Aisling squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, rattling breath. Her greatest desire, and her greatest fear—all in one tidy package. However would she bear it?
“I love you, Aisling.” His fingers brushed her cheek, softly, gently. He had moved closer, so close that she could feel his warm breath against her neck.
Her eyes still closed, she reached blindly for him, pulling him closer, wanting to feel his lips upon hers. “I love you, too, Will,” she choked out as he pressed his lips to her throat, just below her ear. “I do, and I’m so very frightened by it.”
“Why?” he murmured against her skin. “I won’t hurt you, Aisling. Ever.” He trailed featherlight kisses up the column of her neck, back down toward her collarbone, raising gooseflesh on her skin.
“Because, don’t you see? We’ll always wonder, never be quite sure…” She shook her head, unable to say more, knowing he would think it utter nonsense.
Grasping her chin between his forefinger and his thumb, he forced her to meet his gaze. “Never quite sure of what? You must tell me, so I can give you every assurance imaginable.”
She swallowed hard before speaking. “The poem, Will. My wish. There was a woman there in the circle of stones that day, a woman I’ve never seen before or since. She was there one minute, and then, just before I found the box, she simply disappeared into thin air. Like some sort of spirit.”
He released her chin, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “I think you’ve been reading too much fiction, Aisling. Surely you know that’s not possible.”
“If you’d asked me a fortnight ago, I would have laughed with you and agreed. But…but I can’t explain it, Will. You had to be there. It was just at the moment of the solstice, and it felt odd, almost magical. Even as I made my wish, I knew it was impossible, knew I was wishing for a man who did not exist. And then, there you were, that very night at supper. And you’re everything I wished for, everything I hoped for.”
“Isn’t that enough, Aisling? What more do you want from me? I’m willing to give you everything, don’t you see? Everything. I know I can’t offer you much. Damn it, it sounds bloody ridiculous even suggesting it. You, growing up here—” he waved his hands toward the door “—and me, the bastard son of a washerwoman. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m asking far too much of you.” He turned away from her, raking a hand through his hair.
“That’s not it,” she cried, clutching at his sleeve, pulling him back to her. “It’s not. I swear to you it isn’t.”
“It isn’t? Then pray, enlighten me. You say you love me, that—”
“I do love you. My heart…it’s near to bursting with it. It’s not as if one day I looked at you and said, ‘Oh, dear me, I think I’ve fallen in love with Will Cooper, isn’t that lovely.’ No, it was so much more intense than that, almost violent. And don’t you see, I’ve never before felt anything intensely, much less violently. Never, in all my years. But after reading the poem, and making the wish…” She shook her head. “It’s like we’re both under a spell. How can I ever be sure of my feelings? How can you?”
“Because I don’t believe in spells, Aisling. I simply don’t believe that you can read a poem, make a wish, and suddenly find yourself feeling things you weren’t meant to feel. And the Aisling I’ve known all these years is a sensible girl who doesn’t believe in such nonsense, either.”
“I’m no longer that same girl,” she said, shaking her head. “All I used to care about was my writing. I would lose myself in my stories for hours on end. And these past two days, I’ve tried.” She took a deep breath. “God knows I’ve tried to write, to put my newfound experience to good use. I’ve sat for hours, pen in hand, staring at the blank page. But you know what? The words won’t come. For the first time in years, the words simply won’t come.”
“Have you considered that you no longer have the need to write your fantasies? That you’re living them now, instead? You should try another form of fiction—a novel, perhaps, or poetry. Don’t you see, in Cambridge there are people like you, writers and poets. You could join a literary circle. Stay at home and write while I’m off at work. I could buy us a house, something modest but cozy.” He looked so earnest, so eager, so damn adoring that it tore at Aisling’s heart.
Tears welled in her eyes. “And what then, Will? How long ’til the doubts creep in? ’Til you begin to wonder if my feelings for you are real, ’til you turn to Helena for comfort? ’Til the spell wears off and we find ourselves shaking our heads in confusion, wondering just how we found ourselves in such a predicament?”
