A Kiss For Midwinter
Page 11
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“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.”
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.”
