The Rake’s Christmas Wager (Spinsters and their Suitors #2)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

A fter the festive decorating party had concluded, dinner had been announced. Henry had been seated between Lady Harriett and Miss Colbrook. Perhaps if he wasn’t assigned to be Miss Ashworth’s dinner companion soon, he would have to make it a point to sit next to her during each breakfast and during the mid-day teas, or he would have very little time to converse with her over their meals.

No port was served after dinner, so he escorted Lady Harriett from the dining room into the drawing room. Once Lady Harriett had found a comfortable chair, he looked around the room. His gaze followed Miss Ashworth as she gracefully navigated the room. She moved with a quiet confidence toward the large windows at the far end of the room.

“It appears you’re losing our little wager,” Lord Camden remarked, sidling up beside him with a smug grin. “I thought it a safe bet that you couldn’t charm her, but I didn’t expect to win so easily.”

Henry chuckled softly, masking any irritation. This challenge couldn’t be won on charm alone. “I’m not sure what gives you that impression, Camden. It’s hardly been any time at all.”

“She doesn’t seem to be succumbing to your usual tactics,” Camden observed, swirling the wine in his glass, a smirk pulling at his lips. “She’s not fawning over your poetry or seeking your company, to hang on to every word you speak. In fact, she seems quite content to ignore you entirely.”

“I haven’t yet begun to apply myself,” Henry replied smoothly. “I have over a fortnight left to secure that kiss. Patience is a virtue, after all.”

Camden arched an eyebrow. “Since when have you been an advocate of patience?”

Henry’s lips curved into a confident smile. “Since I can’t pick up my horse from your stables until after Twelfth Night. There is no sense in rushing this. I’ll win her over—you’ll see. Perhaps with a touch of Byron’s finest verses.”

“Byron, is it?” Camden laughed. “Well, I wish you luck. You’ll need it.”

“I won’t need your luck. I only need Byron. Everyone enjoys a well-timed poem, and I haven’t recited poetry to her specifically.”

As Camden moved away to join another group, Henry took a deep breath and straightened his jacket. His eyes found Miss Ashworth again, standing alone by one of the tall windows, gazing out at the snow-laden gardens. The soft glow from the wall sconces illuminated her profile, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek and long neck, and the thoughtful expression that softened her features.

He crossed the room with purposeful strides, his heartbeat quickening—a sensation both unfamiliar and exhilarating. “Miss Ashworth,” he greeted, his voice warm as he approached her. “You seem lost in thought. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Miss Ashworth turned, her expression calm but not unkind. Her eyes, sharp and clear, met his without hesitation. “Not at all, Lord Brinton. I was just admiring the view.”

Henry glanced out at the darkening sky and the sun setting on the snow-dusted landscape, though his attention remained firmly on her. “It was a beautiful day, but not nearly as lovely as the company—if I may be so bold.”

She raised a single brow, her gaze steady. “That is very bold. And it leaves one to wonder if it is the truth or merely just flattery again.”

“I speak only the truth,” he said with a warm smile, hoping to soften her cool demeanor.

She tilted her head slightly, the faintest of smiles playing at her lips. “Is that so? And what else is truth, Lord Brinton?”

Henry took a small step closer, his voice dropping as though to share a secret. “Do you know what I thought of earlier?”

“I cannot begin to guess.”

“I was thinking that watching you reminds me of a poem.”

She raised an eyebrow, her expression inscrutable. “Is that so?”

“But of course,” he said, and without waiting for her reply, he recited with practiced ease:

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!”

The familiar lines flowed easily from his lips, each word perfectly measured. He had used this poem countless times to charm and flatter, and it had never failed him before. As he finished, he waited for the usual signs—the blush, the soft smile, the flutter of lashes—but instead, Miss Ashworth’s expression remained cool, almost indifferent.

“Very impressive, Lord Brinton,” she said, her tone polite but lacking the admiration he’d expected. “But tell me, are all rakes so well-versed in poetry and recitation?”

Henry blinked, momentarily taken aback by her response. He had expected a bit of flirtation, maybe even a small laugh, but her words carried a sharpness he hadn’t anticipated. “Rakes?” he repeated, recovering quickly. “I wouldn’t classify myself as such, Miss Ashworth. And besides, most people enjoy my recitations.”

“I’m sure they do,” she replied lightly, her eyes glinting with quiet challenge. “But memorizing poetry doesn’t make the reciter genuine or sincere. It only means they’re capable of remembering words in a certain order.”

Henry frowned, the usual ease of his charm faltering under her scrutiny. “Are you suggesting that poetry can’t be genuine? That it doesn’t capture real feelings?”

Miss Ashworth shrugged, turning her gaze back to the gardens. “Perhaps it does, but it’s easy to confuse sentiment with sincerity. Poetry can be a shield, Lord Brinton—a way to hide behind someone else’s beautiful words instead of offering anything real.”

Henry stared at her for a moment, unsettled by her casual dismissal of something that had always been such a reliable part of his repertoire. Most people were content to be swept away by the beauty of the verse, but Miss Ashworth wasn’t moved by words alone. Miss Ashworth wanted more. She wanted something real.

A silence stretched between them, the festive noise of the house party fading into the background as Henry’s mind raced for a response. And then, almost without thinking, he found himself saying something he hadn’t planned, something more honest than he was used to offering.

He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. Poetry, for him, held a deep significance, long before thoughts of charming women had been on his mind.

“It’s not about the words themselves—it’s about the connection. The feeling that, for a moment, you’ve shared something with someone that transcends beyond the ordinary pleasantries of life.”

Miss Ashworth regarded him for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a lovely sentiment, Lord Brinton. But reciting a poem to someone doesn’t always mean they’ll feel the same connection. Sometimes, it’s just words.” Her voice was quieter now, and Henry noticed a flicker of something in her gaze—something deeper, more personal.

Henry nodded slowly, sensing the weight behind her words. He took a step closer, his voice gentler than before. “You’ve been hurt by words before, haven’t you? Someone used them to say one thing but meant another.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and for a brief moment, he saw a shadow cross her face—a flash of vulnerability before she quickly composed herself. “Perhaps,” she replied, her voice steady but soft. “I’ve heard a lot of beautiful words, Lord Brinton—words that, in the end, turned out to be empty.”

Henry’s chest tightened at the quiet pain beneath her words, and the lightheartedness of their exchange fell away, leaving something heavier and very real between them. He wanted to press her, to ask for more details, but he sensed that pushing too hard might cause her to retreat entirely.

Instead, he offered a small, sincere smile. “Not all words are empty, Miss Ashworth. Some of us … we’re trying to mean them.”

Miss Ashworth glanced at him, her expression softening slightly as her gaze met his. “We’ll see, Lord Brinton.”