He grasped her shoulders, shaking them hard. “My feelings for you will never change, Aisling. Never. I promise you that.”
“I want to believe that, truly I do. But if they do…don’t you see? It’ll be too late,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. She was a coward, after all. Just as she feared. “If I were to go with you to Cambridge, to…to…” she stuttered.
“To marry me?” he supplied.
“Yes. If I did…my parents, they would never accept it. Society would never accept it.”
“Since when have you cared what society thought? Damn it, Aisling, be truthful for once.”
“I am being truthful,” she said miserably. “But you must see what’s at stake here.”
He released her shoulders, nearly shoving her away. “You truly are a coward, then. Goddamn you, Aisling. You stand there, denying what we feel, denying what we have.” He began to pace, his hands shoved back in his pockets now, his anger palpable.
A single tear traced a scalding hot path down Aisling’s cheek. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She’d been gone too long—surely the pantomime was over by now. Yes, she could hear the faint lilt of Christmas hymns coming from the far side of the house. Soon it would be midnight, and the guests would be lighting their tapers and heading outdoors.
She took a tentative step toward him, wanting to soothe him, to try once more to make him understand. But he turned on her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her toward his chest.
“Damn you, deny this,” he said, his voice a low growl. His mouth slanted over hers, hot and demanding.
Aisling could not resist—she had no desire to. She opened her mouth against his, murmuring his name as her tongue sought entrance to his punishing mouth. Desire coursed through her, warming her skin, making her heart race as her tongue mingled with his, searching, exploring, tasting.
She felt him stiffen, felt him try to pull away. No. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer, refusing to let his mouth leave hers. She wanted to lose herself in his kiss, wanted him to make her forget her doubts, forget everything but how exquisite it felt there in his strong, comforting arms.
Rising on tiptoe, she deepened the kiss, her fingers moving from his hair to his jawbone, cupping his face, holding on to him for dear life. He tasted of wine, of tobacco—entirely male, utterly intoxicating. Dear God, but she could kiss him like this forever; she could never get enough. Never.
She moaned softly when his hands moved down her shoulders, to her back, his fingertips grazing her bare skin, moving toward her backside. And then his hands were between their bodies, cupping her breasts, his fingertips massaging her peaked nipples through the layers of clothing.
The friction made her squirm, made her thighs dampen. Pleasure coiled in her belly, radiating down her limbs, making them weak.
With a low groan, he tore his mouth from hers, trailing hot, wet kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, his tongue finding the valley between her breasts. Lower still his mouth moved, his teeth nipping at her now-puckered nipples through the fabric of her gown. Aisling tipped her head back, holding Will’s head to her breast, guiding it, whimpering quietly as he sucked and laved.
“Oh, Will,” she said on a sigh. “I do love you. Truly, I do.”
His face still pressed to her gown, Will fell to his knees, his arms still wrapped around her, clinging to her as if for dear life. Aisling stood there trembling, listening
to the first faraway strains of “Silent Night” growing louder as voices joined in.
They were out of time. The guests would be departing soon. Her mother would come looking for her—for all she knew, she was looking for her now. She stared down at Will, still on his knees, the side of his face pressed against her skirts. He was fumbling in his waistcoat’s pocket, reaching for something.
And then he released her, holding something up, something that glinted in the dimmed light, like a jewel, a gem. “Marry me, Aisling,” he said, gazing up at her hopefully. “I know it isn’t much, isn’t nearly what you’re worth.”
All the breath left Aisling’s lungs in a rush. There wasn’t time—wasn’t time to think it through properly, to think logically and reasonably. She turned her head, unable to look, unable to see his offering, knowing full well that, however simple, however modest it might be, it would be the most beautiful jewel she’d ever seen, the most desirable. “I…I can’t, Will. Not now. But that does not mean—”
“Don’t,” he said, rising to his feet, shoving the ring back inside his pocket. A shadow had dropped over his eyes, dulling them, dimming them. “Don’t say another word.”
