Her Christmas Pleasure (The Merry Widows 2)

“Yes. It hurts.”

They stared at each other. The music faded away, as did the laughter and the crackle and pop of disintegrating logs that burned in the hearth. It was as if only she and Damien were in the room. Her breath stuttered in her throat when his gaze dropped to her mouth. Was he contemplating kissing her again?

She certainly wouldn’t refuse him.

“You should get some rest. It’s been a busy day.”

His words broke her from her reverie. She shook her head. “Oh, not yet. Theo would be disappointed.”

“Theo wouldn’t realize you’ve left.”

She knew he spoke the truth but his words still hurt. Was he trying to be rid of her? Had she misinterpreted everything that happened between them?

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings.” He paused. “I want to take care of you.”

Those last words he spoke tore at her emotions, leaving her vulnerable. Did he mean what he said? “Why?” The word rasped from her dry throat, and she brought her forgotten cup to her lips, drinking the wassail until it was gone.

“Because I care for you, Celia. As a—”

“As a friend? Is that what you wanted to say?” She set the cup on a nearby table and glared at him. The unease was back, flaring between them like a snapping, angry fire.

“I—” The light in his eyes dimmed and his cheeks turned ruddy. He appeared completely flummoxed. His mouth snapped shut.

“Please. Don’t say another word. I believe I understand.”

“Celia, I don’t think you do.”

She raised her hand to silence him. “We are friends. What happened last night meant nothing. You’re leaving for France, and I’ll never see you again. Is that what you wished to tell me?”

“Is that what you wish to hear?”

His voice was so low she barely heard him. “What did you say?”

“Mama, Mama.”

Celia turned to find Theo running toward her with a grin on his face. “Yes, darling?”

“May I have some pudding, Mama? Please?”

“Of course you can.” She patted his head with a shaky hand and swallowed hard before she turned to fa

ce Damien once more.

But he was gone. As if he’d never been there. She craned her head, searching the room for him.

Disappointment mixed with a healthy dose of anger filled her. She went to Theo’s nanny and requested she put him to bed. Without speaking to anyone else she fled the room, tears threatening to spill as she ran up the stairs to her bedchamber.

The man infuriated her. He acted as if he desired her one moment, then pleaded they were just friends the next. She wished he would leave for France at this very moment so she wouldn’t have to look at him ever again.

Liar.

Sniffing, she strode into her bedchamber, slamming the door behind her so hard it rattled the walls. Would she go through the rest of her days yearning for a man she couldn’t have? Wanting a man who didn’t want her?

A timid knock sounded on the door. Celia offered a curt “Enter.” It was her maid, ready to help her dress for bed. Poor Jean tiptoed into the room, probably fearful, by the way Celia had shut her door with such force.

They went about their evening routine much like every other night though Celia’s head still spun over her earlier conversation with Damien. Worry consumed her. He hadn’t been the one who called her just a friend—she was the one who put words into his mouth.

Had she jumped to conclusions? Had she acted too rashly and lashed out because of her headache and worry over what was happening between them? At the possibility of losing him?