Mismatched Under the Mistletoe - Jess Michaels Page 0,33
of cloth with a beautifully embroidered egg on it. She balled it into her hand and shoved it at her side. “I worked on them for weeks after I got the idea for this party. But nothing is working and everything is terrible.”
She huffed out a breath and turned her face, but not before he saw a tear slide down her cheek. And that was enough. He strode forward, waving his hands to scatter the angry geese, and caught her hand. “Come on, we’ll escape.”
“Escape?” she repeated, bright blue gaze finding his. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we’ll have your horse saddled and stop the stable hand before he finishes with mine and we ride off for a little while. Escape.”
Her shoulders rolled forward. “But this is my party and everyone will be expecting a goose-related entertainment when they rise in a little while and—”
“Emily,” he said, squeezing her hand and cutting her off from her rambling. She flushed and for a moment her fingers flexed against his. Seeking the comfort he offered.
“Very well,” she whispered.
He drew her to the gate where the footmen were waiting and they were let out of the paddock. “Have her ladyship’s horse readied and tell your man to keep mine saddled after all. Oh, and let the geese calm themselves down in the paddock. When we return, we’ll decide if Lady Rutledge’s plans are manageable.” He glanced down at her. “And you come with me.”
She acquiesced, following him into the warm stable. He led her to the back where a bench rested against one of the stalls and pointed to it. “Sit.”
She did so, but glared up at him. “What are you doing?”
“You said your boots were full of mud,” he said as he dropped to his knees before her, rather like he’d done when she was splayed out naked on the settee.
Clearly, she remembered the same thing, because she blushed and turned her face. Good. So she thought of yesterday too. That was something. “Y-you needn’t trouble yourself,” she said.
He arched a brow at her as he unfastened her bootstrap and gently tugged it free. “After all these years, you know that isn’t true.”
“I suppose not,” she said, and she was watching him as he set her boot aside and wiped away the mud stuck to her stockinged foot. He pressed his thumb against the arch, massaging gently as he did so, and she gripped the edge of the bench with a quiet inhalation.
“You shouldn’t do that here,” she hissed.
“This?” he pressed, massaging a little harder. “I’m just warming up your cold feet, my lady.”
“You aren’t and you know it,” she argued, but she didn’t pull her foot away. She flexed against him, silently asking for more.
He chuckled and set her foot down, then dumped the remaining mud from her boot before he repeated the action on her opposite foot. As he did so, he said, “I’m impressed by your ability to swear, Emily. I don’t think I’ve heard such creative pairings before, and I belong to several boxing clubs.”
“Of course you do,” she muttered beneath her breath. Then she shrugged. “I learned from the best. You and Andrew were quite loud when you peppered conversations over whisky with swearing.”
“Hmmm, so it is our fault,” he said. He held open her boot and she slid her foot in. He buckled it, choosing not to look at her as he said, “But what about the cause?”
She hesitated a moment. “Geese are frustrating.”
He arched a brow at her. “That is an undeniable fact, but your ire seemed to stem from so much more.”
She huffed out a breath. “You feel a need to dissect me then, Mr. Cavendish?”
He lifted up on his knees, wiping his hands clean on his trousers before he slid a finger beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. “Only to offer my support and friendship, Em. You know that.”
Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment the air between them was thick with a tension that had never existed before. His desire had always been unrequited, unrecognized by her even as he struggled with it constantly. Now it was something different. Seeing it reflected in her eyes was overwhelming.
She swallowed hard, and then she nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m out of sorts, but you don’t deserve my wrath.”
He shrugged as he put his attention on fastening her other boot. Then he let her muddy skirts swish down around them and stood, holding out a hand to her.
“Tell me