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And what woman of nearly twenty-five, feeling neglected and undervalued and unappreciated would not consider an offer such as that wholly flattering? Compelling, even?
Her heart went out to the injured, unknown son Lady Redford cherished so. But still… “When do you expect Ward—erm, Lord Redford home?”
“Of that I am not certain. Could I have your word through Christmas?”
“Christmas? That’s months away yet.”
With a quiet dignity that nearly shamed Anne for her impatience, Lady Redford returned, “Aye. And my son has been off, fighting a war for a number of years. I do not know how much time he may require, accustoming himself to the title, the loss of life as he has known it, and the idea of a wife. Surely, a few months or so is not an excessive request.”
More than a little curious about this paragon, this youngest son Lady Redford spoke of, Anne replied from the heart. “It is not. Forgive me. I will gladly give your son until Christmas to claim my hand—if that is what he truly desires, for I can wholeheartedly confess to liking you as well, Lady Redford, and wishing not to end our relationship before it ever has a chance to begin.”
Yet here it now was—meredays before Christmas, days before the extravagant winter ball both Lady Redford and Anne’s mother insisted on to commemorate the return of the lord and the engagement of their children—the absolute height of folly, to Anne’s way of thinking.
Did they think to convince her she had no choice? That bringing together friends and family meant her fate was decided evermore? Never mind that December travel oft proved treacherous—were not the two of them proof of that tonight?—both Lady Redford and Anne’s mother had rejoiced in the idea of a Winter House Party celebrating the season, the homecoming of the new heir and the coming nuptials intended to join their families.
How Anne’s agreement to meet the new lord had become an engagement ball, she still wasn’t sure. Mayhap being tired of waiting for her life to start prompted her acquiescence? Along with that of the persistently recalcitrant fellow as well.
Regardless, she’d expected him to show his absent face ere now. Several times over, in fact, secretly pleased with herself for telling Mama she’d be back in two days’ time, was going to visit Issybee—and without her maid for once, knowing any manner of freedom would likely be curtailed by the haughty new lord. The one too vastly superior and selfish to even meet her?
Bah. If her parents thought to coerce her into accepting the absent knave, sight unseen, manner unbecoming, they were in for a rude awakening.
The wretched lord couldn’t be bothered to show his face? To so much as extend one iota of effort to express his desire to consider a betrothal with her? She’d had enough of waiting. Was beyond frustrated with the miasma her life had become, not able to move forward, mired… Anticipating just as she had been for years.
Well, no more!
She had just experienced the most trying, saddest, exhausting day of her life and if she could seize a few selfish moments for herself—for once—by all that’s holy, then that’s what she would do!
So she arched up on her tired toes, pressed her lips more firmly against Mr. Edwards’ and took no small measure of delight in the secure grip he had around her arm, the powerful, warm presence he proved in front of her, the unexpectedly inhale-worthy masculine scent of spices and musk and the outdoors brimming off his strong body.
Oh, Robert had kissed her once or twice (all right, thrice—but who was counting?). Yet only when others were around—such as the time Harriet nudged them under the mistletoe. Or when his father said with bravado and a complete lack of tact, once the betrothal came to light, “Go on, man, noodle her good! Show the wench what a man expects on his pending wedding night!”
Wet mouth. Hard lips. Poking tongue.
That’s what she had to look forward to, she’d learned to her dismay, quite content to wait forever for the wedding.
And dreading the dreadful night that must surely follow if that was the sort of kiss Robert bestowed.
But this kiss?
No forceful, slopping tongue. No hard lips hammering against her own, cutting the delicate flesh against teeth and bringing forth blood…
Nay. This kiss…pure Christmas magic. The gentle, reciprocal press and retreat of his lips, the tiny supping motions he made with his mouth against hers…
The keen yearning that traveled from where he touched her mouth and wrist to flitter about her throat and belly…
The aching, beautiful, curious wonder of it all…
