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

Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

H enry felt like a cad. No—a villain of the highest order. Miss Ashworth’s words lingered in the quiet of the room. Each sentence she had spoken about the gentleman who had deceived her, who had toyed with her heart, landed like a punch to his gut. She had laid bare her past, her wounds, and with each revelation, Henry realized just how deeply he had underestimated the weight of his own actions.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Here she was, confessing her pain over a man who had used poetry to lead her on, while he, Henry Stanton, stood before her with a wager hanging over his head. A wager that, at the start, had made Miss Ashworth nothing more than a challenge. And oh, what a triumph he had thought it would be to win such a wager.

The realization twisted in his chest like a knife.

Miss Ashworth had thought she’d found love once, only to be cruelly discarded, and here he was, standing before her, knowing that his flirtations, his attentions, had begun under false pretenses. He had toyed with her emotions, even if he hadn’t meant to hurt her—at least, not like this.

At first, it had been about the thrill. The excitement of winning her over, of proving that he could change her mind, just as he’d boasted. But now ... now it felt like a cruel trick. One he hadn’t been able to stop himself from falling into.

He wasn’t that man anymore. Not in the last few days. Something had shifted inside him, something real had begun to take root. This was no longer about the wager. In fact, the wager felt like a noose tightening around his neck, and he could no longer bear its weight.

“I should have told you sooner,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Henry’s heart ached as he watched her. She looked so vulnerable, so open. She had trusted him with this part of herself, and what had he given her in return? Deception. He had to put an end to this—right now.

The wager hung over him like a dark cloud, tainting everything between them. If he didn’t deal with it, he would lose her forever—and that was a price too steep for him to pay.

He bowed his head, gathering his resolve. “Miss Ashworth, excuse me for a moment. There’s something I must take care of.” He stood and made his way toward the door.

She looked up at him, her eyes soft with concern. “Lord Brinton? What’s wrong?” She stood, following close behind him.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice. “It’s nothing,” he lied, though the weight of his guilt made his words falter.

But she wasn’t convinced. She frowned slightly, her gaze sharp and discerning. “I don’t believe you. Something is troubling you.”

They stood next to the door. In one moment, he could be out the door and down the corridor. Yet, when Henry met her gaze, the truth on the tip of his tongue, he hesitated. She was too smart—she always had been. He sighed, his voice quieter now. “You’re right. You shouldn’t believe me.”

Her brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, the room seemed to close in around them. She stepped toward him, her eyes searching his face, and in that instant, her gaze lifted slightly above his head.

Her lips twitched, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It seems that the mistletoe has a way of moving to the most unexpected places.”

Henry froze, his heart sinking as he looked up, dread filling his chest. There it was—dangling innocently above them, a small green sprig that had plagued his conscience since the moment he agreed to the wager. The very thing that now felt like the cruelest of jokes.

He met her eyes again, feeling a twist of regret coil in his stomach. How had he allowed this to happen? How had he let things go so far?

“It is strange,” he murmured, his voice low. “How it keeps appearing.”

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Kissing her now—under the mistletoe, under the weight of the wager—felt like a betrayal. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, to feel the warmth of her lips against his, but not like this. Not when his conscience screamed at him to walk away.

Her gaze lingered on him, her expression thoughtful. “Are you really going to break a Christmas tradition?”

Henry swallowed, his heart pounding as he searched for the right words. “I’ve already told you, Miss Ashworth. I don’t need mistletoe to steal a kiss.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the tension between them. And yet, Miss Ashworth didn’t move. She just stood there, watching him, waiting. It was torture, the way she looked at him, the way her eyes seemed to invite him closer when everything inside him screamed that this was wrong.

“I will break tradition,” he said quietly, his voice strained, “if I choose. And I don’t care about the superstitions.”

Her smile softened, and there was something tender in her eyes, something that made his chest tighten painfully. “You’re a good man, Lord Brinton. I’m sorry that I ever misjudged you.”

Her words struck him deep, filling him with a longing he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling. And before he could react, before he could stop her, Miss Ashworth stepped closer, rising on her toes, and without warning, her lips met his in a soft, unexpected kiss.

For a moment, Henry froze. The feel of her lips against his sent a surge of warmth through his body, and before he could think, his arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her closer. Longing, desire, and something deeper poured through him as he kissed her back, the world spinning away as nothing else mattered but the woman in his arms.

But then, as quickly as it had begun, he broke the kiss.

His heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing with the weight of what had just happened. He shouldn’t have kissed her back. Not when he knew the truth. Not when the wager still hung over him like a dark cloud.

He rested his forehead against hers for just a moment. “Now who is the scandalous one?” he whispered in her ear.

Her whispers back tickled his ear, but he did his best to remain composed. “Perhaps I will blame it on the poetry—or perhaps it is the poet. Why steal when you can share—weren’t those your sentiments?” She smiled up at him.

All he wanted to do was take her in his arms again and initiate the kiss this time. He wanted to taste her lips again. Instead, he took a small step back. “It’s late. I will take my leave before I do anything I shouldn’t.” He took her hand in his, but instead of kissing her knuckles, he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm.

She shivered. “You are a gentleman.”

“Good night, Miss Ashworth.”

“Good night, Lord Brinton.”

He held open the door for her, and she made her way out of the room and toward her chambers first.

Henry’s chest tightened as he watched her walk down the hallway, torn between the desire to hold her close and the crushing guilt that now weighed on his every thought. He turned and left her in the hallway, the taste of her kiss still lingering on his lips and the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a vise. He couldn’t live with this burden any longer.

His footsteps echoed through the halls as he made his way toward Lord Camden’s room, his mind racing with the consequences of his decision. He had never broken a wager before, and he knew well enough what the consequences of forfeiting could be. But none of it mattered now.

What were his antique dueling pistols compared to his good name? To Miss Ashworth?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.