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

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he clink of silverware and the murmur of polite conversation had filled the dining room, the usual rhythm of the evening meal proceeding as it always did. Yet, something about tonight felt off to Lily. She had taken her seat next to Beatrice, expecting that the change in company would offer her a welcome reprieve. After all, she had spent so much time recently with Lord Brinton—more than any sensible woman should.

But the strangest thing had happened: she had missed him.

Lily nearly laughed at herself as she walked slowly down the quiet corridor, the house dimly lit with flickering candles. The evening had ended much earlier than usual, and now, in the stillness of the night, she found herself unable to sleep. Her mind spun endlessly, replaying the dinner in her head—the way she’d made polite conversation with Beatrice and the other guests, the way the evening had unfolded as it always did, and yet, a part of her had been elsewhere.

It was ridiculous. Preposterous, even. She disliked Lord Brinton—or at least she thought she did. He was a rake, after all. Everyone said so. The gossip of his reputation had swirled around the ton for years, stories of his scandalous behavior and his careless heart. And yet ...

Lily sighed, her fingers brushing lightly against the banister as she made her way toward the library. What was it about him that lingered in her thoughts, even now? She had thought that a night free from his company would bring her a sense of relief, but instead, it had been the opposite.

Her conversations during dinner, even with her cousin, had felt hollow. She had answered questions, laughed at the appropriate moments, and yet, all the while, she had longed for something else. Something more. The lively banter that came so easily with Lord Brinton, the unexpected sparks of wit, the way he genuinely listened when she spoke.

It made no sense at all. She disliked him—had disliked him since the moment they first met. Or rather, she had disliked the idea of him. The rake, the charming scoundrel who never took anything seriously. And yet, he had always been a perfect gentleman around her. Never once had he given her reason to believe that he was anything but respectful in her presence, even when they’d been alone together. And though she’d wanted to put him in the same category as the man who’d toyed with her ages ago, yet she couldn’t do it. Lord Brinton was light-hearted, yes, but that didn’t automatically mean that he was being insincere.

Lily’s thoughts tumbled over one another as she stepped into the library, the room dim but welcoming. The scent of old books and polished wood filled the air, and the soft glow of the fire in the hearth cast long shadows across the walls.

She wandered between the shelves, running her fingers along the spines of the books, hoping that some novel might distract her from the persistent presence of Lord Brinton in her mind.

Why did he occupy her thoughts so relentlessly? She had assumed that her time spent in his company was out of politeness, that her conversations with him were merely the result of circumstance. But now, in the quiet of the night, she had to admit—she had begun to enjoy those conversations.

It had started subtly, with his teasing remarks and her quick retorts. At first, she had been irritated by his charm, convinced that he was just another rogue looking for an easy conquest. But the more time she spent with him, the more she began to see beneath the surface. He was clever, yes, and playful, but there was something else, too. Something she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Lily sighed, pulling a book from the shelf and glancing at the title, though she hardly registered the words. She had come to the library to distract herself from thoughts of him, yet here she was, unable to think of anything else.

It was maddening.

She returned the book to its place on the shelf and wandered to the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the happy flames. It was beautiful, peaceful—everything her mind was not at the moment.

Perhaps that was the problem. Lord Brinton stirred something inside of her, something that was neither peaceful nor simple. She had always prided herself on her ability to remain calm and composed, to keep her emotions firmly in check. But when she was with him, those carefully constructed walls seemed to falter.

She shook her head, frustrated with herself. This was all wrong. She didn’t favor him, she couldn’t favor him. He was a man who thrived on charm and flirtation, who made women swoon with nothing more than a smile. And yet, perhaps not ...

Lily’s brow furrowed as she recalled the way he had looked at her during the snowball fight earlier that day, his expression not one of amusement or conquest, but something deeper. Something she couldn’t quite place.

She turned away from the fireplace, restless again. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge him, to dismiss him based on the rumors and the gossip. Perhaps there was more to Lord Brinton than she had allowed herself to see.

With a sigh, Lily returned to the shelves, determined to find something—anything—to occupy her thoughts. She wasn’t ready to confront whatever it was that stirred inside her when she thought of him. Not yet.

But as she pulled another book from the shelf, her mind betrayed her once more, and she found herself thinking, not of the novel in her hands, but of the next time she would see him, the next conversation they would share.

And despite herself, Lily found she wasn’t dreading it.

At every turn, it seemed his image found its way into her thoughts. The way he smiled when she landed a perfect snowball hit. The warmth in his eyes when he promised to try harder next time, but he still was too much of a gentleman to hit a lady. It was ridiculous, really, how easily he had wormed his way into her mind. She had spent so long guarding herself against charmers like him, and yet here she was, standing in the quiet of the library, holding a book she hadn’t even realized she’d picked up.

