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“Oh, God. I shouldn’t have come.” He turns as if he’s going to leave, to walk all the way back in the snow and wind to his house.
Without thinking I take him by the hand and pull him inside. His fingers are ice in mine. “You’re here now. Come in before you freeze to death.” He doesn’t resist, following me as meekly and obediently as Snip would.
But we don’t get any farther than the hall. He stops abruptly in his tracks, looking terribly wild and out of place. Despite the anger still curdling in my stomach, I want to cup his face in my hands, draw him to me until he’s warm and safe.
It goes against all convention for him to be here in the middle of the night, alone, with me. I take a deep breath. “Well?”
“You said something when I was here earlier.”
I swallow. Pale Moses and his cryptic warning seem far away and unreal now. A dream. How could I ever think Mr. Barrett was dangerous? “About your brother? I told you, it was nothing. I—”
He stops me with an impatient shake of his head. “You said something in the parlor, something about hoping that I would be happy too?”
My face flushes despite myself and I stammer out my words. “I meant...well, you wished me happiness in my engagement, and I thought it only right to return the sentiment to you on yours.”
He stands stock-still. A clump of snow melts off his shoulder, landing with aplopon the carpet. When he speaks it’s with restrained impatience, like one trying to explain something to a small child.
“I told you that I wasn’t engaged, that you shouldn’t put any stock into what a gossipy old hen like Mrs. Tidewell says.”
“But Catherine wrote to me and said—” My hand flies to my mouth. In an instant it becomes so clear that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I let out a muffled groan.
Mr. Barrett surveys me from narrowed eyes. “Lydia,” he says slowly, “I told you I would come for you. What did you think I meant?”
“I...” The hall is spinning, each tick of the clock echoing in my ears like a death knell. How could I have been so blind, so easily misled? My knees go weak and buckle as the realization of what I’ve done sweeps through me.
Mr. Barrett moves fast, catching me by the elbow.
“I’ve gone about this all wrong and upset you.” He reaches out his hand to steady me, then he loops his other arm around my waist. “Come, let’s get you into the parlor where you can sit down.”
It’s no use arguing, or telling him that he’s the one with blue lips and looks like he could use a thawing out. But the room is still spinning and my legs ready to go out from under me again, as he walks me down the hall, his arm pulling me tight against him.
When we reach the library he guides me down into Father’s overstuffed chair. His head is bent low, his cheek just grazing the top of my head as I sit. He’s so close that I can smell his shaving soap. The sliver of air between us grows warm. I feel drunk, and I’m deliciously helpless to do anything but tilt my face up the last little bit to close the distance between our lips completely.
For a brief, blinding moment, everything else is forgotten. His skin is still cold from the snow, but his tongue is warm as he parts my lips, a gentle, probing kiss. I yield, my bones turning to jelly as I twine my arms up around his neck, reveling in the smoothness of his skin under my fingers. My body flushes with an aching longing. I want so badly to be as close to him as possible.
Breathless, I pull back. “We can’t.” Inside my head a little voice is yelling at me to hold my tongue, to pull him back down to me. Why can’t I just have this moment? Why do I have to destroy every little droplet of happiness that rolls my way?
Mr. Barrett clears his throat, straightening up. I vaguely wonder if my lips look as swollen and beautiful as his do right now. “I know. Your mother is upstairs ill, but I couldn’t—”
I shake my head, doubly miserable because I hadn’t even been thinking about Mother when I pulled away. “No, I mean, yes...” I self-consciously tuck back a loosened strand of hair behind my ear. “You might not be engaged, but I still am.”
His body stiffens and he blinks at me. “I see.”
I can’t look at him, instead I concentrate on my hands in my lap. “I’m so sorry, John.”
He’s quiet for a moment, the sound of Snip’s even breathing, the crackling fire, my own thudding heart filling the silence. “Do you love him?”
“What?”
“You heard what I said.” His voice is rough and holds a note of reproach. “Do you love him?”
I drop my gaze to my slippers, the pretty white ones with the little silk rosettes. There’s a tuft of Snip’s fur on the oriental carpet by my feet. The cleaning has grown lax now that Mother has taken to her bed. I can feel Mr. Barrett’s gaze burning into me.
“No,” I whisper. “Of course I don’t. I love y—” I catch my breath, stopping myself just in time. It doesn’t matter though. He takes a hesitant step toward me, then falls to his knees beside the chair, folding me back into his embrace.
“You don’t love him,” he murmurs against my neck, squeezing me so tightly that I think my ribs might crack. When he pulls back, he holds me at arm’s length, surveying my face with unmasked delight. “You can call it off. Don’t go back to Boston, stay here, with me.”
“John...” My heart is fluttery and pounding, my body cold and burning up at the same time under his hands. “What are you saying?”