The voice of the carolers grew louder, more insistent. Tears filled Aisling’s eyes, making her vision blurry. How she despised herself—her cowardice, her insecurity, her inability to trust her own feelings. And there was nothing—nothing at all—she could do about it.
Unless…unless she took a chance. Unless she changed her answer. Unless she took what Will was offering, something she wanted more than anything in all her life, something that would perhaps make her the happiest woman alive. If only she could believe it, if she could trust in it. If only she had faith.
“Wait,” she said, reaching for Will’s sleeve as he made to move past her. “It’s just…I’m not certain, but perhaps—”
“No,” he said firmly, removing her hand from his sleeve, shaking his head. He was smiling now, a sad, rueful smile. He leaned in, kissed her softly on the mouth, then stepped away, straightening his coat as he did so. “Thank you, but no. Happy Christmas, Aisling.”
And then he left her there, feeling as if her heart had just been cleaved in two.
From out in the driveway, the sound of the carolers’ voices rose in unison, then faded into nothingness.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
At that moment, Aisling knew she’d never again know peace. Not as long as she lived.
10
WILL SPRAWLED IN THE CHAIR IN THE CORNER of his room, one hand clutching a glass of whiskey, the other cupping his throbbing temple. His vision slightly blurred from the drink, he stared at the foot of his bed, trying his damnedest to erase the vision of Aisling there, her wrists tied to the iron bars.
If he inhaled deeply enough, he could almost recall her scent—the scent of violets mixed with desire. The memory of their coupling hung heavily in the air, almost a living, breathing thing. He took another swig of whiskey, hoping to drown out the memories—the feel of her skin, the heat of her cunt sheathing him. How would he ever get her out of his head? How would he cure himself of this hopeless infatuation, this ill-fated obsession?
Somehow he had to. She’d refused him—fucking refused him, and just minutes after telling him that she loved him. He threw back his head and laughed at the irony of it. She loved him, yes. But not enough to marry him, apparently. A sharp, piercing pain tore through his gut.
Well, he was done with her, then. He rose on unsteady legs, taking one last draft of his drink, then slamming the empty glass down on the desk. He wouldn’t think of her. Wouldn’t dream about her. And, most important, he wouldn’t give her the chance to come running back to him with more excuses, more ridiculous nonsense about magic and spells forcing them to feel things that weren’t real.
His feelings were real, and right now they were ripped to bloody shreds.
He reached for his trunk, throwing open the lid and gathering the stack of books from his desk, tossing them inside without care. Forget staying through the new year—Christmas had come and gone, and he was ready to go back to Cambridge, back where people respected him, where they didn’t give a damn who his father was, or what his mother did to make her living.
He refused to sit around, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for Aisling to see the truth. She’d had her chance, damn it. There was nothing else to keep him in Bedlington. Only memories.
Just walking through the village brought them back, one by one, long-forgotten memories of days gone by. The huge oak at the edge of the village green, the one Aisling had climbed at Jack’s dare and then gotten frightened, clutching the tree’s trunk for dear life, refusing to come back down. He’d climbed up himself, pretending to be far braver than he was where heights were concerned, and led the trembling girl down by the hand. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time, her wheat-blond hair held back by a bow, her white dress ruffled and flounced.
And then there was the grassy field where they’d played cricket as children—he, Jack, Aisling, Louisa and the Brandon children. So many Sunday afternoons spent there. Aisling always got to choose her team first, and she always chose Will, claiming he was faster than the rest of them. Which was true, now that he thought about it.
And then there was the circle of standing stones near Wainscott House where Aisling liked to sit and write, nibbling on her pen. How many times had he stopped and stood beneath a tree, secretly watching her, wondering just what kind of words she put to the page? He’d imagined her writing poetry, just because it seemed the kind of thing that a proper young lady like Aisling would do.
