Page 8 of In Pursuit of a Christmas Bride
Henry slowly rose to his feet, groaning as the blood rushed to his head. She reached out, touching his arms with her fingertips, and the effect was all too dangerous. She stood almost eye to eye with him, only needing to tilt her head slightly to meet his heated stare. He must have hit his head harder than he originally thought because, as she swayed closer, all he could think about was what it would feel like if her lips pressed against his.
One kiss, that was all.
“Perhaps you should return to your friends and find a surgeon?”
That would be wise. Henry couldn’t explain it, however, but he didn’t wish to be parted from her.
“Hmm.”
“You don’t wish to?”
He shook his head, studying her face. Even half-hidden behind her gold mask, he was positive the most beautiful, intriguing, and confounding woman had run into him.
“Do you like to eat…” He searched his brain for the correct word. “Dinner?”
She laughed, glancing over her shoulder before turning back to him. “Depending on who’s cooking it. Yes, I suppose I do.”
He attempted to stuff his hands into his pockets, only to remember this jacket didn’t have any.
“That’s good. I do too…”
The woman leaned forward and scrunched her nose. “Are you sure we cannot know one another’s names?” She bounced back, standing tall. “I would like to know very much.”
“If we are meant to know, then we will find out.”
How did he think of this drivel?
“That’s surprisingly romantic of you.”
The cravat was still tied around her wrist, but he checked his collar, nonetheless, certain it was tied too tight around his throat. Henry Davies, a romantic?
“No, no, no. I wouldn’t say that.”
She spun around, backing up a few steps toward the party. “It’s past dinner, but would you like to go for a walk? Maybe a tavern? There’s one nearby.”
He preferred this small sliver of heaven in a cluster of sycamore trees. The lantern lights hanging by the paths illuminated the space around them. Here, they were free to talk. Here, they were free from the judgment of others. Once they removed themselves, London would swirl around and tear them apart.
And he had wished to leave only moments earlier—until he met her.
“Dance with me,” he said in a burst of panic. He hated to dance and had made it his life’s mission to avoid such merriment.
She barked out a surprised laugh. “You most definitely need a surgeon.”
“Why? Do you not like to dance?”
“Oh, I like dancing fine enough. But I’m almost certain you don’t like dancing.”
He grinned, clasping his hands behind him. “Normally, you would be correct.”
“What’s different then?”
You.
“There is no one here to see.”
“You prefer to dance when no one is watching? What is the fun of that? Oh, you don’t seem to be the type to enjoy fun.”
“I think you might be teasing me, but you are correct. Dancing, parties, I avoid them whenever possible.”
