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Eleven

After enjoying a small luncheon with the other guests, Leah returned to her bedchamber to adjust her curls. She pinched her cheeks, taking a deep breath in front of the mirror before making her way down the corridor that led to the music room.

Leah’s heart thudded fast in anticipation as she rounded the corner. Her group had decorated decently, though Mr. Hawthorne had been little help. The gold pinecones had been a lovely touch, though Leah doubted it would compare to the decorations the other groups had created.

She shook herself of her worries. She was not here to win decorating competitions. She was here to secure a proposal, and Mr. Woodward was a strong prospect. Perhaps that was why she was so nervous.

She stopped short a few paces outside the door. Someone was playing the pianoforte inside. The lively melody echoed in the corridor.

Was it Mr. Woodward?

She crept up to the door. “Drat,” she muttered under her breath. Through the crack between the door and the frame, she caught sight of Lord and Lady Weymouth inside. The viscountess was at the pianoforte, her husband in a chair beside it. She couldn’t very well interrupt them.

She heard footfalls behind her in the corridor. Mr. Woodward approached with a smile. “You were much less skittish this time.”

“It’s because I expected you.” Leah hardly knew how to flirt, but she could try to smile flirtatiously, at least. “The room is occupied.”

“Is it?” Mr. Woodward stepped forward and took a peek through door. He stood close to her, his breath near the side of her neck. She recalled the moment Mr. Hawthorne had been positioned similarly beside her, his hands around hers on the garden shears. She had felt a great deal more attraction in that moment than she did now.

She pushed aside the memory as quickly as possible.

“Ah,” Mr. Woodward said. “I should have arrived earlier. My apologies.” His brow furrowed, his fingers twisting together.

“We might take tea in the tapestry room instead?” Leah suggested.

“Yes! Excellent idea! Although I was looking forward to seeing all of your decorations.”

“Seeing? Or judging?” She raised a teasing eyebrow.

Mr. Woodward laughed. “Admiring, of course. We shall leave the judging to Lady Dalmeer.”

Leah followed him to the tapestry room, which was thankfully empty.

“I’ll have the tea brought here instead.” Mr. Woodward led the way through the door, stretching his long arms out to either side as he turned to face her. “Well? What do you think?”

Leah examined the boughs and holly that had been hung across the tops of the tapestries, some of the berries covered in gold. His group had also painted some of the pine boughs white, as well as some bare branches. From the bottom of the gold chandelier, a kissing bough hung from a red ribbon, the white berries of the mistletoe standing out amongst the greenery.

Leah’s throat was suddenly dry. Mr. Woodward stood directly beneath it, oblivious, it seemed, as he smiled at her.

She took a few tentative steps forward. How bold could she be? If she and Mr. Woodward shared a kiss beneath the mistletoe, then perhaps he would feel some sort of obligation toward her. But…perhaps not. There were some men at the party, she already knew, who kissed women without intending to marry them. Mr. Oliver Cole had such a reputation, among others. What if Mr. Woodward was one of those men?

Somehow, she doubted it. He was far too innocent looking, his magnified eyes blinking behind his spectacles.

She swallowed hard as she approached, pretending she didn’t see the mistletoe hanging above his head.

“I daresay you might win the entire competition,” she said with a light laugh.

“Do you not have any criticism for me? There is still time to refine it.”

She took a deep breath, planning her words carefully. “Perhaps you could hang the kissing bough a little higher. You barely fit beneath it.”

Mr. Woodward’s gaze shot upward, his cheeks immediately turning pink. “I-I suppose you are right, though I was not the one to hang the mistletoe. That was entirely Mrs. Stewart’s idea.”

Leah laughed, her palms beginning to perspire.

Mr. Woodward hadn’t moved, his feet rooted to the floor. “Are you to be…unaccompanied?”

Leah’s face burned. Oh, yes. She had forgotten to tell Katherine about their change of location. Mr. Woodward had left the door open, but it still felt improper to be standing alone with him.