Jonas straightened, holding his glass in the air toward their mother. “To Mother and Father.”
Everyone raised their glass, then took a drink. Leah watched Owen over the rim of her cup, but he didn’t part his lips. How long could he make a show of drinking without people becoming suspicious that his punch never dwindled within it?
After the toast, everyone went back to decorating, fixing the misshapen animals and tickling one another with the boughs. Leah walked over to Owen’s side, leaning back against the table.
“Did you not like the punch?”
He bent his face closer to hers and she pulled back just a bit farther. Why did he have to get so close?
He smiled. “It was most . . . refreshing.”
“Then let us finish our drinks together, shall we? We wouldn’t wish to seem rude to my mother after all.”
He narrowed his eyes, taking a slow breath. “Fine,” he quipped.
But when he reached forward for his glass, he grabbed hers and lefthison the table.
“Wait, no, that’s not yours.” She looked at the tainted cup left beside her.
“No, I’m quite sure this is my glass. You are mistaken.”
“But really, that is mine.” She stood, reaching up and grasping the cup he still held in his hands.
Owen kept a tight grip. “Now, now, let us not cause a scene.” He plucked her fingers from the cup, shaking his head. “We don’t want to draw needless attention.”
“But that’s my cup.” She hated the whine in her voice, but she was feeling despondent.
He sighed. “I can tell you are new to the game of trickery. If I had been in your shoes, I would not have let my own cup out of my sight.”
“I am not drinking that,” Leah said, looking down at the tainted punch.
Owen lifted her cup to his lips, taking a dramatically-long and rather loud sip before smacking his lips together when he had finished. “Nowthatis delicious. But why won’t you drink your own?”
“Because it is not my own. It has been soiled by your lips.”
“I do not believe my lips are the problem.” He gave her a devilish grin, taking another careful sip as he kept his eyes locked on hers.
Oh dear. Her heart skipped a beat and her stomach swirled with—well, she wasn’t quite sure withwhatit swirled, but she could not say it was unpleasant.
Owen leaned forward, and Leah felt as if she couldn’t move. Her breathing stilled, and just as he got close enough for her to smell his shaving soap, he straightened, holding the cup of ruined punch in his hand in offering to her.
She cleared her throat, smoothing the front of her gown before reluctantly taking the cup. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.” He stood in quiet expectation, smiling as he waited.
She swallowed. Much as she hated to succumb to failure, she was also too proud to let Owen win in this moment. She squared her shoulders, then drank the contents of her cup within four large swallows.
Owen snorted out a laugh, leaning his hand on the table and bending his head to hide his face from the rest of the room. But he turned his head just enough that Leah could see his face, his hair tumbling over his brow. “That was magnificent. How did you manage that without spewing it across the room?”
She gave an involuntary swallow as the bitter liquid threatened to come back up, keeping her face stoic. “I am a lady, Mr. Turner. We do not spit.”
He laughed again, and Leah could not hold it in anymore, joining alongside him. They laughed until everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and watched.
“What is so funny?” Rose asked.
Owen sat up, taking another drink. “Your eldest sister has just told me the most entertaining anecdote.”
Leah smacked Owen on the shoulder with the back of her hand, scolding him with her eyes. Now Rose would ask what the anecdote was, and Owen very well knew it.
