A Kiss For Midwinter

“I never say horrid things about you,” he contradicted. “I tell you exactly what I think of you, and you never believe me.”

“You’re sarcastic and contradictory.”

He sighed and breathed in the smell of her, sweet and uncomplicated. “Well, yes. That, I must admit to. But half the things I say to you in sarcasm, Lydia, I really mean. I just can’t bear to leave them unsaid.”

“But if you don’t think badly of me…”

He didn’t answer. He wanted her to lift her head at this moment. He wanted her to look him in the eyes and realize that he loved her. He wanted her to love him back. For now, he’d settle for this—for Lydia in his arms, Lydia finally talking to him like a man rather than a monster to be scorned. For once, the size of that dreadful Christmas tree seemed welcome, affording them this small amount of privacy. He could hold her, and nobody would see.

“You told me,” she said accusingly into his chest, “that I was welcome in your bed.”

He looked up at the top of the tree. For a brief moment, he contemplated giving her a polite response. But… No use pretending he was anyone other than who he said. “You are,” he said quietly. “Any man who says otherwise is probably not being truthful. And my faults usually run to too much truth, rather than too little.”

She sighed; he could feel her chest move against his. Lovely feeling, that.

“I only mind a little bit,” he said. “As I said before, I wonder sometimes how you can have a kind word for any man at all. You’ve singled me out. I’d rather be special in some way than no way at all.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“I know.”

She hid her face against his shoulder. He’d never noticed before how much a breath could say. It seemed more than the transportation of air to lungs. The act of breathing with another person—of accepting silence together, of simply living in tune with the rhythm of someone else’s existence—was deeply intimate. They said more to each other with quiet respiration than they’d managed in sixteen months of bickering.

Lydia spoke first. “I think, Doctor Grantham, that I’ve been unfair to you.”

He shut his eyes. It wasn’t love, but by God, he’d take it. It was hope, one little ray of hope, that there was a chance for him. That she might know the worst of him and want him anyway. And she didn’t let go of him. He liked the feel of her against him. She was warm and sized right for his arms.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she finally said. “You were—how old when you accompanied Parwine? No older than I am now. You were there to learn, not to speak. I should never have blamed you.”

He let out a breath.

“There.” She gave a little hiccough, and then, of all things, a smile touched her face. “Now you can’t say that I never have a kind word for you. Did you really say back there that you would rather I hit you than disturb the cleanliness of your bag?”

He couldn’t help but smile back. “I did. And it’s true. I’m a horribly flawed man, Lydia.”

Another long moment. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, and for those moments the world was perfect.

“I have never given you leave to use my Christian name,” she pointed out.

“Yes, you have,” he responded. “I’m no expert in these matters, but when a lady cries on my shoulder, I take it as tacit permission to address her by name.”

“Hmm,” she said, but didn’t disagree.

Holding her in his arms was having its inevitable effect. He shifted against her. “Little as I wish to suggest we end this embrace…it would probably be a good idea.”

“Would it?”

Jonas paused, this time a little longer. He wasn’t going to say it. He really wasn’t going to say it. He was… Oh, hell. He was going to say it.

“It has been eighteen months since I last had occasion to make use of a French letter, and I am becoming physically aroused. It will become apparent in a minute or so, and that will prove embarrassing.”

Lydia gasped against his chest. “My God. Are you always this plainspoken?”

“It’s a natural physiological reaction,” he returned.

She pulled away, but just enough that she could look into his face. “Doctor Grantham, never tell me that you’re ashamed of a natural physiological reaction.”

She hadn’t let go of him. She hadn’t let go. Hope was not just present, it was incandescent. He found himself smiling down into her face. “Yes, I am. I have not completely crushed the restrictions that social mores place on me, however absurd they are,” he countered. His hand stroked her hair as he spoke. “I’m working on that.”

“Then work on it for another two minutes,” she said quietly. “I’m not done.”

“Ah, Miss Charingford.” That was all he said, but he put his arms around her, pulling her closer, breathing in her old hurts, and exhaling the emotions he had not yet managed to voice.

“The part that makes me angriest,” she whispered into his chest, “is that I miss this. I miss being held. I miss the feel of lips on mine, of arms around me. I miss the feel of warmth. Sometimes, I even miss all those things that he did to me. It’s a palpable hunger, one that eats me up inside. I shouldn’t want that. There’s something wrong with me.”

Jonas cleared his throat. “Actually …”

She made a little noise.

It wasn’t as if he was suddenly going to fool her into believing him proper. “This is not my area of expertise, Miss Charingford, but there are specialists in London who do nothing but treat women who do not enjoy intercourse. It is physiologically normal to feel as you do.”

His erection was becoming all too apparent. She had to have noticed by now. Even if there weren’t that thick bar growing between his legs, pressing lightly against her body, there was the change in his breathing.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really.”

He could detect the changes in her. He was standing too close to her, too attuned to her, to miss the signs. Those telltale capillaries in her skin widened, and her skin flushed pink with blood flow. Her lashes fluttered down; her mouth opened a little bit. She held him too tightly, too precisely.

“Sometimes,” she said, “it feels like there are some hurts that can only be cured by this. By warmth. And touch.”