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

Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he soft crunch of snow underfoot and the echo of laughter still played in Henry’s mind as he wandered into the billiard room later that afternoon. He could still see the look on Miss Ashworth’s beautiful face—fiercely determined, eyes narrowed in concentration—as she aimed her snowballs with perfect precision. To his surprise, she was remarkably skilled, landing more than a few well-placed throws at his expense. She had laughed, not with the coy, restrained air of society, but with pure delight, the kind that stirred something deep inside him.

Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that watching her in that moment had changed something. She wasn’t just a puzzle to solve or a challenge to overcome—she was far more than that.

He took a cue from the rack and aimed for the first ball on the table, his mind drifting back to the way Miss Ashworth had smiled as he remembered how she threw yet another snowball, laughing as it hit the mark. She was competitive, spirited, and somehow even more enchanting than he had known before. It was more than just a game. Over the last few days, things between them had shifted. At first, he had only thought about the bet, about winning. She was a means to an end. But now, things were different. With Beatrice insisting on putting up mistletoe every few feet and changing their locations almost daily, he’d more than once been under the mistletoe with Miss Ashworth. There had been plenty of opportunities to steal a kiss. They’d been alone in a closet for hide and seek. And yet, he hadn’t felt the need to kiss her yet. It had been much more enjoyable getting to know her. The more he learned about her, the more interested he became. That was quite a change. Often, he found the opposite among new acquaintances: the more he knew someone, the less he wanted to be around them or know more about them. But Miss Ashworth continued to surprise him.

The billiard room was quiet, save for the soft clack of the balls as they collided on the green felt table. Henry leaned against the edge, lost in thought, when Lord Camden entered with his usual casual swagger.

“Mind if I join you, my good man?” Lord Camden asked, already selecting his cue and lining up a shot.

Henry gave a nod, his focus still wavering between the game and the thoughts swirling in his head. He wasn’t sure why, but the usual satisfaction of besting someone in a wager didn’t seem to hold the same appeal when it came to Miss Ashworth.

Lord Camden took his shot, the balls scattering across the table, before he straightened up with a satisfied grin. “You looked like you were having a grand time in the snow earlier. Miss Ashworth seemed rather enthusiastic. I’d say you’re winning her over.”

Henry’s hand tightened slightly around the cue stick, his gaze flicking to Camden as he spoke. “It was just a game,” he said lightly, though his own words felt hollow. It had been more than that, but he wouldn’t have to explain all of that to Camden. He already knew too much as it was.

Camden chuckled. “A game, sure, but enthusiasm like that isn’t just for the fun of it. She clearly enjoys your company.” He took another shot, the balls rolling easily into the corner pocket. “Seems the wager is in your favor, old friend. Though I can’t say I’m surprised. Miss Ashworth is, well, you know, a challenge.”

The word ‘challenge’ lingered in the air, but Henry didn’t respond immediately. He watched as Camden continued to play, unaware of the internal shift that had taken root inside Henry.

A challenge. That’s how it had started—Miss Ashworth was different, untouchable, someone who wouldn’t be easily swayed by flirtations and charm. But the more time he spent with her, the less it felt like a challenge and more like something he genuinely wanted to explore. Her laughter, her wit, her unwillingness to agree just for the sake of it—everything about her was refreshing, real.

And that was the problem. He wasn’t sure he wanted to kiss her just to win a bet anymore.

Camden leaned on his cue, smirking as he watched Henry line up his shot. “Christmas Eve ball is going to be full of eligible women, you know. Plenty of opportunities under the mistletoe. I plan to find myself someone to kiss then. What about you, Brinton?”

Henry’s shot missed its mark entirely, the ball veering off course and clattering against the side. He straightened, pretending to survey the table, though his mind was elsewhere.

“The Christmas ball is earlier than the original deadline of Twelfth Night,” he repeated absently, half-listening to Camden’s musings. His thoughts were on Lily again, on how different she made him feel—how different everything felt with her.

Camden chuckled again. “Don’t tell me you’re already counting Miss Ashworth’s kiss in the bag?”

Henry shook his head, turning his attention back to the game, though a growing unease sat in his chest. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not like that.” Henry sighed. The wager had been simple in the beginning—kiss Miss Ashworth under the mistletoe, the proof he could win her favor. But now, the more time he spent with her, the less interested he was in the wager itself.

After a few more rounds, Lord Camden excused himself, leaving Henry alone once again in the quiet room. He leaned against the table, letting out a slow breath. What was happening to him? How had this wager become so entangled with his own growing feelings for her?

The dinner bell rang, breaking through his thoughts. With a shake of his head, Henry gathered his jacket and made his way to the dining room.

Seated between two women—Lady Whitmore and Miss Barrett—he offered the usual pleasantries, but the conversation felt hollow. It wasn’t that these women lacked charm; they were perfectly polite, perfectly agreeable. But that was just it—they were agreeable to everything. No matter what he said, they nodded, smiled, and offered no opinions of their own. They fawned over him, admiring his poetry recitations. When what he really wanted was for someone to have their own opinion, even if they were contrary to his preferences—like Miss Ashworth had been about poetry.

He tested it, suggesting things he didn’t even believe in—a preference for cold winters, and a disdain for poetry. Each time, they simply agreed, laughing lightly and nodding in perfect synchronization.

He glanced down the table where Miss Ashworth sat, animatedly discussing some matter with Beatrice. Her hands gestured as she spoke, her eyes bright with passion. Whatever they were talking about, Miss Ashworth wasn’t holding back. She was, as always, entirely herself.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. That’s what made her different. Miss Ashworth didn’t bend or mold herself to fit into anyone’s expectations. She was thoughtful, opinionated, and unafraid to challenge him. He found himself longing for her conversation, for the way she would counter him with a raised brow or an unexpected retort.

These two women beside him—he could hardly remember the content of their conversation. They weren’t challenging him, and worse, they weren’t even trying to understand him.

When the meal concluded, Henry felt a sense of relief. As the guests began to rise from their seats, he cast one last glance toward Miss Ashworth. She was laughing, a light sound that filled the room in a way no other woman’s laugh could. He could have kissed her a dozen times by now, easily won the wager, and yet here he was, struggling with the simplest decision—because kissing her under the mistletoe no longer felt like a win. It felt like something far more precious.

As the evening wore on, Henry realized the truth of his situation: he wasn’t playing a game anymore. And the only victory that mattered was earning her heart, not because of a wager, but because he truly, deeply wanted her to care for him as much as he cared for her.

And that was something far more valuable than any bet.