‘I’ll call you Lily in private, and you’ll call me Gregor. Will that suit?’
‘Yes, very well.’
They sat together watching Lord Winford take his turn at charades, listening as the children and adults called out animals only for Lord Winford to shake his head in reply.
‘He’s a goose,’ Lily said, but only loud enough for Gregor to hear.
‘You think so? I thought he might be a carriage.’
‘No, Charles does some kind of fowl every year. Once it was a duck, another time a swan. He’s quite taken with fowling.’
At last Lady Winford guessed her husband’s character and he sat down, relinquishing the floor to Sir Timothy, who squatted down, then rose, throwing out his limbs in a display Gregor could only imagine was meant to imitate a flower blooming.
While the family called out guesses, Gregor leaned in close to Lily, noting the slight separation between her full breasts above the fitted bodice of her gown. He swallowed hard, very much wanting to press his lips against the soft skin and revel in the heat of her. His body began to stiffen at the thought, but he forced it back, determined to behave like a gentleman.
‘What did Laurus mean earlier when he said you’d painted the entire family?’ he asked, his breath disturbing the small curl at the nape of her long neck.
Lily turned to face him, so close to him he could see the single small freckle just beneath her right eye. He expected her to lean away, but she remained near him, her voice sliding like satin across his cheek. ‘The portraits in the entrance hall are mine. I did them.’
An unmistakable pride filled her voice.
‘Will you show them to me?’
She looked back and forth between him and her family, the small curl dangling near her ear brushing her cheek as she moved. ‘Now?’
‘Unless you wish to be chosen as the next person to do a charade, then yes.’
She grimaced at the thought. ‘Then we’d better hurry before someone guesses Father is a rose.’
She set the dog on the floor. It didn’t bark, but trotted behind them as they slipped out of the room and down the hallway. Candles twinkled in their holders, catching the red of the berries pressed among the shiny holly leaves decorating each table and painting. Down the opposite hall, in the far wing of the house, the high strings of a fiddle drifted in like snow through the open ballroom door. The music was joined by the laughter of the maids and footmen and the sounds of their shoes banging over the wooden boards in time to the lively song as they enjoyed the servants’ Christmas Eve celebration.
The candles glittered as much in the entrance hall as they did in the hallway, but without the heat and fire of the Yule log, the air took on something of the crispness of the cold night outside.
‘I painted these.’ She waved her hand at the numerous portraits of her family lining the walls and following the rise of the stairs. On either side of the door hung the ones she’d done of her parents. They looked back into their house and up at the line of children arranged on the wall above the stairs, each with hair the same shade of brown as their mother’s. ‘I’m to do little Adelaide’s soon, and John and James once they learn to sit still.’
‘Then they may be adults by the time you manage it,’ he observed, making her eyes dance with delight.
‘And perhaps not even then for I don’t think they’ll ever settle down.’
‘I’d like to sit for you while I’m here, if you don’t mind.’
The suggestion seemed to catch her off guard and she chewed the bottom of one full lip before an impish smile to mimic the ones her nephews often wore split the tender bud. ‘If you’d like, though I’d have thought you’d been painted enough today.’
She was teasing him and he wanted more of it. His father would never have allowed such humour at his expense, but Gregor wasn’t his father, or his brother, and he never would be.
‘I assume Pygmalion shares your talent for oils?’ He pointed to the slashes of paint on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, the faint stain of blue and yellow sitting just beneath the bright red.
Instead of the frustration she’d exhibited with her family at dinner, she rolled her eyes with some humour at the marks. ‘That brush wasn’t the first one the little beast has snatched from me. He’s quite well behaved now, but usually he’s stealing all manner of things. If the holly and mistletoe weren’t so high, he’d have them, too.’
She pointed to the sprig of mistletoe with one last berry clinging to the leaves hanging from the brass chandelier. Only then did either of them realise they were standing beneath it, in the centre of the stone circle inlaid in the floor. Lily slowly lowered her hand, as aware as Gregor of what their present position implied. He studied her face, noting the eager nervousness in her eyes, as if, like him, she wanted a kiss, but feared it at the same time.
Gregor remained where he stood, allowing the tinkling of ‘Here We Come A-Wassailing’ on the pianoforte and the voices of the family singing the carol at one end of the hall and the servants’ laughter at the other to cover the stretching silence between them. He could drop a quick peck on her cheek, pluck the last berry from the hapless branch and they could smile and laugh and return to the sitting room, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t manage something so innocent because he wanted to enjoy the feathery caress of her fingers against his neck while he took her in his arms, pressed her body to his and felt her breasts flatten against his chest as he tasted her full lips. He’d asked for her friendship and she’d granted it, but in this moment, he wanted a great deal more.
He took a hesitant step forwards and she didn’t move, looking up at him with anticipation. She wouldn’t flee if he dared to claim her lips, nor would she push him away or chastise him. It was as frightening a prospect as it was exhilarating and her silent entreaties drew him closer. He raised his hand to her face, his fingers so close to her skin he could feel the heat of it. The embroidered leaves on her dress shimmered as she took in one deep breath after another, waiting, as eager as him to steal the last berry off the mischievous plant.
Gregor leaned closer, his lips aching to know hers, all desire to be a gentleman forgotten. He’d won her forgiveness and friendship, now he wanted her heart.
‘There you both are. I wondered where you’d gone to.’ Laurus’s voice cut through the moment, dampening the waver of the candles across her face and making them jump apart.
With some frustration Gregor glanced to the plant, the lone berry mocking him as much as Laurus’s knowing look as he hustled into the entrance hall.
Gregor exchanged a worried glance with Lily, wondering if she blamed him for this near compromise of her in front of her family. He’d made such small gains with her, he hated to think his weakness might lose them. Whatever irritation she experienced, it didn’t reveal itself in her eyes, which crinkled at the corners with the same frustration at the interruption Gregor felt as he flexed his cold fingers behind his back.
Lily watched her brother’s approach, not sure what to expect. She’d nearly kissed Gregor and in front of Laurus no less, but instead of wanting to creep away in shame she was mad at her brother for interrupting them. Thankfully it was Laurus who’d stumbled on them and not someone else. He was far more discreet than either Rose or Daisy, but even he wasn’t above commenting on such a discovery. Standing beneath the mistletoe, St Nicholas himself might forgive her for extending a viscount a kiss. However, for all her desire to claim the near indiscretion was simply a result of the season, she knew it was something more and the idea was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
‘Come on, we must prepare.’ Laurus grabbed Lily by the hand and linked his arm with Gregor’s to lead them down the opposite hall towards the ballroom.
‘Prepare for what?’ Lily demanded, her slippers