He vividly remembered the day that Jack went up to Eton, leaving her behind. It had seemed so unfair—she’d always been the smartest one, smarter than any of them. All her playmates had been sent to school, even Louisa—everyone but Aisling, despite her intelligence, because young ladies of Aisling’s station didn’t get formally schooled, of course. They were taught to speak French, some German, perhaps. They studied literature and music, learned to sew and to paint. Useless things, all. Aisling had been groomed to be some gentleman’s wife and nothing more, despite the fact that she was wickedly clever, that she was far better at sums than her brother was.
He shook his head, forcing away the memories, willing himself to stop thinking about her as he tossed his belongings haphazardly into his trunk. Tomorrow he would get on the morning train and go back to Cambridge, back to his life there.
And Aisling…she would stay in the past, damn it. Buried in memories, where she belonged, before he’d been stupid enough to think otherwise.
Damn it all, what he wouldn’t give to take back those words he’d spoken so carelessly on Christmas Eve. He shook his head, glaring at the hateful little box that sat on his dresser holding the ring he’d gone all the way to Dorchester to purchase, so bloody confident that he’d be able to convince her to marry him.
He’d actually gotten down on his knees like a lovesick fool! No doubt she was having a laugh about it now. Crossing the room in three long strides, he took the box and threw it as hard as he could, not giving a damn where it landed. It didn’t matter; it was rubbish now, as far as he was concerned.
His anger now spent, he collapsed back in the chair, cradling his head in his hands. A wave of humiliation washed over him as his vision blurred, his eyes suddenly damp.
Damn you, Aisling Wainscott. Yes, he would get on that train tomorrow, and he would never look back.
Aisling felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to find Jack standing there behind her.
“Good God, Ash, what’s the matter with you? You’ve been sitting here staring out the window for hours.”
Aisling just shrugged in reply, turning back toward the window. The sky was gray and a heavy fog was rolling in, obscuring the trees in the distance, moving slowly toward the house in dark, curling wisps.
“Actually, you’ve been moping about since Christmas,” he accused. “As if it isn’t morose enough around he
re with Mother upstairs crying all day.”
Because Father had left, returning to London—to Mrs. Gaylord, of course—the day after Christmas. The gifts had barely been put away, the fruitcakes and various other seasonal treats not yet entirely consumed. But that hadn’t stopped Sir Reginald from fleeing back to his mistress with the barest of excuses, the bastard.
She glanced down at the new ruby-and-diamond bracelet she wore on her wrist, her father’s gift, and a rather lavish one, at that. I’ll give it to Jack to sell in London, she thought to herself, fingering the exquisite gems. It would fetch a fair sum, fattening her bank account.
“Aisling?” Jack sat down beside her on the settee and reached for her hand. “You must tell me what’s wrong. I can’t bear to see you like this.”
“What do you mean, ‘like this’?” she asked, refusing to look at him, to meet his gaze.
“Why, pale and drawn, your eyes red rimmed, as if you’ve been crying. You, crying! God only knows you’ve never been one for tears.”
“My eyes are just…just irritated, that’s all. I’m sure I’m coming down with something.”
“I’m sure you’re lying, Aisling. Come, now, it’s me you’re talking to. I know you as well as I know myself. There’s no fooling me—surely you know that by now.”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” she said sharply, pulling her hand from his grasp.
“Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easily. You can’t simply brush me aside like you do everyone else. I’ll hound you ’til you break—you know that I will,” he threatened, his voice light and teasing.
“Oh, bugger off, won’t you?” Aisling snapped. In her heart she knew that Jack didn’t deserve it, her ill temper. Yet she could not tell him the truth. It didn’t matter that Will was Jack’s friend, that he was as educated as Jack was. It was well and good for them to be friends, but for Will and Aisling to be lovers? No, Jack would never approve. Worse, he would be furious. There was no telling what he’d do, what he’d say. Besides, it didn’t matter. They were done. There was nothing left to discuss.
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