She settled onto the small footstool before him, the cup clasped in both of her hands. “You have a sibling… but you are not close. There is rivalry there,” she surmised. “He is older but you do not envy him. You’ve never wanted what he had—the weight and burden of such obligation. But he does envy you. He sees that you have a freedom he never will and is resentful of that.”
Oliver felt a prickling sense of unease. “The tea leaves tell you all of that?”
She glanced up at him, but her eyes were different—as if they focused on something very far away. “They do not show me anything, really. They allow me to focus and see beyond them.”
She lowered her head once more, looking at the sodden remnants of his cup. “You are at odds with them because they do not understand you. You do not value what they value. Your father is upset because you chose the law. He saw a different life for you. The military. That would have been more suitable for the son of a…titled gentleman. Yes. And then there was the girl. The marriage that never was. Rich. American. Your brother thought her beneath him and your father thought you should be grateful for such an heiress, but you turned them all down and went your own way.”
Oliver couldn’t speak. Some of those things, she might have guessed. But not all of them. Certainly not with the degree of accuracy that she had. Whatever Miss Polly Winters was, she had a gift that defied explanation.
“I see violence surrounding you. Men shouting. Fists flying. And there is an exchange of money.” Her eyes widened suddenly. Abruptly, she thrust the cup toward him. “I’ve intruded… invaded your privacy in a way I should not have.”
What had she seen? What, in those last few seconds, had she seen that suddenly made her so eager to stop looking? Was the violence she had glimpsed, the violence that he craved in so many ways, so abhorrent to her? But as he watched the heated flush creep up her neck and into her cheeks, he knew the answer. She’d somehow seen the very improper thoughts or feelings he was entertaining for her. He reached out, accepting the cup from her trembling fingers, their flesh touching for just a moment as her breath caught on a soft gasp.
From a spot just in front of the fireplace, the small spaniel, Elspeth, raised her head, gave a bit of bark, and then laid down once more, her tail thumping against the hearthstone. It was just what was needed to ease the tension in the room.
Oliver shook his head with a soft laugh, “Are we disturbing her?”
“Oh, most assuredly. Elspeth is a champion napper,” Miss Winters agreed gratefully. “But, alas, if we are to have anything resembling a reasonable dinner—and do not protest for it is far too cold to eat anything other than a hot meal—I must go to the kitchen.”
“I will accompany you,” he offered instantly. “Perhaps I can be of assistance. At the very least, I will not be disturbing Elspeth.”
Miss Winters did not smile at that jest. Instead, she laughed outright. It wasn’t the soft, tinkling laughter of ladies—something that always seemed practiced and a bit false. It was a throaty sound, one that was full-bodied and passionate—completely honest and all the more appealing for it. He was seduced by that laugh, entranced by it.
Oliver found himself following her out of the parlor and toward the kitchen. At the kitchen doorway, she stopped abruptly, turning to face him. But they were much closer to one another than either of them had realized. When she whirled about, her hands found their way to his shoulders. His hands settled on her waist to steady her. And while she was very tall for a woman, he was taller still. Tall enough that her head tipped back so that she could meet his gaze.
But her gaze didn’t stop at his face. Instead, it traveled upward further still. He followed suit. From the doorframe, a sprig of mistletoe, tied up with red ribbon, dangled above them. In unison, their gazes lowered once more, locking on one another.
It would have been the easiest and most natural thing in the world to simply dip his head and claim her lips. They were so close. So tempting. So perfectly sweet and soft that he’d truly never wanted anything more. But he didn’t have to give in to that temptation. He didn’t have to because Miss Polly Winters was no timid girl tittering behind her fan in a ballroom. She was a woman of strong and independent spirit.
So when she rose on her tiptoes and pressed those perfect lips of hers to his own, he simply kissed her back with all the longing that he felt.
* * *
Polly had never been kissed.That her first kiss was one she had initiated so boldly and so impulsively ought to have been thoroughly humiliating. And it likely would be… later. Much later. When her brain was no longer fogged by how close he was to her, by the strength of him and the firmness of his body against hers—then she would feel embarrassed. For the moment, there were other delightful things to feel. The delicious warmth that slowly spread throughout her body, flowing like warm honey; the slight rasp of his unshaven whiskers against her skin; the weight of his hands as they settled on the curve of her hips—those sensations were utterly delightful.
But suddenly they were no longer standing there in the doorway to the kitchen. He had spun them around and Polly found herself with her back pressed against the wall and the front of her body pressed very firmly against him. It was wicked and delicious and so many other things that she could not name. She only knew that she would have happily stayed like that forever.
His lips moved over hers in such a skillful way that she could only wonder he had not been entirely put off by her clumsy initiation of their current intimacy. But he didn’t feel as if he were repelled by her. In fact, his arms had closed about her, holding her even more tightly. In truth, he was all but lifting her up to him.
This was what brought desperate women to her door in the wee hours. This was what made them part with precious coin for a love spell to bring the man of their dreams to heel. This, she thought, was real power. There was not a spell or potion in all the world that could compare to the feeling of this one kiss. With his lips moving so seductively, so masterfully, over hers, Polly never wanted it to end. But she wasn’t quite prepared when it shifted into something else altogether.
His tongue touched her lips—teasing, tasting. It was instinct that prompted her to part her lips for him. It was instinct that guided her as the kiss became something far more carnal than she could ever have imagined. If she’d had the ability to think, to wonder at her own very forward behavior, she would have been mortified by the fact that not only did she permit him entry, but she allowed her own tongue to slide languorously against his, to kiss him in return with just as much fervor and just as much demand for further intimacies still.
But she didn’t have to ask. It seemed that, without her having to utter a word, he knew instinctively what she craved. His hands moved from her waist, down over the flare of her hips. Then he cupped her bottom in his hands, his grip surprisingly strong and all the more tantalizing for it. When he lifted her up, his hands hooked beneath her thighs, it was the most natural thing in the world for Polly to simply wrap her legs around him, locking her ankles behind his very firm buttocks, and holding him dangerously close to her. Because it wasn’t just the heat and strength of him she felt. Now she could feel the hardness of his flesh, the firm ridge of his manhood pressing intimately against her.
Never in her life had she hated clothing more. But even as that desperate and frustrated thought entered her mind, he was tugging at her skirts, bunching the fabric up and lifting it from between them. It was all frenzied and heated. She found herself tugging at his coat and waistcoat, trying desperately to reach his skin, to touch him as he was touching her.
And then it all simply stopped.
He went completely still, save for his ragged breathing. When he drew back, she could see the horrified expression on his face. It was obvious that he was utterly disgusted with her.
That thought was only further buoyed by the fact that he all but pried her legs from about his hips and placed her feet on the floor. Her skirts, still bunched between them, could not fall properly until he stepped back from her. When he did, he didn’t stop at simply taking a step back. No. He stepped away and spun on his heel, facing away from her so resolutely that Polly felt her cheeks burning with mortification.
She’d behaved like a trollop, after all, and he had treated her like one. Now they were stuck together for days until the snow would melt enough to free him, and he could no longer even bear the sight of her.
“I’ll go out for more firewood,” he said abruptly, his voice deeper and rougher than before.
“Your coat—”
