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“To kiss me,” she whispered.
Something hot and primal stirred in his gut. “I hope I did not disappoint.” The remarkably intimate nature of their conversation did not escape his awareness.
“Are you fishing for flattery?”
“A gentleman’s vanity needs to be stroked occasionally,” he murmured, never taking his eyes from her smile. His heart pounded in a manner he did not understand and may never do.
“I daresay it was beyond wonderful.” Callisto lowered her eyes and blatantly pretended to be intrigued by the array of cakes and gingerbread on the platter. Except the tip of her ears and her cheeks burned a bright red.
Everything inside of Graham collapsed. And I feel like I want to be your last. Yet he did not say it, instead he plucked one of the titles she had selected—Emma, by Jane Austen, opened the pages and read. With a jubilant sigh, she placed both elbows on the table and popped a piece of gingerbread in her mouth, thoroughly immersed in the story he narrated. At times she gasped and held her breath as if she were the one reading. Knowing he had such a captivatingly rapt audience, Graham did something he’d never done before—changed his voice to reflect each character.
This brought such laughter from her, and it rang in the cottage suffusing him with joy.
“Good heavens,” she said, still chuckling. “I know no female who speaks with such a high squeal. I am affronted on behalf of my sex!”
Never had he felt contentment equal to the sensations blossoming through his heart. They ate, read, and laughed. Of course, she gobbled the cakes and gingerbread as she did everything—with zest and her entire heart.
They argued about the last piece of cake which ended with it being shared. He told her of the motions he assisted his father in writing for Parliament, the countless hours of research and preparation it took, and sometimes the worry he felt about whether he would acquit himself honorably to the earldom when he inherited.
“You will!” She had reassured him so ardently. “I can see your mettle…it is one of strength and honor.”
What did he like—horses, restoring a beautiful home, especially if it retains signs of its Tudor architecture, and reading. How happy that had made her for they now had a common interest and the best of them all—reading, declaring that, ‘inside the pages of every book was a whole other world that she could get lost in’.
She also enjoyed dancing. Though she had never danced the waltz despite having learned th
e steps and form from her papa. During her first and only Season in London, her father had fallen ill, and she had returned to Suffolk, where they had resided. After they had completed the mourning period, she, along with her mother and sister, had to leave their beloved homes so a distant cousin could inherit. There had been no money or time for another Season, as they had directed their efforts on keeping their heads above water without losing their reputations.
As she recounted the tale candidly, Callisto hadn’t seemed to resent her situation but appeared as a woman who understood life at times threw brutal punches, and it was the character of the person which determined if they stayed on the ground or sprung back up with lively purpose.
His admiration for her grew then, and as if it were the norm, he lowered the book, walked around to her chair, dipped into a bow, held out his hand, and said, “Might I have your hand for a dance, Miss Middleton?”
With a wide smile on her lips and merriment glowing from her lovely eyes, she nodded. Now she was in his arms, and the intent way she peered up at him evoked confusing feelings inside him. He wanted to ravish and protect her in equal measures. The duality of those needs clashed painfully inside of him. I’ve never felt this way about a lady before, he wanted to confess. But it seemed premature to do so. What if this warm sensation did not last but faded like ashes in the wind once he was apart from her?
“Sadly, there is no music,” he said.
The longest of lashes flickered, and she peered up at him. “The rain and thunder will do.”
A quick ripple of laughter escaped her as he spun her in a twirl, humming the tune for them.
“Oh, Graham, this is simply wonderful!”
The sound of his name on her lips did marvelous things to his heart. It flipped several times as if it too danced.
“We are standing below mistletoe berries,” he said, bringing them to a stop in the center of the room.
“I fear the servants went a bit overboard in their enthusiasm. We cannot escape them, it seems.”
He skimmed his fingers over her cheek, almost tentative in his exploration. Then he gave in to the clamor in his heart, lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips.
Chapter 9
The rain sleeted down and rattled the door and the small window of the cottage, but she felt frightfully warm. Held tenderly against the Viscount’s chest Callie felt as if she was caged within her own storm—one of brilliant fire and the hottest delight. Graham’s kiss was light, tender, sweet, and her heart tumbled over inside her chest.
“What was that for?” she whispered against his mouth.
“There are mistletoe sprigs all over this cabin,” he replied with gentle amusement. “Wasn’t this the idea when you had them placed?” He possessed such a confident presence that appealed to her beyond measure.
Callie blushed but held his stare. “I meant them for your father, and my mother.”
