in evening dress. It suits you.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he teased, bolstered by the direction of the conversation. Perhaps this boded well for later. “You received my letter?”
“Yes,” was all she said in reply.
“And dare I hope that—”
“Aisling, darling!” Lady Wainscott appeared from nowhere, favoring Will with a bright smile. “Oh, good evening, Mr. Cooper. How nice to see you! Is your mother here?” Without awaiting his response, she turned her attention back to her daughter. “Dear, the Brandons just arrived with their niece, Miss Gilchrist. You must go greet them at once, and see that your brother doesn’t make a fool of himself, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mother. If…if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Cooper,” she said, allowing herself to be led away by the arm. Once she’d taken a half-dozen steps, she turned, glancing back over one shoulder, her unreadable gaze meeting his for a fraction of a second before she continued on her way.
Will tamped down his anger, wondering just how calculated Lady Wainscott’s interruption had been. He hadn’t long to think on it before Louisa Abbott plucked at his sleeve.
“Will! Thank goodness. Come, escort me to the supper table, won’t you? I’m positively famished and I can barely make my way through this crush.”
“Of course,” he said, forcing himself to smile as he offered his arm. He liked Louisa Abbott—always had. They’d grown up in the village together, had been childhood playmates. She’d always been uncomplicated and refreshingly direct.
Why not her? he asked himself, admiring Louisa beside him—her willowy frame, her simple good looks. She was of the right age, after all. Smart. Attractive. But most important, she was part of his world. Whereas Aisling…
How much simpler everything would be if it were Louisa who made his blood sing, his heart race, who made his cock stiffen with just a single thought of her.
“It all looks delicious, doesn’t it?” Louisa asked as they reached the buffet tables. “I vow, I didn’t eat a single bite all day, saving up my appetite. You are going to join me, aren’t you?” she asked, handing him a plate.
“Of course.” He took the plate and began to fill it without really noticing what he was taking.
Minutes later, he followed her into the adjoining room and found seats at an empty round table laid with red and cream brocade linens, a silver candelabrum casting warm light that competed with the overhead electric chandeliers. “Shall I get you some wine?” he asked, setting down his plate beside Louisa’s.
Louisa nodded as she took her seat. “That would be lovely. Hurry back, won’t you? I hate sitting all alone.”
He returned not five minutes later, surprised to see the table now entirely full of diners save his empty seat.
“There he is,” Louisa called out. “Look, Aisling has joined us. See, I told you he wouldn’t mind,” she added.
He forced his face into a mask of ennui. “Of course not. Here—” he placed one wineglass down in front of Louisa before taking his seat between the two women “—I hope you like red.”
“Yes, thank you. I was just telling Aisling that this is the largest crowd I remember seeing at Wainscott House on Christmas Eve. Oh, this roast beef is divine!”
Will stared straight ahead, twirling the stem of his wineglass between his fingers. How long must he remain there, between the two women? On his right, Louisa continued to chatter on brightly between bites, enthusiastically complimenting the food, the company, the decor. On his left, Aisling seemed to push her food about her plate, saying very little and eating even less. He was painfully aware of her there, her shoulder brushing against his every so often. He could smell her scent—violets, as always—could feel the heat of her, warming his skin.
Every time she leaned forward in her seat, he glimpsed the vast expanse of porcelain skin bared by the low-dipping back of her gown and nearly groaned aloud as his cock twitched in his dress trousers. Bloody hell, he was growing hard just sitting there beside her, desperate to touch her, to brush his fingertips down her bare back, toward her buttocks.
How he wanted to lift her to the table and hike up her skirts, to spread her legs and feast on her cunt, to flick his tongue across her clit ’til she cried out, arching off the table, clutching at the brocade table linens, her mouth an O of ecstasy.
“Good God, Will. Has the cat got your tongue? You look as if you’re a million miles away!”
He blinked away the vision and turned toward Louisa. “I’m sorry. Just a bit distracted today, that’s all.” His napkin slid off his lap and he reached to catch it, his hand somehow colliding with Aisling’s as he did so.
