A Holiday by Gaslight(32)

“It isn’t so heroic as all that. My mother and I haven’t that much power. All we can do is make little economies. Carve up the household budget to trim away any fat. Dye our gowns, remake our old hats, that sort of thing. As for the rest…it all comes down to our powers of persuasion. We’ve been trying to convince Papa to sell his hunters. To retrench. But he’s disinclined to make any sacrifices at present.”

“He makes no sacrifices at all, that I can see. Nor does your sister.”

“We spare her the worst of it. She’d take it too much to heart. It matters so much to her how she looks and what people think of her.” Sophie’s gaze dropped. She didn’t have to look at Ned to know what he was thinking. “You believe she’s spoiled.”

“Isn’t she?”

“A little. But you must understand…Emily is the beauty of the family. The one most likely to marry well—and the one most likely to drain the family coffers if she remains. It only made sense to see her properly outfitted and given a season.”

“The family beauty, you say.” Ned’s voice was deep and warm. “Yet she can’t hold a candle to you.”

Her heart fluttered. She tried her best to ignore it, even as she raised her eyes back to his. “Yours is the minority view, sir.”

Ned rested his hand on the bookshelf at her side. He was so close that her skirts bunched against his legs. “When it comes to you, I’d like to think that, one day, my view will be the only one that matters.”

“Second to my own, surely.”

His mouth hitched in a fleeting half smile. “You’ll not find me a dictator.”

It was so absurd, that she smiled, too. “You’re making light of it, but I’ve been independent for a very long while. I’m set in my ways and not likely to change anytime soon.”

“You call it independence to live here with your family?”

She lifted her shoulder in a delicate shrug, fully conscious of how his body caged hers against the shelves. It was almost protective the way he loomed over her, his head bent and his arm at her side, surrounding her in the subtle scent of lemon verbena, polished leather, and linen.

One step and she’d be pressed to his chest, her frame engulfed by his much larger one. What might that feel like? Thrilling, she supposed. And dangerous, too. She really didn’t know. But the very idea of it made her pulse throb.

“I read what I like and I’m free to come and go as I please,” she said. “Within reason.”

“Books are important to you.”

“Very much. I read whenever I can find a spare moment.”

“There haven’t been many of those these past days. Since that morning in the woods, I’ve scarcely seen you outside of the company of the other guests. I’d begun to despair of ever catching you alone.”

“You’ve been no more available than I have. My father commands all your time.”

“And my mother, yours.”

It was true. She’d been making a special effort to keep his mother entertained. To make her feel at home. Nevertheless…

Sophie sighed. “I don’t think she approves of me.”

His brows shot up. “Has she said so?”

“Not in so many words.”

“In any words?”

“She doesn’t have to say anything. I can tell, when she looks at me, that she finds me lacking.” She paused before adding, “Mr. Murray is no great admirer of mine either. After what happened in London, no doubt he thinks me fickle.”

“At present, I wonder that Murray thinks anything at all. He seems to have lost his wits over your sister. I can’t imagine why.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever lost your wits over anyone.”

He gave her a wry look. “I’m at a baronet’s Christmas house party in the wilds of Derbyshire. Frozen solid most nights and obliged to listen to Mrs. Lanyon lament the passing of Prince Albert most days. I think I’ve lost more than my wits.”

Sophie ducked her head to conceal a smile.

“I have another question for you,” Ned said.

“Yes?”

“When I kiss you under the mistletoe—and I am going to kiss you—would you rather it be in front of your parents and all of creation? Or would you rather it be somewhere private?”

She met his eyes, fully conscious of the heat sweeping up her neck. It was impossible to remain composed under such circumstances. Not when he was looking at her so intently. Not when the butterflies in her stomach were unfurling their wings and soaring into flight.

Good gracious. Was it possible to swoon from the mere mention of kissing?

She moistened her lips. “The mistletoe is only in the drawing room, the doorways, and the main hall. We didn’t hang it anywhere else. Certainly nowhere that could be called private.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Her heart skipped a beat. And then another. She tried to ignore it, endeavoring to be sensible about the situation. Businesslike, even. “I’d rather you not kiss me in front of my parents if you can help it. But it’s Christmas, so I don’t see how—”

“Look what I have.”

Sophie watched, breathless, as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a sprig of mistletoe adorned with three small white berries.