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Did she dislike the idea of being forced to kiss him that much?
“It will undoubtedly be less talked about,” Lady Nightingale said, “if you do just kiss me. A small, chaste kiss, that is.”
Apparently shediddislike the idea that much.
With his hands still clasped behind his back, Isaac leaned in toward her once more. He could feel Parsons smirking and Miss Turner’s careful eye. No doubt, there were any number of other individuals passing by at that moment who would take note of him bestowing a mistletoe kiss on Lady Nightingale. There were probably several gentlemen who wished they could trade places with him. He would have, gladly, had it been possible to do so. So long as he kept the kiss short, though, no one would get the wrong idea. He’d hate for rumors to spread.
Their lips met.
Hers were soft, inviting. The world around him dissolved away. This felt so right. Warmth spread through him. His hand came up and cupped her face. Even through his glove, he could feel the softness of her cheek. She leaned toward his touch, a subtle movement, but one he was fully aware of all the same. His heart responded in kind, accelerating until he felt it would leap fully out of his chest.
They broke apart, but she still hovered so near him. It would be so easy to lean back in, claim her lips once more. She wasn’t quickly retreating as he’d expected her to, and he found no desire to pull farther away either.
She smelled of vanilla and spiced nuts. His thumb gently stroked her cheek.
Then the world came back, like waves crashing against him. The loud din of voices, the music from the ballroom, the heat of so many people in one corridor, the feel of eyes on him.
Isaac stood up straight, his hand dropping away from Lady Nightingale and back to his side.
She cleared her voice softly. “If you will excuse me.” She tipped her head in farewell and then hurried away. Honestly, it almost appeared as though she wererunningaway.
Parsons and Miss Turner were staring with wide eyes at him. The heated tingling from the kiss still echoed about his skin, but now it mingled with his surroundings and left an undeniable awkwardness in the air.
What had just happened?
That was not at all what he’d imagined kissing Lady Nightingale would be like.
Isaac shook his head at himself. He’d have to piece it out later. For now, he was standing, alone, beneath the mistletoe. Hardly knowing what he was saying, Isaac took his leave from Parsons and Miss Turner and moved toward the ballroom—the opposite direction Lady Nightingale had gone.
Devil take him, but he’d just kissed a woman in front of all Carlaby society far more affectionately than could be deemed proper. He didn’t evenlikeLady Nightingale.
And yet, his heart had responded to her in a way it had never done to another lady, ever. The way she’d leaned toward his touch, the way she’d leaned towardhim. He clenched his hand tightly, the feel of her cheek against his palm still fresh in his mind. Was he mad to think she’d felt something, as he had?
Did he want her to feel something? She was still the daughter of Mr. Grant. He still didn’t trust that gleam in her eye; her intelligence both impressed him and unsettled him. Gads, the more he thought on it the more emotions and uncertainties swirled together in an unending blend. He didn’t know what to think.
Isaac moved through the ballroom doors and came to a stop.
Lady Nightingale wasn’t in the room; she’d fled from him in the other direction. She was probably hiding in the lady’s drawing room for the time being. As much as he’d warmed at her response to his kiss, he’d felt cold over how she’d hurried off so quickly. Why had he kissed her so completely? Had she not clearly said she only welcomed a small, chaste kiss? Neither of those were words he’d use to describe what they’d just shared. Why was he surprised that she’d run from him?
Yet,duringthe kiss, he knew she’d enjoyed herself. He could not be so mistaken as to think it had only been on his part...could he?
Maybe he was only fooling himself.
Blast, but he was confused over the entire matter.
Dancers spun about the center of the ballroom, pushing everyone else toward the edges. The room was hot and the noise far harsher on his ears than before. Several paces off to his left stood Miss Dowding beside her mother. Just as earlier in the night, when her gaze met his, she smiled, clearly wishing he would approach.
His first dance with Miss Dowding suddenly felt like it had been a lifetime ago.
Strange how much one kiss could alter things.
Still, he had promised Miss Dowding another dance. Isaac cast off thoughts of what had just happened and forced his mind to stay in the present.
He would dance with her a second time, as he’d promised, and then he’d go home. Hopefully Aunt Margarette was feeling the lateness of the hour and wouldn’t object.
He strode purposefully through the room toward Miss Dowding. The sooner he could get through this second dance with her, the better.
Isaac was ready for Christmas Day to be over.
Dear Amelie
Cresthearth Manor, Carlaby
December 26th, 1815
My dear friend, what do you suppose has happened? My nephew has kissed Lady Nightingale. I would not have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes.
It was beneath the mistletoe—but it was no perfunctory kiss given out of obligation. I was not so close as I would have liked to witness the event properly. Nonetheless, I can tell you I saw enough to alter my view of the situation entirely. I watched Lord Brooks dance directly afterward with Miss Dowding, the woman I intended to match him with. He was stiff with her, polite, but clearly eager to be done. We left the ball as soon as the music ended and he came to collect me.
I cannot continue to think that his heart will ever be touched by Miss Dowding. Either Lady Nightingale will ruin all other women for him while he’s here in Carlaby, or else she will take up residence in his affections herself.
I’m not sure which would be the better result.
I would hate to fail at my matchmaking plan this winter, however, I have never cared for Lady Nightingale. Though now that I think on the reasons why, I realize that my opinions of her are based solely on the actions of her father. I know my nephew had previously done the same, but if that kiss was any indicator, his opinions have since been altered. Perhaps it is time I allow mine to do the same.
Do you suppose I can still claim a victory if my nephew chooses to make a match with a woman I hadn’t initially planned for him?
After all, my original intent was for him to find happiness in marriage, and not simply financial security. Lady Nightingale could certainly provide the later, but if she is also capable of providing the first, I wouldn’t balk at the union. I only want his happiness.
I am so very sorry to hear about your recent poor health. Why must these bodies of ours turn frail just as our minds are the most experienced and wise? It leaves one most decidedly put out.
As for the marquess and your granddaughter, I do not know how to counsel you—so much for my years of experience and wisdom. I think you are right to question his suitability, no matter his title. To imagine anyone behaving in such a manner? I am appalled and mortified on your behalf . . . and perhaps a bit intrigued and giddy at the thought of what will unfold next. You will write me all the details, will you not?
And while you’re writing me, tell me that so long as Lord Brooks finds a wife he adores, I can still claim the Christmas holiday a success.
Yours, etc.
Margarette Fudge