He heard her breath catch, though her face remained as unreadable as before. And then somehow her hand found his again beneath the table, her skin as hot, as flushed as his own.
As the conversation continued around them, their hands met and retreated, fingers brushing flesh, capturing and releasing. He thought he’d go mad with it, this illicit touch. As he massaged the center of her palm with his thumb, it seemed as if they were the only two people in the room, despite the crowd, the merriment surrounding them.
“Cooper, old boy! There you are.”
Aisling’s hand slipped away as Jack appeared behind them. “Good, good, keeping an eye on my sister, I see. If you’ve finished your supper, come and join us for a smoke.”
Will flexed his now-empty hand, wishing Jack would go away, that they’d all go away.
“It’s all right, go on,” Louisa said with a nod. “You’re just sitting here like a dumb ox, anyway.”
Which left him with no choice but to agree, damn it.
9
AISLING GLANCED BACK OVER HER SHOULDER, making sure no one was following her, and hurried toward the library. The pantomime had just begun—she could hear the sounds of laughter floating down the empty corridor from the ballroom.
It was time.
Her little velvet slippers tapped against the marble floor as she quickened her pace, determined to arrive without discovery. When she’d decided that she would meet Will at the requested time she could not say. Perhaps she’d always meant to, from the moment she’d read his letter, though she’d told herself then that she could not possibly do so—that being alone with him was dangerous, far too dangerous.
But sitting there beside him at supper, pretending they were no more than casual acquaintances had near enough killed her, and she knew she could not let him leave Wainscott House tonight without seeing him in private, without speaking her piece.
She had to make him see, make him understand. She had to say goodbye, even if it was the most painful thing she’d ever done. Because she couldn’t go on like this, wanting him, loving him, knowing she could never truly have him. For how could she? There were so many reasons why it would never work.
Reaching the library at last, she took a deep, fortifying breath, then opened the door and stepped inside.
Will was standing at the far end of the room, gazing out the window, his hands shoved into his pockets. A light snow had begun to fall, pattering gently against the glass. Though he must have heard her entrance, he didn’t move, didn’t turn around. He just continued to stand there, staring at the night sky beyond the gla
ss.
Aisling closed the door, turning the key in the lock. Moving slowly, silently, she took several steps toward him, wishing beyond measure that he would turn around, that he would speak. When she was no more than an arm’s length away, she paused, reaching out one hand toward him, meaning to pluck at his sleeve. Instead, she dropped her hand back to her side, swallowing hard.
And then, like a statue come to life, he turned to face her. Dear God, but he was handsome in his black trousers and tuxedo coat, his boyish tumble of hair falling across his forehead as it always did.
As his penetrating gaze met hers, his mouth lifted into a smile. “I didn’t expect you would come,” he said at last.
“I had to come. Had to tell you…well, there’s so much to say. But first I must apologize. I had no right to read your letter that day in your room, and even less to hold its contents against you. I should not have run out like I did. It was foolish of me. Foolish, and childish.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Ash,” he said, shaking his head, though he made no move toward her, no effort to touch her, to take her in his arms.
How she wanted to be in those arms!
“Oh, but I do. My behavior these past few days has been nothing short of erratic, my mood swinging wildly from one extreme to the next. I cannot make head nor tail of it myself, so I can only imagine how puzzling it must be for you.”
He shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets. “But you’ve always been a puzzle to me, Aisling. This week, last year, a decade ago. I’ve long since given up trying to figure you out. Besides, this thing between us…I think it took us both by surprise. You cannot apologize for that. You cannot apologize for being yourself.”
She shook her head, wrapping her arms about herself, suddenly cold. “But don’t you see? I’m not myself, not anymore. I was always so sure of who I was, of what I wanted from life. And now…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Now I’m not sure of anything.”
“I’m sure of what I want,” he said softly, and Aisling’s breath caught in her throat. “I want you, Aisling. Only you. Always.”
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