Page 52 of Miss Devon’s Choice

She stared down at their joined hands, then lifted her pretty face to study him. The woman possessed a tender heart, that much he knew for certain. The beautiful brown depths of her eyes were full of compassion and understanding. Her pale pink lips were pressed tightly together as she considered him.

“You have friends now, Christian. Nathaniel and Thomas liked you. My sisters are growing fonder of you. I know Lucas thinks highly of you, too. He asks your opinion often when we are in company.”

At some point, they had stopped walking. He could not be sure when. But they stood nearly toe-to-toe, her head tilted back so the brim of her hat didn’t come between them.

“What of you, Rebecca?” he asked, her given name falling easily from his lips. “Are you a friend, too?”

It was a stupid thing to ask. A ridiculous thing. Even if she answered that she was, she would cast him off if she knew he had thought to risk her reputation by ending their betrothal.

Those pink lips curled upward, slowly, and her eyelashes lowered to further soften her expression.

“I am. But I wish to be more than that, Christian.” She tilted her chin up a little higher, her cheeks turning rosy. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he would’ve missed the flicker of her eyes when they left his to look at his mouth, then came back up. Her blush deepened.

Could she be thinking—be facing a similar temptation to his? A gentle, but irresistible force pulled him forward. Christian bent down, watching her carefully, ready to pull away if she showed even the slightest hint of hesitation or surprise. He prayed he wouldn’t see disgust. But Rebecca, the beautiful, sweet, persistent woman, rose up to meet him and their lips touched in the most perfect kiss.

Her lips were softer than he expected, smooth, and warm. For all the gentleness of the contact, brief as it was, it lit a fire in him that spread from his pounding heart through his limbs. His very soul ignited, and the wonder of it made him long to wrap her in his embrace, to hold her close and explore the heady feeling. The strength of that desire checked him, shocking him.

He pulled back, enough to look into her eyes. They were closed, but fluttered open softly, and she started to smile. Rebecca raised herself up again, standing on her toes, and placed a kiss upon his cheek. The sweet innocence of the gesture made him tamp down on his feelings more severely.

He cleared his throat and took himself in hand. Their interlude, under the shade of the ancient chestnut trees, was hardly appropriate. He ought to apologize. Ought to promise it would not happen again, and he opened his mouth to do so—

Rebecca squeezed his hand and tugged him forward, the smile still on her lips. She said nothing, her look was one of pleasure and peace, and he would not disturb her cheerfulness again today. That she could smile, could still wish to hold his hand, after all he had told her, after he pressed his advantage and kissed her, made his heart swell and his head light with relief.

I’ve made a terrible mistake, he realized. Several. They walked in silence, his mind churning up thoughts of the letter asking for a way to end the marital arrangement, his desire to protect his heart, and that kiss.

No. I will not regret that. Though she might. He very nearly sighed aloud, but one look at Rebecca’s glowing expression as they neared the house kept him from making a sound. She thought, and accepted, that they were to wed. She didn’t know about his doubts.

What am I doing to us both? He didn’t have an answer.

Chapter Nineteen

The men went shooting early the next morning, before the day grew warm. This left the ladies a morning to pass at their leisure. Aunt Jacqueline opted to stay in her rooms, composing letters. She only spoke to Rebecca long enough to forbid her from going to the village, or to visit Christine again. These were punishments, the former for daring to commission a gown and the latter for staying overlong at her sister’s house the day before. Aunt Jacqueline said nothing of Julia, so at least that secret was safe for the time being.

Since the other young ladies had agreed to go to the village, amusing themselves by driving the gigs the earl and marquess lent them for that purpose, this left Rebecca a great deal of blessed quiet.

Taking up her journal and Mansfield Park, Rebecca went out into the open air of a beautiful summer morning. The grass was dewy and damp, which meant finding something other than a patch of it to sit upon.

At the front of the house there was an accommodating stone bench beneath one of the elms. Though the earl’s ancestors obviously had a great liking for chestnut trees, there were other varieties to be found on the grounds. And elms were tall, bushy sorts of trees, which struck her as rather friendly.

She slipped onto the bench and opened her journal first. Taking up her pencil and biting her lip, she hesitated. Dared she write about her first kiss? It had been beautiful and gentle, and yet stirred within her heart a desire for so much more.

If Christian kissed her like that, it must mean he was attracted to her. If he was attracted to her, could he not also come to love her?

For a long time, she stared down at the paper, unable to form any words. Perhaps writing of her time with her sisters would be easier. She began there, with her surprise at learning of Julia’s presence, then her delight in baby William, and her relief that Christian got on well with her family.

All of those feelings she could express adequately, and she recounted her day faithfully and descriptively. Then she came to writing about Christian.

It was hard to imagine how a boy of fifteen years faced being uprooted, given into the care of someone who detested his language, to be an object of ridicule among those who ought to have been his peers.

Her heart ached for him, and it was in this frame of mind that she wrote of their kiss. Her pencil did not do it justice.

She sighed and stared at the book in frustration. She loved writing nearly as much as she loved reading. Normally, the words she sought came easily. Her sisters were forever telling her how much they enjoyed her letters—how they laughed or cried over what she wrote to them, her descriptions apt and her words eloquent.

How did one describe what had overcome her in the brief contact of Christian’s lips against hers? She’d been happy, but what an insipid word. Blissful? That was nearer the truth.

The words didn’t come this time.

She closed the little book in frustration and took up Mansfield Park with a huff. She adjusted herself on the bench, after glancing around to ensure no one was about, and laid down on her stomach. The cool stone made her shudder, but it would warm from her body heat soon enough. Propping herself up on her elbows, Rebecca tried to forget her own difficulties in favor of reading more about Fanny Price and the oblivious Edmund Bertram.