She glanced down at the leather-bound volume in her hands, her brow furrowing slightly as she turned it over. A poetry collection. Of course. What else would it be? It seemed Lord Brinton was even now choosing the books she would pull from the shelves.

Lily sighed softly, her fingers tracing the gold lettering on the spine. She hadn’t meant to choose poetry—it was the last thing she needed, given how often Lord Brinton seemed to recite it with ease and grace. But somehow, standing there in the stillness of the library, she found herself wondering what it was about poetry that held such power over people like him.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the pages as she debated whether to open it. How silly of her. The book was not going to bite. She opened the book, turned to a page in the middle, and began reading. She turned the book toward the fire and read. The poem was long and confusing. Was the author really writing about migratory patterns of birds flying, or was it a metaphor? She couldn’t make out the meaning at all. The poetry was confusing. She preferred plain words. She flipped to another page and then another. The cadence of the poems was tolerable, but the meaning still escaped her. She was puzzling out the complicated trees and weather patterns in the next poem, when the sound of footsteps broke the silence. She glanced up, startled, as Lord Brinton himself entered the library, his expression one of mild surprise when he saw her standing by the shelf.

“Miss Ashworth,” he greeted, his voice soft in the quiet of the room. “I didn’t expect to find anyone else awake at this hour. I suppose great minds think alike.”

Lily offered a small smile, holding up the book in her hands. “It seems I’ve inadvertently wandered into your territory, Lord Brinton.”

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the poetry collection she held. “Ah, poetry. I must say, I didn’t think poetry was your type.”

“It’s not,” Lily replied quickly, glancing down at the book as if it had betrayed her. “It was an accident, I assure you. I was reaching for something entirely different.”

Lord Brinton’s smile widened as he stepped closer, his gaze soft but teasing. “Is that so? Well, perhaps fate had other plans. May I?”

Without waiting for a reply, he reached up and pulled another book from the shelf—another poetry collection, this one bound in dark green leather. He handed it to her with a slow, deliberate motion, his fingers brushing hers ever so slightly as the book passed between them.

“This one is my favorite,” he said, his voice quiet. “A collection of poems by various authors. There’s a particular one I think you might like.”

Lily hesitated, her gaze shifting from his face to the book he had offered. “Poetry doesn’t interest me, Lord Brinton.”

Lord Brinton tilted his head slightly, his smile softening. “Perhaps not. But I would suggest you don’t judge poetry based on the messenger.”

Lily blinked, surprised by the remark. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “that just because you haven’t liked the performance or the person who performed the poetry, doesn’t mean the poetry itself is at fault. There are beautiful things about poetry—if one allows it a chance. Don’t dismiss the poetry itself until you’ve read it.”

Lily studied him for a moment, unsure whether to take his words as another attempt at charm or something more sincere. There was a softness to his expression, a quiet earnestness that made her pause.

“And you think this will change my mind?” she asked, gesturing to the book.

Lord Brinton’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. “Perhaps. At the very least, it might give you something to prove me wrong about.”

“I don’t have to prove you wrong.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh no? I can’t see you wanting to agree with me. But poetry should not be at fault. Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean that you can’t like poetry.”

“I don’t dislike you, but poetry has been a weapon.”

“Then set the blame at the wielder of the weapon, not the weapon itself. The sword is not what causes the death, Miss Ashworth, but the one holding the sword.”

She nodded, beginning to see it from his perspective. “I suppose that makes sense,” she said slowly, eying the book.

“Think of it as a challenge, Miss Ashworth.”

Lily couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “A challenge, is it? Very well, then.” She accepted the book, weighing it in her hands for a moment before turning to the shelf behind her. She scanned the rows of spines until her fingers landed on a dark, Gothic novel—one she had read long ago but thought fitting for the moment.

“And in return,” she said, handing him the novel, “I offer you this.”

“A Gothic novel?” His brows were knit together.

She smiled at the way she’d caught him off guard, and she repeated his own words back to him. “Don’t judge it too quickly, Lord Brinton. You shouldn’t discount something until you’ve tried it.”

His eyes widened in mock surprise, but his grin was genuine as he accepted the book. “Touché, Miss Ashworth.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet of the library wrapping around them like a shared secret. There was something almost scandalous about the intimacy of the moment—the dim light, the proximity of their bodies, the weight of the books they had exchanged like personal confessions.

Lily took a step back. “I should be going. Thank you for …” She paused. Did she thank him for the poetry book? She was still trying to digest their conversation about it.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

She grasped for words, but none seemed to come. In the firelight, she had to admit, Lord Brinton was attractive. And he was looking at her with a most amused smile on his face. She inhaled sharply. “Thank you for the conversation,” she said, and then looked down at the poetry book in her hand.

