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

Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

L ily had floated to her room last night, after kissing Lord Brinton. She laid awake thinking of that kiss for most of the night. She’d finally fallen asleep with a smile on her lips. That smile had not left her once the entire day. Throughout all the day, she’d thought of little else.

Before she’d been down to breakfast, the men had gone on a hunt, as was the tradition at Wintervale Manor on Christmas Eve day, but even that fact had not dampened her spirits. It was all she could do to stay focused throughout the day—and not stare perpetually out the window, for the first glance that the gentlemen were on their way back.

It felt like an eternity as the women busied themselves. Beatrice had insisted that each lady have time with the pianoforte before this evening’s musicale. But Lily could barely focus on the music.

After her fourth missed note, she imagined that Beatrice would decide her too much of a liability on the musical instrument and that she would be skipped from the program entirely. But Beatrice had only smiled at her during the last refrain, as if they were sharing a private joke with her cousin instead.

The energy in the room changed when the butler announced that the men had returned. It was still almost another hour before Lily caught a glimpse of them, as they waited for the men to be readied for the evening’s festivities.

During dinner, Lily was not close enough to Lord Brinton to hold an intimate conversation with him, though they talked with the group. But during the fifteen courses, she found her gaze was more often than not on Lord Brinton; and to her delight, each time she looked in his direction, he was already looking her way.

Warmth filled her chest, and heat rose to her cheeks when she thought of the kiss they’d shared the night before. More than once she had to ask her dinner companions to repeat their questions, as she only had been thinking about what she wanted to say to Lord Brinton the next time they were alone together.

When dinner was finished, everyone moved into the drawing room. She met Lord Brinton’s eyes across the room. She hadn’t anticipated feeling this way—her heart lightening at the sight of his smile, her pulse quickening with the easy grace of his movements. And tonight, there was something undeniably magnetic about him.

As the room settled, Lady Beatrice rose to address the guests, her eyes twinkling with delight. “Friends, I am thrilled you are all here to celebrate Christmas Eve with us. It wouldn’t be Wintervale without our festive musicale, so I invite anyone brave enough to delight us with a performance.”

Lily’s eyes danced over the guests, most of whom politely avoided Lady Beatrice’s gaze—though Miss Davenport shifted eagerly in her seat. But to Lily’s surprise, Lady Beatrice’s attention soon turned her way, her smile expectant.

“Lily, dear,” Lady Beatrice called, her tone as persuasive as ever. “Won’t you begin our evening’s entertainment with something from the pianoforte?”

Lily hesitated, glancing around the room until her eyes caught Lord Brinton’s again, who was watching her with a gentle smile. He gave her an encouraging nod, the warmth in his gaze enough to steady her nerves.

Taking a breath, Lily moved to the pianoforte and settled at the keys, feeling the eyes of the guests upon her. The familiar feel of the ivory beneath her fingers brought a sense of calm, and with a final glance at Henry—whose presence seemed to radiate a reassuring warmth—she began to play.

The notes filled the room, soft and lilting, weaving through the air like whispers of a hidden melody. She chose a lively tune and felt herself growing more at ease with each chord. She allowed herself to smile, feeling the gentle pull of the music as it wrapped around her. From the corner of her eye, she caught Lord Brinton’s admiring gaze, his attention fixed solely on her, and her heart swelled.

As the final note faded, a wave of applause broke through the room, and Lily looked up to find Lord Brinton’s eyes still on her, his expression filled with quiet admiration. She met his gaze, her cheeks warming under his regard, and for a moment, the noise of the room faded, leaving only the two of them in the gentle glow of the firelight.

She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the applause, but when Lady Beatrice requested a second piece, Lily felt her pulse quicken with excitement rather than nerves. This time, she chose a more tender melody, a piece that spoke of gentle longing and unspoken promises, the notes rising and falling with a quiet intimacy that she couldn’t help but feel was just for him.

When she finished, the guests applauded again, but the intensity of Lord Brinton’s gaze lingered with her, a thrill sparking beneath her skin. Before she could leave the pianoforte, he approached, offering his hand to help her rise, his fingers warm as they curled around hers.

“Miss Ashworth,” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for her. “You were extraordinary.”

Her heart fluttered, and a soft laugh escaped her. “Thank you, Lord Brinton. You’re very kind.”

“Not kind—honest,” he replied, his thumb brushing over her knuckles before he released her hand, leaving her fingertips tingling. “I would sit through a thousand musicales if it meant hearing you play.”

