A Kiss For Midwinter (Brothers Sinister #1.5)(21)

A friend had once told him that he was like bitter coffee—positively habit-forming, once one acquired a taste for the beverage, but off-putting on the first few sips. So he’d harbored no illusions that she would love him instantly. But she might have moved from hatred to approbation, and from there, he’d hoped that she wouldn’t grimace too much at the thought of him.

Now, anything other than the dislike she heaped on his head seemed inconceivable.

“So,” he tried again as they approached the tree, “your father read me another lecture today when I came by for you. If he thinks so ill of me, I’m surprised that he lets you out at all.”

Little spots of pink blossomed on her cheek. “Don’t you talk about my father,” she said in a low voice. “And how dare you imply that about me? There’s nothing objectionable in walking in public with a man, even if he insists that he’s a doctor and not a gentleman.”

He looked up to the sky, which answered only with clouds. “I only said—”

“I know perfectly well what you meant, Doctor Grantham. You think that after my indiscretion, he should have locked me away, never allowing me to be in the company of another man.”

“I do not think that.” He bit out those words. “I have never said that. I never will.”

She wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

“It would make no sense to think that, as I enjoy being in your company.”

“Stop,” she said, shaking her head. “Please stop.”

So Jonas did. He stopped walking in front of the stage, the dark green branches of the tree looming over him like a menacing creature made of holiday cheer.

“Listen to me, Lydia,” he snapped. “If you’re going to despise me, do me the favor of hating me for the things I’ve said, rather than the ones you’ve imagined.”

“I’m imagining things?” A wild light came into her eyes. “You think I’m imagining that you look at me like I’m a mistake that should have been put away? You think I’m imagining the way you weigh me on your scale of moral superiority and find me lacking? I know precisely what you think of me.”

He actually heard himself growl at her. “I don’t have a scale of moral superiority. You know this is all balderdash. You can tell yourself that I’m thinking myself superior to you all you like, but it has no relation to the truth. You see the good in all the world—all the world, Lydia, except me. Why do you think that is?”

“Because you—”

“You don’t want to know what I really think of you. It’s easier for you to set me up as a whipping boy for all your aggressions—”

She made an outraged sound and swung the basket she carried at his black bag. She aimed it at him as if she were a fencer, and their respective bags their swords. He was so surprised that he scarcely had time to step out of the way.

“Careful!”

“Go ahead. Tell me it isn’t ladylike to resort to violence. Tell me that it confirms what you believe of me—that I’m impulsive, hotheaded, and foolish.”

“Hit my person all you want,” he replied, “but by God, Lydia, if you jostle my bag, you could break the bottle of laudanum. It will get all over my stethoscope, and I will be up all night cleaning it. Do you have any idea how many little parts and tubes there are to a binaural stethoscope?”

Not to mention the mess it would make of his record book. That was three months of visits, symptoms carefully recorded and pored over of an evening, trying to ferret out cause and effect. Plus, the bag had impossible-to-clean corners and seams. It would be sticky for months afterward.

He shuddered and set his bag carefully on the stage. “Punch me, but leave my medicine out of it.”

“I’m not going to strike you in public,” she said scornfully.

He jumped up on the stage, and then, before she could protest, hauled her up to stand beside him. The tree was fat and tall, but there were a few feet of space behind it, shielded from public view by the needled branches.

He held up his hands, palms facing toward her. “Go ahead,” he said, and this time, he let a note of mocking infect his tone. “Hit me. Or do you think you’re too weak to cause damage?”

She balled her fist and hit his hand. The shock of the strike traveled up his arm, clear to his elbow. She packed a surprising power for her size, along with better follow-through than he’d expected.

While he was still blinking in surprise, she hit his other hand, her teeth clenched. “God damn you, Doctor Grantham.”

“He probably will.” He was doing it right now, presenting her before him, her hair slipping from her coiffure, those curls dangling at her cheeks, asking to be brushed away.

She swung at him again, a little more wildly. “I hate you.”

“I’m sure you do.”

She glared at him. “I am not—I repeat—I am absolutely not—angry at you.” This was punctuated by another blow. If she’d actually been trying to hurt him, he suspected he’d be in pain. But she concentrated on his hands, striking them with all the force of her fury.

The scent of pine surrounded them; branches tickled his lower back. She shifted her stance, and the tree vibrated as her skirts brushed its needles.

“Far be it from me to contradict you, but you appear to be quite angry with me.”