She’d lied to herself. And she hadn’t understood how deep those lies ran.
Because it wasn’t until a man had kissed her and called her darling, had said he wanted to marry her, that all those old feelings had come rushing back. It had been as if she were fifteen again, naïve and hopeful, believing everything he said. Letting him touch her. It didn’t matter that Jonas had been sincere. It didn’t matter how she felt about him. She’d felt her own physical desire sitting on her like a nauseating reminder of what could happen. Her gut had cramped, and she’d run away.
And now…
Now, she didn’t even know what she wanted.
At the outdoors market, she smelled the sharp, sweet scent of wassail, cinnamon and orange slices wafting from a pot, and she remembered choking down that bitter solution that Parwine had recommended, not knowing what she was doing. She saw a branch of holly decorating a plate of gingerbread, and she remembered her father trying to put a good face on a holiday where Lydia could only huddle in bed, doubled over from the pain.
There was the mistletoe piled on a market table, a poisonous, parasitic reminder that kisses could lie.
She ducked down a side street, but holiday cheer followed her there, too. Bells rang as doors opened; ivy graced shop windows. Bakeries let off clouds of sweet-smelling spice as people ducked in and out for cinnamon bread. She smiled and wished everyone she saw a happy holiday, but Jonas Grantham had been right. Saying Christmas was happy didn’t make it so.
There was only one place that she could find to escape. Down a smaller street, a church waited. Its small, quiet collection of gravestones was the only surcease she found from the unrelenting cheer of the season.
She escaped into the middle of it, and there, with cold stones surrounding her, sat on a bench and wept. For so long, she hadn’t let herself feel anything at all. She’d smiled and laughed and ignored the harm that had been done. But deep inside, she hadn’t stopped wanting, and no matter how she’d tried, no matter what lies she told herself, she had still hurt.
The little churchyard was isolated, fronted only by a quiet residential street. For minutes, nobody passed; when somebody did, he didn’t look her way. She held her breath. No reason for him to look in the yard. No reason for him to look at her at all. He passed the black iron gate in the stone wall.
She caught sight of a black bag, and her breath caught. Any number of gentlemen carried black bags. They were common, and if this one was wider and deeper than usual…
He stopped in his tracks and turned to her.
Oh God, it was Jonas Grantham. She didn’t want him to see her now. She didn’t want to see him ever.
There was no way to hide the tears tracking down her face. Still, she reached hastily for a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, hoping against hope…
But no; he unlatched the gate and came up the walk. He didn’t approach swiftly. He was advancing with all the care of a predator, walking like a cat on a tightrope, one foot in front of the other. And she was too weary to scurry away.
A part of her even welcomed his approach. Maybe he’d look at her and he’d say something outrageous, something that would drive her tears away, allow her to replace this ache inside her with anger.
But he didn’t say anything. He stopped in front of her. His eyebrows drew down. He leaned down to her—so close, she could smell a hint of bay rum on his collar.
Even now, he turned her upside down.
He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t; he was still holding to that stupid wager she’d forced on him. Lydia found herself unable to speak as well. Unable to move away.
His eyes met hers. He smiled—not brilliantly, but almost sweetly.
When had she realized that he was sweet? He hid it so well behind gruff speeches, but she’d seen the evidence of it on those days spent with him. The way he talked to Mrs. Hall, setting forth her options so clearly. The way he’d browbeat Henry Westing into accepting an offer of “employment” when he’d been injured and had no other income. The anguish he felt over his father’s impossible situation.
Even the way he talked to her. It was outrageous. It was blunt. It was impossible. And it was…precisely what she needed, the truth boned and filleted without garnish or flourish, placed in front of her for her decision. He made her wants seem ordinary instead of dark and dangerous.