“You shouldn’t let what Tom says ruin your pleasure,” Aimée said gently. Swallowing her own pain, she added, “It is Mr. Hartfell’s opinion you should care about.”
Julia twisted the bracelets on her arm. “I suppose.”
Aimée tried again. “What matters most is what you want.”
Their eyes met in the mirror.
“You’re right, of course.” Julia’s smile broke like dawn. “Thank you, Amy.”
Aimée smiled back uncertainly, a pang at her heart.
What if what you wanted most was something you couldn’t have?
The pots of rosemary and bay, decorated with silver ribbon and gold paper, had been moved to the ballroom. The buckets of holly branches and ivy vines stood almost empty. But the scent of green, growing things lingered in the potting shed, a promise of life and rebirth in the midst of winter.
Aimée twined ivy around the kissing bough, already heavy with waxy white berries of mistletoe. Each time a man claimed a kiss beneath the bough, he would pluck a berry until they all were gone.
She stared sightlessly at the glossy foliage, remembering Lucien’s kiss, the warmth of his breath, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of homecoming in his arms. Her lips tingled. She pressed them together.
Why had he stopped?
She was an innocent, but she recognized a man’s desire. She had felt him, felt it, hard against her stomach. Her body pulsed, remembering.
She would not have stopped him.
The realization lashed heat into her face. She barely understood her own reactions. She did not understand his at all. Was Lucien truly concerned about the risk to her reputation, as he claimed? Or had he worried that lying with her would jeopardize his courtship of Julia?
Did it matter? Either way, he had demonstrated more honor and restraint than she had.
Either way, she had to live with the knowledge of his rejection.
“Very pretty,” Howard observed behind her.
A chill slithered down her spine.
Her fingers stretched for the pruning shears before she turned. “I thank you for the compliment. I think it will look well in the ballroom.”
“I was not speaking of your arrangement.” Howard’s smile flashed, displaying all his teeth. “Though I like it. A kissing bough, is it not?”
Her heart banged. With Finch on her way to London, Howard had already been deprived of one victim, whether he knew it yet or not. She was not eager to be his next quarry. “Yes.”
“Perhaps we should test its efficacy,” he suggested.
Aimée swallowed. She wasn’t afraid. Not truly afraid, not yet. But he was blocking the door. “I think not. There are only a limited number of berries. Once they are gone, the bough no longer serves any purpose.”
“Then we should make the most of this opportunity.”
She tightened her grip on the shears, reluctant to meet his gaze, afraid he would see the knowledge and disgust in her eyes. “Your absence will be noticed in the drawing room.”
“Not at all. The tea tray is gone. Our guests are all in their rooms dressing for dinner with their servants in attendance. No one will miss either of us for some time.” He strolled forward, running a fingertip down her arm to her elbow, displacing her shawl. She restrained her shudder.
“You deserve the chance to enjoy yourself,” he murmured, watching her face. “You must feel very confined here. Lonely. No one truly appreciates your talents, do they? I could make your duties much more pleasant.”
She twitched up her shawl, jerking her arm away. “If you are offering your assistance, Cousin, there are still some pots to be carried into the ballroom.”
He pressed closer, trapping her against the potting bench. “I had other duties in mind. Personal duties.”
Bile and rage rose in her throat. “I would rather scrub floors.”