Third Day of Christmas #5
“Your imagination has spirited you away today, Miss Spinster,” said Andrews. “You must give us a travelogue of your cerebral adventure whenever you return. You know, Miss Chen, I once spent a fortnight in Cairo. It was in the painfully bright heat of the summer . . .”
Remembering that other matter, Kestrel glanced down the table to gauge the Charming situation and found the missus looking unusually pensive while the mister was blabbering on. But just as quickly, Kestrel’s attention veered back to Hank. It didn’t seem capable of leaving him for long.
After dinner, in the drawing room, the party played cards.
Kestrel joined a game of whist with Mr. Culpepper, Andrews, and Gussie, followed by a game of speculation with Tom, Jerome, Lady Heartwright, and the Hardy brothers.
Always on to a new game, trying to keep her mind busy on something besides Hank wearing the hell out of a legit Darcy-esque pair of breeches.
And to distract herself from that ever-present tightness of anger and regret in her chest, like a walnut in her esophagus.
It never went away, a trauma she couldn’t swallow.
Usually she managed to ignore it, but tonight it felt like a skull-sized boulder jammed in her craw.
When she stood to serve herself a drink from the cart, Charming was there fetching a drink for Bobby.
“Don’t you love all the gentlemen?” Charming whispered. “Samuel and Jonathan are fairly new additions. It was my idea to name them the Hardy Boys. Isn’t that great?”
Kestrel stared blankly. Her thoughts were too full of Hank to take on any new challenge.
“The Hardy Boys. Don’t you know about the Hardy Boys?
Ugh, I forget how young you are. Why can’t your generation remember all the stuff that happened before you were born?
I knew all the crap from my parents’ generation because we had nothing better to do than watch reruns on TV. Now, that’s an education.”
As Charming walked away, suddenly Hank took her place. He was standing at Kestrel’s shoulder, looking down at his hands.
“Kes, it’s good to see you.” He spoke low and quick. “I don’t want to make this painful for you, my being here. It’s very clear that I shouldn’t have come.”
Her head felt light. Her feet barely touched the carpet, as if she might fall through another existential universe. She looked down at them, ordering them to stay put.
“How did you even know I was here?” Kestrel whispered.
“The contest. I saw a news story.” He smiled as he filled a cup with punch.
“When I read the headline, my first thought was, That sounds like something Kestrel would enter. I scrolled down, and there was your photo. It felt like . . . like a sign, and I was impulsive. I contacted them, and then I came. So I could see you. To say sorry. For everything.”
“You came to say sorry?” asked Kestrel.
Hank shrugged. It wasn’t a small gesture with those wide shoulders, and even in her half-delirious state, the strength of him sent a thrill through her. His body used to be nearly as familiar to her as her own. The hours they’d spent naked, just touching each other, delighting—
“And now I have even more to apologize for,” he was saying. “I’m sorry I came. I realized the moment I saw you that this was a mistake. I’ll stay out of your way and let you enjoy this.”
He met her eyes, and Kestrel’s insides warmed.
She knew that face so well. Those eyes, which she never thought she’d see again, were inches away, wholly focused on her face.
His gaze slipped down to her lips, and for the briefest instant lower, to the Regency-appropriate display of her breasts, propped up with a corset and framed by the gentle V of her pale green satin gown.
She shivered despite herself, as if his gaze had been a touch like fingertips brushing across her bare skin.
But his gaze didn’t stop, continuing down till it met his own shoes. With another apology, he turned and walked away.
Instantly, all the vertigo and shakiness and confusion clicked inside Kestrel and ignited into rage.
How dare he? HOW DARE HE? She stood there, seething, half expecting steam to shoot out of her ear holes.
He was so bad at explaining the “why” of anything.
He was the most infuriating boyfriend of her dubious dating career.
She watched him cross the room and hand the cup to Mrs. Martinez, but Kestrel turned away before he might catch her gaze.
He’d already messed up her past two years as she’d slowly, surgically removed all the pieces of her heart from the memory of their relationship.
She was not going to let him mess up her once-in-a-lifetime Austen fantasy.
I realized the moment I saw you that this was a mistake . . .
“Miss Spinster,” said Mr. Culpepper, “would you care to join us for riddles?”
“Would I ever,” said Kestrel.
Later, as the Windy Nook party took their leave, Kestrel feigned tremendous interest in a book of poetry so she didn’t have to say goodbye. Tomorrow she expected to hear that “Mr. Kern” had returned early to America.