Chapter 3 #2
“Obviously,” he agreed, those dark eyes of his dancing, as if he anticipated whatever was to be between them.
Nothing. There could be nothing between them. Her mother would never allow it.
“Never you fear though,” she said, lifting her cup in a jaunty salute. “I am made of sterner stuff than he.”
“I do hope not,” he replied, folding his arms over his powerful chest.
She sputtered on the punch and immediately licked the red drops from her lower lip.
The look on his face stole her breath away, for even in her fluster, she could see that he loved the look of her tongue sweeping the punch from her lip. That he wished he could assist!
“Have I said something shocking?” he asked, clearly rather enjoying the fact that he had caused her to sputter.
She never sputtered. He had done this. What special power did he have to ruffle her feathers?
He looked like he wanted to ruffle more, as if he clearly thought that it would be good for her.
Suddenly an image of him mussing her hair and turning her cheeks a vibrant pink with his playful banter and touch, making her embrace life with a ribbon askew, living fully and without regret, flashed before her eyes.
But she’d never lived like that. Life was full of regrets. And she’d never ever let there be a ribbon askew.
She grabbed a linen from the table and dabbed at her hand and her lips. The very idea that a drop of punch had fallen anywhere other than her lips was horrifying.
She was no child in the nursery. Her mother had long ago made clear to her with looks and quick words that there were to be no spills.
There were to be no crumbs from a biscuit, no misspoken word, no errant dance step. And there wasn’t to be a man she could not charm.
Every move she made had to be perfect.
“I like it,” he said softly.
“What?” she asked as she placed the linen down.
“Watching you lick the punch from your lips.”
“I beg your pardon,” she gasped, wishing she could down the whole cup of punch. She already knew that he’d liked watching, but to say it! “That is scandalous, my lord!”
“Is it?” he queried easily.
Earlier, she had played with scandal. She had teased him that she was in his debt.
And she had teased. And she had known the way a gentleman might think.
Gentlemen were easy to read, and she had seen the desire flicker through his eyes.
Now, she was being quite the hypocrite, but it was because everything was rattling out of control.
The terrible trouble of it was that she had felt desire too. She wasn’t supposed to. She was supposed to stay cold, distant, and unaffected, so she could manage everyone and everything.
But she couldn’t manage him. Not really. And a part of her whispered, I’m glad.
What a relief it was.
“Take another drink,” he said, gently but firmly.
It was another order. She was still not accustomed to such things. He was merely a viscount, the son of an earl, and it wasn’t as if that was a small title, but she was accustomed to the princes of Europe now.
She’d spent years abroad. And of course, her mother had paraded her in front of every French prince that had come over in droves since Napoleon.
“It is very good punch,” she replied quite sillily. Her mother would have been horrified by the banal comment.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“It will make me intoxicated if I am not careful,” she replied.
“No,” he said. “It will make you warm. Our family is not interested in artificial intoxication and so we do not liberally lace our punch. We only care for the intoxication of the spirit. Not the mind.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. In her experience, most people wanted to dull the mind and not see the world for what it was at all. “That’s not how most people are.”
“Bully for you,” he teased. “You spotted it right out. Briarwoods are—”
“Ah,” she cut in, her senses coming back to her. “I see. You are all special.”
“You’ve not heard of us?” he queried.
“Of course, I’ve heard of the Briarwoods, but isn’t that tremendous arrogance? Special?” she mocked lightly with a tsk. “No one is special.”
“Aren’t you special?” he asked. “Because no one is like you. You’re very special. And I am special. We are unique creatures. But no one is like my family either. My entire family is special. So all of us are special—”
“All right.” She laughed, unable to stop herself. “We are all special which, in a way, means that none of us are special.”
He laughed. “Good God, woman, you like to win, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Or maybe it’s just that I simply can’t understand your family and the way it sees the world.”
“Let me explain it to you—”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she felt the sudden urge to run. This was all going terribly, terribly wrong. She had not come here looking for a husband. She couldn’t have one here in any case, even if. . . Even if. . .
No, she couldn’t and wouldn’t let herself think how very much Viscount Hawthorn made her feel as if the heavens had opened up and struck her.
She was not allowed to be struck.
She cleared her throat, knowing she needed to stop this at once. “What if I told you that I don’t want to understand? What if I told you that I’m only here to see my brother and now that I’ve done that, I should go.”
“But it’s Christmas,” he pointed out. “You can’t possibly do that to your coachman, the grooms, and the footmen.”
She winced. “You’re right, of course. It’d be badly done of me.”
“I’m glad you care about your servants.”
“Don’t you know that Oliver cares about his servants?”
Viscount Hawthorn’s lips twitched. “Yes, but you’re not Oliver. Perhaps you’re the wicked sister who doesn’t care a whit for anyone.”
She laughed, but it was half a groan. “I am not the wicked sister who does not care for anyone.”
“No,” he said softly, his gaze pinning hers. “You care for everyone.”
She sucked in a gasp. “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s far better than most, but it does have its precarious problems.”
“Such as?” she found herself demanding, feeling vulnerable in a way she couldn’t recall feeling before.
He blinked, then leaned in ever so slightly.
Much to her disbelief, he lifted his hand and oh so gently wiped a droplet of mulled wine away from her lip.
She hadn’t even known it was still there.
But he did so with immense care. As if he gave not a whit for the company or for anyone who might be watching them.
She couldn’t imagine that. Not caring. And she was tempted to jerk back, lest anyone make assumptions, but she longed more to hear what he was about to say.
“When you care for everyone and what they think,” he began, “which I can see that you do, though you do not wish me to, it is almost impossible to care for yourself.”
She swallowed, unable to speak. She half expected him to continue on, to tell her more about herself and her shortcomings, for surely that’s what that was, a shortcoming, and she had never had a shortcoming in her whole life, at least not one that anyone could see.
But he did not say more. And she realized, it wasn’t censure. Oh, no, it was something else. It was understanding. And that? That was worse.
And then he turned and walked away.
She gaped after him, lifting her fingers to touch her lip where he had slipped his fingers over it. And a thought hit her. This was the first time in her recollection that a gentleman had ever walked away first.