A Kiss for Midwinter (The Brothers Sinister) Page 4

  “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.”

  Even though there was nothing exceptional in walking with a gentleman, another father—knowing what he did of Lydia—would have restricted her movements, refusing to let her do what the other young ladies did. He might have told her she was no longer trustworthy.

  Mr. Charingford was not those other fathers. When Lydia had told her father she was pregnant, he’d held her close for many long minutes, not saying a word. He’d called her mother in, leaving Lydia in her comforting embrace. Then he’d left the house. She had no idea what he’d said or done, but Tom Paggett had left town two days later. Her father didn’t speak much, but she’d never doubted him.

  One of Lydia’s first memories was playing on the floor of her father’s study. Her nurse had darted in, grabbing her up with a flood of apologies and a scold for Lydia.

  “Can’t you see your father’s busy?” she’d remonstrated.

  But her father had simply shrugged. “If you take her away every time I’m busy,” he’d said placidly, “I’ll never see her. She can stay.”

  He’d not been too busy to take her to Cornwall when she was pregnant, hiding her condition from those who would have disparaged her. And on Christmas morning, when she’d not been sure if she would live, he’d come into her room with ribbons and holly. He hadn’t said a word; he’d only set them around the room, fussing with ribbons he scarcely knew how to tie because he’d wanted to do something.

  Sometimes, when she thought of her father, she felt as if there were something vast and impossibly large inside his slight frame, something too big for words. It certainly felt too big for her.

  And so now, she put ribbons in his study as Christmas approached. It was the only way she could return those too-large emotions.

  “You’re not walking out with a man?” His tone was congenially suspicious. He looked pointedly at her.

  So it was her favorite walking dress, the one she saved for special occasions. He’d seen her altering the trim last night, replacing the light blue cuffs with two inches of white linen that she’d embroidered herself.

  Lydia felt herself flush. “I like looking well, no matter who I’m with.” She wasn’t even sure why she’d dressed with such particular care. Maybe she just didn’t want to give Grantham another opportunity to poke fun at her.

  “Mr. Charingford. Miss Charingford.” A maid ducked her head in the doorway, interrupting the conversation.

  Behind her stood the tall figure of Jonas Grantham. His coat was slung over one arm; he held a large black bag in the other.

  “You see?” Lydia sad. “Not a man. A doctor.”

  Grantham looked to one side, biting his lip, and her father raised an eyebrow at her.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Lydia muttered
.

  But her father simply took off his spectacles and set them on his desk

  Grantham didn’t look at her. “I believe what your daughter meant was that she agreed to accompany me on a call to the Halls, out by Lipham Road.”

  “Halls, Halls.” Her father frowned. “Do I know these Halls?”

  “It’s unlikely. She takes in laundry,” Grantham said. “Her husband died, leaving her with sole responsibility for eight children. When we spoke at the Workers’ Hygiene Commission, Lydia agreed to bring the Halls a basket for the coming holidays.”

  Her father glanced over at Lydia with a small smile on his face.

  “It will be a perfectly unremarkable visit,” Grantham said. “Public streets the whole way there, and Mrs. Hall there to chaperone your daughter once we enter the building.”

  “Is that what you were working on this morning?” her father asked. “Putting together a basket for this Mrs. Hall?”

  Lydia nodded.

  Her father fixed Doctor Grantham with another look. “Well, Doctor, despite my daughter’s protestations, you do appear to be a man. A word with you, if you please.”

  Doctor Grantham stepped into the office; with a jerk of his head, her father motioned for Lydia to leave. She sniffed and swept out, shutting the door behind her. It didn’t stop her from standing on the threshold though, and setting her ear to the door.

  “So,” her father aid without preamble. “You’re walking out with my Lydia.” His tone left little doubt as to what he meant by those words.

  She waited to hear Grantham deny the implication—that he had some sort of romantic interest in Lydia. But if he made an audible response, she could not hear it.

  Whatever he said—whatever gesture he made—her father grunted. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I understand. But I want to make something clear. If you hurt my daughter by word or by deed…”

  “Mr. Charingford,” Doctor Grantham said, “first, do no harm. Those are not just words I mumbled so that I could get a few fancy letters before and after my name. They are a belief. I don’t hurt people. I intend harm to your daughter least of all.”

  Lydia pulled back, a little puzzled, and stared at the door. She’d expected Grantham to make some sort of caustic comment about how the damage to Lydia had already been done. But she’d not even heard a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “She’s far more delicate than she looks,” her father was saying. “Don’t think you can talk to her in your usual way. She’s sensitive and—”

  “Your daughter,” Grantham replied, “is stronger than you think. I wouldn’t be taking her to see Mrs. Hall if she was the sort to crumple at a few harsh words. Trust me, Mr. Charingford; I am quite able to judge what each can bear.”

  This was met with silence. Lydia felt herself frowning. Since when had Grantham thought her strong? Since when had he thought of her at all, except to label her a fribble?

  Since he made a wager with a kiss for the stakes. Her hands tingled; Lydia shook her head, trying to drive that feeling away.

  “You see that, do you?” her father finally said. “I don’t think many men would. Still, be good to my daughter, Grantham, or you’ll answer to me.”

  “Whatever you do could not be so harsh as what I would feel myself,” he responded.

  That was an even more puzzling answer, and she was pointedly not thinking of what it could mean when the door opened. Grantham stood a foot from her, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door. His eyebrows rose at the sight of her.

  “Miss Charingford,” he said. “You’re standing very close. Were you coming to get me?”