She felt her cheeks warm, his words sending a thrill through her. “That’s high praise, indeed,” she replied, her voice soft but filled with sincerity.

Their eyes met, the room bustling around them, yet it felt as though they were standing in a quiet moment all their own, untouched by the rest of the world.

Without missing a beat, Lady Beatrice lined up the next several songs.

Lord Brinton took a seat next to Lily throughout the rest of the musicale. There was something about the way he carried himself tonight, something more open and carefree than she had ever seen before. The tension that had once accompanied his every movement seemed to have melted away, leaving him at ease in a way that intrigued her.

After the songs, Beatrice turned to Lord Brinton. “And now, I believe it is time for Lord Brinton to offer us something special. Henry, if you would be so kind?”

A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he inclined his head. “I would be honored, Lady Farnsworth,” he replied, moving to the front of the room with a grace that held the attention of every guest.

He stepped forward, his voice warm and confident as he began to recite the passage from Luke 2, the familiar words filling the room with a quiet reverence.

"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field,

keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,

and the glory of the Lord shone round about them:

and they were sore afraid."

The room fell silent as Lord Brinton’s deep voice echoed through the drawing room, the glow of the fire casting flickering shadows across the faces of the guests. Lily couldn’t help but watch him, the way he spoke with such conviction, such ease. It was as though the words weren’t simply being recited—they were being felt, lived.

When the passage ended, there was a soft murmur of approval from the gathered guests. Lady Beatrice smiled warmly. “Thank you, Henry. That was lovely.”

He inclined his head again, but before he could return to his seat, several of the other guests called out for more.

“Something by Byron, Lord Brinton!” Miss Davenport insisted, her eyes alight with admiration.

He chuckled, though it was clear he had anticipated the request. “Very well. I shall recite an adaptation of one of Byron’s poems.”

“An adaptation?” Miss Davenport wrinkled her nose.

Lord Brinton smiled. “Not to worry, all the lines are still Lord Byron’s.” He looked at Lily. “But as we are celebrating, I shall keep to the most positive parts of his poem.”

He recited Byron’s lines with the same effortless charm, his voice weaving through the verses with the kind of magnetism that had always drawn people to him. It was no wonder the room was enraptured by him—he made the words come alive, turning them into something more than just poetry.

The First Kiss of Love

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove;

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,

Whose pastoral passions like meteors shine bright;

Who breathe your soft tales of the love-stricken bow,

With spells to enchant and with songs to delight.

But tell me, ye lovers, of all ye have known,

That feeling, the purest, the sweetest, above,

The heart-thrilling rapture that dwells in that tone,

In the soul’s softest whisper—the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—

The dearest remembrance will still be the last,

Our sweetest memorial—the first kiss of love.

The poem flowed smoothly from his lips, each line carrying a quiet intensity that brought a hush over the room. Though the poem felt uniquely directed to her alone, several of the young ladies sighed, enchanted by his performance.

When he finished and looked her way, Lily felt her pulse quicken with a different kind of admiration. It wasn’t just the words or the way he spoke them—it was the way he looked at her. His gaze was filled with something deeper, something sincere.

The group broke into smaller groups talking, and soon it was just Lily with Lord Brinton.

“I enjoyed your poem,” she said.

“I hoped you would.”

Heat crept up Lily’s neck. Would everyone know that they had kissed after such a recitation? She hoped not. “You give yourself away with such a poem.”

“Because I recited a poem about kissing? Never. They were Byron’s words.” There was a hint of amusement in his tone.

“You command a room when you are in front of them. You could have recited your own poetry tonight, you know.”

His smile faltered for a moment, and he shook his head. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Lily asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Because it’s easier to hide behind Byron,” he said, his voice quiet. “Behind someone else’s words. If people don’t like it, it’s the poet they reject, not me.”

Lily looked at him, her heart tightening. “Do you really think people would dislike you?”

His gaze met hers, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something vulnerable. “Would you dislike me, Miss Ashworth?”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared at him, her heart racing. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and charged. “Of course not.”

He was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then, after a beat, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “There’s something I want to show you. Something I wrote.”

He handed her the paper, and Lily unfolded it carefully, her eyes scanning the words. It was a poem—a love poem, filled with emotions that seemed to twist and turn, conflicting with one another as if Lord Brinton himself hadn’t fully worked them out.

