Page 87 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
Charlie walked backward a step, flipping the ball from one hand to the other. “Parlor games! I hadn’t even considered. And your mother did, bless her heart. She believes I can’t organize a real party, and I guess she’s right. I’m treating this like an indoor picnic, and imagine, she wanted to lend me her china.” She winked and turned, her laughter echoing down the hallway.
Kate followed close behind, her kid leather boots creating a whisper of sound compared to Charlie’s brogans. Halting at the first open doorway, Kate peeked through the arch. Empty. She released a breath. One room down. Her goal: the kitchen, where she hoped to hide for the evening.
Her gaze skipped from the rug to the beam ceiling. At the back of the room, a fire blazed in a hearth of tan and black stone. Unusual. Part parlor, part den, furnished with a mixture of furniture and colorful bric-a-brac. Silver sconces bathed the room in warm light—the golden streaks gleaming off polished wood. Kate walked forward, her face appearing in the bullseye mirror hanging above the mantle. She squinted, frowned. Pale skin, bonnet crooked. She pinched her cheeks, yanked the bonnet from her head and smoothed her hair. Took a deep breath, yet her heart continued to skip.
Why in the world should she care if a man who had once been her lover resided in this house, right this very minute? One would guess that this situation occurred all the time. Polite society frowned upon such things, but a little frowning didn’t keep them from happening. She was as sure of that as she was of the strip of sunlight spilling over her boot.
Actually, she didn’t need sunlight, she was proof.
Kate stared hard at her reflection, seeing his face, not her own.
Her summer with Tanner had been a devilish, captivating period. The only time God had thrown a boulder in her path and she had chosen to climb instead of retracing her steps. Although the boulder had disintegrated halfway up, and she’d landed, quite painfully, on her rump.
Afterward, she searched for something, someone, to heal her shattered heart. Searched for a thread of happiness. She had looked, assessed, analyzed. At every party, on every street corner, even during preaching, she had appraised men. Looking for the rare jewel, clear facets, and a perfect cut. A jewel to ease her heartache. They were all wrong, every one of them. Too tall, too short. Too skinny, too stupid. Wrong hair color, wrong eye color. Voice too deep, voice too high. A kaleidoscope of dissatisfaction. Vexation alone had encouraged her to accept Crawford’s offer of friendship.
Marriage offer or no, friendship it remained.
She tilted her chin and pressed her lips together, forcing a smile. The reflection seemed to project confidence, because her trembling hands and knees were out of sight. She would like to make Tanner suffer this time.
Desiring a scoundrel had made her life hell.
She turned, smugly determined, to find the scoundrel watching her from the doorway.
Kate’s gaze locked with Tanner’s. His eyes were pale, subdued. No teasing light, no wicked sparkle.
They stood for a long moment, simply staring. She swayed, just a bit in his direction. Kate. She fisted her hands and squeezed hard.
His lips parted, his throat worked. The lock of hair he so despised flopped against his brow. He brushed it back and glanced at his feet. Scuffing his boot along the floor, he fisted his hands by his side. The injured one a much looser fist.
He looked healthier. Color had returned, in part, to his face. Shadows lurked, but not deep ones like before. The promise of a beard darkened his cheeks and chin. A pristine bandage circled his arm; she could see it peeking from a crisp cuff. He’d disposed of the absurd sling. Definitely his clothing this time as well. A checked waistcoat and dark cutaway coat topped a chest she remembered well. Gray trousers braided in black set off a pair of long legs crossed at the ankle.
She had almost forgotten how splendidly packaged he was when he wanted to be.
Tanner smiled, slow and easy. “Like what you see?”
Kate plucked her basket from the table and looped her arm through the handle. “Just thinking that you’re looking well, Mr. Barkley. New clothing. Interesting for a man who brought no trunks with him. As you said, you do work quickly.”
His face colored; a muscle in his jaw jumped. “Drop the Mr. Barkley, will you?”
“So sorry, but I’m not willing to drop anything.”
He unlocked his ankles and stepped wide, blocking her escape. In her mind, she pictured his mocking smile and tried to recreate the expression on her face.
The ploy must have worked, because his bottom lip curled, the way it did when he fought a rush of anger. “I wanted to apologize, dammit. For the other day.” He flipped his coattail back and shoved his hand in his pocket. “I...um, the thing I said about the—”
“The harlot, Mr. Barkley.”
No reply, only a narrowing of his eyes.
“I thought so.”
A white rim appeared around his mouth. “Yes, that.”
“That?”
“You know what I mean. String me up if it makes you feel better. I’m sorry is all.”
“Why apologize for speaking truthfully?” She pinched a silk fingertip and slid her glove from her hand. With effort, she expunged the disquieting picture of Tanner in another woman’s arms. My, he assumed imagining that would make her feel better? Harlot or queen, neither scenario made Kate feel anything but queasy. She tipped her head and forced a smile. “Funny, I didn’t think you had it in you. To tell the truth, I mean.”