  At his desk, her father shook his head. “She was listening at the door, Grantham,” he said.

  The doctor’s eyebrows rose higher. “Miss Charingford,” he said. “I didn’t know that my conversation would be of interest to you.”

  “She always listens,” her father said. He didn’t smile as he spoke, but there was a touch of humor to his voice, a hint that he knew something of Lydia—and that he forgave her all her worst flaws.

  “I always listen,” Lydia said firmly. “You’re no exception, so don’t think you are. Doctor Grantham, if you’re ready to go, I’m ready to get this finished.”

  “SO,” THE DOCTOR SAID, GESTURING AT THE BASKET that Lydia carried. “What did you bring? Christmas puddings? Sweets for the children?”

  There was a little smile on his face as he spoke, one that Lydia had no difficulty decoding. He imagined that she had no idea what it was like to live in poverty, that she had brought along the sort of insubstantial nothings that she might give to her young nephew.

  “A few lengths of heavy, serviceable fabric,” she replied. “A ham. Three pounds of flour, a pound of rice, some fruit, and several jellies.” Her arm ached from the effort of holding it all.

  He looked at her a little while longer before turning away. “That’s not a poor choice.”

  “And yes,” she said, staring at the side of his head, “I did bring a sack of horehound.”

  He smiled. “I knew it.”

  But before she’d outlined the contents of her basket, he’d thought she had brought nothing but sweets. He must truly think her an idiot, to bring nothing else for children who hadn’t had a proper meal in months. She squared her jaw and walked on, refusing to look at him. It was always like this with him. He insinuated and implied, without actually coming right out and saying what he thought of her. Well, she’d foolishly agreed to this exercise, but that didn’t mean she had to suffer his subtle insults throughout the whole process.

  “Doctor Grantham, I wonder at your spending time with me if you find my personality so objectionable.”

  “On the contrary. I find your presence particularly invigorating.”

  Invigorating was one of those words like “interesting” and “nice.” One used it to imply criticism.

  “You think I’m naïve,” she stated. The air was cold on her face.

  He made a sound that came out as half-snort, half-chortle—a way of denigrating her without coming out and saying the words. Despite the chill in the air, Lydia felt her cheeks heat. Of all the men in the world, he was the last one she wanted laughing at her. This man knew her secrets. He looked at her too knowingly, judging her fall to an inch and holding her accountable in the dark recesses of his mind.

  She glared at him hotly. “There is nothing wrong in thinking that children—any children—ought to have a treat at the holidays. The fact that they have so little means they are more deserving of a moment of enjoyment, not less. I’m sure horehound isn’t practical in the sense of feeding the body, but it will feed the spirit and add to their joy. So don’t you laugh at me for bringing it.”

  “Miss Charingford,” he said in that sardonic voice of his, “I wouldn’t dare laugh at you. Furthermore, I don’t believe I did.”

  Oh, no. Not on the outside he hadn’t. But inside… His eyes were dark and they sparkled with an unholy light, one that suggested he found her very amusing indeed. And that, in turn, sparked something deep inside her, something red and angry spreading over her vision.

  “I am not naïve.” She planted her feet and put down her basket.

  He stopped and cocked his head at her.

  “I know naïve,” she told him. “Do you know what naïve is? Naïve is when, at fifteen, a man ten years your elder says he loves you, that he’ll marry you as soon as you’re old enough for your father to countenance the suit.” She pointed a finger at him. “Naïve is when you love him back. Naïve is when you tell him that you’re willing to do everything but that final act reserved for marriage—because you don’t want to be stupid and become pregnant outside of wedlock.”

  One of his eyebrows rose, and she could almost hear him taunting her. Didn’t work out so well, did that?

  “Naïve is when he agrees, and you do everything but that one thing, that one thing that risks pregnancy, that one thing that you’re saving for your wedding night. He tells you that he can�
��t wait to do that one last thing.” Her eyes smarted—just the cold of the wind; definitely not tears—but she lifted her gloves to her eyes and dashed away the liquid there. “He tells you how much more there is to do over and over as he rogers you senseless. I know what it means to be naïve. It’s believing a man when he says this isn’t how pregnancy occurs. Because you trust him, and nobody has ever told you what to expect.”

  His eyes had widened as she spoke. “Miss Charingford.”

  “Naïve is when he comes to dinner three months into your secret betrothal. You’re wondering if tonight he’ll tell your father.” Lydia gritted her teeth. “I’ll tell you when you stop being naïve, Doctor. It’s when your father asks the man you believe to be your fiancé when he’s bringing his wife up from town.”

  Doctor Grantham took a step toward her. “Oh, God.”

  “So don’t tell me I’m naïve. Don’t even think it.” Lydia’s voice had a quaver in it, and she hated that sign of weakness, that show of emotion over events that had come and gone. “After…after everything was over, after I realized how foolish I was, how ignorant I had been, I wanted to hate everything and everyone. But if I did, he would have won. He would have ruined me. I wasn’t going to be a bit of rubbish just because he discarded me.” She glared up at Grantham. “And I refused to break. I wouldn’t do him the honor.”

  He was breathing almost as heavily as she was. His eyes burned into hers. His lips pressed together, and she could see that look on his face—that knowing, judging look. As if he needed more of a reason to look down on her.

  That rush of heat passed, and Lydia felt almost unsteady on her feet. She took a deep breath, collecting her wits, and suddenly could not look at him at all. She’d just…she’d just…

  Lydia put her hand to her forehead. “God,” she said. “I don’t know why I told you that.”