“I hope you enjoy the book.”

“I’ll give it an honest chance,” she admitted.

“That’s more than generous of you.”

“And you should do the same,” she said, gesturing to the gothic novel he held.

“I shall keep you informed of how I enjoy it,” he said, quirking his lips in a lopsided smile that made him look even more handsome, if that were possible.

She took another step away. “Goodnight, Lord Brinton.”

Lord Brinton bowed. “Goodnight, Miss Ashworth.”

She was almost to the door when Lord Brinton spoke again.

“Miss Ashworth,” he said, his voice breaking the stillness.

She turned around, and he was practically next to her. He held out his arm to her. “Allow me to walk you to your room.”

Lily’s eyes flicked up to meet his, her pulse quickening slightly. Lord Brinton’s eyes were intense. She laughed in an effort to dispel the tension between them, but it came out much higher than she’d planned. She cleared her throat. “What a scandalous notion, Lord Brinton,” she said, feeling a little breathless.

His eyes flashed, and as he raised his eyebrows, a slow, amused smile spreading across his face. “I am a rake, am I not?

She swallowed. The look on his face was teasing, not serious. Would she believe the rumors over what she’d learned about him at the house party? She couldn’t dismiss them entirely, but perhaps they were more exaggerated than she originally thought. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

“And what else have you heard?”

She bit her lip. “That you will steal a kiss at every opportunity.”

“And yet, there have been many opportunities, Miss Ashworth.” He glanced up, and her gaze was drawn to the ball of silver berries that hung directly above them. “How convenient that tradition is on my side.”

Her mouth went dry. “You baited me to stop here on purpose.”

He didn’t deny it, but took a step closer, closing the gap between us. “I must confess that I did not make you stop under the mistletoe on purpose. It is simply a happy coincidence. A festive tradition, don’t you think?”

She blinked, her eyes focusing again on his. Was he going to kiss her right now in the library? Her heart pounded in her chest. Did she want him to kiss her? The very question sent all her nerves scurrying. She didn’t have an answer that could stay consistent in her mind for two seconds together. “Not all traditions need to be upheld.” She swallowed.

It was impossible for him to step closer to her than he was, and yet somehow, he filled the space even more. “Neither should they be automatically dismissed.”

“That is your logic for stealing kisses?” she asked, breathing in the scent of him—citrus and bergamot.

His smile fell slightly, but he regained his composure. “You wound me, Miss Ashworth. I do not need mistletoe to steal a kiss. Ever.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” He added the barest of pressure to her fingertips before releasing them. “Why steal what can be shared, don’t you agree?”

Lily’s breath caught in her throat, and before she could answer his question, he leaned in, his face mere inches from hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the tension in the air so palpable it was almost dizzying. Her pulse raced as she braced herself for what she thought was about to happen.

But instead of kissing her lips, Henry gently lifted her hand—her ungloved hand—and brought it to his lips. The touch was soft, a brief brush of warmth against her skin, but it sent a shock through her, nonetheless. Heat shot from her knuckles up her hand and arm, sending a fire as the sensation rushed toward her cheeks. It was only a kiss to the hand, but there was much more in that gesture than just a simple formality.

His eyes held hers as he lowered her hand, his expression unreadable.

“I am not the rake you wish me to be,” he said softly.

She nodded, unable to say anything.

“I shall leave so you do not think that I have ulterior motives in wishing to walk you to your room,” he said quietly.

Lily’s heart raced, her mind spinning as she stared at him, speechless.

He smiled, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment longer before stepping back. “Page fifty-six,” he said, nodding to the book in her hands. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Without waiting for a reply, Lord Brinton turned and walked toward the door, leaving Lily standing there, her pulse still pounding in her ears. She looked down at the book in her hand, her heart still racing and her mind still reeling from the encounter.

Page fifty-six.

She wasn’t sure she could read it tonight, not with the way her thoughts were so wholly consumed by him. But as she climbed the stairs to her room, she clutched the book tightly, her mind replaying every word, every glance, and the way his lips had felt against her skin on the back of her hand.

And despite herself, she knew she would read the poem before she slept. Because whether she wanted to admit it or not, Lord Brinton had started to unravel something inside her.

It was absurd, really, how one small moment—one brief exchange of words—could stir Lily’s thoughts so much. Once alone in her room, she glanced down at the green leather-bound volume of poetry Lord Brinton had handed her, her fingers tracing the gold-embossed title on the spine.

Edmund Ashcroft’s Collected Poems.

