A Kiss For Midwinter (Brothers Sinister #1.5)(11)

“Unless I win.”

She waved off that possibility. “And what humiliation will you heap on me if you should prevail?” Miss Charingford asked.

“I want a kiss.”

Her head turned to his. Her eyes widened. She looked into his gaze. He wanted to reach out and touch the tips of his fingers to her cheek, to graze his hand down the line of her jaw until her lips softened.

“A kiss,” she repeated. “You want a kiss. From me.”

“Your ears appear to function with tolerable accuracy.” His own words seemed harsh and clipped. “If you fail, I get a kiss from you. An honest kiss, mind—not some shabby peck on the cheek.”

As he spoke, her eyebrows raised. Her lips thinned. “Do you think me loose, Doctor Grantham?”

“I think you as loose as a citadel. Why else would I have stooped to making elaborate wagers with you in exchange for the smallest token of your affections?”

She didn’t seem to hear that. Instead, her brow furrowed and she looked up. Finally, she nodded to herself as if she’d solved a difficult problem. “I see what you’re about, Grantham. You think to teach me a lesson. You want to show me that the world is more frightening—and more dark—than I believe.”

“Maybe I’m simply looking for an excuse to spend time in your company.” Maybe he wanted her to see him outside the social settings where he performed so poorly. He wanted a chance for her to see him, a chance to break through the impossible wall of her dislike. “Maybe,” he said, “I’m thinking that the days are dark and long, that midwinter is approaching. Maybe, Miss Charingford, all I really want is a kiss.”

If she reached the end of their time together and felt any affection for him at all, she’d never enforce that ridiculous forfeit that she’d asked for. If he won, he’d get to kiss her. And if she didn’t like him after spending time in his company…

Yes, it was definitely preferable to realize it now.

“The more I think on it,” he said, “the more I realize that it is impossible for me to lose.”

“We have more than two weeks until Christmas, and I refuse to shadow you the entire time. Will three visits suffice, do you think?”

Three visits. They’d walk to the calls and back. That might amount to a handful of hours in her company. If he couldn’t convince her to consider him in that time, it was never going to happen.

“Three visits will do.” He paused. “If you’re accompanying me on house calls at Christmas time, you might consider…”

“I’ll make a basket,” Miss Charingford said. “Of course I will.”

“Tomorrow, then, we’ll be going to see a woman who has eight children and one more on the way.” He looked over at her. “Bring something appropriate.”

Chapter Four

THERE WAS A TRADITION THAT HAD BEGUN SIX YEARS AGO, one that was always important to Lydia. These days, she never felt as if Christmas were coming until she’d decorated her father’s office.

Another man might have frowned and ordered her out of the room as he bent over the account books. But then, Lydia had always been aware that her father was rather out of the ordinary.

He sat at his desk as she wound red ribbon about the base of the oil lamp that stood on a side table. He didn’t look up at her. He didn’t say a word. Still, when she cut the fabric and began to add holly, he leaned over and, almost absentmindedly, squeezed her hand.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Tea? A glass of wine?”

“Mmm,” he replied. “A one. I’m missing a one.”

She peered over his shoulder. “You left it on the last page,” she said after a moment’s study. “When you carried the amount over.”

He looked up at her, peering over the rims of his glasses. “Did I, then?”

She ran her finger down the facing page and pointed.

He frowned—not a real frown, that; she knew his moods well enough to know when he was unhappy. And right now, he wasn’t. “So I did,” he said. “So I did.”

But instead of returning to his books, he looked at her—at the heavy gown of dark rose she’d donned, so unsuited for an afternoon at home.

“You’re going out,” he said mildly.

She shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. Lydia knew for a fact that she could tell her father anything. She’d told him about that dreadful ordeal with Tom Paggett, after all. Her father knew the absolute worst about her, and he loved her anyway. She didn’t understand why.

And she didn’t want to tell him about her wager with Doctor Grantham. He trusted her, and even though she knew why she’d agreed—for no reason other than to rid herself of him—she was aware that the situation might have appeared somewhat improper if she were to reveal the stakes.

A kiss? From Grantham? The very idea made her shiver. No, it had made perfect sense to make sure that Grantham never talked to her again. She’d never have to feel that nervous anticipation creeping up her spine. All she had to do was endure him for a few afternoons, and she’d be free of him.

“I am going out,” she said awkwardly.

He glanced down, caught a glimpse of her half boots. “Going out walking. With a man?”

Lydia made a face. “Not a man,” she muttered. “At least—not like that.”