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For one mad moment, she wanted to throw herself from her seat and into his lap.

Thankfully, however, he dropped his eyes to her hand again, breaking the spell and giving her a chance to draw some much-needed oxygen into her lungs and clear her addled head.

As she’d tried to tell him, the cut didn’t signify. It was miniscule and though there was a drop of fresh blood upon her hand, it was hardly gushing.

Keeping her hand in his own, he reached into his pocket with the other and removed a pristine handkerchief before pressing it gently against her palm.

Holly kept her eyes firmly on the handkerchief even though she could feel him watching her.

The truth was that she was terrified of what she’d see in his golden gaze.

If he were experiencing anything like the desire she was, he would kiss her again. And she would let him.

And she had no idea what that would mean. For either of them.

The silence stretched between them, taut and filled with things unsaid and actions untaken.

Just as Holly’s last nerve shredded, the carriage rolled to a stop, and she could have wept with relief as a footman opened the door.

Snatching her hand away from where it had remained in his grasp, she darted out of the conveyance, and rushed inside the Manor.

Running away was cowardly, she knew.

But it was also the only thing standing between her and total ruin.

* * *

“My dear, if you keep wool-gathering there will be no gingerbread for your ball.”

Holly had indeed been wool-gathering, but Cook’s words brought her mind back to the present and away from Lord Stockton, on whom it had been firmly stuck since the other night.

She had barely slept a wink since, as she’d replayed their kiss and carriage ride, over and over in her mind.

She’d tossed and turned and in the end had just given up on a peaceful night’s sleep until Christmastide was over and the earl was gone back to Scotland.

The morning after the ball in the Assembly Rooms as she’d broken her fast with Grandmama, she’d quietly suffered the lady’s disapproving sermon.

“To simply disappear is not to be borne, Holly,” Grandmama had sniffed. “And to have that odd creature Lady Angela convey your message? I expect better from you.”

Holly had silently taken her scolding, wondering why Lady Angela had lied about having spoken to Grandmama just to get her out the door but reasoned that it was hardly the oddest of that particular woman’s behaviour.

When Grandmama had finally released her, she’d run up to her rooms and cried off that evening’s dinner, citing a non-existent headache. In truth, she was too scared to see Lord Stockton again.

In the intervening days, she’d avoided him at all costs, always ensuring that she was engaged in conversation before, during, and after dinner sparing him only the barest of glances, the coolest of smiles. And during the days, she’d taken to wandering about peeking around corners before entering a room lest she be seen by Lord Stockton, or Evan as he’d insisted she call him.

That had quickly grown tiresome, too.

And so it was that she’d found herself here, on the day of her birthday ball, on her way to the kitchens which, she reasoned, would be one of the few safe havens for her.

As soon as she’d descended the last staircase, the unmistakeable smell of gingerbread filled the air and a wave of grief washed over Holly, stopping her movements and squeezing painfully at her heart.

She remembered suddenly the many happy hours she and Mama had spent learning how to bake the delectable, spicy treat with Cook patiently giving instructions and watching over their laughable efforts until they got it right.

The year Mama died was the last year Holly had ventured into the kitchens to help Cook with the gingerbread, though the dear lady still made sure it was baked every year.

It was a testament to how preoccupied with the earl she was that Holly would come down here, quite forgetting the painful memories.

Or maybe she was just seeking the comfort of childhood simplicity now when it felt as though her life had become unbearably confusing and complicated.