"Love is a fragile, fickle thing,

A heart’s desire, yet its sting.

To hold it close is to risk the fall,

But to stand aloof is to lose it all."

Lily’s heart fluttered as she read, the words wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Lily held the poem in her hand, the weight of his words still lingering in the air between them. She could feel the conflicting emotions in the verses—his hesitation, his longing, his uncertainty. It was as though he had opened a window into his heart, but the view was clouded, unclear.

When she looked up, Lord Brinton was watching her, his eyes searching hers for a reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered again, though she wasn’t sure if she was speaking of the poem itself or of the sentiment behind it.

Lord Brinton stood before her, his gaze steady but filled with something deeper—something vulnerable. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the quiet room.

“Do you really feel that way?” she asked softly, folding the paper in her lap. “Like love is something to be feared?”

His eyes flickered with emotion, and he took a step closer to her, his voice low but sincere. “Love is complicated. It’s not something I’ve ever been good at understanding, not fully.”

Lily’s heart tightened. She had never imagined Henry as someone who struggled with love. He had always seemed so confident, so sure of himself, but now she understood it wasn’t always that way for him.

“But I know this,” he continued, his eyes locking with hers. “I know that whatever I feel for you, Miss Ashworth, isn’t something I want to run from. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve been a fool, but I don’t want to keep hiding behind my fear.”

Lily’s breath caught in her throat, and she stared at him, her heart pounding. “You seemed to leave in a hurry last night, after our kiss.”

His gaze softened, and he took another step closer, his voice gentle. “Forgive me. I was afraid that if I didn’t leave, I’d make a mess of things. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You did hurt me,” Lily said, her voice trembling slightly. “By running away.”

His expression shifted, his face filled with regret. “I know. And for that, I’m truly sorry. But you have to understand this is all new for me.”

She searched his eyes, her heart caught between hope and uncertainty. “New for you?”

He nodded, his voice quieter now. “I’ve spent so long avoiding anything real. I’ve always treated flirtation like a game, something to be enjoyed without consequence. But you’re different. You’re not a game, Lily. And that scared me.”

Lily felt her chest tighten as his words washed over her. She had never imagined that Lord Brinton—so charming, so confident—could be afraid of something as simple as a kiss. But the sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes, told her that this was no performance. This was real.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t care,” he said softly. “Because I do. More than I can put into words. And I don’t want to run anymore.”

His words hung in the air between them, and for the first time that evening, Lily felt a glimmer of hope. It wasn’t much—just a small flicker—but it was enough to ease the tension that had been building inside her for days.

“You don’t have to run,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes softened, and he reached out, gently taking her hand in his. “Then I won’t.”

Lily’s breath hitched as his fingers brushed against hers, the warmth of his touch sending a familiar thrill through her. She looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest, and for the first time since the kiss, she felt as though they were standing on solid ground.

“I’m not perfect, Lily,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with emotion. “I don’t have all the answers, and I’m still working things out. But I want you to know I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you ask me to.”

Her heart swelled at his words, the sincerity in them wrapping around her like a warm embrace. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness—not yet. But he was offering something more. Something real.

Lily swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. “I don’t want you to go.”

Lord Brinton smiled then—a small, genuine smile that sent her pulse racing. “Good. Because I’m not leaving.”

For a moment, they stood in the quiet of the room, the warmth of the fire casting a soft glow around them. And though nothing had been fully resolved, though the weight of the past still hung between them, there was something different now. Something lighter.

As if the distance between them had finally begun to close.

He glanced at the clock on the mantel, his smile softening. “It’s late. I should escort you to your room.”

Lily’s heart fluttered at the thought, but she nodded, allowing him to help her up from the chair. His hand was steady, warm, and as they walked through the quiet corridors of Wintervale Manor, Lily couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted between them.

When they reached her room, he paused at the door, his hand still holding hers. For a moment, they stood in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. Then, with a quiet smile, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her palm.

Lily’s breath caught as his lips brushed her skin, the soft touch sending a shiver through her. She met his gaze, her heart pounding, and for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of hope.

“Good night, Lily,” he whispered, his voice low and full of meaning.

It was the second time that he’s used her Christian name. She swallowed, daring to be as bold. “Good night, Henry,” she replied, her voice soft.

And as she stepped into her room, the memory of his touch still warm on her skin, she knew that whatever happened next, they were no longer standing on uncertain ground.

There was hope. There was something real. And for now, that was enough.