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

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

H enry sat near the crackling fire in Wintervale’s drawing room, tapping his fingers idly against the arm of his chair as he glanced down at the Gothic novel in his lap. The dark, intricate cover stared up at him, almost reproachfully. In the past two days, with caroling, decorating, and various holiday diversions, he had managed only small portions of it. And, though he’d promised Miss Ashworth he’d read it, he couldn’t say the novel had captivated him.

He flipped through a passage about bleak, windswept moors and a heroine in a decaying manor, haunted by secrets. The writing was dramatic, richly atmospheric, but it felt removed from his own taste. Give him something hopeful, something grounded—and he might have found it more engaging.

But a promise was a promise. And tonight, with the house quieter than usual, he was determined to finish it.

As if summoned by his own thoughts, Miss Ashworth entered, her figure framed by the glow of the firelight. She paused, her gaze sweeping the room until it met his, and Henry straightened involuntarily. There was something compelling in her demeanor, a quiet confidence that he found more intriguing than any book.

“Lord Brinton,” she greeted, her tone warm. “I see you’ve made some headway with your latest reading choice.”

Henry raised the novel with a wry smile. “Indeed, Miss Ashworth. I’ll admit I’ve been reading it, as promised, though I can’t say I’ve fallen under its gloomy spell just yet.”

Her lips curved into a smile as she came closer, standing beside the fire. “Ah, but the best parts often reveal themselves after the darkest chapters.”

“Is that your literary wisdom speaking, or a personal insight?” he asked, mirroring her light tone.

She laughed softly. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

He set the book aside, feeling the ease between them. “I’ll take your advice and keep reading, though I confess I’m not used to this particular brand of gloom.”

“I suspected as much,” she said, taking a seat opposite him. “Gothic novels aren’t everyone’s preferred genre.”

“How are you finding the poetry book?” he nodded toward the slim volume on the side table. “Or… have you given it a chance yet?”

“I’ve read a little,” she admitted, her tone thoughtful. “It’s different from what I expected. Some poems are quite lovely, though others feel a bit… elusive.”

“Did any of it resonate?”

“It’s difficult to say,” she murmured, glancing at the book. “Poetry has always felt like a riddle. I’m never certain if I’m understanding the poet’s meaning, or if I’m simply projecting my own thoughts onto the words.”

Henry nodded, a soft smile on his lips. “Poetry speaks more to the heart than the mind. It’s not always about understanding so much as feeling it, even if that means finding your own meaning.”

She laughed. “I’ve never been good at that. I prefer things that make sense, that are clear and direct.”

“Ah,” he teased, “so you’re a woman of reason?”

“I suppose you could say that,” she replied, humor sparkling in her eyes. “But I’ll try to give poetry more of a chance.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Perhaps I’ve been too quick to dismiss it.”

Henry gave a thoughtful nod. “That’s the beauty of poetry, though, I think. It can mean something different to each person who reads it. It’s a conversation, of sorts—one between the poet and the reader.”

“You really are quite passionate about it, aren’t you?”

He smiled. “I suppose I am. But I’ll admit, poetry isn’t for everyone.”

“And I’ll admit,” she replied with a wry smile, “that I’ve only read a few pages. I haven’t given it a proper chance yet.”

“Did you read page fifty-six?”

“I did,” she said, hesitating slightly. “It felt familiar, somehow—like the Bible.”

Henry chuckled. “That would be the source. Many poems on love, patience, and kindness draw from it.”

She nodded, seeming to consider this. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

He grew serious, leaning forward slightly. “You shouldn’t feel pressured if poetry doesn’t resonate with you. It’s meant to inspire thought and, perhaps, action—but never guilt. Particularly when it comes to matters of the heart.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she smiled. “Perhaps you missed your calling as a poet, Lord Brinton.”

He laughed, though something vulnerable softened his expression. “Who says I’m not one?”

Her brow lifted. “Reciting poetry and writing it are two different skills.”

“Yes, they are.” He paused, feeling an unexpected urge to share a piece of himself with her. He met her gaze, holding it for a moment before responding. He kept his tone light, but inside vulnerability took hold. Could he admit something to her that was so personal? Especially when she didn’t appreciate poetry?

“I know the difference. I have written poetry before—though I find it easier to speak someone else’s words.”

“Why is hiding behind someone else’s words easier?” Her tone was curious, not judgmental.

He took breath. “When the poem is my own … well, it’s more personal. Any rejection feels like a rejection of both the messenger and the message.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that.”

Henry gazed at the fire, collecting his thoughts. “When you’re hiding behind someone else’s words, the rejection is distant. But if you offer something real—something of your own—it’s much harder to withstand judgment.”

Her expression softened, a look of understanding in her eyes. “You’re more of a poet than you think, Lord Brinton. Perhaps it’s not the words themselves, but the courage to share them.”

Henry smiled, a quiet sense of gratitude filling him. “And you, Miss Ashworth? Will you share your thoughts on why you have disparaged poetry in the past with me—or is that still too much to ask?”

Her gaze flicked to the fire before meeting his. “I suppose the poem on page fifty-six did give me pause. It made me wonder if I’ve been too quick to dismiss other things that challenge me.”

He leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Other things?”

She smiled, her tone wry. “Yes. Poetry, for one.”

Henry’s heart quickened at her words, though he kept his expression calm. He wanted to press her, to ask what exactly she meant by “other things,” but he sensed it wasn’t the time to push. Instead, he simply nodded, letting her words hang between them like an unspoken understanding.

After a moment, she glanced toward the volume of poetry on the table. “What poetry speaks to you?”

Henry hesitated, then reached for the book. But as he turned through the pages, none seemed to capture the moment quite right. Setting it aside, he took a breath. “May I recite something from memory?”

She nodded, her expression intrigued.

His voice dropped, soft yet steady, as he began:

“Life is a masquerade, a grand display,

Where masks are worn, and truths kept at bay.

We dance in shadows, we laugh in light,

But few dare show what’s hidden from sight.

The revels go on, the music swells,

Yet no one can tell the secrets we quell.

But when the night fades, the masks fall away,

Only then do we see, at the break of day.

For beneath the guise, behind the show,

Lies the heart of the soul we thought we did know.

It’s in the quiet, when the revels cease,

That we find the truth—and perhaps, peace.”

When he finished, the room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire. She regarded him, her gaze searching, as if she’d glimpsed something rare and unexpected.

“You’ve hidden that well, Lord Brinton,” she said softly, her tone tinged with admiration. “It’s a beautiful piece.”

He inclined his head, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “Perhaps I hide too much.”

They shared a moment of understanding, unspoken yet unmistakable, and Henry felt a strange mixture of exhilaration and vulnerability. He had offered her something real, something beyond the charm he usually wore like armor.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Perhaps it’s time to let the mask fall, if only a little.”

He returned her smile, a warm glow spreading through him. “Perhaps it is.”