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This was not a parlor game forfeit, and they both knew it. There was no audience, no expectations, no rules. He tugged her against him, and she melted instantly into his arms. Leah had not expected him to kiss her like this, and nothing could have prepared her for such a thing. Her head was dizzy, her skin on fire as his mouth captured hers again and again.

His hands explored every part of her that propriety would allow, gripping her waist, then her back, and burying in her curls. She kissed him back, letting her hand slide into his hair, the soft strands falling between her fingers. Fear crept into the back of her mind, like a harsh nightmare overtaking a blissful dream. What a hypocrite she was for accusing Mr. Hawthorne of being afraid of love.

She was afraid of it too.

Not of love itself, but of finding it and then losing it.

Her mouth parted from his abruptly, her breath escaping in a soft gasp. “Mr. Hawthorne—” Somehow her hands had ended up against his chest. She pushed against him until she could see his face. She needed evidence that he was real—that this moment was real—that she had been the cause of the racing heartbeat that thrummed against her hand.

The door creaked, and Leah jumped back. Her mind was quick enough to send her shaky legs marching toward the nearest bookcase. She immediately gathered three books into her hands as a man’s voice came from the doorway.

“Oh—Mr. Hawthorne, forgive my intrusion.”

Leah immediately recognized the voice. She pivoted where she stood, holding the books close to her chest. “Mr. Newton, how do you do?” she blurted.

He was only halfway through the open doorway, but she was sure she could manage to slip past him, determined as she was to escape. Her heart was still on fire, her skin consumed with heat. Her face must have been even pinker than it had been when she was outside in the cold.

Even Mr. Newton’s face was flushed, as if he realized what he had stumbled upon.

Leah shifted her books in her arms as she hurried out into the corridor. At least he might think she had been there gathering books to read and not kissing Mr. Hawthorne senseless. Or perhaps he would suspect both.

She rushed down the long corridor, up the staircase, and didn’t stop walking until she was safely behind the door of her bedchamber. Pressing a hand to her chest, she finally caught her breath.

Would Mr. Hawthorne still propose to Miss Benson?

The question had forced its way into her mind while she had been kissing him, and now her heart ached with uncertainty. She didn’t want him to change his course simply because he felt guilty for kissing her. Being chosen out of obligation was not her dream.

She closed her eyes, a flicker of hope stealing through her chest. But what if he did return her feelings…would he propose to her instead? She buried the thought, dangerous and beautiful as it was.

But that flicker of hope still haunted her all evening—creating dreams she was not wise to have. Holding his arm whenever she wished, traveling the continent together, skating with him every winter at his estate, and kissing him again and again.

Twenty

As usual, Miss Benson waved Felix toward the empty seat beside her in the breakfast room the next morning. He took it, knowing what obligation he had placed himself under. He had already spoken to her father the day before in order to apologize for the expectations they had formed regarding his intentions. He would have to speak with Miss Benson that day as well in order to formally detach himself from any expectations she still had. It would not be an easy conversation, but he couldn’t continue pretending he intended to marry her.

His mother’s wishes were just that: wishes.

Mother was not here to enforce them, and the short time he had given himself to succeed had only been his way of avoiding the responsibility of choosing a woman who suited him best. Never mind that, but a woman who made him happy, whose company he longed for, whose smile he couldn’t erase from his mind, and who drove him mad with desire. Finding such a woman had seemed impossible, but Miss Sterling was all of it. She was everything.

He ate silently beside Miss Benson. They had very little to talk about that day—and every day. He took a deep breath. “May I speak with you privately after breakfast?” he asked.

Her eyes lit up. “Of course.”

He gave a stiff nod. The conversation wouldn’t be what she expected, but it had to be done.

And then he would be free to express his feelings to Miss Sterling.

He wanted someone he could live life fully with, laugh with, and who was not afraid to make a fool of herself from time to time. He wanted someone with spirit and wit, who would challenge him and help him see the world a little differently.

He didn’t know if Miss Sterling would accept him, but he knew why he couldn’t choose Miss Benson. He didn’t love her. He had fallen in love with Miss Sterling—Leah. Kissing her had been premature, but he couldn’t regret it. He had thought of little else since but taking her in his arms again and asking her to marry him.

And he certainly intended to.

There were few words Leah dreaded more than “Mr. Markham is awaiting you downstairs.”

Katherine had been the one to deliver the message, and now she was shooing Leah out the door of her bedchamber, where she had previously intended to spend the entire day alone. Leah had been planning to avoid everyone in the house that day, including Mr. Hawthorne. She had hardly been able to speak to him after kissing him briefly during the parlor game. How could she speak to him after how thoroughly they had kissed the day before? Avoiding difficult situations wasn’t wise, but it was almost the new year. She could set new goals then.

But her reasons for hiding in her bedchamber didn’t matter if she was to be forced out of it. “You mustn’t keep Mr. Markham waiting,” Katherine said with another push against Leah’s back. “Go on.” She gave an encouraging smile. “And good luck!”