Lily sighed softly, her hand resting on the edge of the book, hesitant. She had dismissed poetry so easily in the past, so often associating it with hollow words and empty promises. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, Lord Brinton’s words lingered, wrapping around her like the lingering warmth of the fire still glowing in the hearth.

“Page fifty-six,” he had said. “It’s one of my favorites.”

She had intended to ignore the suggestion, to leave the book untouched and unread, but as she sat there now, her curiosity got the better of her. With a small sigh, she opened the book, turning carefully to the designated page. Her eyes skimmed over the title, and for a moment, she paused.

“A Love That Waits.”

The title alone made her pulse quicken, her fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the book as she read the first few lines:

Love is patient, love is kind,

It does not boast nor seek to bind.

In quiet whispers, it takes its stand,

Not with a grasp, but a gentle hand.

Love bears all things, endures all wrongs,

Its faith in truth remains lifelong.

It does not rush, it does not flee,

But waits with grace for what will be.

A love that sees beyond the now,

And keeps its steady, solemn vow.

In every trial, it stands secure,

For only patient love is pure.

Lily read the poem twice, her eyes lingering on the words. There was a simplicity to it, a quiet beauty that struck her in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t flowery or grandiose—it didn’t seek to impress with clever turns of phrase. Instead, it spoke of something deeper, something real.

Love is patient, love is kind.

The lines echoed in her mind as she stared down at the page, her thoughts spinning. Patience. Kindness. Those were the things that truly mattered in love, weren’t they? Not grand declarations or passionate speeches, but the steady, unwavering presence of someone who would wait for you. Someone who wouldn’t rush or push or try to bend you to their will.

Her fingers grazed the edges of the pages as her thoughts wandered back to Lord Brinton. He had surprised her tonight, not just with his restraint, but with the gentleness in his words. He kept doing that. Though she had tried to paint him in the light of the rumors she’d heard surrounding him, yet he consistently showed that the kind of man he really was, was much different.

There had been a moment, standing in the dim light of the library, when she had expected him to kiss her. She had felt it in the air—the tension, the closeness—and yet, instead of taking what he might have easily claimed, he had simply kissed her hand, a gesture filled with more respect and care than she had anticipated.

“I don’t need mistletoe to steal a kiss.”

His words played over and over in her mind, making her pulse quicken even now, long after he had left. What had he meant by that? Was it simply his usual charm, or had there been something more behind the statement? Something real.

Lily’s eyes returned to the poem, her heart tugging at the final line:

For only patient love is pure.

Patient love. The kind of love that didn’t demand, didn’t rush. The kind that gave without expecting anything in return. It was the kind of love that seemed far too rare in her experience, but now, as she sat in the stillness of her room, she couldn’t help but wonder if such a thing could exist. Could someone like Lord Brinton—a man who was used to winning hearts with charm and ease—be capable of such patience? Such kindness?

Her thoughts raced, her emotions swirling in a way that left her feeling unsteady. She had spent so long guarding herself against men like Lord Brinton, so sure that she could see through their masks, but now … now she wasn’t sure. He had shown her again tonight that he was different. She wasn’t sure how to reconcile his behavior with the image that she had carefully crafted in her mind.

Lily closed the book gently, her fingers still resting on the cover as she stared out the window, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the snow-covered grounds below. He was a puzzle, and for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve it so quickly. There was something about the mystery, about the way he made her feel—challenged and intrigued, but also seen—that made her want to take her time.

Perhaps, just this once, she could let herself be patient too.

She readied herself for bed, changing into her nightgown and brushing her hair. Her thoughts lingered on Lord Brinton as she braided her hair.

She glanced at the book again, her thoughts returning to the lines of the poem. It wasn’t just about patience, she realized—it was about trust. Trusting that the right person wouldn’t need to push or demand, but would wait, would endure, would see the value in the quiet moments and the unspoken words.

And perhaps—just perhaps—Lord Brinton could be that person.

Lily’s heart raced as the thought settled into her mind, a small flicker of hope kindling in the quiet of her soul. She wasn’t ready to admit it aloud, not even to herself, but as she set the book aside and climbed into bed, she found herself thinking of him once more.

Of his smile. Of the way his eyes had softened when he handed her the book. Of the gentleness in his voice when he told her to read the poem. Of the way that he had pressed a kiss to her hand. Her lips felt jealous from the contact Lord Brinton’s lips had made with her hand. Her throat felt dry. It was enough to make her swoon. She put a hand to her cheek. What would it feel like to be truly kissed by him? She smiled as she imagined him holding her in his arms and kissing her.

She settled into her bed, her sheets toasty from the warming pan. And as sleep finally began to claim her, Lily Ashworth realized that, for the first time in a long time, she was thinking not just of the man Lord Brinton pretended to be—but of the man he might truly be underneath.